tender souls 2

Hallelujah said it wasn’t far and he carried their suitcase. But by the time they got there Ray’s feet hurt.  Hoar frost made the slopes from the Old Kilpatrick hills light and bright. At first the path seemed clear, but crunching sounds and slight cinnamon smell as they stepped on catkin pods from the haze of foliage lurking in the shadows made it seem more lived in, more like home. But no animal, no mutt, bounded out to meet them. Ray smiled as she gripped his hand, reassuring him. The thing he took for granted was always Mum, but with her no longer there it didn’t feel much like home.

            Dad flung open the door and threw his legs out with the confidence of a younger man coming to meet them.  The stink of Old Spice trailed after him as he came down the path like an out-of-date moon, making him seem a little more human and a little less distant than he remembered.  ‘Got here alright?’ He reached for the suitcase in Hallelujah’s hand. For a second there was confusion in his watery eyes and the musty smell of clothes dug out to meet-and-greet guests gained the upper hand. That passed and he seemed content to lug the bag up the path and for them to follow—duty done.

            Dad’s blowball of ginger hair had holes in it and his head sunk down like a sad sack on the stalk of a scrawny red neck. Their relationship in the last few years had been phone calls, monosyllabic man-chat about football and cultivation of a belief that Mum was fine. Always fine. He took them through the hall and plonked the suitcase down in his old room. ‘I’ll go and make tea.’ He escaped without seeming to look at them or acknowledge their presence, more the accommodation of ghosts than his son and his newly married wife.

            His room felt smaller than the inside of a picture frame, but also familiar and it made him smile.

            ‘Which bed will I sleep in?’ Her skin was egg-white and oval face blank, almost hostile, but with a delicate-boned beauty he wanted to lock away. Sometimes they looked at each other and just laughed. She let herself be pulled towards him and into his arms.

            ‘Silly Billy.’  Her body was limp against his. ‘We’ll push them together and make a night of it.’ He kissed the back of her blonde hair, tugging at her hips so she turned round to face him. He kissed her on the forehead, tasting some French perfume whose name he couldn’t pronounce. His hand sliding down her back and lips darting towards her mouth.

            ‘Don’t. You’ll smudge my lipstick.’ She pushed him away, looking at the chest of drawers near the window and bed sheets that looked as if they’d been ironed on. ‘Can’t we check into a motel?’    

            ‘Just one night.’ There was pleading in his voice.

            Her eyes blinked and she closed her eyes for a second and sighed. ‘I suppose.’

            He wrestled with her, peppering her cheek and face with little kisses, until she finally smiled. ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he promised.

            ‘You better.’ She slumped down on the bed, using her insole to kicking off her heels. Reaching across she picked up a photograph in a lattice-patterned silver frame sitting face down like a book-marked book on the table with the reading lamp. ‘Who’s this?’

             He leaned across to get a better look, but he already knew. ‘That’s my brother.’ He smiled down at the V-necked wine-coloured jumper and buzz of blonde hair, almost girlish faces. ‘A photograph in those days was forever.’

            ‘Which one?’ She handed him the frame.

            ‘Guess?’

            She stood up and dug her chin into his shoulder as she studied the photograph. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘Something about the eyes, makes he think that may be you.’ She nudged her head in one direction. ‘But something about the nose of the other kid makes me think it’s you. The longer I look the more confused I get.’  

            ‘It should. We were twins.’

            ‘Jesus, you’re impossible.’ Her voice was small and wounded.  She turned her head away to discourage the beginning of tears. ‘Your mum dies and you don’t tell me until about a month later. Then I pick up a photograph and it’s your dead twin brother.’ She turned to face him, her voice rising. Her eyes flamed the colour of dew on dawn grass.  ‘He is dead isn’t he?’ She placed the photograph face down, back the way she’d first spotted it.

            ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘An accident.’

            ‘Next you’ll be telling me you’ve got a sister parked in the basement.’

            ‘We’ve not got a basement.’ He offered her a smile. ‘Here we call it a cellar.’ He playfully patted her on the shoulder. ‘And we haven’t got one of those either.’

            ‘Jesus, you’re such a Klutz. I’ve got a good mind to start smoking.’

            ‘You wouldn’t dare!’ His voice was mock outrage. ‘Especially in your condition.’

            She made a show of petulance, turning slowly as he kissed her on the neck the way she liked and onto her lips. He pushed against her his hands, slapping away her protests, working like a choirboys.

            The photograph fell to the floor. They jumped apart. Stared down at the picture lying in the canyon between the beds, and then back at each other, leaning across making a bridge with their foreheads, two little boys looking up at them as they kissed. He slipped a hand round her back to pull her in close. ‘Wait until later.’ His voice was husky, his body swaying, drunk with longing. ‘I’ll need to go and speak to Dad.’

            ‘Maybe. Maybe not. You know with Toilet Duck you get that 10% extra and a girl needs all the help she can get.’ She pulled away stepping over the photograph and squeezing by him and made her way towards the toilet in the hall.  

http://unbound.co.uk/books/lily-poole