The Artificial Anatomy of Parks Read online

  The boy’s still talking. “I probably should be dead by now,” he says, “the amount of junk I put into my body.”

  “Sensitive,” I say. “For someone who works in a hospital.”

  His mouth drops open and his face flushes red. “Shit, no, I didn’t mean – I’m sorry, I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Forget it,” I say. I hand him a five pound note.

  He scrabbles for change. “No, really. I didn’t think… ”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  Vivienne’s right – I’m not as nice as my mother. Or Georgia. I inwardly curse my cousin for not keeping her promise to Aunt Gillian and showing up. Georgia used to remind me of my mother, all soft and sweet-tempered. I couldn’t be as good as her if I tried.

  I bring Aunt Vivienne her coffee; she doesn’t say thank you. We sit, not talking, looking at each other from time to time. I notice she has a scar, a very small one, slinking down her neck.

  “This is the part people complain about I suppose – the waiting,” Aunt Vivienne says, breaking into my thoughts. “I always wondered what could be worse than hearing bad news.”

  I shrug and inspect my coffee cup. “Maybe the anticipation is the worst part,” I say.

  “How polite,” Aunt Vivienne says coolly. “Do you really believe that?” She cocks her head at me. I think how if they were birds, Aunt Vivienne would be an eagle. Aunt Gillian would be a hen.

  “I can’t speak from experience,” I say. “Everyone I know has died suddenly.”

  I look at the ceiling, away from her. At least she’s not trying to hug me.

  “You remind me of him, you know,” she says.

  I’m still, blinking at the ceiling, not saying anything.

  “I’m talking about your father.”

  I’m careful with my next words. “I wouldn’t have said we were anything alike.”

  “Well, in what way are you different?”

  I think of my father’s love of silence, the careful way he buttered my toast when my mother was too ill to make breakfast. I think of how he changed after Uncle Jack turned up, his slight frown and his closed doors and his closed face; I think of the cards from grateful patients and families every Christmas. I shrug again. I don’t think he ever opened up enough for me to know who he is, even before he stopped liking me.

  “I’m going to find a bathroom,” Aunt Vivienne says. “I’m sure it’ll be as depressing as the rest of this place, but needs must.”

  I down my drink when she’s gone; the alcohol leaves a tickling feeling in my throat. I wonder what my father told them. I’m sure he made it all out to be my fault. Knowing he’s in the building with me makes me feel light-headed. He could wake up at any moment and Aunt Gillian would bring me forward, expecting us to hold hands. I rub my temples, but that seems to make my eyesight bad. Tiny black spots are creeping in from the far corners of both eyes.

  I need to get outside, away from my family, especially my father. I start walking towards the exit. If the roles were reversed, would anyone be there waiting at my side? Would my father? I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Probably, just so he could let me know what a failure I was when I woke up.

  I push my way out of the hospital into the heat and walk far enough away that I don’t recognise the streets around me anymore.

  “Screw him,” I yell.

  A couple, arms linked, hurry their steps to get away from me. I hear them giggling when they think they’re at a safe distance. I’m officially a crazy person.

  When I start running I don’t stop; I don’t look back.

  Summer 1991 was languid, the hottest I could remember. Everywhere on the news people spoke of hosepipe bans, and ice-cream trucks running out of supplies, and pub gardens filling up, even during the daytime. We lazed in the garden on picnic rugs, or sat indoors in swimsuits with the curtains drawn. My mother made lemonade and I got browner and browner. Mr Tickles paused in his quest to eat everything in sight, and stretched out in the cool at the bottom of the stairs, where my father tripped over him all the time.

  I was about to start my last year at primary school, and try-outs for the swimming team were that September. When we went up to my grandmother’s, I spent most of my time in the lake with my cousins. It was also an excuse to avoid the grown-ups, which was something I wanted to do more than usual because on the second day of the visit, Uncle Jack had joined us.

  We were all snoozing in the garden after lunch when we heard the doorbell. Aunt Gillian got up to answer it, strolling indoors with her giant, floppy sunhat in one hand.

  A moment later we heard her scream.

  “What the blazes?” Uncle George sat up.

  Uncle Jack’s voice wafted out to us. “Calm down, Gilly – didn’t Eddie tell you I was back?”

  The grown-ups all turned to look at my father, then Aunt Vivienne jumped up and ran across the lawn and the porch, banging the kitchen door open in her rush to get to the figures inside. “Jack,” she screamed. “Is that you?”

  They reappeared, Aunt Vivienne clutching Uncle Jack and Aunt Gillian walking behind them, looking bewildered. Aunt Vivienne was white, with red spots on her cheeks. “Mother, Jack’s here,” she said loudly.

  My grandmother pursed her lips. “So I see,” she said.

  “How’s my favourite girl?” Uncle Jack asked, breaking away from Aunt Vivienne and taking long strides towards his mother. Us grandchildren watched with open mouths as Uncle Jack reached her and suddenly hesitated – maybe he was put off by her expression.

  Our grandmother let her gaze travel over him. “Still alive,” she said finally, and turned her cheek up to be kissed. Uncle Jack leant down and gave her a quick peck, and I thought I saw his shoulders drop, like he’d been tensed up for something.

  “Who is that?” James hissed.

  “It’s Uncle Jack,” I said, pleased to know something the others didn’t.

  “Who’s Uncle Jack?”

  “He’s Dad’s brother, and your mum’s, and yours.”

  “Where’s he been?” Georgia asked.

  “Dunno,” I said.

  “Bloody hell,” Uncle George said to my father. “You could have warned us, Edward.”

  “I didn’t know we were to be having the pleasure,” my father said, his face expressionless.

  “Jack never said anything,” my mother said.

  Aunt Vivienne wheeled around. “So you knew as well?” she demanded.

  Aunt Gillian had been standing to one side, silently, and now she stepped forwards. “Children – this is your Uncle Jack – he’s been travelling and now he’s home,” she said. She smiled brightly. “Isn’t that fun?”

  “Why has no one ever talked about him before?” Michael asked.

  “Haven’t we?” Aunt Gillian said.

  “I know him,” Michael said.

  Aunt Gillian shook her head. “No, Michael, you don’t.”

  “I do,” he said. “I remember him. He used to live with Starr and Aunt Vivienne. And… ”

  “With me?” Starr asked.

  “Michael, it doesn’t matter,” Aunt Gillian said. “Why don’t you all have a quick swim – it’s getting very hot out here.”

  We started to move off and Aunt Gillian beckoned to Michael. “A quick word,” she said. I thought I saw him give me a funny look before he followed her.

  The atmosphere was strained for the rest of the visit. The first night, over pre-dinner drinks on the terrace, Aunt Gillian mentioned a party their neighbours were throwing because Nelson Mandela had been elected head of the ABC, or some other letters I couldn’t hear properly. “They’re artists, of course,” she said. “But it sounds fun – they know some terribly important people.”

  “I’m not going,” Uncle George said. “The man’s a terrorist.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a friend to ex-cons, Gilly,” Uncle Jack said.

  All the grown-ups went quiet, and Aunt Vivienne got angry with Aunt Gillian for some reason. I wai
ted until we went in for dinner, then complained about Uncle Jack to my mother, saying that he was always around, until she told me to stop it, looking sad although I couldn’t tell why.

  I concentrated on the swimming instead. Georgia and the boys were already strong swimmers, but Starr had never been in the water because of her asthma. Sometimes, watching her, I wanted a cool blue inhaler of my own. Aunt Vivienne had bought her a white bikini, and she lay on her towel on the jetty, squealing whenever the boys splashed her.

  “Come in with us, Starr,” Georgia said once. “It’s nice.”

  “No thanks,” Starr said. She wore her sunglasses on the end of her nose, so she could look at us over the top of the lenses.

  “But won’t you be lonely out here while we’re all having fun?” Georgia asked.

  “You can’t have fun with boys,” Starr said, sitting up. “Not at this age anyway.”

  Term hadn’t even started, but ever since Starr had been accepted at the boarding school, she’d been putting on airs. Georgia and I knew about the school, everyone did; kids there were famous for smoking, and for kissing before they were twelve. Whatever Starr was talking about, she probably knew more than us, or would do soon.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I hugged my knees to my chest, so did Georgia. Starr sat with her legs curling away from her, her body turned in our direction. I thought how flat her stomach looked like that, especially next to Georgia’s rolls of flesh.

  “Well,” she said, lowering her voice. “Boys have this thing called sperm. It’s like, swimming around in their bodies… ”

  “Where in their bodies?” I asked.

  “In their blood, or something,” Starr said, annoyed. “I wasn’t listening in class. And it gives them these urges, which make them act funny in front of girls. That’s why they pull girls’ hair, and want to take your clothes off and stuff.”

  “Are you talking about… ” Georgia started, her eyes round.

  “Sex,” Starr said in a stage whisper.

  Georgia’s eyes got rounder. I thought it sounded stupid.

  “So Michael and James want to take our clothes off?” I asked. Georgia looked unhappy with this idea.

  “No, they don’t, because we’re family,” Starr said. “But all other boys do.”

  “I think that’s bullshit,” I said. It was the first time I’d used that word, although I’d heard Uncle Jack say it. It seemed grown up enough for this conversation. “No one wants to have sex now, we’re too young, and it’s too… ” I searched for the right feeling, “disgusting.”

  Starr rolled her eyes at me. “Not everyone’s as much of a baby as you, Tallulah,” she said, draping herself back over the towel.

  “Ten’s not a baby.”

  Georgia drew her breath in sharply. “Starr, have you had sex?” she asked.

  “I shouldn’t say.”

  “Oh come on,” I said. “You haven’t had sex.”

  Michael and James appeared behind us, dripping water all over the jetty and laughing. “Of course she hasn’t had sex,” Michael hooted. “Look at her, she doesn’t even have any tits. Who’d have her?”

  Starr got up, haughtily, and started walking back towards the house. “I’m going to find your mother, Michael,” she called over her shoulder.

  Michael shrugged and grinned at us. “Stuck-up little princess,” he said.

  “Yeah, as if anyone’s gonna want to have sex with any of you,” James said. “You all look about seven.”

  I kicked him hard in the shin, he let out a shriek and started hopping around. Michael laughed so hard he stopped breathing.

  “I don’t want to grow up,” Georgia said softly. “Mummy said I’m going to have to wear a bra, and bleed and stuff.”

  I wrapped my arms around my chest and glared at James, who was inspecting his shin. “I don’t wanna grow up either,” I said. “You’re older and you suck.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Bet you can’t do a dive bomb. Bet you’re a crybaby – you look like one.”

  There was no way I was going to let the boys win. I sprinted down the jetty and launched myself into the air. I was going too fast. I didn’t have time to bring both knees up into a tuck. One leg was still extended when I hit the water. The force of it brought my head forward, just as my knee jerked upwards. I opened my mouth to shout and swallowed water. I swallowed again and again, trying to get rid of the water in my mouth, my throat, until everything started to go red and I felt like someone was squeezing my chest. My body suddenly remembered how to swim and I climbed to the surface. The other three pulled me out of the lake. I could feel blood trickling down from my nose where the collision had taken place.

  Georgia wanted to call for a grown-up. Michael and James hovered around me, inspecting the damage. “Does it hurt?” Michael was asking. “You smacked it pretty hard.” He patted me on the back, the only physical contact he allowed since his voice had dropped. Standing next to him, I noticed how tall he was now, and how a faint line of hair kissed his upper lip.

  “Oh, Tallie,” Georgia said. She looked like she was going to cry.

  “Does it feel broken?” James asked. “Can I touch it?”

  “It’s fine,” I said. I touched it gingerly and felt a sharp pain. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m just going to wash it.”

  I set off back to the house at a trot. I wanted to find my mother, but she wasn’t reading in her bedroom where I’d last seen her. I checked the time – the grown-ups would be having tea in the front room now.

  I heard a snatch of the conversation as I opened the door. “For God’s sake, Vivienne,” Aunt Gillian was saying. “She wasn’t the one who broke your… ”

  “She did what she always did – nothing.”

  “I am here,” my grandmother said. She nodded her head in my direction. “As is Tallulah.”

  They all turned at the same time towards me. I cupped my hand over my nose so they couldn’t see the blood.

  “Yes, Tallie?” my father said. He was balancing a teacup on one knee, and, as usual these days, he looked annoyed.

  “Where’s Mummy?” I asked.

  “I can’t hear you,” he said. “Don’t you know not to talk with your hand over your mouth? Come in properly, take your hand away and ask the question.”

  She obviously wasn’t there. I moved my hand but ducked my head. “What were you saying just now? What got broken?”

  Aunt Vivienne was closest to me. I’d felt her eyes on me and now I looked at her properly. Her face was tense. Something passed over it quickly when she caught my gaze. “Edward, darling, you’re too uptight,” she said. “Tallulah, I saw your mother go towards the rose garden, if that’s who you were looking for.”

  I bobbed out gratefully and closed the door. As it shut I heard Aunt Vivienne say, “Tallulah is really quite pretty, Edward. You shouldn’t let her run wild like that. Comb her hair once in a while, put her in a dress.”

  “Her mother does all that,” my father said tersely.

  “Well I think the problem is that she doesn’t do all that,” Aunt Vivienne said. “When I was in the flicks I had to look ravishing every day.”

  “You haven’t been in a film for well over a decade,” Aunt Gillian said.

  “And you should really watch out for Georgia, you know, Gilly. She looks like she’ll get your acne.”

  Aunt Vivienne laughed. No one else did. I hung around, hoping for some more comments on my appearance. I’d always felt too dark and skinny to be pretty. I wanted to look more like my mother: blonde and soft and round, with big green eyes. Not my brownish ones, under eyebrows that Starr said looked like caterpillars.

  The aunts started arguing; it wasn’t about me anymore, so I ran off.

  The rose garden was inside the walled garden to the west of the house, separated from it by a gravelled pathway. I decided to wash my face before I went to find my mother. The blood had dried now, and the skin underneath felt raw and tight.

  My bathroom was at the end of t
he corridor, all cold white squares. The toilet had an old-fashioned cistern high above the bowl, and a chain flush. When I was younger, I hadn’t been able to reach the chain unless I climbed onto the toilet, which didn’t have a lid, and several times I’d nearly fallen in.

  I splashed my face now with cold water – the only kind we got at the house other than for two hours in the morning – and scrubbed it with an old, rough towel. My skin still felt raw, but at least I was all the same colour again.

  Out of the lake, I’d been feeling colder and colder so I sprinted back to my room to put some clothes on. I found an old pair of ripped jeans and a yellow Aerosmith t-shirt. I was still in my Steve Tyler stage; I’d fallen in love with him on Top of the Pops and had made my mother buy me the Pump LP the day it came out. I would put it on in my room, draw the curtains and dance in my knickers and vest, practising my spinning and strutting. Sometimes she joined in, but she always said they’d gone downhill since the seventies.

  Voices had been floating up towards me as I was getting dressed, but it was only when I was buttoning my flies that I started to pay attention to what they were saying, and who they belonged to. Uncle Jack and my mother were beneath my window in the rose garden. My mother was angry. She was shouting at Uncle Jack, and she never shouted. I dragged a chair over, as quietly as I could, and stood on it, fingers hooked into the diamonds of the lattice. They must have been just inside the garden, behind the high walls, because I couldn’t see them.

  “Don’t you dare say anything,” my mother was saying. “I won’t – I won’t let you come between us, you hear me?”

  Uncle Jack said something in reply, quieter. I couldn’t hear the words but his voice reminded me of the time the piano tuner had come to service the baby grand. I’d watched as he opened up the lid, and seen all the wires stretched out. ‘Be careful there girly,’ he’d said. ‘If one of these snaps, it could take your arm off – they go right through the bone.’

  I shivered.

  “How can you say that?” my mother said. “You’re not being fair, Jack. Do you think I don’t feel guilty?”