British Winters Page 5

  Chapter Five

  Hannah’s Forgiveness

  This is not my bed? This is not a bed?

  A vacuum roars in the room above me, the sunlight creeps through chestnut red curtains and I am lying in a foetal position on a plush terracotta sofa. This is my mother’s house.

  It is a routine I have played out many times in my youth. Intoxicated, I stumble home and on spying the sofa, I see it as a nice resting point before making the final leg of the journey up the stairs and into Bedfordshire. Naturally, I pass out as soon as my body makes cushion contact. But I don’t live here anymore, so why am I here?

  The noise and vigorous movement of the vacuum in the upstairs’ room makes the silver and gold tinsel on the ceiling shiver. There is not a scrap of festive decoration in my flat, not a bauble or even a tree to put said bauble on. All the Christmas cards I have received, which is more than I expected or wanted, are not pinned to the wall or placed on the mantle. They are on the kitchen table mixed in with all the other opened and discarded mail; the Christmas gestures diluted with water bills and an assortment of junk mail: ‘You have won….half price……are you happy with….the rapture is coming’. I saw this lack of festive décor as being down to my general humbuggery, but now viewing the virtual winter wonderland my mother has created, I’m starting to think that there might not be anything left in the shops for me to buy if I were so inclined to turn my home into a bloodbath of cotton wool and tinsel.

  Not an inch of the wall is free of this festive infection; every shelf, lip and ledge available is dressed with fake snow and hanging figurines. The Christmas tree lights have ventured from their place and have taken root across the ceiling, over the fireplace and around the windows like electrical ivy. And all the usual ornaments that watch over the room the rest of the year have been given a holiday sprucing up, from mini Santa hat to snowman suits made out of felt.

  “Morning, Noel.” Hannah - she is kneeling by me with a mop bucket in hand.

  “I’ve brought you this. Will you puke?”

  “I hope not, but I think the bucket is a good idea.”

  The sickness is over me; to what extent I am unsure. My gut groans to itself, my mind hums with white noise. I know that movement of any sort will soon let me know exactly what state I am in, so I am a statue.

  “You didn’t come, Noel.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  “I know you are. I forgive you.”

  Forgiven in the blink of an eye; it’s more than kindness. The love she feels for me always kills her disappointment. I don’t deserve it; I want to be punished. Don’t let me off so easily, Hannah Banana. I’m a wretch of a man. I turn to tell her so, but instead grab at the bucket and evacuate the stale ale that lines my gut.

  “Why do you drink? It tastes gross, makes you puke and you told me it’s for idiots.”

  “I am an idiot, Hannah. The kind of idiot that missed, from what I hear, the finest play the town has ever seen.”

  “That does make you an idiot.”

  “King of idiots. Don’t forgive me so quickly, Hannah. I feel terrible.”

  “You would feel better if I were mad at you?”

  “No, I’d feel worse, but it would feel right.”

  She tries so hard to follow my ramblings; she needs to dig to the meaning of it all and uncover the thought process. I don’t know if there is any meaning to it, I’m just blathering. I’m unhappy, but who isn’t? Bad shit happens to all of us and if it doesn’t happen to you then you are not normal. It’s the bad stuff happening that moulds us, gives us character, it connects us. ‘Misery loves company’, which means you ‘happy people’ are all alone floating through the cosmos, while the rest of us moan in solidarity. How does that make you feel, ‘happy people’? Oh, God, now I’m trying to make the happy fictional people in my head sad. I wonder what a shrink would make of that? Blather, blather, blather…

  My emotions brew inside of me, none get to the surface. When I was a boy my dad told me that boys cry on the inside; I think it really flipped the off switch to my emotions. If only I knew back then that everything my father said was bullshit, maybe I’d be a better, more well-rounded individual. At the very least I’d be able to physically cry.

  “I forgive you because you’re my brother. I can’t stay mad at my brother.”

  “You can and you should, at least until I do something to make it up to you.”

  “I don’t want to be mad at you, it’s Xmas. I need you to help me play with all my new toys.”

  “Oh, you need a play friend. What about Jonathan?”

  “He won’t play with any of the girlie stuff, but you will.”

  “Course I will, do you know what you’re getting?”

  She shakes her head in denial even though she knows that I know. I caught her in Mum’s room a week ago with a guilty look on her face. Mum always hides the presents under the bed, unwrapped until Christmas Eve; she’s a very tardy gift wrapper. The halls are decked with boughs of holly before the end of November but the presents stay unwrapped, up until a mere few hours before they are ripped open by over eager children.

  “Noel, I thought I heard you stumble in last night and I see you have made use of the mop bucket.” Clive, my stepfather enters the room. He’s a nice enough guy. Well, he has been since I moved out; some family members are just better in small doses.

  “Yeah, sorry, Clive. I have no clue why I’ve come here. My brain must have short-circuited.”

  “Maybe, I just guessed you were drunk.”

  “That, too.”

  Clive takes his place in the black leather recliner that he told my mum would go with everything, but in fact it’s just oversized and clutters the room. Mum has tried to add some of her festive flare to the recliner, by sticking a white fur trim on its edges; it kind of makes it look like the chair is foaming at the mouth. Clive turns the telly on and taps up the volume by two bars. I struggle to a sitting position and re-swallow the sputum that has ventured into my mouth as I make the transition. This is a difficult thing to do. I’ve kept vomit down before but not hangover vomit. That stuff just wants out of you.

  “So, your mother’s been cleaning since yesterday. She got up at 5:30 today.”

  “She does do that, the woman likes to clean.”

  “She does indeed.”

  “She’s angry with me, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “You, angry?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not my favourite person at the moment.”

  “Dad, he’s ill, leave him alone.” That’s right Hannah Banana, my pint size hero.

  “Hannah, he’s hung-over, which means he’s done it to himself and you don’t pity someone who makes themselves sick.”

  “Like lung cancer patients.”

  “Hey, my mother died of cancer, Noel. You shut your mouth!”

  “That wasn’t an attack on your mum, plus she had bowel cancer.”

  “Shut up, now.” This is not a suggestion, it’s a warning.

  I can’t stop though; it’s an illness. I always need to justify what I’ve said. I have a need to over explain my point, drilling it into the ground, in the hope that those I have upset have just misunderstood me, rather than the truth being it’s me acting like an insensitive arse.

  “I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have sympathy for people with lung cancer. I’m saying that your statement, that we shouldn’t feel pity for those in ‘self-inflicted’ pain, is full of holes. What difference does it make how someone has gotten into a state of pain, they’re still in pain. Isn’t that the main thing?”

  “So, if I go in the kitchen and chop off my finger I deserve other people’s sympathy?”

  “Yes, I would greatly empathise with someone who is so completely fucked up that they cut their own finger off.”

  “Don’t swear in front of your sister!”

  Hannah, still kneeling on the carpet in front of me, puts her hand over her mouth in
that way kids do. It’s as if by just hearing such naughty words they’ll start spouting out profanities. She giggles through her fingers. This cheers me up a little. Then I need to swallow again.

  “This isn’t funny, young lady.”

  Young lady, who talks like that?

  “I’m not laughing, Dad.”

  Yes, she is.

  “You make her like this, Noel.”

  “No, he doesn’t, I’m not laughing.”

  “Hey, Hannah, don’t argue with your dad.” This is my vain attempt at trying to be responsible.

  “But I’m not laughing.” She is finding all of this so very, very amusing.

  “How about we go upstairs, Han, and we’ll order you a puppy online?” Clive’s eyes bulge.

  “Joking.”

  Hannah leads me, by the hand, out of the room and up the stairs. It’s funny when kids lead you somewhere; they drag you with all their might and you have to act reluctant, rolling your eyes at any other adult you pass by, conveying a silent message of ‘Tut, kids ay?’. What do you think is the age when you try that and you’re too old? When the adult says, ‘Ok, I’ll be there in a minute’ and ‘Stop tugging me, whatever it is I’ll come when I’m good and ready”? With immediate family it is probably pretty young; as soon as it gets boring, as soon as it stops being cute. With people they see less often I bet you they can get away with it up until adolescence, at which point it’s the kid that’s saying, ‘Ok, in a minute’ and ‘Yeah, like fuck I will’.

  At the top of the stairs I dash into the toilet and spend a good long time in there. I’ve got the post drink blues alright; my face is drained and white like I’ve opened a vein. The cool feeling of the cold porcelain against the side of my head is like kisses of a choir of angels. The post vomit ceasefire is over; it’s time for the dry heaves. Hangover dry heaves are a whole different creature than your ‘Oh, that’s a bad smell’ dry heaves. It’s a vomit convolution; the body has been poisoned in a very literal way and the brain wants it out even if that means puking out some of your major organs. On a particularly bad heave a man can feel his balls suck up into his body and pop themselves into his lungs.

  “You finished in there? I cleaned it this morning!” bellows my mother through the door.

  “You clean it every morning.”

  “That’s no reason to go puking all over it.”

  “The puking is not by choice.”

  My mother is definitely a tough-love kind of parent and loves me so much I sometimes think she might love me to the point of disowning me. Susan Margaret Badlands, pregnant by eighteen, married by eighteen and a bit, divorced by twenty-five, which is not bad going when you’re married to an abusive drunk. During this seven year marriage she obtained two sons, my brother and me, and a multitude of scrapes and bruises and a broken nose. She always says it was all worth it. I think she needs to review the evidence.

  “Have you been to see Grandad?”

  “I meant to yesterday, but you know how it is. Time just got away from me.”

  “He told me he hasn’t seen you in months.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Uncle Nick’s birthday.”

  “Noel, that was three months ago! He’s not a well man.”

  “Ok, I’ll head over there later.”

  Later implies ‘in a moment’ but in actuality means at some unspecified point in the future and nine out of ten times it is spoken as a lie. Mum’s toughness melts a little when I finally exit the toilet and love shines through. She messes up my hair as though I were a mischievous little pup.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much. You have nothing to prove.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not your dad.”

  “Wouldn’t I drink less if that was the root of the problem?”

  “Some would, but not you.”

  “Drinking is what people do on the weekend, Mum.”

  “I know; I’m not that old you know. I also know how you think, Noel Winters.”

  God, I hope not. Then she would disown me. She smiles at me, the mischievous pup, and pats me on the head.

  In Hannah’s room, Hannah tells me all the delights of the play: the cheering audience; the thrills and the nerves; and she tells me all about her closing monologue. Her enthusiasm is infectious, not a cure for the hangover but it does distract from the pain. She drags out her costume and dances around the room with it, acting out scenes doing all the parts herself. She is so happy I want to eat her up, just to get the flavour of the emotion. I know any joy I feel right at this moment is not mine, it‘s hers. Her feelings of pride, contentment, pleasure and love are a forcefield around her and it soaks into my pores. And when I leave it will stay and I will become dull and tarnished once again.

  “You missed it, Noel, and you would have liked it.”

  “I like it now, Hannah Banana. If I had seen it, I would have loved it. Will you put it on again next year?”

  “You think they’ll let me?”

  “Of course, it was a big hit. They’ll double the ticket prices.”

  “For charity?” Hannah is big on being charitable, even though she doesn’t really understand it. ‘It is money for stuff that needs money’ is as deep as she goes. Hey, maybe that’s how it should be marketed. ‘No you can’t know what it’s for; all you need to know is money is needed, so give us some money.’

  “What charity, Han?”

  “For orange monkeys with no homes, we’ll buy them new homes.”

  “And what will this charity be called?”

  “The Homeless Orange Monkey, err… Operation.” This is not a good charity name as the acronym is HOMO.

  “How about Endeavour?”

  “What does endeavour mean?”

  “It means attempting to do something. Like what we’re planning; we’re trying to get new homes for the orange monkeys. That’s our endeavour.”

  “But ‘Operation’ makes it sound cool like it’s a secret agent mission.”

  “Yes, but the shortened version of The Homeless Orange Monkey Endeavour is HOME. This is what we’re trying to do; get them homes.” She looks puzzled

  “H, homeless; O, orange; M, monkey; E endeavour; HOME. It’s called an acronym - all the big charities do it. The WWF is the World Wildlife Fund.” As well as the World Wrestling Federation.

  “What’s the ac...crow...nim of the Homeless Orange Monkey Operation? H... O... M…” She slaps her hand to her mouth and the naughty giggling begins again. Good to know that in a bias free modern world, I have to define acronym but I don’t have to explain the word homo.

  Heading back to the flat I wonder whether, by the time I see her again, Hannah will have drawn up some leaflets, and have some slogans for the Homeless Orange Monkey Endeavour, or will it be a childish whim, that blows away like dandelion seeds in the breeze, the moment something more happy and shiny comes along?

  Back in my fortress of solitude my answer phone flashes, a beacon calling out from the outside world.

  “MESSAGE ONE, RECEIVED TODAY AT 12:38PM”

  “Hey, it’s Toby, I need a favour. Call me back.”

  “BEEP!”

  When people need a favour they never leave details on the answer phone; they know they’ll never get the call back. ‘Hey, I need a favour. I’ve got some heavy shit I need moving.’ To which the receiver will pull the ‘Sorry, I didn’t get the message till it was too late’ trick. An ambiguous favour has you calling back in the deluded hope that it’s something on the lines of: ‘Hey, my girlfriend thinks her breasts aren’t firm enough, could you please pop over and ease her concerns?’, or ‘I got two free tickets to New York. Would you please go with me?’. More than likely he’ll want a kidney and I’ll have to adlib an excuse. Hey, if I have become the drunk my mum suspects, then I guess I don’t need an excuse. It maybe me however, who needs the kidney.

  “MESSAGE TWO,
RECEIVED TODAY AT 1:12PM”

  “Hey, it’s Gemma, I mean Jenny, here. Got your number from Toby. We should meet up and catch up properly. I thought you were a little weird last night but this morning I awoke thinking, ‘Hey, I like weird’, call me.”

  “BEEP!”

  She asked for my number! I totally fucked up and it didn’t matter, she likes that I’m a total fuck-up. This bodes well for me, as of late being a fuck-up is my main persona. Wait, ‘Call me’? How do I call you? I don’t have your number. Redial, I’ll just hit redial.

  “MESSAGE THREE, RECEIVED TODAY AT 1:13PM” Shit!

  “Toby, again.” I hate you Toby. “It went straight to answer phone meaning you’re on the phone, which in turn means you’re in, so pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up. Jerk, the favour is a fun favour, call me back.”

  “BEEP!”

  If it is such a fun favour how about leaving the details in the message; if the favour is a good favour i.e. your freezer is on the blink and you need some help eating all your ice cream before it melts, say it in the message and your friends will come a running.

  “MESSAGE FOUR, RECEIVED TODAY AT 1:22PM”

  “Me again, I just thought you don’t have my number.” YES! “It’s 34... Shit, smoke, my toast, fuck.”

  “BEEP!” Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

  MESSAGE FIVE, RECEIVED TODAY AT 1:41PM” Thank God!

  “Hey, babe?” No, not Deb, I have her digits. “Sorry about last night. I hate it when we fight. I’ll come around later, kisses.”

  “BEEP!”

  “END OF MESSAGE. TO DELETE ALL MESSAGES PRESS ‘DELETE’ NOW.”

  Jesus fucking Christ, I hate all things and I think I might start injecting AIDS into Happy Meals and then I will buy Tobias Barsky one of those Happy Meals. Toby, Toby will have her number, right? They seemed to know each other, I’ll call Toby. Shit, the favour. Will the favour be worth the number? Why do I even want the number? I’m with Deb. I don’t love her but I wouldn’t cheat on her or would I? I should leave it; I’m dabbling in stuff that needn’t be dabbled. I’m dialling; I’m dialling Toby’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Toby, it’s me.”

  “Were you screening?”

  “No, I was out and when I do screen, you always get through.”

  “Liar, you were on the phone.”

  “No, someone else was leaving a message, which is why I’m calling.”

  “You’re not calling because of the favour?”

  “Yes, the favour too, but I have ‘a favour for a favour’ policy. I need Jenny’s phone number.”

  “Jenny who?”

  “Jenny Weir from last night.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Because you gave her my number and she left me a message to call her back, but I don’t have her number.”

  “What about Deb?”

  “It’s not a sex thing, it’s a friend thing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Ok, I don’t know what it is, but I’d like to call her all the same, so please can I have her number?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I don’t, last night was the first time I’ve seen her in like ten years. She said hello, I pointed you out to her and later that night I ran into her again and she asked for your number.”

  The corrosion that has been happening to mine and Toby’s friendship of late has just jumped a few thousand years. The mountain of rock that was, has become a pebble, a beautiful smooth tri-coloured pebble that I will always treasure but a pebble nonetheless.

  “So, this favour I need you for...”