Jack is considering, carefully, if there is something he might do that would make them all laugh, that would make them pleased with him, that his father won’t call showing off.
Signalling by Amy Sackville
Susan stares at the road ahead, determinedly speechless, feeling lightheaded and tired and irritable. Beside her Richard drives with just one finger on the wheel as if to annoy her on purpose. Occasionally clicking his tongue against his teeth, barely audible. Wishing he was home with a beer, in front of the TV, not stuck here watching line after line swallowed up by the bonnet. He's going to miss the news now. Wanted to leave earlier but couldn't drag her away, sick of an afternoon with tipsy aunts and leering uncles and trying not to stare at Susan's cousin, who is far too provocative to be convincingly seventeen. He knows his driving is lazy and a little too fast. He veers out to overtake and can hear Susan not saying anything. Steals a glance and sees the little pucker at the corner of her mouth. Her lipstick's rubbed off on all those champagne glasses which her mother will be washing in the morning to take back to the supermarket. And Roberta and James will be in their hotel room already, she'll be squeaking away by now no doubt, the first of a life's nights of tedious conjugal bliss. Those hips of hers are worryingly child-bearing. He is not feeling very avuncular. Clicks his tongue against his teeth.
Checking the rearview he sees Jack gazing, needy, at his mother. There's raspberry coulis crusting on his cheek. Christ.
Jack is considering, carefully, if there is something he might do that would make them all laugh, that would make them pleased with him, that his father won't call showing off. He flushes again at the memory of being told to settle down, in front of his uncle, his cousins. He shifts uncomfortably under his father's glance. Before getting into the car they tried to persuade him to take off his tie, jacket and waistcoat, and now, having refused, he must keep them on all the way home. Sweaty, hot, itchy, and tight. He can feel his belly pushing against the buttons. He ate a lot of something called Coronation Chicken, and potato salad, and profiteroles and two helpings of pavlova, and everyone said what a little gentleman he was and his uncle gave him a glass of champagne. And now he thinks he might like to be sick or go to the toilet but the silence has lasted so long and he doesn't want to ask.
His head feels heavy and full and his eyes won't stay open. When his eyelids fall, for a moment, there is colour and dancing again, as if he was still there. Like the time he went on a ship to go on holiday and when he slept the next night, in a strange bed, on solid ground, the sea still moved beneath him; or when he plays computer games for hours, which isn't allowed but sometimes when his mother's out his dad lets him or doesn't notice, and when he goes to bed the blocks fall in the front of his brain or he wanders through corridors restless all night. There's the same feeling like he's awake but somewhere else, and his mind tells his body that something else is happening to it, that he's not still sitting in the smooth-running, air conditioned, chilly silent car. Instead there are people talking to him, and not really looking at him or listening but whatever he says or does seems to please them; his pretty cousin takes his hands and spins him around dancing, lifts his arm and ducks right down to turn under it, kisses him on the cheek when the song's finished so that he feels sweaty and confused and embarrassed. And his dad comes over and asks if she's got one for him, and so they dance, but the way he says it Jack's not sure if he meant that, a dance or a kiss or some other thing entirely. And he's on his own now among all the people dancing so he goes to his mother, who's watching, completely still except for her right arm which she raises and lowers, mechanically, to bring her glass to her mouth. He looks up and there's lace, purple lace that looks ugly against the dark peachy colour of her dress, poking out where the front has slipped. He feels ashamed and hot without knowing why. When it's drained she puts an arm around his shoulders but it's like when she does that when she's washing up and the clammy, soapy grip, a little too tight to be kind, makes him wish he'd left her alone. She smells strong and sweet and unfamiliar. But now, watching her from the back seat, he wants a hug from her, a proper one.
They aren't playing the car games they played on the way to the wedding. He'd ventured 'Eye Spy' as they waited to get out of the car park, but in the pause after 'something beginning with...' his father had shouted 'just fucking pull out!', and his mother had told him quietly to please not swear, and that her dad was an old man and maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to be a cautious driver, and no one had really said anything since.
He looks out of the window. Close by, he counts seven cranes, black against the deep sky, the sky almost violet, almost orange, almost black but the cranes are blacker, their red lights blinking at the tips. Almost too high to see. Tall and identical and impossibly high, impossibly far above them.
'Look, Jack, cranes', says Susan, the sudden sound of her own voice surprising her, before she turns to see that her son is already gazing at them, eyes wide and shining. He doesn't hear her. He doesn't cry.
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Amy Sackville is the author of The Still Point, published by Portobello Books, which was Book at Bedtime on Radio 4. She lives in London.
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Thursday, 25 February, 2010
In Short stories
- The Hawk by Thomas Trofimuk
- Signalling by Amy Sackville
- Homecoming by Simon Lelic
- The Mud Man by Benjamin Percy
- Scuttle by David Vann
- The Rose Tango by Mieko Kanai
- In Search of Tommie by Zoe Wicomb
- From Round Here: Lays of a Sicilian Life Told to Andrei Navrozov. By Manlio Orobello
- The Wake by Zoe Green
- Milgram by Tommy Wallach
- Jersey Tiger by Maggie Bevan
- Woman at Window by Alex Sheal
- Aldeia da Luz by C. D. Rose
- Bourgeois by Mikey Cuddihy
- Troy and Me by Drew Gummerson
- History Lesson by Tony Peake
- Mufti Day by Katy Darby
- Frank by Mercedes Helnwein
- Notes On A Grave by Lauren Frankel
- The Poison Factory Conference by Divya Ghelani
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