The Artificial Anatomy of Parks Read online

  “Michael did it,” James said.

  “Yeah, but I know what I’m doing,” Michael said. “You’ll probably break your neck.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Gymnastics is certainly less important than saving your neck,” my grandmother said. “James, Tallulah and Evelyn, if you wouldn’t mind climbing over the usual way.”

  James looked furious, but he climbed down carefully, and my mother and I joined everyone else, handing the basket to Georgia while we were trying to get over.

  “I can do a somersault,” James muttered, on the other side. “I’ve done one before.”

  My grandmother pinned him down with what I assumed was her good eye, and he turned a funny colour. When she started leading the way again, he hung back, looking sullen. Georgia tried to take his hand, but he shoved her away.

  “Get lost, podgy,” he said.

  “That’s not very nice, James,” my mother said.

  “It’s Dad’s nickname for me,” Georgia said; her eyes were full of tears, and I prayed she wouldn’t blink. Everyone knew once you blinked you were definitely going to cry.

  “Do you want me to help you with the basket?” I asked her. “We can carry it like me and Mummy did.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Georgia said. She smiled again and I felt ashamed of being jealous of her before.

  “Thank you, darling,” my mother said.

  “Is anyone actually coming?” my grandmother called to us.

  The field was mostly muddy; eventually my grandmother stopped and beckoned me and Georgia over to a dry patch. “Unpack that here,” she said.

  We took the basket to the blanket, which she’d already laid out, and opened it. There were salmon-paste sandwiches, salad, jacket potatoes in their skins, Petits Filous, slices of cold chicken, Ribena and leftover cake from my birthday dinner.

  We all tucked in. My mother shifted to make room for James on the blanket when he reached us, but he took a sandwich and went and sat facing away from everyone.

  My grandmother asked Michael, loudly, what he was doing at the moment. He was going into fourth year, and he reeled off a list of subjects he’d be studying, mostly languages. “You must have got that ability from your father’s side,” she said, and he went quiet.

  My mother broke the silence, saying school seemed like a long time ago to her; she’d stopped going when her parents passed away, which she said was a shame, as it was something else she lost. She sipped her wine and smiled at Michael, who was still being quiet.

  My grandmother turned to Georgia who was still in primary, like me. “And what would you like to do?”

  Georgia thought about it for a moment. “I’d like to be Mary in the Nativity play,” she said. “Last time I was only a shepherd.”

  I thought my mother and grandmother were trying to hide smiles. I was hoping they wouldn’t get around to asking me, but my grandmother swivelled her head in my direction.

  “And you, Tallulah?”

  “I’m the same year as Georgia.”

  “And would you like to be Mary?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d rather be a Wise Man and wear a beard.”

  “I see,” my grandmother said.

  My mother pulled me onto her lap and hugged me.

  After we’d finished all the food, Michael tried to teach me and Georgia how to play cricket. Georgia was supposed to catch the ball when I hit it with the cricket bat, and throw it back to Michael, but she wasn’t very good and spent most of her time trying to find it, instead. Michael said he wanted to practise his bowling, and threw the ball too fast for me to see it, until I threatened to throw it back at his head.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to playing with little kids.”

  “Oh, you’re so grown up,” I said.

  “Do you want me to teach you properly, or do you want to play a sissy game?”

  “Forget it,” I said, dropping the bat. “Cricket’s boring anyway.”

  I made my way back to the picnic blanket and flopped down onto my belly. My mother and grandmother were sitting at the other end. I watched them over the hill of my forearms, screwing my eyes up so it looked like they were closed and I wasn’t spying.

  My grandmother looked very serious. “Nothing to forgive… ” she said.

  My mother put her glass down. I caught the last bit of her sentence, “… hard on you.”

  “I can’t blame her,” my grandmother said. “We saw him through different eyes.”

  My mother turned away as she was speaking, and the next thing I heard was my grandmother saying, “Whatever you do, Evelyn, don’t blame yourself.”

  I felt something cold land on my neck and jumped up, yelling and brushing it off. James was laughing evilly, and when I looked at my fingers they were covered in slime. A fat, grey slug was curled up on the blanket where I’d just been.

  “Your face,” James said. “You were so scared.”

  “Was not.”

  “Were too.”

  “Was not.”

  “That’s enough, children,” my grandmother said.

  “Were too,” James said under his breath, and looked smug.

  Later, we walked over to the corner of the field where the horses were grazing. My mother placed apple segments and sugar lumps on our palms, and taught us to feed them, keeping our hands flat and still. The horses’ mouths tickled when they took the food and I squirmed inside, but didn’t move, because my grandmother was watching me closely.

  “Good girl,” she said.

  Four

  “Excuse me.”

  I look up at the man in front of me; he has dirty silver hair and an even dirtier dark-green fleece. His shoes squeak on the hospital floor as he takes another step closer. Above us, a neon light flickers, on-then-off-then-on. All the lights along this corridor buzz quietly.

  “Excuse me,” he says again, “have you seen Marilyn?”

  “No,” I say. “Sorry.”

  His eyes look milky. “She went to see her sister last week,” he says. Spit is forming at one corner of his mouth. “I’m getting worried because she hasn’t called – she always calls to say goodnight to Jane.” He wipes a hand across his face.

  A middle-aged woman hurries down the corridor towards us. “Dad,” she says; she has lipstick on her two front teeth. “You can’t go wandering off like that.” She takes her father’s hand and he looks at her blankly.

  “Are you Jane?” I ask.

  “Has he been bothering you?” She shakes her father gently by the shoulder. He’s looking off into space now.

  “Jane’s ten,” he says.

  “He’s looking for your mum.”

  The woman rolls hers eyes. “She died about ten years ago,” she says, kneeling down to tie her father’s shoelace. “We all miss Mum, don’t we, Dad?”

  “She’s got lovely black hair,” he says.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” the woman says. She’s still kneeling in front of her father, and she takes his hand again and clasps it between her own. “What are we going to do with you?”

  He looks down at her and smiles uncertainly. “Have you seen Marilyn?” he asks.

  “Come on, Dad,” she says. “Let’s take you home.”

  “You need any help?” I ask.

  “No thanks,” she says. “Sorry for bothering you.”

  I watch them walk towards the exit; he’s leaning on her shoulder. That’ll never be us, will it, Dad? I wonder what Jane’s father was like when she was growing up, for her to be so dedicated now.

  You’re absent from so many of my memories. I guess that’s how I would have characterised you as a father, at least in the beginning. But if that’s all you’d been, I’d probably have been okay with it. Plenty of doctors’ children never see their parents, after all.

  It was May of the same year when the dark-haired man turned up. It was one of those weekend mornings where my father hadn’t come home from work yet, and my mother made me waffles. She always made waffles
in the spring, she said they reminded her of breakfast in Paris, where it was sunny enough to eat outdoors. She’d gone once, with a friend for a weekend, and it had stuck in her mind. That morning she sat across from me at the kitchen table and sipped coffee while I ate.

  “I want to try some coffee,” I said.

  My mother raised her eyebrows and smiled at me.

  “Please,” I wheedled.

  “Coffee’s very bitter,” my mother said. “And strong.”

  “But I’m strong too.”

  She pushed her mug towards me, handle-first. The first swallow was horrible. I blew on the liquid and pretended I was waiting for it to cool down. The doorbell rang. I jumped up to get it, my mother smiling as I ran out the kitchen.

  The man at the door had very long eyelashes. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. My father never wore jeans, neither did any of the other men who came to the house.

  “Hi there,” the man said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  The man was staring at me. I noticed one of my socks needed straightening. “Are your mummy and daddy home, Tallulah?” He was talking to the top of my head.

  I ran back to the kitchen. My mother had taken the coffee back while I was gone.

  “It’s for you,” I said.

  She was in the hallway before I realised what was bothering me – he knew my name.

  My mother stopped smiling when she reached the door.

  “Evie,” the man said, grinning. Something about him reminded me of next door’s wolfhound.

  My mother stood in the doorway. She kept the door open with one hand on the latch; I hid behind her and saw her knuckles go white. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  The man laughed, but it didn’t sound like he found anything funny. “Come on, Evie,” he said. “It’s pretty cold out here.”

  My mother hesitated, then stood back to let him in. He stepped past her and stopped on the doormat, stamping his boots. “You’re looking good,” he said.

  Her cheeks went pink. The man leant over to give her a kiss, but at the last minute she turned her head and he got a mouthful of hair.

  I caught my mother’s hand as she shut the door. “Who’s he?” I whispered.

  “I’m your Uncle Jack,” the man said, looking straight at my mother. She always said my whispering voice needed more practice. He crouched down in front of me. “Aren’t I, Evie?”

  “Yes,” my mother answered. She squeezed my hand hard. I remembered where I’d seen the man’s face before – in the photo at Aunt Vivienne’s house.

  We all heard the key at the same moment. When my father walked through the door he found us frozen in our positions in the hallway.

  I’d never seen my father go pale before.

  “Eddie,” – the man came forward to give my father a hug – “it’s been too long.”

  They embraced quickly. It was over before I could goggle at the sight of my father hugging another man.

  My father hung up his coat very carefully, as he always did. “Evelyn, could I have a word with you in the kitchen?”

  My mother was twisting her ring. “Of course. Jack, could you wait here?”

  Uncle Jack held up his hands and laughed again. “No problem guys. I’ll just get acquainted with this one here.”

  “Tallulah has homework to do,” my father said. “Tallulah – upstairs, now.”

  I climbed upstairs and walked along the corridor. When I heard my parents go into the kitchen and shut the door, I walked back and sat on the top step. Uncle Jack was leaning against the wall, scowling. He didn’t see me at first, and when he did he blew his cheeks out and stuck his hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t like you very much,” I said.

  Uncle Jack only came three or four times after that first visit, but the house always felt uneasy when he was there. He would go to my father’s study with him and talk; they always closed the door. Once my father came out unexpectedly and caught me trying to listen in. “What were you doing?” he asked, frowning.

  I thought he probably knew what I was doing. “I was trying to hear what you were saying,” I said. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I started scratching my head.

  “Evelyn,” my father called. My mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her skirt. Uncle Jack appeared behind my father.

  “Perhaps you could find something for Tallulah to do,” my father said to my mother. “Then she wouldn’t have to eavesdrop to amuse herself.”

  “Edward,” my mother said. “That’s hardly fair.”

  He stared down at me again. “Do you have some sort of parasitic problem, Tallulah?”

  “No.” I dropped my hands down by my side, wondering why my father was clearly so irritated with me.

  He turned and ushered Uncle Jack back into the study. I saw a smile on Uncle Jack’s face, and I thought I heard him say: “Well at least you’ve brought her up to be honest, Eddie.”

  The next time Uncle Jack came to the house my mother turned off the cartoons I was watching and handed me an apron.

  I didn’t need a stool anymore. I stirred the jam with one hand and held a wineglass of water in the other, imagining I was Keith Floyd, and we were cooking on a fishing boat, like in his show. Mr Tickles was nudging at my feet. “Why does Uncle Jack have to come round?” I asked my mother.

  She was taking the stones out of the plums. “He’s your father’s brother, Tallie.” She kept her eyes on what her hands were doing.

  “Is he really Daddy’s brother?”

  “Of course he is.”

  Uncle Jack didn’t look like my father, I thought. My father was blond and heavy and blinked a lot. Uncle Jack was tall and dark and looked like he never blinked, even though his eyes were always moving.

  “He doesn’t act like a brother,” I said. “Or an uncle. He never even brings me presents.”

  My mother looked sideways at me and smiled.

  “Other peoples’ uncles bring them presents,” I pressed. “Charlotte’s uncle buys her fudge, and she brings it into school. It’s pretty good fudge.”

  “Do you want to take some of this jam into school?” my mother asked.

  Mr Tickles meowed in front of his empty bowl.

  “No.” I turned back to the jam.

  “Okay then,” she said.

  Mr Tickles made the rattling sound that passed for purring with him. I picked him up and hugged him.

  “I’ve already fed him twice,” my mother warned. “Don’t be fooled.”

  “He can smell food,” I said. “He doesn’t want to miss out.”

  My mother picked up a plum and waved it in his face. “Trust me,” she said. “You don’t want this.”

  Mr Tickles eyed it eagerly.

  My mother took a step back and put the plum down. “I think he might just eat it anyway,” she said. “This cat… ”

  I scratched his ear. “It’s just because it smells so good,” I said.

  “It does,” Uncle Jack said from the doorway. “Plums always remind me of you, Evie.”

  I dropped Mr Tickles, who let out a yowl and left the room. My mother put a hand up to her face.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Jack said to me. “I’m just returning my glass.”

  He walked around the table to the sink and put his glass down in it. When he walked back to the door he went the other way around; we had to squeeze together to let him past.

  “See you later,” he said to us. “Maybe I can have some of that jam when you’ve made it.” He was looking at me, but my mother answered.

  “Sorry, Jack, I’m only making enough for the three of us.”

  His smile slipped for a moment, then he shrugged and winked at me as he left.

  “I’ve been sent to find you,” Aunt Vivienne says, appearing before me in the hallway. “Gillian would have come, but she’s staying with our comatose brother, in case he wakes up and suddenly needs mothering.” She peels off her leather gloves; I wonder
why she’s kept them on until now. Probably in protest against the dingy, neglected air that seems to choke the building.

  I gesture to the chair opposite me. She sits down.

  “So you all but dropped off the family radar,” she says. “What exactly have you been doing with yourself these past five years?”

  “Nothing much,” I say warily.

  She arches an eyebrow again; it must be her trademark. “Darling, I do hate the way your generation seems to cultivate inactivity and boredom as if they’re virtues,” she says.

  I blow my cheeks out. Aunt Gillian is probably right when she says that Vivienne could do with being taken down a peg or two. “Speaking for my generation,” I say. “I think we prefer to call it ennui.”

  Aunt Vivienne inclines her head slightly in my direction. “I’m glad you haven’t turned out so nice,” she says. “I was afraid you would. Your mother was the nicest person I’ve ever met.” She wrinkles her nose.

  “Fortunately,” I say, “the Park genes seem to have overcompensated slightly.”

  Aunt Vivienne appraises me again, and takes a hipflask from her handbag. “Fancy an Irish coffee?”

  I push my cup towards her. She gives me a generous splash of whisky and stops a male orderly walking by to order a coffee.

  He’s confused. “We don’t have table service here, Madam,” he says. “But there’s a café just over there… ”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s okay, I’ll get it. Aunt Vivienne, I’ll get it.”

  The orderly smiles gratefully at me and leaves.

  “Thank you, darling,” Aunt Vivienne says. She settles back further into her chair. “That’s very sweet of you.”

  The café is small and smells like antiseptic and new paint. The boy on the till recognises me from my last order and tries to make conversation. “Caffeine addict, huh?”

  I think of saying that this one isn’t for me, but it’s easier just to force a smile.

  “I can spot a fellow coffee fiend a mile away,” he says, ringing up two pounds fifty on his till. “I drink at least twenty cups a day.”

  “Mmm,” I say. He’s got blond facial hair, little tufts growing in patches on his chin and up his jawline. I wonder if Toby has a beard now – it would be dark if he did, like his hair. I think it would suit him.