The Artificial Anatomy of Parks Read online

  “What did you need my tins for?” my mother asked.

  “Pretending to be at the shops,” I said.

  “You girls are going to love being grown-ups,” she said.

  I entertained myself for the next few days, reading Alice in Wonderland. I liked to lie on my front on the lawn, my vest rolled up so I could feel the cold tickle of the grass on my stomach, my head cupped in one hand, one arm across the pages. Mr Tickles liked to lie on the book. Occasionally my mother would appear and ask me about the story.

  “She’s at the tea party,” I said. “There’s a mouse in the teapot.”

  “With the Mad Hatter and the March Hare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said, and went away again.

  That was the day my father came home early in the afternoon. I’d given up reading and I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV when I heard his footsteps, and his key in the door. I turned Danger Mouse off quickly; my father didn’t like me to watch too much TV.

  He came into the living-room, slower than usual. “Where’s your mother, Tallulah?” he asked.

  “She’s lying down upstairs again,” I told him.

  He put his hands over his face, almost like he’d forgotten I was there.

  “Do you want me to wake her up?” I said. I thought if I asked him questions, maybe he would be distracted enough not to notice where I was.

  He didn’t seem to have heard me, so I repeated the question. My father took his hands away from his face and looked at me. His face seemed tired and old, older than he’d looked this morning. Something terrible must have happened, I thought, and I felt very sorry for him.

  “Don’t stare, Tallulah.” He looked away. “Your Uncle Jack’s disappeared, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” But isn’t that a good thing?

  “I’d better go and tell your mother.”

  Five

  The passage is open, but a sign on the reinforced metal door warns it’s about to be closed for the night. I loiter on the stone steps that lead down to the triangular courtyard, one hand on the black rail, the other jammed into my pocket.

  I’ve come to see Toby – Starr said he works here – but now I can feel my flight instinct kicking in. It’s been five years since I saw him, too.

  Daylight is purpling, and behind several windows there are lights on, spilling gold into the evening. To my left is the row of houses I’ve just walked past and a gravel path; in front of me are railings enclosing Gray’s Inn lawn, the metal poles completely hidden by pink climbing roses and greenery. On the right is a white building with a few ornate balconies and venetian blinds down over most of the windows. His building is through an archway on the right. I looked it up a week or so ago, maybe I was already planning on finding him back then. I think about him nearly every day. I’ve tried to imagine how he would react to my boss, some of the odder customers. If something funny happens, it gives me a hollow feeling that I can’t share it with him. If something bad happens – but that’s why I’m here. I know he’ll understand.

  I stare at the grey, uneven paving slabs on the courtyard floor, then at my feet. If someone comes out and sees me here like this, there’s no chance I won’t look out-of-place. I inspect my outfit: black jeans with holes in the knees, white vest with polka dots and bright orange cardigan. I don’t know why I didn’t take the time to put on something nicer, smear on some eyeliner and rouge.

  I guess the logical thing to do would be to go to his building, buzz on the door, or wait outside to see if he comes out. I could be waiting for a long time, though, or he could come out with someone else, not want to talk. After all, we didn’t just lose touch gradually. I left pretty abruptly.

  Or he might have forgotten me. Maybe I’ve built up our relationship in my head. Maybe he never felt the same way. Maybe it’s weird I think about him so much.

  I hear footsteps, and talking; I resist the urge to hide. A man and a woman come around the corner. They’re both in smart suits, carrying briefcases, and both have shiny brown hair; I wonder if they’re related. Or maybe they’re dating.

  They see me and smile. Or, at least, the man smiles, the woman looks like she’s sizing me up.

  “Working late?” he asks.

  Tell them you’re looking for a friend.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’re not the first,” he says. He climbs the steps to stand in front of me and gestures at the door. “After you.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  They follow me out into the road I was just on. I could ask them now if they know Toby. I don’t know how many people work in the Inn, they probably won’t have heard of him.

  “Have a nice evening,” the man says.

  “You too,” I say, but he’s already turning to the woman and asking how she’s getting home.

  I walk the long way around to get to the tube, making sure I don’t bump into those two again. I feel like an idiot, standing on the escalator as it takes me underground. What was the point in coming all this way, then?

  I wonder if Toby still has his shy smile, if he’s developed a slouch from sitting in front of a computer all day. Maybe he was never as good-looking as I thought; there weren’t many guys to compare him to.

  A gust of warm air hits me at Highbury & Islington, even though it’s evening. I walk home quickly, my bag strap’s rubbing against my neck and my feet hurt and I’m tired. I let myself in. My phone rings again, I check I’m not missing a call from Starr. If she was around, I wouldn’t have gone to see Toby. I just need someone to talk to, I tell myself, but I know it’s bullshit. Toby’s the only person I’ve ever even thought of opening up to about my father.

  At around eleven o’clock I go over to the open window and lean out. The sky is velvet-black and close with the heat. A cat prowls among the rubbish bins. A few drunk guys stagger past, one of them wraps himself around a lamppost and pretends to feel it up. His friends think it’s hilarious. I pull my head back inside and draw the curtains.

  “Why did Uncle Jack leave?” I asked Aunt Gillian, a week after the news reached us. We were helping get her house ready for my mother’s birthday party.

  “He probably had to,” Aunt Gillian said, mysteriously.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He could have been mixed up in things.”

  “What things?”

  “Things – ” Aunt Gillian said. She flapped her hands at me. “This isn’t the time, Tallulah.”

  “What things?”

  “Could you find your mother in the kitchen?” she asked. “Her birthday cake needs dusting with icing-sugar. I forgot to do it before.”

  Aunt Vivienne was setting up folding chairs next to us in the living-room. Georgia told me that she and Gillian had been fighting over having my mother’s birthday party at Gillian’s, and not at our house. Aunt Vivienne said Gillian was a control-freak; Gillian said she was only trying to help out. When I thought about it, I couldn’t remember ever having a party for my mother. Usually we went to the cinema, and she and my father had a glass of wine when he got back from work. She didn’t like to make a fuss, she said. And her birthday was in August, which meant that most people were on holiday anyway. Georgia also told me that my father had said this was a special occasion, to try to get her out of herself, but neither of us were sure exactly what that meant.

  “What cake is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Victoria Sponge,” Aunt Gillian said, looking down at a list in her hand.

  “My mum hates Victoria Sponge.”

  Vivienne opened another folding chair, a little too forcefully. “See that, Gillian?” she said. “You don’t always get it right.”

  Starr and Georgia, who had been polishing the cutlery, looked up, interested. Aunt Vivienne and Aunt Gillian were facing off above my head, hands on hips. Aunt Vivienne was wearing a tight-fitting black cocktail dress, with a long green ribbon tied around her bun. Aunt Gillian was wearing white trousers and a mustard-co
loured sweater, and her face looked pink and hot.

  “Well, I’m sorry, Tallulah, but most people don’t,” Aunt Gillian said, ignoring Vivienne’s comment. “Most people love chocolate cake, but hate lemon. Or love lemon but hate carrot. Victoria Sponge is a compromise.”

  Outside, we could hear the whooping from James and Michael as they tried to bat a cricket ball into an open, upstairs window. They’d been excused from setting up because they were boys and would only get in the way.

  “My mum hates it,” I said again.

  “It’s Evelyn’s fucking party, and she doesn’t like Victoria fucking Sponge,” Aunt Vivienne said. Starr looked embarrassed.

  “I don’t see why you’re getting so involved, Vivienne,” Aunt Gillian said. “Maybe you should just go outside for a bit. Have some air.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll make a scene, Gilly?”

  “I just don’t know why you’re getting so upset,” Aunt Gillian said.

  “Of course I’m upset,” Aunt Vivienne hissed. “Jack’s missing. You need to fucking react, Gillian, he’s your brother too, I mean… ” she tailed off, and smoothed her hair back from her face.

  “Mum?” Starr said.

  Aunt Vivienne swept out of the room.

  The room got calmer after she left. Aunt Gillian shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps it’s best if you just help with the cake now, pet,” she said.

  I nearly ran into my father in the hallway. He was carrying a newspaper and looked like he was trying to escape. “Don’t run indoors, Tallulah,” he said automatically.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to look responsible. Since Uncle Jack, I’d been careful not to get on my father’s bad side, although I rarely succeeded. I carried on past him, walking quickly but carefully.

  My mother was sitting in the kitchen, fresh coffee in front of her. She was wearing jeans and a cream top and that made me feel uneasy, because normally my mother dressed up for parties. She was tapping her wedding ring against the mug, making a dull clinking sound; that seemed unlike her too. I shook my head. This was my first grown-up birthday celebration, and so far it was shaping up to be a pretty strange afternoon.

  “Aunt Gillian says you have to do the icing-sugar,” I said, pointing at the cake in front of her.

  My mother turned her face towards me. She had bright red spots on her cheeks, but besides these I’d never seen her face so grey. She took my hand with both of hers, and cupped it underneath her chin, kissing it absent-mindedly. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My mother held my hand loosely, her fingers hot from the coffee. A ladybird dropped from its flight path onto her shoulder and we watched it together with interest.

  “Shall I get a leaf to put it on?” I asked her after a while.

  She didn’t act like she’d heard me, but when I made a move to go she pulled me in towards her and squeezed me hard. She nibbled on my ear, like she used to do when I was little. I let her, even though bending down made my back ache.

  “I love you, Tallie,” she said. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

  On my way back to the living-room I stopped short; Aunt Vivienne was blocking the hallway, standing in front of the coat rack. As I was about to turn and tiptoe in the other direction, she reached out and took the sleeve of my mother’s jacket in between her fingers, stroking it. She made a weird half-moan, half-whisper noise in her throat, which sounded like ‘Jack’, then stood perfectly still, looking like she was in pain.

  “Aunt Vivienne?” I said.

  She wheeled around. “Were you spying on me?”

  “No.”

  “Yes you were. How long have you been standing there?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Bloody child,” she said, then walked out of the front door.

  The hours slipped by. People arrived, mostly strangers; they stopped to talk to me, and to eat the food that my mother and Aunt Gillian had laid out. I ate too; I was starving. Despite the fuss I’d made, Aunt Gillian’s Victoria Sponge was perfect: warm, soft and buttery, with just a hint of lemon.

  Halfway through the party, I took a cup of orange squash and drew myself into a corner. I flipped open a folding chair and sat down, crossing my legs on the seat until I remembered I was wearing a dress and was probably exposing my knickers.

  The dress itself was bothering me, all lace and stiff underskirt. Aunt Gillian had loaned me one of Georgia’s. She’d also jammed me into a pair of Georgia’s tight, polished shoes and they were making my feet hot. I envied Starr on the other side of the room, barefoot and in black stirrup leggings and a crop top. Even if Aunt Vivienne was crazy, she chose cool clothes for her daughter. I wanted to scream and rip mine off, but I sat quietly and sipped my juice. As I was draining the last drop, the front doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Aunt Gillian called. She shimmied over the floor, air-kissing guests as she passed them. I caught Starr’s eye across the room – she made a face and I grinned.

  I heard the front door opening and then my grandmother’s voice. “Gillian, I found someone to chauffeur me, so I didn’t need a taxi after all.” Then my grandmother appeared in the doorway, with a giant man I’d never seen before. Aunt Gillian was right behind them, looking flustered. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone, Mother.”

  “It’s not a date, if that’s what you’re worried about,” my grandmother said. She saw me and nodded in my direction. I gave her a shy wave.

  “Mother… ”

  “Be quiet, Gillian,” my grandmother said, and strode over to my mother. “Happy birthday, Evelyn.”

  “Thank you,” my mother said.

  “I brought you an old friend.”

  “Thank you,” my mother said again, but I saw her shake a little.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Starr signalling me to follow her outside. I wanted to watch what was happening at the other end of the room, but she looked desperate.

  “Have you seen my mum?” she hissed at me, when we were in the hallway.

  “Not since before the party.”

  “Crap. She’ll flip if she misses him.”

  “Misses who?”

  “That new guy, who came in with Grandma.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I can’t remember his name, but he came to the flat once before. She was talking about him the other day. Can you help me find her?”

  “Okay.”

  I spent five minutes walking around the house and garden but I couldn’t see Aunt Vivienne. I came back and sat on the doorstep, and after a moment, the giant came out and sat down next to me. “Howdy,” the giant said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He had long grey-streaked hair and he was wearing dirty brown boots. When he smiled I noticed that a few of his teeth were black. “You must be Tallulah,” he said. “I’m Malkie.” He put his hand out – a huge paw, with rough patches of yellow skin at the base and tip of each finger. I gave him my hand and he shook it solemnly. We let go and sat in silence. Malkie smelled like bonfire smoke. I liked just sitting and breathing him in.

  “I haven’t seen you around before,” he said after a while. His voice was low, and soft, and when he said ‘round’, it sounded more like ‘roond’.

  “I’ve never seen you either,” I said.

  “I’ve been looking out (oot) for you, though. Jacky used to talk about you, and I wanted to see for myself.”

  “See what?” I asked.

  Malkie looked down at me, smiling. “You, sugar.”

  I stared at him.

  “He seemed pretty taken with you,” he said after a while. He crossed one leg over the other, letting the raised ankle rest on his knee. “I guess everyone should get to know their nieces.”

  I continued staring.

  “Well?” Malkie said. He smiled encouragingly.

  “I only saw him a couple of times,” I said. “I don’t really know him.”

  Malkie pulled a cigarette packet from his suit pocket. “Jacky isn’t always good with p
eople.”

  The sun came out and flooded the garden with light. Malkie leaned back and sucked sincerely on his cigarette. I took off my shoes and socks and stretched out my legs. Ivy and purple wisteria curled up the trellis on the front of the house, and filled my nose with the smell of summer. Aunt Gillian had placed a doormat in front of the doorstep. It was brown, with curly writing spelling out ‘come in’ to the visitor.

  “Have you seen Uncle Jack?” I asked Malkie.

  “Nope,” he said, flicking some ash to the ground. “From what I hear no one’s seen him for a few weeks. Your aunt’s pretty mad about that.”

  “You mean Vivienne?”

  He nodded and grinned. “She’s a handful that one.”

  “Why’s he disappeared?”

  “Jacky was always pretty much a law unto himself.” Malkie looked away and dragged on his cigarette again. “How’s your mom enjoying her party? I haven’t had much of a chance to speak to her.”

  “Do you know her as well?”

  “Yeah, from a while back. Nice lady, your mom.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  Malkie gave me a sideways look, but didn’t say anything. I warmed to him even more. “How do you know her?”

  “Me, your Uncle Jacky and Vivienne were all friends first and then Vivienne introduced us to Evie – your mom.”

  “And you were good friends?”

  “Pretty good, yeah.”

  “What about my grandma?”

  “I have a lot of respect for your grandmother too.”

  “How did you know Aunt Vivienne and Uncle Jack?”

  “Jacky was right about one thing – you ask a lot of questions.”

  I was silent for a moment. “Are you annoyed?”

  “By you? Course not.”

  I sighed loudly, hoping to convey the depth of my feeling. “I’m annoyed,” I said. “No one cares about me. I’m sick of it.” I picked up a stone and threw it at Aunt Gillian’s driveway, then curled my toes on the ground, gathering more ammunition into my feet.

  “I see.” Malkie stubbed out his cigarette. “Well, when I’m feeling frustrated I like to listen to music.”