Page 5 of Little Wing
‘Hello, love.’
Nell liked Sylvie the best. All the staff here were kind but some could be a little brusque. Sylvie was always cheery, always patient.
‘How are we today?’ Her big sing-song voice.
Nell answered for her mother. ‘Calm – but I’m Florence again.’
‘Calm is good,’ said Sylvie. ‘We like calm, don’t we, Mrs H?’ Sylvie looked at Nell. ‘You don’t look like a Florence.’ And then she looked at Nell the way Debbie from Chaffinch would look at Nell. And, occasionally, the way that Frank did too: with concern. ‘And how are you today, Nell?’
It compelled Nell to feign immediate lightness.
‘Me? Oh fine! Fine. I’d best be off.’
She kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Bye, Mum – I’ll see you soon.’
Her mother spun her head sharply and regarded Sylvie pleadingly. ‘Who is she? And why does she think I’m her mother?’
A silent drive home, Nell’s mind both heavy and blank.
Every time her mum denied she had a daughter, Nell felt less and less that she had a mother.
Home.
Along the corridor and past the sounds of the lives of others.
Into her flat and down into the love seat.
Maybe she’d fall asleep in her clothes.
Colchester, December 1968
Love.
It’s all any of us need. Love is everything and I can’t understand why some people don’t realize this – why the politicians and that lot stop seeing this. It’s the truth, love is. I try not to hate – I try not to use the word. Instead, I’ll say Idespisepoliticians and Idetestthe H bomb and Iabhorall wars. I reallyloatheboiled fish in milk – which we have every single Thursday at home. Ican’t standschool. But I just try not to use the wordHATE. Love is what rules. It’s all you need. Just listen to the Fab Four.
It’s very strange how my passion for Love and Peace puts my mother in such a bad mood. She huffs at me and turns her back at so much of what I say. And yet – she lived through the war! She actually knows what hate feels like! My stepfather, though, he laughs; not in a cruel way and I don’t mind it because I love George. He isn’t a man of many words – apart from saying ‘aye, dear’ to my mother a lot – and his soft Scottish accent seems to soothe her, thank goodness. What I like about George is that he gets me. That’s quite far out for a grown-up. And he does listen – and then he chuckles or he’ll murmur in response – he’s quite expressive, really, in his mostly wordless way. I did hear him once defend me to my mum: ‘She’s a pacifist, my dear, not a commie.’
What my dad didn’t know about love isn’t worth knowing. I miss my dad. I haven’t seen him half my life. Eight years on and I talk to him still, to keep him here, to make sure none of the little details fade. But I do so in my mind only, as Mum doesn’t like to hear reminiscences. Almost as soon as he died she said God had plans for him and who are we to argue or lament. I was eight and I wanted to do a lot of crying. Now I’m sixteen and I want to ask her what kind of a god is this god of yours, taking my dad and giving him a disease with no cure that killed him within weeks?
I used to shake my fist at the sky – in case there was a god listening. Now, mostly, when I think of him I have a little smile and I say, oh, I wish you were still here, Pops! I say, Pops – you’d love this band. Listen to this song! Jimi Hendrix!
I imagine how my father and I could be talking about politics and peace and everything. I think he’d be proud that I sneaked to London twice to stop the Vietnam War, and once to ban the bomb with CND. He went on the Aldermaston march when I was seven. Not with Mum. He died three months later.
If he were here today I’d say, look at my dress, Pops, I made it from Annie’s mum’s tablecloth that she was going to throw out. And I’d say, Pops – won’t you please speak to Mum about Joan’s party at the weekend? I really so want to go. I’m sixteen and it’s nearly Christmas!
So I like having these little chats with my dead dad. But, on Saturday, I’m going to sneak out of the house with Annie’s mum’s tablecloth dress in a bag and change at the hut in the park before I go to Joan’s party. I know my dad wouldn’t have minded.
Dad and George were very good chums. They’re quite alike and that’s why I’m so fond of George. George knew that I went to the Vietnam rally, he told me he was proud of me, he told me he wouldn’t tell Mum. I do love George too.
I know my dad wouldn’t have minded. He’d be happy for me.
Camden, February 2005
Dougie hurried down Hartland Road to Camden Town underground station laden; his kit weighed a ton. He slalomed between a pile of puke, a bundle of sodden clothes, a wet stodge of discarded takeaways, a homeless man sitting in a doorway begging for small change. Dougie chastised himself for feigning blindness to the beggar because usually he would give a quid or two but today he was in a rush. He’d make it up to him – he was there regularly. But just now, Dougie was late and his bags were cumbersome; something was digging into his shoulder blade like the sharpest of accusing fingers reprimanding him for some crime or other.
He thought about that analogy as he queued for his Travelcard.
The most recent crime, he supposed, was not wanting to move in with Suze after a year together. You’re thirty-bloody-six, she’d said, get a life. And she’d thrown his stuff around and hit him across the face and told him she was done, she was fucking done. That was almost two years ago and still, on occasion, he breathed a sigh of relief. He reckoned his greater crime was that, more often than not, he let his father’s phone calls go through to the answering machine. But certainly, to have to listen to his dad flummoxing down the line was punishment enough for that. His father hated answering machines and the messages he left were always faltering; he’d say very little but awkwardly and loud. Just thought I’d telephone, lad, see how you are. It’s your dad, son, just – you know – calling.
