When the Music Stops…. Joe Heap

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СКАЧАТЬ It must have been going for a while. The boat is rocking like a rollercoaster and the sea is loud. I squint at my clock. The red numbers say it’s half two in the morning, but this clock hasn’t been set since we left … where was it we left? Somewhere else. Somewhere not home. I can’t guess the time these days. Now that I’m an ancient ruin. I’m not sure how long I slept. I stare at the flashing dots on the clock: : : : : : :

      Someone is banging at the door.

      ‘Mum? Are you awake?’

      ‘Abigail?’

      The door opens. ‘Yes Mum, it’s me. Do you mind if I put the light on?’

      ‘Mind? Why?’

      The light clicks on and there is Abigail. She looks flustered, and she’s hanging onto the doorframe. The bedroom tips to one side.

      ‘Are you okay?’ Abigail staggers over and sits on the side of my bed like a nurse. She was a nurse, before this. Her auburn hair is unbrushed and I want to get a comb.

      ‘I just wanted to check you’re okay.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because of the storm.’

      ‘Oh … Bad?’

      Abigail sighs. ‘Yes, Mum, it’s pretty bad.’

      ‘Don’t need helping.’ I look up into my daughter’s face. She has freckles but no wrinkles. She’s still so young.

      ‘I know you don’t need helping, you stubborn old goat.’

      I make horns with fingers at the sides of my head and bleat. Abigail laughs and kisses my forehead. ‘I just need to help David secure the boat, and I don’t want you to worry if you can’t find me.’

      I take a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry. Go. Take care.’

      The older I get, the less I talk. The words are still there in my head, I just can’t get them out. Or if I do, they’re wrong. I say ‘knife’ when I mean ‘fork’ and ‘hello’ when I mean ‘goodbye’. I used to be a musician, and I preferred playing music to talking. Maybe this is nature’s punishment – use it or lose it. Meanwhile, the trapped words boil away in my head like the contents of a pressure cooker. Long, rolling sentences bubble up. Presumably in this metaphor my brain is the old piece of meat, liquefying in its juices. I don’t like it but there’s nothing to be done. I sling one arm around Abigail’s neck and half-hug her.

      ‘See you soon, Mum. Sleep tight.’

      Abigail clicks the light off and closes the door. I settle back into bed. The storm seems worse, in the dark. I feel it throwing our boat up and down. Out of habit, I count the things I remember.

      1) My name is Ella Campbell.

      2) I’m on a boat.

      3) I’m on the boat because I’m on holiday.

      4) I’m on holiday with Abigail, the baby and … and … him. Abigail just said his name, but it never seems to stick in my head.

      5) The boat belongs to ‘him’.

      I wish I could remember his name. The man who brought us on holiday. He wears a lot of aftershave and thinks that because I am from Glasgow I must be mad for porridge and bagpipes. The only places he’s visited in Scotland are golf courses. He bought this boat and he’s sailing it back to England. He’s a roaster, but I don’t tell this to Abigail.

      Another wave breaks over us. The boat shudders and I feel sick. Perhaps if it weren’t so dark, I’d feel better. At home (The Home), I have a light that comes on when I clap. I try this, but it doesn’t work. Perhaps the light can’t hear me over the storm.

      ‘Abigail?’

      There’s no reply. Abigail will come to check on me, of course. Over my bunk, on the right-hand side, is a window. Push yourself up with both hands. Careful, you old codger, feel for the porthole. I touch my nose to the cold glass. On other nights there has been a moon or stars. One night, the ocean looked like silver velvet being shaken over a stage. I remember the Palladium … or was it the Lyceum? I don’t remember the show. There’s no light now.

      I’m about to get back under the covers when the boat lifts

      up,

      up,

      up …

      It’s like a hand is scooping us out of a bathtub. I feel weightless.

      Now the boat drops again, smacking the waves. I’m knocked backwards, out of bed and onto the cabin floor. For a moment I forget to breathe. The pain follows. I can hardly hear my own cry. There’s not much space between the bed and the door, and I’ve hit my head on something. It’s still dark except for the glow of the clock. This is awful. When I next see Abigail and him, I’m asking to go home. I don’t want ‘one more adventure’, as he calls it. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

      I’m near the door, so if I reach up, somewhere above me … my fingers brush a pom-pom, dancing at the end of a string. I grab hold and pull. The light comes on. My legs are tangled in white sheet. Get up, don’t lie on the floor, get yourself sitting. I could try to stand, but the boat is still bucking and I don’t want to be thrown again.

      I crawl to bed and settle down to sleep. But I can hear something. Very faint. I’m not hearing it through the air but through my pillow. It’s coming through the floor, through the walls. High and thin, almost drowned out by the storm.

      A baby crying.

      My mouth curls up in a smile. My grandson. He is four months old. Or is it five? Too young to be dragged out on this boat, just like I’m too old. Thunder rattles my chest as I think about the baby. If the memory is hazy, that’s just what babies are like. Blurry, not-quite-developed. One day he might be a judge or a poet or a landscape gardener. But we can’t see that yet; he’s keeping it to himself. I hope he’s not too miserable. The sea has been making him sick. How long have we been on this boat?

      I open my eyes and stare at the light. Abigail could be with the baby. Sometimes he can’t be soothed, for all her trying. No wonder, in this storm. But the doubt is there in my mind, getting stronger. Abigail is good at soothing him. There’s something reassuring about her that she didn’t get from me. She must have been a good nurse, before he made her give it up. She says he didn’t make her, that she wanted to …

      The baby is still crying.

      The boat is rolling through hills and valleys. But what’s to lose, when you’re eighty-seven? I get to sitting, holding tight to the bed. The cabin light flickers and dies. I sit in darkness and say several words that an eighty-seven-year-old isn’t meant to know.

      Deep breath.

      I launch myself toward the door. The boat tips and I slam into solid wood. Out of the cabin, into the narrow corridor. That’s the one good thing about this cramped boat – never far to fall. In the dark, I feel the walls either side. There’s something else, an unfamiliar feeling. My feet are cold. There’s water in the corridor.

      I edge along, legs СКАЧАТЬ