The Yips. Nicola Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ gracious, no!’ Gene exclaims. ‘That would be …’ He struggles to find the right word, but can’t; ‘pathetic,’ he eventually manages.

      Pathetic?

      ‘Yes.’ The woman’s keen, dark eyes search his face. ‘Sorry,’ she eventually apologizes (plainly mollified by whatever it is that she finds there), ‘you must think I’m completely paranoid.’ She shakes her head, exasperated, then turns and guides him down the corridor. ‘It’s just that I’ve known Vee since she was a teenager’ – she glances over her shoulder, raising a single, deeply expressive, black brow – ‘and she’s always had this incredible gift – this … this knack – for making people feel …’

      She suddenly checks herself. ‘Have you been friends with Vee for long, then?’

      ‘Long?’ Gene parrots, like the word is somehow incomprehensible to him.

      ‘Yeah. Long. Long …’ She rolls her eyes, sardonically. ‘As in how’d the two of you first become acquainted?’

      ‘Uh …’ Gene tries to think on his feet. ‘I work in a bar. At the Thistle. In town.’

      ‘Okay …’

      The woman nods, as if expecting something more.

      ‘It’s not full-time,’ he elects, ‘I just fill in when they’re short-staffed, sometimes.’

      ‘Right.’ The woman sniffs, nonplussed. She is silent for a moment and then, ‘Well it really has been incredibly tough on her,’ she confides (determined – in spite of Gene’s best efforts – to broaden the level of their interaction). ‘I mean what happened to her mother …’ She shudders. ‘And to lose her dad like that. Then all the problems with her brother. Then her sister-in-law being carted off into …’

      She points her finger to her temple and rotates it.

      ‘Awful,’ Gene confirms, in studied tones.

      ‘Devastating,’ the woman persists. ‘And I do think she’s coped extremely well …’ she concedes (perhaps a little grudgingly), ‘I mean under the circumstances. Although in some respects she barely copes at all – just doesn’t have the emotional …’ She rotates her hands, struggling to find the correct adjective. ‘Chutzpah!’ she eventually finishes off.

      They arrive at the kitchen door. She pushes it open and waves him through.

      ‘I blame the parents, obviously …’

      She grimaces, self-deprecatingly, after delivering this cliché. ‘D’you have kids of your own?’

      ‘A couple.’ Gene nods. ‘A boy and a girl …’ He pauses. ‘Both adopted,’ he qualifies.

      ‘I mean I love Vee,’ she insists (barely acknowledging his answer). ‘Who doesn’t love Vee? She’s a wonderful girl. Very sweet. Very creative. Very genuine. Just a bit of a lame duck, really …’ She pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Reggie’s at the root of it all.’ She sighs. ‘Did you ever have the honour of meeting Vee’s dad?’

      ‘Vee’s dad?’ Gene frowns. ‘No. No. I don’t believe we ever …’

      He passes through the door and then waits, politely, at the other side. Directly ahead of him is a large, kitchen table (currently covered in piles of washing), and beyond that, an open door which leads out into a long, lush and meandering back garden where a gang of children – mainly boys – can be seen playing together on a trampoline.

      ‘So you work two jobs?’

      ‘Pardon?’

      Gene drags his eyes away from the carefree scene outside. The woman has grabbed a pair of matching socks from a prodigious, cotton-mix hillock and is now deftly rolling them into a single ball.

      ‘Two jobs?’ she repeats, inclining her head towards his clipboard.

      ‘Uh –’

      ‘Of course Reg adored Vee,’ she interrupts him, identifying a second pair and grabbing them. ‘She was the apple of his eye. Reg doted on the girl. Although he could be very strict with her – quite domineering – overbearing, even, on occasion. In fact I read this excellent article recently about how people with Vee’s …’ she pauses, delicately, ‘… problem …’ She pauses again. ‘I mean I suppose you should call it an illness, really …’ She looks to Gene for confirmation. Gene just gazes – pointedly – back out into the garden.

      ‘Well they normally have an overbearing father-figure,’ she persists, ‘a controlling dad. That’s apparently very common …’

      While she’s speaking the woman is rolling up her shirtsleeve: ‘Here – take a look …’

      She shows Gene a large, black and grey tattoo on her forearm which depicts a coffin lying on a bed of roses, inscribed with the words: MUM, RIP, 1946–1998.

      Gene inspects the tattoo.

      ‘It’s a Reggie T original.’

      She smiles up at him, proudly.

      Gene re-examines the tattoo more closely. It’s certainly a fine piece of work: delicately inked, distinctive, very traditional.

      ‘D’you like it?’ she demands (possibly irritated by his protracted silence).

      ‘It’s great,’ he answers, a little awkwardly. ‘I mean it’s extremely’ – he frowns – ‘accomplished.’

      She gazes down at the tattoo herself, somewhat mollified. ‘He was a filthy old bigot,’ she grumbles, unrolling her sleeve again. ‘A neighbour once told me how he developed his hatred of all foreigners after his mum had an affair with an American serviceman during the war. His dad went crazy when he found out. Did a hike. Reg was only a toddler at the time, but he never got over it.’

      ‘That’s tough,’ Gene volunteers, blandly.

      ‘Although – to Reggie’s credit – he’d never be rude to your face. Not directly. He was very charming in person. Very amiable. Always campaigned for the NF or the BNP at election time. Stood as the borough candidate every opportunity he got. Made no secret of his views, but was never nasty about it, never rude. I mean I’m half Filipino. My dad was from the Philippines. They’d play darts together down the –’

      Her monologue is briefly interrupted by a sharp, girlish scream from the garden. She moves over towards the open doorway and blinks out into the bright sunlight.

      ‘Got any yourself?’ she wonders, after a short pause.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Her last man was covered in them.’ She turns, patting her forearm, by way of explanation, ‘Hands, legs, feet. Had this massive, tangerine-coloured carp swimming across his neck – its eye just’ – she points to her throat – ‘just there. On his Adam’s apple. It’d bob up and down whenever he spoke.’ She grins. ‘Russian, he was. Size of a house. But wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Gentle as a mouse. Lovely boy. Ran off to live on an Indian commune with this woman they call “The Hugging Saint”. Very weird. Very weird. Did Vee ever tell you about СКАЧАТЬ