Fran�oise could be an awkward bitch.
She always wanted to be a bit glam, forever having a go at me for being so �outstandingly dull� (her words, not mine!). She particularly hated those trousers I wear when I bike to the shops �cause they�re my decorating trousers � covered in dried-on white gloss. She wasn�t that keen on the biking either! I tried to tell her it�s not practical to be glamorous, but did she listen? Did she fuck! She hates it too when I wear thick woolly socks to work with my suit-shoes. That�s �cause when I sit down, my trousers ride up and you can see the socks beneath them, and she says it looks like I have �oedematous old women�s ankles� � whatever the fuck they are.
I actually have fantastic ankles for a man � �a gentleman�s ankles� she says, and �you should show them off more�. I don�t know how she reckons a middle-aged bloke should show his ankles off.
She�s fond of displaying her own ankles too � tart! Her favourite evening activity is to roll up her trousers in the bedroom and put on her only pair of designer shoes (ridiculously expensive they were). They�re so sharp looking I�ve nearly laid boards down over the carpet to stop her spiking chunks out of it (I paid a lot of money for that carpet).
I have to agree with her though; she does look like a film star in those shoes.
The advert in the Sunday paper said:
Glamorous caravan for sale
One careful owner
Price negotiable.
I�d always fancied a nice little caravan. I said to Fran�oise:
�Listen Franny, we could go away whenever we wanted, out into the countryside, no cost�.
�Don�t ever call me Franny,� she said. �If I wanted a name like a piece of my anatomy I�d have joined the Enid Blyton club!� Like I said, she can be an awkward bitch.
I knew Fran hated caravans. However, she was never one for self-restraint, so when I showed her the advert (�glamorous� highlighted in fluorescent yellow pen) she said she�d take a look at it with me.
The caravan sat in the car park outside one of those fancy new pensioner homes � red brick, water fountain, flowerbeds.
�They have it pretty fuckin� good, these olduns!� I said.
That caravan looked like it had just landed there � straight from the sky. On the outside it looked like every other beige toaster on wheels in the land. You should have seen Franny�s face. Actually, her face was an even better sight for my old crusty eyes when we got inside � wide like a five year old with a new Mr Frosty. The kid that showed us round saw her face (and mine too) and told us a little story:
�My Gran used to live in this caravan. She moved here after Granddad died cause he used to make her breakfast and change her pants, so she wasn�t much use without him. We put her in that home behind us, but she arranged for her caravan to be moved here without us knowing and set herself up in here instead. The home did try to get rid of it, but she wrote letters to the council, and pissed in the home�s indoor plant-pots when she got the chance. They tried to send their staff in to help her, but she wasn�t having it � just sat around listening to the radio in her sack-dress, not eating breakfast and not changing her pants. After the old Toad died Gran filled this place with all the old stuff she grew up with in the twenties. It�d been going brown and furry in the garage because the mean bastard wouldn�t let her have any of it in the house. But she liked having it around, particularly when she started to lose her loaf and thought she was a teen again. It sounds bad, but I was really happy for her when Granddad died, she was really just patiently queuing behind him until then. Anyway, she died in here last week still smoking from a cigarette holder like a proper drama queen. A bit sudden. I hope you don�t mind about her dying in here. The place is clean now. If you don�t like the twenties shit, just get rid of it.�
The kid snorted.
�Thanks for that� I pretend-smiled. I should have said, �I came here to buy a caravan, not a fucking life history!�
The layout of the toaster was like most others: a fake living room at the front � American-diner-booth style with Formica table; a corridor fake kitchen with a Calor-gas stove disguised as a cooker, a scratchy metal sink, and a row of cupboards that knocked you out when you opened them. I mean�really! Fran�oise once told me that caravans were a masochistic invention � �uninhabitable creators of forced intimacy� were her words. She claimed the purchase of a caravan would be the end of our marriage. Looking at the inside of this one, I thought she had a point. But she loved it. Fran loved the toaster � the mad cow! Who�d�ve fucking thought it?
At the back of the toaster were three small rooms: the shithole (literally), which stank of nose-stripping chemicals and fermenting piss; a kiddie room with a bunk bed; and a bedroom entirely taken over by a huge double bed. Fran�oise wandered in and tested the corner of the bed.
�If you�re gonna try the mattress you may as well have a proper lie on it Fran, I certainly ain�t sleeping on that edge, never mind doing anything else on it.�
She gave me the look. She�s got eyes like ice-torches that woman, makes my insides go cold sometimes. The lights in the bedroom � and in the rest of the caravan � were art deco fans made of dirty orange-brown textured glass that felt thick and heavy at the bottom and shatter-thin at the top. Swinging from the neck of one of them was a loop of beads with a stick insect or something weird on the end of it � metal though, not real. Fran (the sly bitch) opened one of the solid wooden drawers in a chest by the bed and found the ivory cigarette holder that the kid had mentioned earlier and pissed off outside with it in her hand. I followed her out of the bedroom, through the corridor kitchen and into the fake living room where the well-worn bottoms of my suit shoes (lasted me well, they have) slipped across the flashy wood floor. I couldn�t believe it, a fucking dance-hall toaster!
�Not bad this, mate�very impressed! No flowery curtains. How much?� I knew Franny wanted it, I�d not seen her excited about anything for years. To be honest, I would have bought the tin can even if it�d been a bit pricey � worth it for a bit of a smile. As it turned out he gave me it for a very reasonable price � wanted to get rid quick, he said. Too much of a reminder perhaps. I asked the kid if he was sure he didn�t want some of the old stuff out of the caravan, but he just said no.
When I�d shaken the kid�s filthy palm and got outside, Fran�oise was standing at the back of the caravan, head against the wind and fag holder in her right hand, sucking smoke through the tube. She was wearing a long floppy dress and fancy silk scarf. I know she wears these things on purpose because she thinks they look filmy. I told her it makes no difference how Hollywood you look when you�re in the supermarket buying a tin of beans. Having said that, she looked like out of a musical in that wind; the dress was sticking to her bony legs, all slinky-like, and flicking out behind her.
When she looks like that I wonder why she isn�t a film star.
�Where did you get that fag from?� I asked, �You don�t smoke�.
She didn�t answer.
We took the toaster immediately, then drove off for our holiday with it rattling behind us that afternoon: I didn�t want to give Fran time to change her mind. We stopped in a place next to a river which had little separate camping and caravanning plots, divided by hedges with trees and Rhododendrons. Not that I really gave a shit about the flowers, but I thought Franny would think it was a bit special. We bought mussels, green beans, brown rice and red wine from a bizarre shop five minutes drive down the road that also sold tights (brown bobbly ones), postcards, plastic washing lines and porn magazines � none of which Fran was particularly impressed with. We ate the muscles, rice and beans in our toaster, listening to some swing music that Fran had chosen � don�t ask me what it was called.
�Luc,� she put on her whispery voice, which I reckon she thinks is like Marilyn Monroe, which it�s not!
�Luc, you have a lovely face, just like an eggshell�. She comes out with these things.
�Is that supposed to be a compliment?� These things annoy me!
�Yeah, all brown and freckled and weather-worn��
��And covered in chicken-shit?�
The whisper stopped.
�Why do you always have to be like that? I�m trying to be romantic and you stomp all over it with your mouth!�
Romantic? Jesus. It hadn�t crossed my head that she might be feeling a bit sexy. The last time we had a fuck was a good nine weeks ago, and the last time she actually felt like it was on our tenth wedding anniversary when I took her to LA, and I�m telling you, we�re due another big anniversary soon!
�I�m sorry my beautiful, I hadn�t realised what you were meaning.�
�I wish you had your guitar with you.�
�I�ll sing you a song if you like�it�s a wonderful night for a moon dance��
She lay back on the diner-booth sofa and closed her eyes. In the grubby orange light, pressed against the tinny walls, it was like sitting inside an old-fashioned streetlight. I thought she�d fallen asleep and nearly cursed myself for not singing �Foxy Lady�. It was even making me sleepy, with or without the erection. Then she spoke with her eyes still shut:
�Why don�t you sing to me any more?�
�I am doing? What did I just do?�
�But you don�t normally.� She gave a �poor me� sigh.
�Well, why do you never ask?� I threw back.
�I don�t know. I sometimes think you and me have got nothing in common anymore.�
I took a closer look at her for a clue, but I couldn�t tell a thing with that mono-voice and her eyes tight shut. She�d got them closed so I couldn�t see, I was sure of it.
�What do you mean Franny, we listen to music and watch films together. We go to the golf course together. You like it when I play in my band don�t you?�
�Stop calling me Franny! Anyway, I hate the golf course � what a waste! Why don�t they make it into a park or a theatre? Something useful. Golf�s a fat old git�s sport.�
She had her owls� eyes wide-open now, sat bolt upright.
�I play golf!� I pointed out.
�Yeah�quite.�
She was really starting to fucking piss me off now. Who did she think she was to put me down, I don�t lie around slagging her amateur dramatics off, and when does she ever sing to me? I couldn�t get a word out. My face was so tight. I could feel the heat coming, the blood rushing.
�Luc, when we were in our twenties, you were going to be a jazz guitarist, and I was going to be a film star. Now you seem quite content playing dry rock to a bunch of leather-headed morons who only go to your gigs because they work in that hole you call a music shop. It�s lucky they went deaf in a rock-club in Le Touquet twelve years ago, or they probably wouldn�t go at all!�
�It�s not dry rock actually, it�s jazz-rock.� I pointed out. She must have been pissed!
�Whatever. The point is I�m 53 and I�m a bloody secretary.�
�What�s wrong with that?�
�You know what�s wrong with that. Why don�t you care what you are anymore? I care what I am.�
�Have you swallowed a laxative or something? What the hell am I supposed to say to that? �Go and marry a film director?� I buy you this great caravan and take you on holiday, and all I get is a fucking earache!�
�I do like this caravan! Sorry. Maybe when we get back home we can put it in the driveway at the back of the house, and we could sit in it in the evenings and have meals together.�
�If you like.�
�Yes. And I could put on my blue dress and my pointy shoes, and you could play me some music. There�s something about this caravan.�
�Yeah, it�s very��
��decadent.� She smiled and put her arms round my neck. Looked like the storm was over. She was definitely pissed: she had a red tide-line round her lips, which I know she�d have checked if she was sober.
She hitched her skirt up and sat herself on my lap � nearly falling backwards (daft cow) and gave me a great big kiss. A bit wet and winey, but nice to get one, you know. I gave her hair a bit of a stroke � it didn�t feel as soft as it used to, a bit strawy these days, but it smelt nice of something herby. I was kissing her neck and feeling optimistic when I realised the stroking was sending her off to sleep. Now was this another of her tricks? I swear sometimes she gets me all excited just to piss me off. Actually, it was probably the two bottles of red we drank between us (and she drank the most of that!). I helped her to bed, and settled for a quick tug in the shithole. At least there�s hope on the horizon � maybe tomorrow night. Might buy just the one bottle next time.
When I woke up at about 7.30 the next morning (I was never one of these lazy types that stays in bed �til there�s something good on the telly) Fran looked a state. She�d have been absolutely fucking horrified if she knew I�d seen her like that. She assumes I think she�s just like the Queen of England: a picture of natural purity and cleanliness. She thinks I never see her scoff, burp or fart, and she has no bodily fluid except blood. Does she think I�ve lost all five senses? Her hair was stuck to the back of her head with sweat, there was some nasty unidentifiable white scum in the corners of her mouth (No way I�m kissing that this morning), and her mascara was smeared down her cheeks like a model in an arty punk fashion shoot in one of those magazines with more adverts for Dolce poncey Gabbana than actual articles. She stank of eight hours old wine-and-spit, and that sicky-sweaty smell of hangover. It must have been severe for her not to clean herself up before I woke up!
I went into the kitchen, took the kettle out of the cupboard (door near-missing my head) and put it on to boil while I had a scrub in the campsite shower. I didn�t like it much � dead moths under my feet, and the water just a tepid trickle. How that dead old woman put up with it fuck only knows. She probably never showered, or never went to campsites. At least I got some use of Fran�s orange soap. I smelt like a woman and it made me hungry, but it felt nice.
When I got out of the shower I went back up to the caravan and turned the gas off � the kettle must have been squealing for a good couple of minutes already. Then thump-squelched my wet grassy footprints over to the bedroom where Fran had her eye-slits open.
�Morning beautiful!� I cranked the curtains open.
�You�ve got your pencil on,� she murmured.
�You�ve got a hangover sweet pea, it�s best you don�t talk!� She talks enough crap as it is, best say nothing at all � so said my uncle Ark.
�You�ve just had a shower haven�t you?� she dribbled over her pillow.
�Yeah, you should have one as well soon, before we move on.�
�You�ve got up, put you pencil behind your ear, had a shower, then put the pencil back again, haven�t you?�
�What�s up with that? Very useful things, pencils.�
�I wish you�d show a bit of decorum,� she groaned and rolled onto her stomach.
�Get up. I�m going to make you a lovely cup of tea�and then you�re going to take some pills�and then you�re going to have a shower�and then we�re going to get in the car and drive up the coast to another campsite.�
�What�s wrong with this one, we�ve just got here?� she whined.
�There�s nothing wrong with the campsite my lovely, but we�re in the middle of nowhere. If we drive up the coast we can find another campsite that has nice flowers, but is also near to some fish restaurants and maybe the theatre!�
She perked up.
The drive up the coast wasn�t bad. Fran�oise was doing her wounded woman bit, with her black sunglasses and headscarf on, slumped against the edge of the car with the window open. Thank god it was a shiny day or I really might have been in for some trouble. I tried to stick to the coastal road to distract her.
As I was driving I could hear my mobile ringing with its irritating bouncy noise. My good mate Jean did something to it the other week that made it ring some pop tune I recognise but can�t name, and I can�t work out how to change the bastard thing back. Jean of course finds it hilarious, so there�s no hope of him sorting it out. The song�s probably called something really lame involving puppies or eternal love!
�Answer it Fran, fucking answer the phone!�
Fran�s even less comfortable with techy stuff than me. She picked my bag up off the floor by her seat and held it in her lap looking spaced. Useless!
�It�s vibrating!� she said, startled.
�Yes, that�s what phones do. Great, you�ve spent that long gawping at my bag that it�s gone onto answer-phone. Who was it?�
�I don�t know,� she said feebly.
�Aren�t you going to look?�
�No� she said and dropped my bag back at her feet. I don�t know what was wrong with her � another world!
I pulled over at a service station to buy some food and drink for Fran �cause she was looking a bit twitchy. And to buy some stuff for me too, I was feeling a bit twitchy myself. I bought some fags to calm me. Five weeks ago I�d promised Fran I�d give up smoking, and I�d stuck at it too (no Nicorette or any of that shite), but after seeing her with her fag in it�s fancy holder yesterday, I thought what�s the point? She�s a hypocrite.
When I was walking back to the car I could see Fran waving her arms about at me like a lunatic. What now? And ran over to the car, huffing with the shopping pressed against my chest, nearly dropping it. When I got closer I could see she was waving my phone in the air, shouting,
�It�s vibrating, it�s vibrating again! What do I press?�
�You silly cow, don�t stick that in the air, someone�ll fucking nick it! Give it here.�
The person on the other end said,
�Hello, is that Luc Taurand?� and for a second I thought it was going to be the bank or some other evil in a suit. I dropped the shopping on Fran and got in the car.
�Who is this?� I was keeping my options open.
�This is Alice Sarde. I�m the sister of the man who sold you your caravan yesterday morning.�
�Ah. Hello, this is Luc. Did you phone an hour or so ago? It�s just that my mobile rang and I was driving, and my wife�s a bit simple!� I could hear Fran muttering bastard in the background.
�I did, yes. Could I just ask you Monsieur Taurand, are you far from here now? Is there any way that you could perhaps bring the caravan back over and leave it with me for a couple of days?�
�No I can�t fucking bring it back. We�ve paid for it now. We�re on our holidays; we�re half way up the west coast! What do you mean?�
�I�m really sorry to inconvenience you Monsieur��
��Luc.�
��Luc, but my brother shouldn�t have sold you that caravan.�
�Well, that�s not really my problem is it?� I could feel wet patches growing under my arms.
�I�m afraid it is your problem.�
�It fucking isn�t!�
�Listen. My grandmother died in that caravan last week.�
�Yeah, so the kid told us. I�m sorry and that, but it�s nothing to do with me.�
�Well we had intended on selling it, but there�s a few things we needed to do to it, and unfortunately my brother has sold it to you before we�ve had the chance. It�s really important that you return it to us so we can sort the problem out.�
�We�re happy with it the way it is. There�s no way on god�s earth me and my wife are coming back off our holiday so you can tinker about with our caravan.� I was feeling really flushed now, and I could feel Fran getting edgy as she listened in next to me.
�Well, I�ll tell you what, you can sort the problem out from your end if you like, but I�m not going to be held responsible for the consequences� Alice bit back.
�What problem?�
�My brother sold you that caravan because he needed quick money, and I apologise for that. Last week my Gran died from Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome. The doctor said it might be because she didn�t look after the place and got a lot of rats visiting. She had a bit of a cough for a few weeks, but then she does anyway with the smoking. It must have got a lot worse very quickly because the nursing home phoned me to say they�d popped in to see her because they�d heard her coughing her guts up, and she was really ill. So they called the doctor out but by the time he got there she was dead.�
�I�m really sorry to hear that� I put on my best sympathy voice. Fran would probably have been better at this than me if she could handle the phone.
�The thing is, the Hantavirus is infectious. You can get it from rat�s excrement. There must have been some in the caravan �cause Gran couldn�t even get off her chair! Some men from infection control were supposed to come and clean it out so that it�s safe, but they haven�t been yet. I expect my brother has stupidly been in there and swept the place out, but that doesn�t mean that there�s not stuff in there that�s infectious. So I�d say it�s not very wise for you and your wife to sleep in that caravan until it�s sorted.�
�What are you suggesting we do?� I was in full fit-sweats now, my feet jiggling up-down-up-down. Fran couldn�t hear what the woman was saying, but I knew she�d guessed it was bad. She was frantically flicking her hands as if trying to shake off her butterflies.
�The most advisable thing for you to do is to drive back home, Luc, and drop the caravan back at the nursing home so that infection control can come and collect it. You�ll get it back, but it�ll just be a bit emptier � I think they might have to throw out most of the stuff that�s in it to be safe. It�s all old junk anyway; they�d be doing you a favour! However, if you don�t want to come back off your holiday, you can try to clean it out yourself. If you stripped the place down you could probably get it pretty clean. It�s up to you.�
�I�ll call you back, I need to speak to the wife. I hope you realise, I�m going to sue you!�
I threw the phone at the floor.
�You haven�t got a cough have you?� I scrutinised Fran.
�No. Why?�
�That was the sister of that kid that sold us the caravan. She says the old woman died of some Hanto-disease and it�s catching. And she said there�s rat shit in the caravan that we might catch it off.�
�I haven�t seen any rat droppings.�
�Well, maybe essence of rat shit or something, I don�t know. So we either turn back now and take the caravan back to be uninfected, or we do it ourselves before tonight.�
�I�m not going back home!� Fran crossed her arms and slumped in defiance.
�The woman said it�s better we get the disinfectant men to do it.�
�Do I give a shit? Whatever it takes, I�m not going back yet.�
�Fran! That virus-thing could fucking kill us!�
�Don�t be so melodramatic, the old woman was probably about to pop her slippers anyway, it probably just finished her off.� She scowled. I gave in.
�Ok, we�ll clean it. But we�re going to have to stop off at a garage and buy some serious cleaning equipment. And we�ll have to stay at the first campsite we come to.�
Fran was sulking now. I could�ve done without all this palaver; my stomach was feeling rotten inside with it all.
�We�ll need to find a town with some shops as well so we can buy new bedding and furniture and stuff � at least enough to last us through the holiday. We can kit the caravan out proper when we get home.�
�What?� Fran blinked at me a couple of times. Oh great here it comes.
�Fran, we�re going to have to chuck most of that stuff if we�re going to be sure the caravan is properly clean.�
�Can�t we just wash it?� I could hear her voice drying up - short and rough.
�No Fran, you know we can�t. We can�t be sure we�ve got rid of the disease. I�m not having us risking our health for a few mangy odd bobs.�
Fran was blinking even faster now, but it wasn�t easing the flow and all of a sudden her shoulders dropped and the gasps were coming. She was just short of wailing so I tried rubbing her back and making �ahhhh� and �there thehhrrrrrre� sounds. She elbowed me in the side � ungrateful bitch!
�Well?� I asked as she made an attempt at calming herself and being rational. I knew I was going to have to be careful what I said. Maybe three bottles tonight � knock her out.
�Well what? I�m on holiday. Lets get that cleaning stuff and get on with it.�
- One big box of bleach
- One bottle of Disinfectant cleaning fluid
- One carton of strange stuff I�d never heard of which said �kills all known germs�
- Two scrubbing brushes
- Two buckets
- Two mops
- One large sweeping brush
- One dustpan and brush
- A roll of bin-bags
- 10 cheap cloths
- Two king size duvets
- Four pillows
-Two duvet cover sets
�We can get whatever else we need tomorrow sweetie, when we have more time.� She said nothing, sat folded in half in the car with her head between her knees looking at the floor. We�d driven to a hardware shop, and I�d gone in to buy some brushes and mops while she waited in the car. When I got back she was sat like that, and didn�t move the whole journey, not even when I hit potholes! I was sure the woman was going off her head. I�d turned off the A road as soon as I�d seen the first sign for a campsite, driven in and parked us next to the site toilets. It was gone midmorning already and we were supposed to sleep in the shite-infested toaster that night. Fuck the geraniums.
�Come on Franny, it�s time to get out now.� Still no movement.
�We�ve got to start stripping that caravan or we�ll be sleeping in the grass and ants tonight. You hate ants!� She lifted her head up and gave me the cold look again, only with soggy raw eyes this time. I don�t know what she expected me to say or do to make it better; I was already doing all I could. I shivered. After watching me fling things out of the boot for a minute she got out and helped, still not speaking. Firstly I pulled everything out of the toaster: carpet, curtains, chest of drawers, mattresses, big bed (that was a fucking joke to move!). Fran sat on the wet grass in another of her thin dresses, sniffing as she watched it all go into bin bags or get put aside for the tip. Before she watched one of the orange lamps smash in the bottom of the bin-bag, she asked if she could keep the necklace from around it. I handed her the ugly costume junk and warned her to wash it properly before she put it on.
She helped me clean the inside of the toaster: we filled the buckets with various lethal mixes of bleach, disinfectant, and weird new anti-germ stuff. I guessed the more mixed up the concoctions, the more deadly to the rat-shit-virus, a bit like mixing your drinks! We scraped and scrubbed and rinsed all afternoon, and I swear to god I lost a whole layer of skin on my hands. Must remember to put rubber gloves on the list next time. Some fucking holiday!
At the end of the afternoon I saw a couple standing outside their own toaster-caravan a bit further up the hill, mugs in their hands, watching us. They must have thought we were cleaning-obsessed idiots! They�d probably have moved a bit further up the hill if they�d known what we were cleaning for. I bet they hadn�t got any rodent crap in their fancy caravan!
By the time it was getting too dark to see what we were doing, we had cleaned most of the inside of the toaster, but I wasn�t satisfied. There was no way I was sleeping in it until it could be checked in broad daylight � I wasn�t about to be found dead on the floor of the caravan with blood dripping from my lungs. I just told Fran to get the duvets out the boot and get in the front seat. She didn�t complain � she hadn�t said a solitary word since we left the hardware shop. I knew she was upset, but this was taking the piss! Like I said, she�s an awkward bitch - I could�ve slapped her. She spent the entire night moving her seat up and down, moving the pillow from her head to her neck, and back up, groaning and sobbing. I�d had it with being supportive, I just wanted a bit of rest.
In the morning, woken up early by the jolt of the cold light, I found the passenger door open and Fran rolled up like a hay bale in her duvet on the grass outside, covered in dew. I knew there would be hell when she woke up, so I decided there would be no more nights in the car. Before she even woke I had managed a second brisk scour over the inside of the toaster, and a pretty reliable inspection of it afterwards. We popped out for a fatty breakfast at a local caf� that stank of caked filth, and had too much in the way of shiny plastic stick-on decorations. Fran still silent. When we got back to the campsite we cleaned the outside of the caravan, and a quick clean of the inside and outside of the car for reassurance (I even cleaned the wheels).
When the caravan was done we filled the cupboards with the cleaning stuff and food from the supermarket, and laid the duvets and pillows out on the bare dancehall floor � at least we got to keep that. I made Fran and me a cup of tea and we sat cross-legged opposite each other like yogis. To be honest, the place was a sad state: not so much glamour as glum. I couldn�t really cross her for being upset.
For the first time in nearly 24 hours Fran spoke.
�To be honest, I�ve had enough. I think I might leave you.�
�Thank-god for that, I thought you�d forgotten how to use your tongue!� I jibed.
�I�m not waiting round �til your dead and I�m as good as � like that old woman � before I start living life how I want. I feel like I�ve been standing at the back of the queue for thirty years.� I felt my stomach rising and I coughed up mucus and sick all over the shiny clean floor. Damn, I�ll have to clean that again. The sick slipped down into my socks as the door shook shut.
� Megan Hornbuckle
Reproduced with permission
THE CHICKEN AT THE DOOR
by Megan Hornbuckle
Stephen lived in a bedroom crawling with feelings. His duvet was shiny and slipped over him like a slug when he slept, and his headboard was hairy like a hyena and coarse if you stroked it the wrong way. Sometimes the headboard got a bit unruly and tried to eat him when he wasn�t looking.
He was an active child in the womb with a big imagination: his mother Reeny had whined throughout her pregnancy at the ache of the wriggling worm inside her. The wriggle was his curse. As he rolly pollied in the amniotic fluid and rebounded off the walls of Reeny�s organs, he made a macram� of his umbilical cord, and when he was finally squeezed out of his soggy sack the midwife proclaimed �I�ve never seen anything like it, a perfect knot!� It took the midwife a minute to get over her surprise before she realised she should probably do something, as the baby was turning blue. She made a swift clamp and bloody snip, and was just in time � another minute and he�d have been dead. But she was also a minute too late. Stephen was left with limited sight � just the shadows of the midwife�s hips against the window light.
Reeny spent several weeks lolling about the house in a guilty sleepless stupor, until her husband Jake said to her one day �Reeny, you don�t have to feel bad that this has happened, or guilty that you don�t have to work. We�ve got a little life in the family, not a death. Lets enjoy it.� Reeny said to her hand-sized blue son �I�m so sorry that my body did this to you my gorgeous; I�m going to make you a room so alive that you won�t even realise you�re not seeing it.�
Reeny engrossed herself in hanging apples and oranges from Stephen�s ceiling on pieces of string, which he could sniff and squeeze the insides out of. His wallpaper was embossed with hat and spurred cowboys on horses with flairy nostrils and rubbery lips. The floor was made of velour velvet � alternately furry then smooth, and in the air there was a constant clink of shells bashing on threads in the window. Reeny spent her leisurely time with Stephen in her lap, pushing his fat fingers into bread dough in the kitchen and breathing in the yeast fumes like an old fashioned mother would. In the evening she floated in geranium bath water with him sitting on her stomach, making him a bubble beard and soaking up the humid atmosphere through her flaky air-baked skin.
One day Reeny and Stephen were planting seeds in pots in the greenhouse. The greenhouse was narrow and warm, and was lined on each side by fleshy green smelling tomato plants. Stephen was rubbing his hands in the soil, and just to see what Reeny would do he smeared his muddy hands on her face and laughed. Reeny shouted at him: �That is a very silly naughty thing to do Stephen, and you�re not to do that again. Now I�ll have to give up the planting and take you inside so I can wash my face.�
�Mum?�
�Yes Stephen?�
�What does your face look like with dirt on it?� he enquired.
�Well�it looks pale, with bits of brown on it��
�What�s pale?�
�It�s sort of a colour, but when there isn�t any colour�like white, but a bit grubbier maybe�� Reeny tried to explain.
�What does colour look like then?�
�It looks different from other things�it�s how you tell one thing from another.�
�I don�t understand.�
�It�s�its just colour!� Reeny silently wiped the sweat off her head and bent over to squeeze the sick feeling out of her stomach.
�Are you ok mum?�
�Yes� Reeny said quietly, �I have to just go and check on the oven.� But Stephen knew there wasn�t anything in the oven � he would smell it if there was; he heard her sniffing in the bathroom. He didn�t ask her about colour again, and she didn�t try to explain it again either. She didn�t take him into the greenhouse to plant seeds, or do any painting with him anymore. And he missed it, but he didn�t ask why in case she sniffed in the bathroom again.
On Stephen�s fourth birthday at three o�clock in the afternoon he heard a knock-knock on the front door. This was unusual as no one came to the door normally until dad came home from work. He heard Reeny�s shoes tip tap down the hallway and the door clunked open. He heard Reeny whisper and then walk back down the hallway and into his room. �Who was that mum? Who were you whispering to? Was it someone come for my birthday?� Stephen felt his bed sag under Reeny�s hips. She leant over to him and muttered, �Now, this is a secret Stephen. When I opened the door there was a fat, ruffled-up chicken on the doorstep. I asked it in my quietest voice � so as not to disturb you - what it was doing here, and it clucked back that it was indeed here for your birthday. It brought you a birthday message.�
�What did it say?� Stephen squealed with excitement.
�It said that you are a very special boy, and it wishes you the best birthday a boy could ever have. It said that you will find a cake under your bed.�
Sure enough, there was a cake under the bed � a fruity nutty one that smelt sweet and cinnamony. �How did the chicken know that?� Stephen asked, amazed.
�I don�t know. It must be a magic chicken! It also told me to give you this.� Stephen felt a breath of strange smelling air on his face. �What was that?� he puzzled.
�That was a wish that the chicken blew into my hand. It told me it was a wish for eight years of good health, good luck, and all the cake you can eat. The cake under the bed was the first instalment.�
�Wow!� Stephen had always felt special and different, but this was proof. Surely no other boys get chicken wishes for their birthday, or eight years of cake!
�This must be a secret Stephen. I don�t think Dad will believe us if we tell him that a chicken came knocking on our door.�
Stephen sat in an alcove in the corner of his room with skin-thin curtains drawn around him, pulling pieces off the cake with his bare sticky hands. �Sit and eat the cake with me mum,� he called through the curtain in a haze of food fumes. �No sweetheart� Reeny shouted back, �that cake was brought especially for you, I�m not allowed to eat it. You have to sit and eat it on your own. I�ll just be in the bathroom, but you�re best not to leave your room until the cake is eaten, or it might disappear � it is a magic cake after all.�
�What will happen if you eat it?� He asked.
�I don�t know, the chicken didn�t say. But it�s probably best if I don�t find out.�
Stephen felt confused. He was grateful to the chicken for bringing him cake and wishes, but at the same time he thought it was a bit mean of the chicken not to let him share it. He really wanted to be with mum on his birthday. Furthermore, the cake was quite big, and he thought he might be stuck in his room all day before he�d manage to eat it all. Maybe if the chicken came again, he�d ask it if he could have a smaller cake next time.
Five afternoons later there was another knock at the door. This time Stephen heard Reeny say loudly �Hello chicken, good of you to come again. What a lovely cake, I�ll be sure to give it to Stephen.� Stephen thought he could hear two sets of tip-taps, so wondered if the chicken was coming in to see him.
�Mum,� he shouted, �ask it if I can share it with you!�
�It�s too late sweetie, the chicken�s already gone.�
The cake felt loaf-shaped and gritty on top, and smelt like lemon pancakes. It tasted lovely, but Stephen didn�t really enjoy it because he knew it meant sitting on his own. He sat and ate it anyway as he didn�t want to seem ungrateful, but secretly he looked forward to the day in eight years time when the chicken would bring the last cake and never come again. Eight years was a lifetime away.
The chicken went on bringing cakes for seven more weeks, until one day when Stephen was tired and his stomach was stretched with food, he sat in his cubbyhole and cried into the cake and turned it sour. He squeezed the cake in his fists until it crumbled onto the floor, and wailed �I don�t want this nasty cake anymore!� He didn�t eat it that day even though he knew he was supposed to, and hid the remains under the rotating night light. That night dad came to turn on the night light before reading Stephen �Rapunzel�, and he came across the cake debris. Sitting on Stephen�s bed, he stroked his head and murmured, �Why are you hiding cake in your room?� Stephen told dad about the chicken, even though dad might think he was telling lies. Dad was stronger than mum, and he knew everything about everything; he�d know what to do.
�Please could you make the chicken stop coming?� he asked, �I don�t like being alone.� Dad�s brow crinkled and his voice wobbled like an old man�s does when he asked, �When does this chicken come Stephen?�
�All different times dad: sometimes once a week, sometimes twice a week, sometimes more. One week it came nearly every day and I thought I�d be sick from all the cake I ate!�
�Don�t worry Stephen, I�ll speak to mum and find out why this chicken has been coming, and then we�ll do something about it.�
Dad�s bones and slippers creaked together as he got up off his knees, and thumped back down the hallway. Stephen listened out for dad�s comforting voice, or the tip-tap of mum�s shoes. But all he could hear was the faint hum of the night light rotating, and the dull moan of the wind in the dark outside his window. He became frightened, and seeking reassurance he dragged his blanket with him off the bed and out into the hallway. He called out �what�s happening? Dad, where are you?�
Dad barked back �go back to bed Stephen. Mum and I are talking.� Stephen felt his eyes swell and start to water. He ran down the stairs, through the hallway � fingertips tracing the puffy wallpaper � tiptoed to reach the door handle, and out the front door. He crawled through the garden with his fists in the boggy grass and crouched into a gap between two Conifers. This would be his outdoor cubbyhole now, where there were no chickens, no cakes, no sniffing and shouting. His arms felt prickly with cold, so he curled up with his blanket � now rimmed in mud - and listened to his breathing go like a steam train, rolling the sickly smell of Conifer needles between his grubby fingers.
The first time out of the house on his own, and he felt he was in somewhere big and powerful - beyond his comprehension. It was an adventure. The wind itself felt vast and he imagined being lifted by it, and it sweeping him up into a wide pool of cold, fast, woody nothingness where he would float and turn into air.
He was pulled down from the sky by the sound of Reeny�s voice calling out his name. He sat, unmoving and silent. There was an angry knot in his stomach, heavier than cake, which he couldn�t explain. He heard her swear like she only swore when she stabbed her hand with her needle, and that scared him. Then he heard her getting closer, shouting, �There you are! You made me rip my shirt! You come in now.� How had she known where he was? Was he shivering?
Reeny pulled him inside, and sat at the kitchen table. She looked like she might say something at any moment, but not a sound came out. �What did Dad say?� Stephen asked.
�He said that you don�t like the chicken coming.�
�I don�t.�
�I�m sorry,� she whispered.
Reeny was quiet for a minute and Stephen reached up to her face to see what she was doing. He felt the rims of her hot clammy eyes. The air between him and her felt tight - as if it were being pulled in two directions, so tight that his words came out as like a high-pitched squawk: �Are you sad mum?�
�Sometimes I am.� He heard her sniff again.
�Are you sad now?�
�Yes.� He felt sad too.
�I can eat more cake if you want,� he offered.
�No sweetie, you eating cake doesn�t make me happy.� There was another long silence. Finally Reeny turned to him and said, �Never mind what would make me happy, what would make you happy?�
�I am happy. Except when you�re not.�
�Stephen�what�s it like not to see?�
�It�s not like anything really.�
�Don�t you wonder what it�s like to see the world?�
�Yeah, but I wonder lots of things. I wonder what it�s like to live at the bottom of the sea, or what it�s like to be a cat, but it doesn�t matter that I don�t know. I�m happy as I am.�
Reeny was silent again for a moment, and Stephen worried that she was sad again, but when he felt her face, it was dry.
Eventually she sighed and said: �I�ll do you a deal. Dad and me talked, and we�ve decided that the chicken won�t come anymore. But I won�t be able to be here with you all the time. Sometimes I will have to go out of the house, and dad will be here with you then. I know you�d like me here all the time, but I think I might not be as if I go out sometimes. Ok?�
�Ok. Mum, can I ask a favour?�
�Of course.�
�Can I play outside sometimes as well? I get bored a bit bored in my room all the time.�
�Ok.�
Stephen smiled for the first time that day. �Mum?� he asked.
�Yes?�
�Can chickens really knock on doors?�
�What do you think?� she replied.
� Megan Hornbuckle
Reproduced with Permission
