Goose Page 4

  ‘That would be amazing. Can Flo come? She has so many clothes I really want her to get rid of.’ I laugh. Flo’s clothes are so funny. She buys one top and wears it every time we go out for six months, then buys another one and does the same. And the kinds of things she buys for school are boring. She gets things that look as close to school uniform as possible because she finds having to wear our own clothes every day so hard.

  ‘Of course,’ says Aunty Jo. ‘Let’s just fill the car up and make some cash.’ She walks a bowl of soup over to the table, takes the fork that Nana intends to eat it with out of her hand and replaces it with a spoon.

  I take the cup of tea and bacon sandwich Aunty Jo has made me and go into the hall to the phone. Still yawning a bit, I look up Smellies in the phone book. It’s the shop where Flo works on Saturdays. All they sell is candles, joss sticks, incense burners and essential oils. Flo always smells like she’s been dunked in perfume on Saturday nights. I dial the number. Mora, her moody boss, answers.

  ‘Hello, is Flo there, please?’ I ask Mora.

  ‘Renée, how many times have I asked you not to call Flo when she is working? Saturday is our busiest day. It had better be important!’

  ‘It’s really important,’ I tell her. ‘I am calling on behalf of her mum who can’t get to the phone because of her broken hip.’

  I hear the phone get put down and then the sound of rustling as Flo picks it up.

  ‘Hello?’ she whispers, even though the boss knows she is on the phone. ‘Renée, what’s happened? Is it Abi?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong with Abi, you moron. You know I always have to make up a reason for calling you at work or Mora just hangs up on me.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, why are you calling me at work?’

  ‘Aunty Jo is doing a car boot sale tomorrow morning. She said we can take some of our clothes to sell and make some money. Fancy flogging those burgundy DM boots of yours? I think it’s time.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She pauses. ‘I’m going to church.’

  ‘You’re what?’ I ask, through a mouth full of bacon and bread.

  ‘I am going to go to church tomorrow. It’s Sunday. That’s church day,’ she says, as if this is normal.

  ‘Wait, when did you start going to church?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t started yet. Renée, I am just going to church, OK?’ She is still whispering, even though she is getting all het up.

  ‘Um, OK. Well, do you want to come and see me at work tonight? We can get into The Monkey free and I’ll sneak you drinks?’

  ‘OK, but I can’t get too drunk. I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow. I have to go. Don’t call me at work again. Mo—’ I hear Mora telling her to finish. ‘I love you,’ she manages to sneak in before the line goes dead.

  I sit on the stairs staring at the front door, trying to process that conversation. Church? Is there a christening I don’t know about?

  ‘Renée, feed this to the geese, will you?’ says Aunty Jo, shoving a bucket full of soggy bread under my nose. ‘You can take Nana. Just watch she doesn’t try to sit on Freddie again.’

  As I guide Nana down the garden path, still wearing my pyjamas but with the addition of wellies and a coat, she tells me all about the time she saw a penguin chase an airplane along the high street by St Michael’s. She really is very sweet with her funny little stories. I’m sure there is truth in there somewhere. It was probably a nun riding a bike or something. Or maybe she did see a penguin chase an airplane along the high street by St Michael’s. None of us will ever know now. I nod and smile and sound fascinated and amazed. It’s the least I can do.

  ‘Here you go, Nana. Here are the geese. We are going to give them their lunch now.’

  I leave her holding onto the fence and I open the gate, walking into the area where the geese live. Nana waits patiently to see what I am going to do next, totally forgetting what we are at the end of the garden for. I turn the bucket upside down and all the soggy bread flops out and covers my wellies in slop. ‘Look, Nana,’ I call. ‘I got it all over my wellies.’ She laughs excitedly but soon forgets why. I carry the empty bucket back over to her, shut the gate behind me and we watch as Freddie and Clara eat their food.

  ‘They mate for life you know, Nana. Aunty Jo told me. Geese fall in love, like humans do. They find the One and stay with them forever. Isn’t that sweet?’

  She stares at them. Their long, lean necks bending down, their beaks chomping on their meal of tasteless nothingness that they don’t seem to mind. And then Nana, like her mind is clear as a bell, says, ‘That doesn’t mean they found the right goose.’

  2

  Who Do You Think You Are

  Renée

  I have worked in The Ship and Crown – or The Ship as it is more commonly known – pub for a couple of months now. My shift starts at 7 p.m. and what to wear is always an issue. I get the dregs of pints sloshed all over me as I put the glasses in the dishwasher, and by about 10 p.m. everyone is so hammered that I get all sorts spilt on me as I have to make my way through them all to get to the tables, so black usually hides that the best. I never wear short skirts – not any more – not just because drunk men can’t help themselves and someone always puts their hand up it, but also because I had a terrible incident with a piece of toilet paper one night. I unexpectedly got my period so went to the loo and folded some loo roll up to put in my knickers. There I was just happily serving pints when I realised it had fallen out. There was basically a bright-red papier mâché of my labia on the floor behind the bar. I couldn’t pick it up because if I bent down everyone would have seen my bloody knickers. So I kicked it under the fridge, and I very much suspect that it’s still there. Since then, no skirts at work. It’s just too complicated. I also have a few body issues I need to factor into my outfit choices at the moment. My legs are as skinny as ever, but my belly is getting flabbier.

  I find the more layers I wear the less self-conscious I feel. When you spend Saturday nights weaving in and amongst drunk men in a pub you get touched around your waist a lot. I don’t like it. Although it’s gentle, there is always something presumptuous in the way they do it. It isn’t really about helping me get past or asking me to get out of their way – it’s about sex. I find that if you make eye contact with a man, and hold it just that little bit too long, then he will think you fancy him and suddenly he is everywhere you go. The drunker he gets, the more he looks, the more he presumes your accidental eye contact was intentional. You have to really watch yourself around drunk men when you work in a pub – they are fun and everything, but it’s annoying when they get the wrong idea. They don’t leave you alone all night after that. When I am drunk too I don’t mind so much, but when I am sober and working it’s just a pain in the arse.

  By nine thirty the pub is completely full and Flo is sitting at the end of the bar in her usual spot, wedged into a corner and on her own. Most people know she is a friend of mine so it isn’t too lonely for her. Also, she turned eighteen in December so there is no issue with her looking suspicious. Sometimes she gets chatting to other punters, but mostly she sits there drinking the drinks I sneak her and waits for me to finish so we can go to The Monkey. Sneaking her drinks is easy. I pour an extra shot of vodka every time I serve someone a big round. I leave it next to the soft-drink gun, then Flo orders a Coke from me, I pour it into the glass with vodka in it and just charge her for the Coke. It’s flawless. The only problem is that Flo can’t take her drink, so if she has too much she often falls off her chair. One time I even had to carry her out at the end of the night. I told my boss, Dave, I thought her drink had been spiked, she was that bad. So now I pace what I give Flo, and sometimes if I think she has had too much, I give her a shot of water instead of vodka and she never knows the difference. I, on the other hand, can handle my drink. So I keep a bottle of vodka in the cellar for when I have to change barrels and get new bottles of spirits. Needless to say, by the time my shift is over at midnight Flo and I are usually pretty wa
sted. And that is great, because the major perk of working in a pub is that you get on the guest list of The Monkey nightclub.

  ‘We’ve been working tonight,’ I say to Max the big, scary bouncer. Who I snogged last New Year’s Eve but who refuses to acknowledge it now.

  ‘Your mate is too drunk,’ he says, looking at Flo, who isn’t doing too badly, but one eye is definitely starting to droop.

  ‘She’s fine. It was just a busy night in the pub. We’re tired, right, Flo?’ I subtly elbow her in the ribs and she perks up.

  ‘No, I’m not drunk. Just overworked and underpaid,’ she says in a weird cockney accent that comes out of nowhere.

  ‘I’m getting you a Red Bull,’ I tell her, as we go down the stairs and into the club.

  The Monkey is cool and we come here most Saturday nights after I finish work. The DJ plays the same music every night and the same people are always there. I guess that is to be expected on a small island, but a new face stands out a mile and sexy people get pounced on so it’s a bit of a meat market sometimes, and there aren’t many rules as to how far people can go. The club is divided in half by a dance floor with a narrow walkway down one side and a sofa along the wall. A few weeks ago a couple were going for it in front of everyone on the dance floor and people were walking past the whole time. The guy had his hand down the girl’s pants. A few people took photos and Flo and I were staring in disbelief. I’m all for snogging in public, but they were practically shagging. We even saw the top of her pubes, but she was so drunk she didn’t seem to care. When the guy decided he was finished and stood up, she rolled off the sofa onto the floor and lay there for about three minutes before finding the strength to get herself up, by which time the audience had dispersed and everyone was back to dancing. Flo and I went over to see if she needed a hand, but all she said was, ‘Why would I need your help?’ To which I said, ‘Um, I dunno. Because you just got fingered in a nightclub and the guy who did it is now over there grinding someone else?’ But she seemed nonplussed and stumbled to the toilets, where I presume she threw up. But that’s The Monkey for you. A meat market that is open until 2 a.m., plays cheesy pop music and turns a blind eye to public displays of foreplay. I love it.

  As we get to the bar the Spice Girls’ ‘Who Do You Think You Are’ comes on and Flo and I give up on getting a drink and run to the dance floor. We love the Spice Girls so much, and every time we hear one of their songs we have a rule to stop whatever it is we are doing and dance. ‘You’re the shy one!’ I shout in Flo’s ear. ‘Shy Spice!’ She shrugs her shoulders as if accepting it.

  ‘You’re the naughty one!’ she shouts back. ‘Bloody Naughty Spice!’

  We let rip on the dance floor. Jumping around like our lives depend on it. I love it when Flo gets like this – she abandons all inhibition and just goes for it. It’s the mix of booze, the Spice Girls and the fact that it’s quite dark in The Monkey. I watch her, aware not to make her feel self-conscious. She is so beautiful, a surprisingly funky dancer and sexy too. Her body is gorgeous, but you would never notice it under the clothes she wears. She is much thinner than me, with big boobs, long legs, gorgeous long brown hair. The only problem with Flo is that she doesn’t see herself the way she should. She is racked with insecurity, and it holds her back every day. But in other ways she is the strongest person I know, the most grounded. She would be the best person in the world if she just had a bit of faith in herself.

  I jump closer to her and lean forward, and she leans back and we start a rock-and-roll-type move, singing along. We know all the words. I throw my hands in the air one more time and, as the disco lights shine directly into my face, I spot him. Dean Mathews. About twenty-five. Tall, handsome and intriguing. He is a writer for the Guernsey Globe – he wears blazers and neck scarves. He has floppy curly hair and when I think about having babies when I am older, I think of him being the dad. He comes into the pub and I see him around all the time. But we have never actually spoken.

  I stare at him, trying to get him to make eye contact. Flo is now going crazy to ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’, and I am in a bubble. I keep looking at Dean. Right now, having a man think I want him by catching his eye is fine by me. I want him to know I want him, and I want him to want me back. I hold my gaze firm on his face. After a few seconds he feels it and looks over. He turns slightly so he is facing me head on and he watches me dance. Wow, that was easy. Now I need to keep his interest. So, like Madonna in the ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ video when she dances around in those black pedal pushers and strapless top, I break into that routine. Flo and I learned it a few months ago and this feels like as good a time as any to do it. He watches me as I prance around doing my best to keep the eye contact going throughout. The routine doesn’t quite fit to the music but the song couldn’t be more perfect. I want to be his fantasy. I lose myself in it, I let the music take me. He watches me the whole time. I feel so sexy. When the song ends I stop dancing, look to Flo, who is totally lost in the music, and decide to go over to him. How will he ever be the father of my children if I don’t go over and say hi? As I push my way through the dancers I stop when out of nowhere Dean turns around and Meg Lloyd swoops in. They hug, then turn to the bar and order a drink.

  Shit.

  That was not supposed to happen.

  ‘I LOVE THIS ONE!’ screams Flo in my ear as she bounces up behind me, unaware of what I have just been through. I stand still, deflated, gutted.

  ‘What’s wrong?‘ Flo asks me, slowing down a little. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I take a few seconds to collect myself.

  ‘We need to learn some new dance routines,’ I say. ‘Let’s get that drink.’

  Flo

  I wake up fully clothed on top of the covers and my brain feels like it’s about to explode. I bash my hand around looking for my glass of water, but instead of the hard, flat surface of my bedside table my fingers fall into a wet, squishy orifice.

  ‘Get the hell out of my mouth!’ yells Renée as she thumps me on the chest.

  ‘Sorry! I thought you were a table. I forgot I was here. Please, get me water.’

  Renée rolls over onto her side and falls to the floor, landing on all fours. I can’t move to watch, but I hear her crawl over to her dressing table, pick up a glass and crawl back with it.

  ‘Thanks. I can’t believe you managed that.’

  ‘I barely remember doing it,’ she says as she buries her head into her pillow and makes whimpering noises.

  ‘I am going to die,’ I tell her.

  ‘I think I’m already dead,’ she replies.

  We lie still for another three minutes until Renée falls out of bed again. This time I make out the word ‘bacon’ as she heads for the door.

  I lie on her bed trying to focus on the ceiling. As I start to make out the details of the light I feel that I might actually survive the day.

  ‘Can I borrow some clothes?’ I shout after her. She mumbles a yes.

  Somehow I manage to get to the wardrobe. As I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I wonder if going to church for the first time looking like a stop-out with a hangover is such a good idea. I riffle through Renée’s wardrobe and find a black knee-length skirt and a black shirt. I have never seen her wear either of them. I wore black boots last night so all in all, the outfit works fine. I go into the bathroom where I have a wee, tie back my hair, splash my face with cold water and clean my teeth with Renée’s toothbrush. I am going to be OK. I can do this, I think. I follow the smell of bacon downstairs.

  ‘Why have you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?’ says Renée from the floor, where she is lying. Her aunty Jo smiles at me as she offers me a bacon sandwich. I take it.

  ‘I need to look smart. I’m going to church,’ I say, expecting to be laughed at. Instead Renée drops her head back to the floor.

  ‘Well, don’t forget to thank God for bacon,’ she says, her mouth full.

  ‘You could come with me?’

  ‘The place would blow
up if I walked in the door. It’s a certain kind of life you live when you never have to worry about what your mother would say,’ Renée says, giving me a painful-looking wink.

  ‘Well, your aunty says you should pull yourself together and go and get ready for the car boot sale. Come on, up,’ says Jo, physically trying to get Renée upright.

  ‘Bye then,’ I say as I leave. ‘Thanks for the bacon, Jo.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll see him soon,’ shouts Renée’s nana after me.

  Who?

  After having to get off the bus at Trinity Square so that I could puke in a bin, the ten-minute walk to Town Square does me good, and by the time I get there I feel a lot better. There are quite a few people standing outside, all dressed in their Sunday best. The church looks very different to how it usually does on the days when the shops are open. Usually it’s Guernsey’s dodgiest inhabitants hanging around there; today it looks like Guernsey’s finest. I excuse myself as I walk through them all, head into the church, take a Book of Common Prayer from a lady who is handing them out, and take a seat on a pew reasonably near to the back. I am aware that my breath smells of booze.

  No one is talking now, apart from some children. But even they seem to know to keep the volume down as people all around us are on their knees telling God whatever it is that is on their mind.

  There is a clarity here that comes from being surrounded by people you know believe in the afterlife. I don’t feel silly for believing that Dad is out there somewhere when I am in here. But thinking of him in heaven doesn’t make me any less aware of the fact that he isn’t on earth. When people die they disappear from your life, we all know that. And that is what families are for, they’re the ones who gather round you and help you not forget that person. They’re the ones who help you keep their memory alive. But not my family. Mum almost refuses to mention him, and Abi was only four when he died, so she only remembers him a little. I try to tell her about him, and teach her about who he was, but he’s just a distant memory now. Mum hasn’t helped me with that.