Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Esther?’ Sheila echoes, then her cheeks suddenly flush.

‘You got a problem?’ Victoria demands, instantly on guard.

‘No. No. Not at all.’ Sheila breaks eye contact and reaches down for her lone crutch. ‘It’s … uh … it’s just that I hadn’t … I mean I didn’t actually realize …’ She grinds to a slow halt.

‘Realize what?’ Victoria glowers.

‘Uh …’ Sheila releases the crutch, sniffs, lightly touches her nose, and then calmly re-establishes eye contact. ‘I had no idea how much of a drain golf actually is on the world’s ecology,’ she offers, somewhat limply. ‘I mean I’d never really considered …’

‘In the US alone it contributes around 50 billion dollars per annum to the national economy.’ Victoria happily clambers back up on to her soapbox. ‘It’s huge business — represents powerful vested interests. They have around 18,000 courses covering 1.7 million acres, guzzling 4 billion gallons of fresh water, daily. On that basis alone it represents an ecological holocaust. Four billion gallons. That’s equivalent to the entire US population’s residential water use each day. One in eight people on this planet have no access to safe drinking water. The UN estimates that by 2025 over 2.8 billion people will be experiencing severe water scarcity …’

‘Terrible.’ Sheila nods. She glances down at her watch.

‘Nearly time for your x-ray?’ Victoria hazards a guess.

Sheila weakly smiles in the affirmative.

‘On the positive side,’ Victoria adds, as a cavil, ‘we’re starting to see the bottom fall out of the market in places like Japan and Thailand following the economic downturn in the East. A lot of the smaller companies have gone bust, player numbers have significantly declined, although the Chinese and Indian markets are obviously going to prove —’

‘I just really, really want to say,’ Sheila rudely interrupts her (her brown eyes grave, her voice deeply emphatic), ‘that I think you’ve got a great story to tell — an inspirational story — a story that could entertain, enlighten, educate … I mean it’s … it’s all there! I can just see it in my mind’s eye: a tragedy, a tale of hope in the face of terrible adversity, a love story, a real girl’s adventure; at once beautiful and moving and dangerous and exciting and sad and … and brave . You just really need to tell it as honestly as you can — as straightforwardly as you can — in your own words, in your own way. It truly deserves that. Marisol deserves that — and your son. Just forget about the O’Rourke. Forget about the publishers. Sing your own song and sing it truthfully. It won’t matter what kind of a voice you have, because it’s your song. It’s who you are. And when you sing a song like that there’s simply no room for … for bluff or pretence or fudging or humbuggery, because you’ve done nothing to be ashamed of — nothing. Just speak your truth. Just … I dunno … just open your heart and let the whole, damn thing slip out of you — tumble out of you — gush out of you like a newborn — all dark and quick and hot and bloody …’

Victoria stares at her, astonished.

‘I mean that’s … that’s just …’ Sheila falters, ‘that’s just my humble opinion, obviously.’

She shrugs, self-consciously.

A short silence follows in which Victoria stares down at her flapjack, deep in thought. Sheila takes a small sip of her coffee. She notices that the front of her hand is glowing but can’t quite work out if it’s with perspiration or just steam from the hot liquid in her cup.

‘Okay …’ Victoria finally looks up, carefully adjusts her spectacles (although they haven’t shifted down her nose by so much as a millimetre) and leans over the table towards her, snaking out her lean but surprisingly strong hand and grabbing Sheila’s fingers with it.

‘If you care so much about the damn thing, then do it with me!’ She grins, squeezing Sheila’s fingers until she almost squeals. ‘C’mon! Do it with me! Take a sabbatical. Come to Jamaica. Work with me for six months. I’ll give you free accommodation, basic living expenses and fifteen — no, scratch that — twenty per cent of the 40,000 dollar advance.’

Three seconds pass as Sheila’s eyes shift, anxiously, from Victoria’s emphatic smile to the slightly pinkening tips of her fingers.

‘C’mon, Sister Wendy!’ Victoria squeezes still harder, impatient — almost exasperated. ‘Put your money where your mouth is for once!’

‘Are you crazy?!’ Sheila flutes, trying — and failing — to withdraw her hand, her heart clattering against her ribs like a clockwork mouse, her eyes strangely hopeful, almost fearful.

‘You betcha ! Crazy as a three-legged cat with a firecracker tied to its tail!’ Victoria affirms, proudly, nostrils flaring, her brown eyes hard and cold as a dead eel’s.

‘But Hamra’s such a heavy kind of name, Aamilah,’ Farhana whines, plaintively, ‘so boring, so harsh.’

‘How d’you mean , “boring”?!’ Aamilah grinds to a sudden halt, outraged by the impudence of this statement (and Valentine — whose hand she’s holding, stops too, as does Nessa, whose hand Valentine holds). ‘Have some imagination! Hamra means “red” so it’s absolutely perfect!’

‘Red?’ Farhana echoes, stopping herself now (she’s pushing Badriya in her pushchair slightly ahead of the other group).

‘Yes!’ Aamilah exclaims, exasperated. ‘Like her hair! Like a heart! Like a Valentine , you idiot!’

‘Oh.’

They all commence walking again.

‘For some, strange reason I had it fixed in my head that Hamra was the name of the wife of Adam,’ Hana calls over her shoulder.

‘The wife of Adam?! No way!’ Aamilah is contemptuous. ‘It definitely means “red”. Adam’s wife had a totally different name. It doesn’t even sound like Hamra.’

‘Well I do think it was Hamra, actually,’ Farhana persists.

‘It wasn’t Hamra, Farhana!’ Aamilah’s enraged. ‘I’m completely positive that it wasn’t, okay?’

‘But I’m sure I remember —’

‘ Hawwa! ’ Aamilah interrupts, exuberant. ‘It was Hawwa! Adam’s wife! Hawwa!’

Silence.

‘Well Hawwa sounds extremely similar to Hamra. They both start with an H and end with an A and both have two syllables.’

‘ And?! ’

‘You said they sounded totally different!’

‘ Ha! ’

This time Farhana stops in her tracks, startled by her sister’s unladylike expostulation (and the rest of the group almost pile straight into her). ‘ Ha? Ha what?!’ she demands.

‘ Ha! ’ Aamilah repeats, jinking past and marching ahead, smugly.

‘You are so childish sometimes!’ Farhana calls after her. ‘And remember: “ He who has no manners has no knowledge ”!’

‘Admit that you were wrong, Hana!’ Milah trills.

‘Fine! Fine! ’ Hana grumbles, walking on again. ‘And now the endless gloating, I suppose!’

‘Go on! Admit it!’ Milah’s free hand jousts the air, victoriously. ‘Admit that you were wrong, Hana! Say it!’

‘I’m happy to admit it!’ Hana insists. ‘It doesn’t bother me one bit! But it still doesn’t change the fact that Hamra is an ugly, heavy kind of name …’

As the three women make their stately (if voluble) progress down the road together, Valentine (the putative subject of the two sisters’ intense discussion) has only half an ear on their conversation (which, through the close fabric of her slightly musty, undersized hijab , feels like it’s taking place in another room). The other half of her consciousness focuses on the beat of her own heart, which echoes in her head — resounding, fuzzily, between her ears — like a tiny but strenuous game of tennis being played by two wasps using gongs for rackets.