The Artificial Anatomy of Parks Read online

  Abi woke me up by jabbing a pen into my side. “You’re snoring,” she hissed.

  Mr Hicks was standing over us, a half-smile on his face. “Tallulah, would you mind staying after class?” he said.

  He made me stand at his desk while he sat. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a detention,” he said. He played with his pen, clicking the lid. “I can’t let you get away with sleeping in my lessons, do you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you being kept up by girls in your dorm?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you look exhausted. You must try to get some sleep. Have you been to the school nurse?”

  “I’m seeing the counsellor.”

  “Well. We’re all here for you, Tallulah.” He tore off a slip of paper. “You’ll have to spend tomorrow lunchtime in here with me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I dragged myself back to my dorm. The girls weren’t keeping me up, not directly. I didn’t like Cressida; most of the time I didn’t want to be around her, but I dreaded being completely alone. It was partly the idea of facing boarding school without anyone on my side that was keeping me up. But my novelty was starting to wear off and I wasn’t sure if Cressida still thought I was interesting.

  I played out confrontations in my head. I imagined myself telling Cressida what I really thought of her, challenging my father, asking him about the accident, why I had to be here. ‘If you couldn’t stop it happening, why couldn’t you heal her? You’re a doctor.’ And Uncle Jack, too: ‘Why did you come back? You made everything worse. And where are you now if you’re not abroad?’ In my head, I crushed the three of them with my anger.

  Nine

  Aunt Vivienne can’t come in the next day after all. I sit with Aunt Gillian at my father’s bedside while she continues knitting. I try not to look at him too often – he’s so still I can almost forget he’s there.

  Aunt Gillian is making a jumper for the new baby. “It’s a shame there were no more children after you, dear,” she says. “I always thought our extended family might be bigger.”

  “I guess no one else really pulled their weight.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Aunt Gillian says, looking guiltily at my father. She binds off the stitching, shakes the material out and inspects it critically. “Not really up to scratch,” she says. “I can give that one to a charity shop, I suppose.” She checks her watch. “Shall we get something to drink from the cafeteria?”

  “Sure.”

  As we pass the nurse on duty, Aunt Gillian gives her a detailed account of where we’re going, and how long we’ll be.

  “Georgia asked after you,” she says, as we take the lift. “She’d love for you to go around sometime.”

  “That would be nice.”

  I get a coffee and Aunt Gillian has an Earl Grey tea. We sit at a table and drink.

  “What’s the age difference between all of you?” I ask her.

  “Well now,” Aunt Gillian says. “I’m a year older than Edward, then Vivienne was another three and a half years after him, then Jack came along two years after that.” She purses her mouth when she says his name; it looks almost automatic.

  “So you’re six and a half years older than Jack?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I suppose it meant I took on the role of second mother, as it were.”

  “When Grandma was busy?”

  “When she was ill,” Aunt Gillian says, vaguely.

  “Who was the easiest to look after?”

  “Oh, Edward. He was a darling.”

  “Was he close to the other two?”

  She fidgets in front of me. “The best way to handle them was to get in their way as little as possible.”

  “So they weren’t close? Even as kids?”

  “Well, no.”

  We lapse into silence. I wonder why Jack approached my parents and not Vivienne, if he’d never been close to my father. There was another possibility, of course, but only one person could tell me everything. The other person was dead.

  Everything changed after Uncle Jack came back; I wish my mother had had nothing to do with it.

  I stand up. “I’ve got to make a phone call,” I say.

  In the corridor I punch in the number. It rings and rings on the other end; I feel sick. A mechanical voice comes on, telling me to leave a message. I start to speak, my voice shaky.

  Then, halfway through, there’s a click. “You alright, doll?” Malkie says. “How’s your pop?”

  “He’s okay,” I say. “He still hasn’t woken up and it’s been six days.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s not good, but it’s not bad yet.”

  “Mm-hmm. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What can I do for you then?”

  “Do you know where Uncle Jack is?”

  There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

  “Malkie?”

  “I’m here,” he says; I can almost hear his brow furrowing. “Why d’you wanna know, doll? If it’s okay for me to ask.”

  “I wanna talk to him.”

  He sighs. “He’s not exactly in great shape.”

  “Does that mean you know where he is?”

  Autumn was well under way; the leaves that hadn’t fallen were the colour of ripe aubergines or rust. Starr came and got me from the Junior Common Room and we walked around the grounds. Our breath rose from our mouths when we talked, like clouds of smoke. I wore a woollen hat with a pom-pom and wellington boots. Starr wore thick grey tights and a diamond-pattern cardigan over her uniform. She was chewing gum, something I knew was forbidden at school.

  “They said you needed someone to talk to,” she said. She wasn’t looking at me at all, and I suddenly felt shy around her, instead of angry. “So… how you finding it?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Making friends?”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “I thought you were ignoring me… ” She left it hanging there. When I shrugged again she spat her gum into her hand and pressed it quickly onto the underside of a windowsill we were passing. “So, we’re fine, right? I’m sorry if you are mad at me, anyway.”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s Uncle Edward?”

  “Fine.” I blew into my hands to keep them warm; he’d only called back once more, but I was at Prep and he hadn’t left a message. I was pretty much convinced he didn’t care about me at all. “How’s your mum?”

  “Yeah fine. She forgets about me, then feels guilty. Then she turns up here to take me out as a treat.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Go to town, get a manicure. Sometimes she takes me to the cinema.” She grimaced. “Normally she gets drunk. You’re lucky your parents are normal… Uncle Edward’s normal.” Her cheeks were blotchy with red, and she put her hands up to fiddle with her hair, like she was trying to pretend she was busy. I thought of the conversation I’d had with Kathy and stayed silent. Starr would think I was crazy too.

  “Did you know I’m on the tennis team? Maybe you could try out.”

  “Do you remember our tennis tournaments at Grandma’s?” I said.

  “Not really. We didn’t even have real tennis balls there.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess not.”

  “Anyway,” she said, looking at me for the first time, “you’re really fine, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve gotta go to detention now.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking relieved. “I’ll come find you soon. And come to a practice, yeah?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  For my detention, Mr Hicks got me sorting out the wax crayons into colour groups, and dipping paintbrushes into turpentine with him, while the radio played in the background. He made me laugh while I was working, singing the really high female-voice parts of songs, and cracking cheese-based jokes.

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sp; “Which cheese would you use to get a bear out of a tree?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Camembert.”

  “Is that a cheese?”

  “You shock me, Tallulah, you really do.”

  It was almost like spending time with an older cousin, like Michael. Or like a father, who didn’t hate me and was less tired and more fun. When I got up to leave, Mr Hicks helped me collect my things. “Don’t keep falling asleep,” he said. “You’ll make me think my lessons are boring.”

  “They’re not,” I said. “They’re pretty much the only interesting ones.”

  Mr Hicks laughed. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mumbled.

  He ruffled my hair, like I’d seen Michael do with Georgia, and I felt my cheeks get hot and prickly.

  I can’t stop thinking about what Malkie’s up to. I imagine him picking up the phone, calling old friends, walking to an unknown part of London. Knocking on doors. I don’t know what I want after that. What would I ask Uncle Jack? And do I really want the answers?

  I can’t take it back; don’t think about it. Maybe nothing will come of it, anyway.

  “What’s happening now?” Aunt Gillian asks; another nurse has arrived.

  “Nothing yet,” the nurse says. “Just checking everyone’s okay in here.”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Good. I’ll be back in a little while to move him.”

  “Move him where?” Aunt Gillian asks.

  “Just onto his other side. Nothing to worry about.”

  She leaves. Aunt Gillian turns to me. “Why do they move him?”

  “I dunno.” I think I have an idea, but I don’t know why she’s looking to me for explanations, like she thinks my father will have passed down a genetic understanding of hospital procedures. It makes me feel weird – it’s the fact that my father is part of the medical world that stops me getting into it. Or one of the things that stops me, anyway.

  I get up and walk over to the window, looking out onto the red-and-white-brick of the buildings opposite, and the black of the railings on street level. A couple of girls stroll past, wicker bags swinging from their arms. Probably off to the park for a picnic. If things had been different, that could have been me and Edith. Or even me and Toby. ‘Isn’t it worth talking to him then?’ my grandmother would say. She knew how I felt about him. ‘I’m sure he misses you too.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s been able to replace me,’ I argue with her. ‘With someone who’s not such a head-case.’

  I don’t want that to be true, but what do I expect? I didn’t think about how it would feel for him when I’d gone, about how shitty it would be to be abandoned by the only person who knows all your problems, knows how vulnerable you are. I was a stupid kid who persuaded herself that he wouldn’t care; that it was him who abandoned me.

  ‘So go say you’re sorry.’

  I tip my chin upwards and take in the sky – less azure than the last few days, it reminds me of a shade called Carolina Blue. We used to have tubes of it in the art studio – light blue with a blush of silver, like the sea at sunset. I might even have some back at the flat. Years ago, I went on a splurge, buying stacks of different colours. It was after Toby bought me the paint brush set. I lugged everything back to school with me; I must have wanted him to see me using his present. I try to remember if I packed it all when I left, but I can’t.

  “Tallulah?” Aunt Gillian says. “Can you hold the wool for me, love?”

  I go back to my chair and take the ball from her, still trying not to look too closely at the sleeping figure in front of us.

  “Did you get through to whoever you were calling before?” she asks.

  “Yep,” I say. “Just work.”

  Christmas was coming, and lessons started to wind down. Teachers wheeled old TVs on tall trolleys into our classrooms and we watched Christmas videos like Miracle on 34th Street and Father Christmas Goes on Holiday. For days after we watched Home Alone, all the boys went around saying “Keep the change, ya filthy animal” and making machine gun noises. It got dark so early it felt like our lessons were carrying on into the night; we wore slippers and dressing gowns to sit and do prep after dinner. The school choir sang carols at the train station and the shopping centre in town; our year were given elf costumes, and sent out with donation buckets. A few days later, I found a card in my pigeon-hole. Miss Rochard had written in gold glitter: Dear Tallulah, This Christmas I wish for you to be happy. You’re a very special girl and you deserve it! Merry Christmas, Annie (Miss) Rochard xxx

  Aunt Gillian picked me up to spend Christmas at hers then talked all the way home, while I stared out at other cars, other families.

  Georgia was waiting by the window when we pulled into the driveway. I climbed out of the car, stretching my legs, and she opened the front door, letting light stream out of the house. “Tallie,” she said. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Michael carried my stuff up to Georgia’s bedroom. “Welcome to the madhouse,” he said, and left.

  I lay on the camp bed they’d made up for me. Georgia lay on her bed, facing me.

  “Remember when we were at Grandma’s, and we used to nap in the same bed?” she asked me. “Me, you and Starr?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe we ever fit the three of us in a single.”

  “We were smaller.”

  “Do you see Starr much?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What’s she like now?”

  “Fine.”

  “Mummy always says ‘poor Starr’,” Georgia said. “But she’s so pretty, and she has such a cool name. I always think she’s going to do something cool when she’s older.”

  “What’s happening with Mr Tickles?” I asked.

  “I think Uncle Edward’s bringing him.”

  “Can he sleep in here?”

  “I’ll ask Mummy.”

  “Georgia, Tallulah,” Aunt Gillian called. “Tea’s ready.”

  There were sausage rolls, smoked salmon on crackers, mince pies, spiced star-shaped biscuits and mini stollen laid out on the table. All the lights were on; there was a vase of holly and ivy on the sideboard and one white wreath hung on the back of the kitchen door. Taps and the draining board shone. Aunt Gillian beamed. She’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble. “Help yourself,” she said. “How’s the bed for you, Tallulah?”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Mummy, can Mr Tickles sleep with us?” Georgia asked, and I felt a glow of affection for her.

  “He doesn’t have fleas or anything like that, does he dear?” Aunt Gillian said, unenthusiastically.

  “No,” I lied.

  “Okay then. Now tuck in. I’m making chicken pie for tonight – do you like chicken, Tallulah?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good.” She turned the oven on. “I thought I’d check now that Vivienne has become a vegetarian.” She said ‘vegetarian’ like she’d say ‘prostitute’, or ‘terrorist’. She dipped a brush into some egg yolks and painted the pie crust with it – quick, annoyed brushstrokes.

  “Don’t worry about Mummy,” Georgia said in a low voice. “Her and Aunt Vivienne had a big fight about something again.”

  I chewed my sausage roll in silence.

  “Can we have some apple juice please, Mummy?” Georgia asked.

  “Of course.” Aunt Gillian went to the fridge and took the carton out. She poured two glasses and brought them over to the table, all smiles again. “Did Georgia tell you she won a spelling competition recently? She came top of her age group in the county.”

  “Mummy, you’re being embarrassing.”

  I took a sip of apple juice. “Congratulations,” I said.

  “What about you, Tallulah?” Aunt Gillian asked. “I remember how hard they work you at that school – the teachers used to say to me, ‘If you had half as much brains as your younger brother, you’d be fine’.” She smiled.

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bsp; “I’m failing most of my subjects,” I said. With two exceptions, my grades were Cs, Ds and below.

  “Oh,” Aunt Gillian said, looking embarrassed. “Well, you mustn’t be discouraged, dear. Sometimes it takes a while to discover our strengths. Do you belong to any sports or social clubs?”

  “No.”

  I looked straight at her, daring her to ask me another question. She stared back at me with her mouth open, then shut it, quickly, and put on a smile. “I’m sure you’re too busy with friends.” She checked her watch. “I’ll just nip down to the cellar to get some wine.”

  “Don’t worry about school,” Georgia said to me, as soon as Aunt Gillian was out of the room. “I’m not as clever as Michael either.”

  I shrugged. “What did your mum and Aunt Vivienne fight about?”

  “Mummy said Aunt Vivienne should have come to the funeral.”

  “What did Aunt Vivienne say?”

  “She said Mummy always wanted to sweep everything under the rug.”

  “Were they talking about Uncle Jack?”

  “Maybe,” Georgia said. “Mummy did say when Aunt Vivienne had left that she was kidding herself if she thought Jack was coming back.”

  ‘The trouble with stories is remembering what’s been said to whom.’ The words quickly came back to me.

  I had a sudden urge to see Malkie. I didn’t want to tell Georgia that Jack might still be around, or that I thought my father might hold some blame for my mother’s death, even if it was only by not doing anything. But maybe Malkie would know; maybe he’d be able to explain everything. Like why he’d come by that afternoon, and why my mother had made me leave the house.

  “I’m going to the loo,” I said.

  Upstairs, I rummaged among my clothes until I got to the photo of my mother I kept at the bottom of my bag. She was smiling, sitting with her knees pressed together, on some steps outside an open front door. It could have been the house she grew up in, the one she lived in with the grandparents I’d never known. I’d found the photo after she died, when my father was throwing out her things, rescuing it and her recipe book from the same box. It was hard to tell how old she was in the picture. Whenever I looked at it, I tried to find some similarity between us, but there was nothing on the surface.