She had wanted to listen to that new Phoebe Bridgers album on the drive home from school. Just shy of 41 minutes, she knew she would be home before the penultimate track, but was prepared to sit in the car until its finish, if the album proved worth it.
She waited until she had driven out of the area entirely, before connecting Bluetooth and pressing the play button on her phone. The car stereo came slowly to life. She allowed it all to fade into obscurity, rounding the corner onto Fairfield: the gates of the school, the bus stop, the manicured hedgerow, and the smattering of parked Audi parents in gilets and floaty dresses, waiting for their kids.
NME had promised a sonic palette – something close to ethereal – and she would give the album her full attention.
But it was not to be. Looming in the distance, four yellow roadworks signs, and a subsequent diversion, had already interrupted some of the finer dissonances in Track 4, and the experience had, all at once, been marred. She pressed the power button on the car stereo and stared through the windscreen, listening only to the beginnings of flat patter on the glass, and waiting for the lights to go green. She would have to take Hedley, and avoid the A road altogether.
John caught the 73 bus back from school every day, except on a Thursday, when Mr Bradshaw did football training at four o’clock, after which, all the lads of St Bernard who stayed behind would find their way home on foot, roving the town streets like stray cats.
The uniformed huddles of boys saw the bus approach: the same nameless driver as they’d always known, pulling in with a precise one-half turn of the great wheel, and flexing his fat red fingers out as he hauled the bus into the stop. His arms, marked with pin up girls, blued by age, and stretched wide by nightly fish suppers and Fray Bentos pies, pressed against the plastic divider, as he put his tab back into his mouth, multitasking by taking coins and pressing the button for the machine to dispense its long ticket tongue through the feed gap.
His four gold sovereign rings had long since lost hope of escape from between joint and knuckle, wedged on tight. John flinched, imagining the pressure, each time he looked, but today he took little care to examine. It was Monday, and the worst part of his week – Geography with Mr Cairns – was once again a whole seven days away. He made his way to his usual space, in one of two aisle seats downstairs, securing the window with his bag for Liam Doyle, who was always late being let out of the labs in Block A. John knew that, once he showed, Liam would have a story or titbit for him, about Mr Murphy.
Liam was almost a year older than John, despite being in the same school year, but had been put into the bottom set for sciences, with Arthur Murphy. John had once seen Murphy tackle a first year, in a since discontinued student-teacher touch rugby match – a friendly – and, despite never having had a class with him, Liam’s stories had bolstered John’s picture of the man: that first year had gone down like a sandcastle in a tsunami, and Mr Murphy had pulled the boy up by his collar, legs like limp spaghetti plucked from a pot, brushing him down and laughing in front of the other boys, not so much in concern but in warning.
Liam’s position in the bottom set had little to do with ability. He had started the previous year with John, in Mr Whelks’ class, but was moved before Christmas. This had perhaps been due to his proclivity for what Mr Murphy would later call, ‘being a little daft bastard’. He had once stuck pencils into the gas taps and turned them on full whack at the start of the lesson, whilst Whelks had been chatting to Mrs Quint in the corridor. When old Whelks finally sniffed the air like the aging greyhound he was, and paused his lesson on photosynthesis, Liam gave himself away immediately, exploding into shrieking laughter after the long wait. He was always doing things like that, even when no one else found it funny but him.
John loved his stories, despite knowing how Liam was prone to poetic licence. He didn’t care. But today, as Liam swung his way onto the bus, there was no story for John. Instead, he saw Liam clutching something in his hand: several gleaming conkers. Many of the other Year 9 boys fingered the same treasures, having scooped them off the grass, where they had fallen and rolled towards the school field, tumbling from the great horse chestnut beyond.
‘Thanks for keeping the seat warm, lad.’ Said Liam, grinning, as John bunked up, finally taking the window seat as Liam opened his palm, to reveal his finds.
Liam turned the brown baubles in his ink stained hands. John took one from him and admired its bulbous shape.
‘Any cheesers?’ He asked. Liam shook his head.
‘No. Matthew Pryce got the best of them before I even picked one up.’ He confessed. ‘I did well to find these. Almost had them confiscated by Mr Finchley.’ Liam frowned, before adding, ‘Fincher, Fincher, Tit Pincher.’
John wasn’t sure who had started the rhyme. Nobody was. It might have been someone in the upper school, because no boy in his year had yet taken credit for what had swiftly become a playground anthem. One possible source had been Max Dempsey, the Irish lad who had joined late last year. He once tried to convince the other boys that he’d seen Mr Finchley with his hand up his younger sister’s shirt. They had believed him, for a time, until a few of the form saw the size of Mr Dempsey, one day as he picked Max up from school. It was then they realised that, had there been any truth to that tall tale, Dempsey would have already taken the teeth from Finchley’s mouth. Besides, the rhyme had been about long before Dempsey’s arrival.
As he considered this, John saw Mickey get on the bus and make his way up the narrow staircase, flanked by the few others of the upper school boys who held rank enough to sit at the back of the top deck. They ascended, knowing their usual seats would not be taken.
Mickey, John’s brother, was three years older. They did not acknowledge one another, as it was not their custom to do so until their walk back from the bus stop on Stanberry Road, but John couldn’t help but admire him as he watched him climb the steps, his bag slung over one shoulder. The other lads had long since removed their blazers but Mickey’s stayed put, albeit with a loosened tie. John knew it was because mam liked him to look smart when he came in, and no other lad would dare ask anyway.
As the bus shuddered to life and set off, the Year 9 boys on the lower deck began playing conkers. With none of his own, John shared a few of Liam’s, strung with the lace from Liam’s left shoe, the opening of which now hung like an old mouth. At one point, Ted Kershaw, a big lad in the year above, had eyed the chance to acquire a win, and squeezed himself into the seat in front of John, challenging him to a round. He swiftly won, and Liam groaned as John reluctantly handed over one of his borrowed lot.
‘You thief, Kershaw.’ Liam called. ‘No one can beat that one – you’ve soaked it in vinegar. I can smell the bastard from here.’
Ted grinned, his back teeth showing as his thick neck widened in laughter. ‘Hand it over, you nonce.’
Liam continued to protest, and the surrounding boys took an interest. Caving to pressure, Ted handed his prized conker to Liam, for the purpose of examination. Liam gave it a once over and handed it to John, who ran his finger against the fatal ridge of the seed. Liam continued to claim he could smell vinegar, and began making a joke out of it, sniffing his fingers as the other boys howled. It wasn’t so much the soaking that the boys objected to, as the denial, but he was adamant. As Liam’s ham performance continued, and Ted’s scowling face grew redder, John swung the conker in question only once, in mock play. He had not been paying attention, his eyes stinging with tears as he laughed at Liam. The conker hit the back of the seat with a dull tin clonk and, making contact with the metal hand bar, it smashed into pieces.
There was a brief silence, as the other boys registered the casualty, their mouths rounding to small O’s, waiting for Ted’s reaction. It came fast. Ted Kershaw swung his sweaty fist 180 degrees until it met with John’s mouth. The force popped John’s lip open immediately, and he tipped his head forward, clutching his face in shock, before Ted thumped the back of his head twice, catching the top of his ear with the final blow.
Liam, who had dropped his own conkers as he stood stunned at the fierce little interlude, made his way back to the seat next to John who, knowing he had only seconds to save face, flung his head back and laughed, out of kilter with his pain, as Ted shoved himself into another seat nearer the front of the bus, his shoulders heaving with rage.
For the rest of the journey, Liam tried to make John laugh.
‘Never mind Kershaw. He’s as soft as shite, really. Did you see him nearly crying after he hit you?’
He rubbed his eyes for false tears and made a soft crying noise, to the amusement of the other boys. John laughed too, but the adrenaline he had released had tired him, and he wished Liam would be quiet.
‘Forget him, the thieving bastard. I’ve seen him taking the five pences out the collection plate on Sunday mass, an’ all. He’ll probably be held back next year, I reckon. He’s almost as thick as me.’
John pushed a desperate laugh out from his chest, sucking the tell-tale blood from his tender lip and praying that Ted would not have left a mark that mam might see later that night.
At the bus stop on Stanberry Road, John did not wait for Mickey to climb down from the top deck, but headed off towards home, hoping that he would miss him altogether. He did not want his brother to see the marks of the humiliating ordeal.
A hundred metres down the road, however, he heard Mickey’s soft jog behind him.
‘Hoy, cheers for waiting, Johnny.’ He sighed, pretending to catch his breath. ‘I’m puffed out now.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Said John, without stopping. ‘You can run faster than anyone in the school and you’re never puffed out, so I don’t know why you’re even saying that.’
Mickey sensed the subtleties of John’s mood like a shark. He had always been able to, and it was a gift that John had always revered and resented in equal measure. He longed to be home, and to hide in his room, but Mickey had caught the scent of blood in the water.
John continued to suck his lip, hiding it on one side of his face, but he couldn’t hide his ear, which had swollen into a thick red curve, like a wave, barely hidden by his curly hair. For a few moments, they walked in silence.
‘Who’s done that?’ Said Mickey, finally. He did not look, and did not have to point. John did not pretend not to know what he meant.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He insisted, slowing down as exhaustion caused his defensiveness to wane.
‘Who.’ He repeated calmly, without even the note of question in his voice.
When John finally caved, and told him the whole story, Mickey asked one further, clarifying question.
‘He the blonde one?’
‘Yes.’ John replied.
They continued to walk, now in silence, and when they arrived home Mickey explained to mam, who fussed soft hands over her youngest, that John had tripped stepping off the bus. Mickey went out for the rest of the evening, and John went to bed, both his sore ear and pride stinging.
The next day, Liam was waiting for John at the bus stop. His class had PE last thing, and Mr Bradshaw, always shattered on a Tuesday after Monday’s hair of the dog had worn off, called the lads off the field a few minutes early. Liam’s knees, brown and scraped, swung one in front of the other, as he jogged on the spot, beckoning John over.
‘I swear Bradshaw did a little sick over by the changing rooms. He looks a fucking fright today, have you seen him?’
John, a little wary of his return to the scene of yesterday’s incident, felt himself laughing at Liam’s impression of Bradshaw. He thrust his backside out, imitating the man’s beer belly by pushing his own out as far as it would go, and burped, pretending to throw up against the bus shelter. He mimed unscrewing a hipflask after the revolting performance was complete, and John guffawed as they stepped onto the deck, taking their usual places, at this usual time.
Once most of the boys had filed onto the bus, John saw Ted Kershaw bowl his way down the aisle. His stomach dropped. He was careful not to meet his eye, or flinch, but heard him mutter something snide and disparaging as he sauntered past. He heard the smirk in his voice.
Mickey got on next, and cast a throwaway glance across the lower deck, before climbing the staircase. He did not look at John.
By the time the bus set off, Liam had started to regale John with one of his stories about Murphy, as the other boys chattered and shifted in their seats, impatient to get home and get out. A few still played with their conkers, though yesterday’s events had put a dampener on their general enthusiasm for the game.
It was just as Liam began the build-up to a punch line that resulted in Murphy calling him a rancid bugger, when John saw Mickey coming down the bus stairs. He was alone, but called a response to an inaudible conversation on the top deck, pausing on the last few steps, to hear something from above, before casually leaving his bag in the luggage hold near the front of the bus. He was smiling. Most of the boys on the lower deck had not yet noticed him, but John did not blink as his eyes followed Mickey gently slinking his way up the aisle, removing one arm from the sleeve of his blazer, and then the other. He did not stop when he reached John but, by this stage, Liam had spotted him and called out.
‘Alreet, Mickey! What are you doing down here?’
Mickey patted Liam on the shoulder as his sole answer, and laid his blazer on the back of his chair. Liam held it in place, as he turned in his seat to follow Mickey’s movements. At the back row, Mickey walked straight up to Ted Kershaw, biting the corner of his mouth and pulling his shirt sleeve from where it had caught on his forearm.
‘Are you Ted?’ He asked. Ted Kershaw scowled in confusion.
Before an answer had left his mouth, the back of Ted’s head met with the rear window. Mickey clocked him right on the pink fat of his jaw. It made a thudding sound, like dropping your mam’s Sunday ham on the kitchen tiles. Ted recovered with animalistic ferocity, leaping from his chair, as the two began to scrap. John’s mouth hung open as he watched his brother land hit after thundering hit against Ted’s back and legs, as Ted clung to him, vice-like. The bus erupted into cacophony. Chants were passed around like relay batons. A few boys tried to start bets.
Before too long, the bus screeched to a sudden halt, and the heft of the driver’s accelerating paces could be felt all up the aisle. Those standing sat in an instant. His tab end still nipped between his purple lips, he grabbed the two culprits by their ears, causing them each to wince and give in, as he howked them to the front of the bus and booted them off. John, who had not yet stopped to take a full breath, felt like he had jumped from a tall building. He could feel his body vibrate, as sheer excitement coursed through him. In all the commotion, he had missed his chance to step off the bus with Mickey, and he watched his brother grin, as he disappeared into the distance.
At Stanberry Road bus stop, a seven-minute walk from their home, John waited the thirty-five minutes it took for Mickey to walk from the point of his hasty departure. By then, he had spat out much of the blood from his own mouth, though his shirt shoulder had been ripped beyond repair.
‘Your shirt.’ John said.
‘Aye, I know. Mam’s gonna have me.’ Mickey smirked, shoving John with the tip of his elbow. He lit a cigarette, retrieved from his top pocket.
‘Don’t let her catch you at that, either.’
‘You can say they’re mine, if she smells them.’
Mickey laughed warmly, taking a deep drag as John looked at him. There was not much difference between them, in height and build, but John’s way of looking at his brother, through his pale eyebrows, had always made it feel as if there was.
‘That’s alreet, lad. Besides, I think the shirt will probably take top billing.’
It was not the custom between the two to give thanks, but nor was the day’s gesture unacknowledged. It poured out of John, in every step they took, and each furtive look. As they rounded the corner onto their estate, he finally asked.
‘Did he do anything, once you got kicked off?’
‘No.’ Mickey exhaled.
‘Nothing?’ He peered at him, inquisitively.
‘He just went home, John.’
Tossing his tab end into the gutter, Mickey took his brother by the shoulder as they walked through the garden gate. Mam had hung the day’s washing out, and it swayed and wavered in the afternoon breeze. They smelled its clean soap smell, careful not to touch, as they reached the door. John stepped into the house, and Mickey followed behind him.
The other night I dreamt you came into my house and wouldn’t leave. At first, I didn’t mind – we were just sitting together in my kitchen – but as I neared the dregs of my second cup of tea, I started to wonder when you planned to go. When I woke, I considered the parallel universe where we now somehow coexist: your keys in my fruit bowl; your hands on my bath taps; your feet on my couch. And in the haze of my morning I wasn’t sure what it had meant or whether it had even been a dream at all, and half expected to see you pass by, step-less and slight, like a ghost on the landing.
Finally! A good one. Can’t remember who asked. Who knows how these things come up, just go with it fast. Which creature would you least like to be killed by? If you had to. If you just had to. Doesn’t matter why. We dipped into silence, underwater in thought, each seeking an answer in the fashion we’d wrought. The lot of us sat in a circle of green bottles and spent ends, barely friends in a debauched fairy’s ring – and, for a second, not saying a thing. Godzilla doesn’t count. Then one spoke out. A grizzly bear. Why? You could just run. From a bear? You’re fucking joking, son. A few others offered and we talked through the zoo. But I didn’t have to think – I already knew. How, being frozen in the deep, I’d die thinking of you, as it swam, torpedoed steel, and took what it wanted. It’s eyes gloss and haunted. I wondered if you’d feel it burst you apart. Turn your organs to mulch. Teeth through the heart. After a while, we spilled beer, and turned to something new, but I sat for a while, and thought of the blue, of the dark and of death, and of it, and of you.
Later on, as I’m walking back to the station, I remembered when she used to do her lists. They started years back, before she started ditching mass, before she started pinching things – even before Nan. She would spend hours somewhere secret, because I never saw her do it, writing list after list of all the families we knew – our neighbours’ families, our teachers’ families, our friends, their mothers and fathers, families off the telly, their names, their ages, aunties, uncles, cousins – all the many ways in which they belonged to one another. All the families we had ever known, all but our own, hidden away in drawers and under mattresses for years. In that quiet house, I always found them, and when she didn’t think I was in, or if she didn’t think I could hear her, she would cry, and no one ever came.
By the time we’d realised that there weren’t any glasses in the caravan, we were already pretty cut. As explained in the rental email, we found the keys under the garden statue of the stone frog, and had spent the first, hurried half hour dragging the bags in from the car and lining our stomachs, before we started on the wine. This decision had been one of convenience, rather than particular taste, as it had been easier to locate the green bottles, clanking in the boot, than the vodka, which had been pilfered from Fran’s older brother, stuffed in a pillowcase, and hidden in the depths of her suitcase.
We hadn’t noticed the absence of glasses, because the protocol with wine was to drink straight from the bottle. We’d seen that photo of Rod Stewart and David Bowie doing the same thing and never looked back, but the spirits would need something for mixing. We weren’t pissed enough to take it neat. Not yet. We were after a vessel.
After a bit of a scout around our very limited surroundings, and a brief but considerate glance at the ashtray, the cracked sugar bowl, and the dusty ceramic vase by the sink, we were ready to concede, when our eyes settled on the empty Pot Noodles.
She’d insisted her father meet her outside in the car park, because he’d make a big deal of it, and she didn’t want the others to see. She knew, before it happened, how it would go.
He’d be stood up. He’d have arrived too early. He’d be waiting, in the same make of tan suede loafers he’d worn every weekend since she could remember, arms outstretched, pinning a wobbling smile to his face. He’d sob into her hair. He’d take big, heaving breaths of relief and there would be surging emotion that he himself probably wouldn’t understand. His cheeks would be wet and, because it was a Sunday, he wouldn’t have shaved, so his beard would scrape against her face. She dreaded the performance of it, and felt ashamed to dread such love.
As it turned out, because she was still a hair’s breadth off eighteen, they wouldn’t release her without the presence of a nominated guardian, so he met her in the reception. He needed to sign for her, like a package – a fragile one he’d strap into the front seat of the Volvo, and hold fast as he turned sharp corners.
The sun shone, though the day was far from warm. As she’d sat, waiting for him, the first few flakes of snow had fallen. It had seemed strange to see it happen, in the sunlight, and they had come down so slowly that, at first, she hadn’t been sure it was snow at all, so fragile was the offering that it looked to her more like debris. Ash. Like the aftermath of some great fire.
Sorry I’m late. The fucking dog’s been driving me mental. She’s in heat.
He’d been scowling into the cold air, as she’d watched him round the corner past the chemist, and the lines on his forehead had not yet settled back into his face. She thought he looked tired and irritable, and the possibility of being punished by one of his foul moods had spurred in her a desire to keep the walk brief, or to avoid it altogether. Disappointment hit her in the stomach, and she began thinking of an out. Fake a phone call. Feign a limp. But it wasn’t long before he was smirking at her, dancing on the spot to keep warm, and she found herself smirking back. Once again, the open morning seemed to roll out before them, like a bolt of gold fabric.
There was something queer about his mouth, too. Not to say that I didn’t like it, but then I always liked a few flaws in a fella. I think I got it from my old mum – she was always after a bastard so I grew up around them, and look what that lead to. Attracted to what I was repelled by. I don’t think that makes sense, does it, but it makes the job easier. I once tricked a fella from Lincoln with warts on his hands. He called it a condition; I called us a cab. Is this being recorded?
Didn’t one of you say I could have a Coke? No, no one brought me one. Hang on, let me get my lighter out. Now, where was I? Yeah, so there was that thing about his mouth, the way he had this habit, yeah, of snaking his tongue out – like this – when he wasn’t talking, not thinking like. Couldn’t stop looking. And he was older. White male and fifty, did you say? 5 foot 8? Sounds about right. Quite a bit older, then, if I’m honest. Didn’t mind. Daddy issues they call that, don’t they? I bet you lot do. Well, answer me this then. How can I have daddy issues if I ain’t got a daddy? I don’t blame you for thinking it. See it all the time, not just with people in my line of work, I bet. Shit goes on at home, and next thing you know you’re picking up some lass for trying to shackle a midlife crisis with a bad dye job and a Jag – trainers too young for them, and all that. You can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. They say that too, don’t they? Do you like mine? Heel’s coming off this one a bit. Is that Coke still coming?
Not that I was trying to shackle anyone anyway. That’s not how it works in my line. This isn’t the movies. He wasn’t bad to look at, though. He wasn’t the sort you’d take pity on at all, not like some of the others, I can tell you. A fella who thinks he’s ugly and is right (they’re the best for it, I find) is a far cry from one who doesn’t. It’s like they aren’t trying to trick you into thinking you might like it. Fucking Richard Gere. God, they’re the worst. Nah, he wasn’t one of them. He knew what he was about. It’s partly why I remember him. Why does any of this matter? I’ve not seen him since, and that was months back.
Yes please, 2 sugars. No, I still want the Coke, and all, thank you. He’s nice. He asks polite. Not like the rest of you lot. Hey, did I tell you once I got my head slammed over a coffee table by one of you, just because I happened to be working a party at a house in… Yeah, that’s the one. Drug dealer, the news said. Well, how was I to know?
Anyway, this fella. How comes I remember him? He wasn’t like the others. Usually a smirk and a shandy is all it takes before they’re putty in your hands, grateful for ‘owt, but this one took some doing. I remember he was a little rbloke with little hands too, but broad like a brickie’s, and a neat dresser. I had a banging little number on that night myself. I did. Not too much because you don’t want to make it obvious, do you; got to make them think they’ve pulled you, even when they know they haven’t. I’d winked at him across the bar, and he smiled but then turned back to his drink. It took the wind out of me! I tried again, moving closer, and pulled the forgot my purse one on him, and I could tell he saw straight through it, but he bought my drink anyway. Bacardi Coke, double – ‘cause why not?
His voice was funny too. Slow talker. Kept each word in his mouth a bit too long, like he was eating a sweet, but it wasn’t daft. I asked him what he did for a living – they always like that, because they always have an answer for it, even if it ain’t true. It’s like they’re grateful for the talking point. I can’t remember what he said he did in the day, but reckoned himself a bit of a writer by night. Started on about the stories he had to tell. Can you imagine it? There’s me, eyeing up the nearest toilet to save a trip back to the Travelodge, and he’s on to me about writers. He said it’s all the little things. The little things is poetry. Think he lost me, to be honest. Then he asked me the same question back, but I said I was just interested in getting to know him a little better, and would he like to nick off somewhere for a bit, to read me some of his work. I called him Mr Shakespeare then, and he laughed.
I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. He knew. He must have done, they all do. Few drinks later and there we were, back at the room. We chatted at first. He tried to play some music on his phone but I wanted to get down to it and he didn’t stop me. I’ll spare you the details. Is that other one coming back in? He looks like a right go-er.
Yeah, we did. Can I leave yet? I’ve said everything I know and I’m expected back out on the strip tonight. Oh, I don’t know. Nothing too much, just let me jabber on. You know something. I don’t think too much when it’s happening. I zone out. I don’t mean I’m all silent – I mean, we’ve all got our go-to phrases. Yeah. Like that. Do it. Some like you to scream the place down. Others want you to shut your mouth. You can usually guess it right by looking, if you care, but not that time. I couldn’t figure him. Forgot myself. Don’t get me wrong, the earth didn’t move, but something about it caught me off guard.
Anyway, to answer your question, I know he was there all night because so was I. I knew I shouldn’t have, because I’d not half get a thrashing the next day. I left as soon as it was light enough for me to see where I’d chucked my clothes. Took the money straight out of his wallet, while he was still asleep. Part of me thinking he hadn’t quite clocked the situation, and something about that I liked.
It’s funny what you remember when you really think about it. It was a strange old night. He just smiled and listened. Asked me if Candy was my real name. I don’t know why, because I usually wouldn’t, but I just told him. Expect you can see I’m a talker. Then, get this, right. He turned to me and said that my name means gift, and I laughed. Said he’d seen it on a bookmark one time – the kind with the different names on. I mean, you’d have laughed too. All the little things is poetry, he said.
Welcome to the city of soft-focus. Blink once and miss nothing. The brick-and-slate vista forms a dingy skirting board below the rising fog. Can you taste it yet? Wait for it, it’s coming – and once the acrid twang of fag ash and river sludge begins to probe the meaty paunches of your mouth, you’ll know you’re here. I watch it smudge past me, from outside the taxi window. I wait for the sign, as if I need reminding. As if this place needs announcing. I can be nowhere else.
The taxi man is chewing a biro. He is an old hand, but he’s not actually as old as all that. Perhaps he’s fifty – fifty-five tops. Some of his back teeth are missing, and his fox-like grin pulls far towards his ears. He begins his patter. He asks me if I’m here for the holidays, his head cocked up towards the mirror. I meet him. I start to explain that I don’t live here anymore: that I’m here to see my brother. Asks me if I’m at yooni, if I like what I’m studying, and if I miss home. I say aye so many times it starts to sound like eye, and I wonder if I’m having a stroke. I ask him if he lives local. Oh yes, he nods. All me life.
Hey listen, here’s one for you: what do women and hurricanes have in common? They both start off a breeze, but then they destroy everything you have! Always liked that one, but can never remember where I heard it… Jim, maybe, or Andrew in Marine Forecasting? Or perhaps just a stranger on the bus, which is equally plausible because – and I’ve always liked this – weather has a place in everyone’s daily lives, not just ours down at the Met Office. You hear it come up in all sorts of conversation. In fact, just the other week, an architect friend of mine met the Queen at the opening of some war memorial, and you’ll never guess what she said to him. One’s hair is being drizzled on. That tickled me pink.
Of course, in my line of work we’re not so focused on your everyday downpour. In Paleotempestology – that’s the hurricane business – you’ve all sorts of meteorological implications to consider, not least of all the official naming of storms. I bet you never thought about how they do that, did you? Well, someone’s got to. I often think back on my career and wonder what prompted me to classify them as I did. How I managed to choose names to summarise each cyclonic thrill. Of course, I realise now that the inspiration was clear all along.
My first was Lisa. Gale force two, if memory serves. Winds of about nine kilometres per hour, fingernails bitten down, and sparkly polish on the nibs, short wavelets with no breaks. Some airborne spray. To be honest, tame, and pretty unremarkable, but there’s a first for everything, isn’t there. It was middle school, after all. Followed swiftly by Monica. Gale force three – a definite let down, with very few scattered whitecaps. Freckled, too. Some experts in the field had said she’d go anywhere, do anything, but no more than a slight draught and flutter down by the football fields and it was over.
Anyway, Naomi came after. Eight, and what an eightshe was. Dark, with a stare that smothered, east-coast-American, beachy-type. Winds of about seventy kilometres per hour, that’s-more-like-it, well-marked streaks of foam along the coastline, filled out, college. Whirlwind romance. Came to nothing with surprisingly little destruction, but after all when you really looked her in the eye there was nothing there.
Olive next, gale force five – six at a push – heavy-set, natural, fairly typical for that time. Winds of around thirty-eight kilometres per hour. Bit scattered, but punctual – arrived and left without a fuss. Some airborne spray, and occasional whistling. Classic, but not common. Low expectations, but could actually move you, in the midst of it all.
Paula surprised us all, predicted a four, and turned out a seven. Sea heaped up high, moderate wave breaks and considerable tree movement. Brisk, free-spirited, adventurous, gusts from all angles, refreshing fifty-five kilometre per hour winds, but died down slowly, only to be caught blowing in new terrain, if you catch my drift.
Then all too suddenly was Rita with was – what, in hindsight, I now see – ten written all over her. Redhead, with a mind of her own; one hundred kilometres per hour tempest winds, erratic, dizzying with very high waves and overhanging crests, resulting in reduced visibility. One way and then the other, knocked your socks off, uprooted you, blew you away. Considerable damage left in her wake. Remembered often.
And as for today, the reading is meagre – light precipitation with mild winds, of no real consequence to anyone not planning to fire up a barbecue, wear a floaty dress, or paint fences. Mild inconvenience, but even so, it unites us in that same way. It’s an opening, a crutch, a fall back. The weather is the Godfather of small talk: always there when you need a favour, but with a price to pay. And yes, today’s is pretty uneventful, but that’s the thing about weather – it changes. Tomorrow will be different – it will bring something new. Tomorrow could bring Sarah, or Sandra, or even Sunshine. Tomorrow could ruin plans, or perhaps make them. It could change it all. But, then again, in this game, who knows – it could well be a lot of hot air.