My Dinosaur Era Chapter 7

 

my mother has left me a voicemail

I haven’t listened to it yet

I know her voice is lingering inside my phone

it’ll be her usual rambling, news of

someone I used to know several decades ago

they had a stroke, died peacefully at home or

something my sister did that makes her

the successful sibling

michelle has bought a house

somewhere else

maybe she’ll be happy there, instead of that other place she lived

with that other husband

she was never happy there

 

perhaps it’ll be something else from her house she thinks I should have,

a spare kettle that has been dormant for fifteen years below the stairs

some old coins that her father kept from the war in india

some other connection with another time

crumbs of nostalgia that lie dormant in the dust

 

dad died a year ago, so suddenly

as if he fell into an abyss with one false step

heart attack, down and out in seconds

gone before the ambulance had even squealed

michelle called me, I didn’t pick up, thinking

it would be her telling me that she had bought some new curtains

 

until she rang again

and again

then I knew before I answered that someone had died

I sat on the train to haywards heath

drank half a bottle of vodka neat in the twenty minute journey

we went through the tunnel at clayton

I closed my eyes, imagined being under the ground

the grass above, the two old windmills

looking out over the downs

 

mum had been sedated

so had I, the vodka running fast under my skin

michelle sat silently in the corner 

I found some port in the cupboard and made her drink a glass

but I’m driving, she said

our dad died, I said

 

I didn’t think mum would last this long without dad

it seemed likely that she would follow him swiftly

so utterly reliant on him, he was her portal to reality

making the tea, filling out all the forms, the driving

the shopping, the cooking

even though she was always the one in charge

now she had no one to do her work

that’s what I thought would end her

 

I look at my phone screen, scroll up and down the names,

petula is sat there, ginny put her number in

I still haven’t called her

ginny said not to text, it’ll seem weak and weird she said

I am weak and weird, I said

just call, she said

I stand in the kitchen and wonder what she will be doing right now,

I don’t even know if she has a job or what it is,

I know nothing of her

it’s just her beauty, a mutual love of jurassic park 

that is holding us together so far

I’ve navigated relationships on far less than that

 

I push the button

hey, it’s tim, I say

I hope ginny has only called me tim to her

timmy is not for all to utter

hey, says petula

she sounds close, as if she is stood next to me

ginny gave me your number, hope that’s cool, I say

yeah, she said, yeah, it’s cool, she says

sorry about the other night, I was really tired, I say

it’s ok, I was tired too, she says

thanks for doing the washing up, I say

I do have a bit of an obsession for tidying, she says

oh yeah, you should come over more often then, my place is a hole, I say

I’ve seen worse, she says

are you at work, I say

I am meant to be doing some work but I can’t get into it, she says

yeah, same, I say

what do you do, she says

I write for a travel company, I say

oh yeah, I write for a music website, she says

I’m sure that’s way cooler than what I do, I say

I dunno, it’s pretty boring most of the time, she says, I do the listings and now and then they let me do a review or feature

cool, I say, my well has run dry

there’s a silence, I sputter into it

so do you wanna meet up sometime, I say

I hear my voice waver slightly, my mouth dry, I can hear my lips

yeah, she says

how about tonight, I say

hmm, ok, what shall we do, she says

drinks at the hole, I say

sure, about 8, she says

yeah, cool, I say

see you then, she says

 

I stare at my phone screen some more

I scroll up from petula to 

mum

hit call

I’m on a roll

 

hello mum, I say

oh, hello love, she says

how are you, I say

our conversations are painful, staccato, distant, like strangers in the dark

it was the same with petula

at least she is an actual stranger

 

I suppose you listened to my message then, she says

no, not yet, I say

oh, I thought that was why you were calling, she says

why, what’s happened, I say

suddenly there is a slight panic in me, should have listened to the message first

do you remember george stewart

he used to live across the road from us in london, she says

no, I don’t think so, I say

oh you do, lovely man, had a golden retriever, she says

oh yeah, I say

I am lying, I have no idea who he is, I just want to be free of this

well, he’s in hospital, had a nasty fall, she says

and so I switch off as she describes how poor george lay stricken in his hallway

how his children both live abroad

his wife died when he was twenty seven, never remarried

the details swirl past me, punctuated with the occasional aha, yeah

I think my sister moved house again

 

I message ginny, tell her that I called petula

brave boy, she replies

if anyone else patronised me like that I’d go nuts

ginny gets a pass

it is her way, our way, how we connect somehow

 

the cooker says it’s 13:34

I pour a vodka and orange, down it in one, need to shower later

hours to go

 

I sit at the laptop, search for the hotel I am meant to be writing about today,

keywords tim, don’t forget the search terms, we need to be found

my shitty prose disfigured further to pay the bills

I close the laptop again, not today, it’s not happening today

 

I drag the vacuum out, haphazardly drag it around the little floorspace I possess, picking up books, cups, other debris, as I go

fold the bed back into itself to form the sofa

I need to decorate this place

the walls are still jaundiced from whatever happened here before

still holding someone else’s memories

I bought some paint when I moved in, fleetingly enthusiastic about making this my space, until I realised that there’s no such thing, that colours and cushions are not real, that the space inside me follows me wherever I go

 

I find the paint in a cupboard, a dark green, good stuff, expensive as I recall

I envisage the room freshly painted, the stains of the years

banished to lie below

a fresh new start

that’s what they say, isn’t it