Afterwards

I pull back the thin candlewick bedspread and there it is, the white sheet, pulled tight and held fast under the mattress. Aunty Marge shouts out a laugh downstairs, dad clears his throat and coughs. I undress quickly and stand by my bed. “Go on then, get in,” her voice as if she’s just behind me. I lift the sheet, slide in my legs and slip in my arms. Spot on. No wrinkles. “Look at you, all trussed up like Gulliver.” There she is again. 

There’s a knock on the door, I know it’s Jocelyn. 

“Are you all right Martin?” She’s been saying this all day, first when we waited for the hearse, then in my ear during the service, and again when we all trooped out into the wind leaving mum behind the blue curtains listening to ‘Bye Bye Miss American Pie.’ Jocelyn stood at dad’s side and rubbed his arm up and down as people queued up to shake his hand, “Are you all right, dad?’” 

She knocks again. “I know today is hard for you Martin, it’s hard for all of us, but I think you should come downstairs now.” It’s her social worker voice, I’ve stopped being her brother and become one of her clients, we all have, dad, her wimp of a husband Trevor, we all need support. 

“Dad really needs your support Martin, today of all days.” I picture her spying through the keyhole, her brain working overtime. I look at the twin hills my toes make under the sheet and think – hospital corners, mum’s trademark. 

“Can you hear me, Martin?”  

“Yeah.” 

“Right then.” The stairs creak. I don’t move. I like it here in my old bed, it’s better than watching dad knock back whisky, and Aunty Marge saying over and over, “It was a nice service wasn’t it?’’ 

I drop my head back on the pillow, I used to make the cracks in the ceiling into spaceships, but they’re gone now, painted over. It’s weird being in bed in daytime, as if the rest of the world is going on without me and I can’t move because there’s a rustling noise coming from inside wardrobe and something is going to smash out and get me – that was when I got chicken pox, when I had daytime nightmares. The wardrobe is still there by the window with the usual cardboard boxes stacked on top, but the Windsor chair should be in the kitchen. They bought two, mum carried one and dad the other from the auction room before Jocelyn and me were born. “It was hard work carrying them all that way.” mum said, “ we stopped for a breather, and then we thought we might as well have a sit down on the chairs, so there we were large as life on the path in Market Street saying hello to folk going past. Your dad said it was a shame we hadn’t brought a flask of tea!” She liked to tell us that story.  

I wonder where all my books are. I think about Gulliver and the Lilliput people pattering about like ants all over his body, it must have been a real big undertaking tying down a giant. I bet there was a manager giving orders from Lilliput Town Hall, and a foreman yelling his head off and hundreds of silly buggers doing the work. If I was Gulliver I’d make it easy for the foot soldiers, not like the biscuit factory, there’s four of us watching thousands of wafers rolling past on the conveyor belt and it’s our job to get rid of the deformed ones before they get covered in chocolate, Bazz Taylor digs his elbow in my ribs every time I miss one. 

“You can do better than that, Martin.” mum said. The iron let out a hiss of steam. “You know you can.” She had a procedure for ironing shirts, the collar first, the front and the back, the cuffs, and finally she’d button it up and put it on a hanger. When I got home from school she’d be flapping out a shirt. ‘Let’s get these rotten jobs done with, you do your homework, I’ll finish the ironing.’ 

I can’t feel my feet, I know I should get up and go downstairs, but I don’t, I lie still and pretend I’m made of stone, or pinned down like Gulliver. I look at the wardrobe,  I bet my books are in there! I yank up the sheet and swing my out legs out but they cramp up! I yell out in agony, crash into the table and collapse on the floor. Feet pound up the stairs, the door slams open. “Martin! What are you doing? Get dressed for God’s sake!” And I’m late for school and it’s mum shouting and pulling off the covers and giving me a clout. 

“My feet go numb as well. I think it’s my bunion.” Aunty Marge sits on the bed with her legs crossed holding a glass of sherry. “Have you got a bunion Martin?” 

They all surround the bed and look down at me, dad with his whisky, Uncle Frank, Jocelyn looks as if she’s bit into a lemon, and Trevor peeps over her shoulder.  I feel as if I’m in hospital.   

“Look at that!” Aunty Marge waves a black-stockinged foot in front of my face. 

Uncle Frank pulls her off the bed, ‘Put your shoe back on Marge and leave the lad alone. He’s had a shock.’  

“He’s got Reynaud’s disease,” says Jocelyn. 

“More like gout,” says dad. 

“Trevor chips in, ‘It could be the onset of diabetes.” 

“Here, get this down you,” Uncle Frank gives me a glass of whisky. 

“He doesn’t need any of that stuff.” Jocelyn’s got her arms folded, the nervous tic on her left nostril is doing some high speed twitching, her legs are firmly planted apart like tree trunks. She takes after dad, he’s a big bloke, broad shoulders and thick white hair. I used to watch him wet his comb and rake his hair back into tufted wings. 

Jocelyn nods at dad and says, “And that’s not a good idea.” 

Dad takes his eyes off his glass, “What’s up with you?” 

“I think you’ve had enough.” The room goes quiet. Dad takes the bottle from Uncle Frank pours a big measure and swallows it in one go, then he fill his glass again and raises it to Jocelyn. “Cheers!” She stamps to the window and immediately blocks out the light, and what with that and all the people crowding in the room I start to feel a bit claustrophobic.  

“You’ve broken that bedside lamp, Martin.” snaps Jocelyn 

“I got cramp,”  

“I don’t know what you’re doing in bed anyway. It’s not normal!” Jocelyn stares out the window, she’s breathing heavy. There’s not much to see out there only the houses opposite. All the curtains were shut as we slowly followed the hearse, and open when we came back. It’s the first time I’ve been in a Mercedes. 

“Shall I make some more sandwiches?” Aunty Marge totters to the door, “there’s loads of ham left.”  

“Hang on, I’ll give you a hand.” Uncle Frank follows her, they clatter down the stairs. 

I sip the whisky, it burns its way down my windpipe. I wish they’d all clear off. Trevor leans against the wall looking down at his black lace-ups. Mum used to say he was a poor thing, like some deprived teenager from the estate. She came to see me once to look at my new flat. She said she’d catch the train and then get the bus. I decided to surprise her and meet her at the station. It was a Saturday and there were crowds of football fans on the platform, I thought I might miss her so I stood on tiptoe and saw a woman in a red coat walking arm in arm with a man in black framed glasses, they were looking at each other and laughing, then he bent and tapped his finger on the end of her nose, and she smiled up at him and I saw it was mum. I backed off quick and waited outside the station, she came out on her own and I waved and shouted, she waved back and ran towards me. I can see her now. My throat blocks up, and I have to swallow. 

Jocelyn turns round from the window. ‘Go and get the holdall from the car, Trevor.’ He looks across at dad as if seeking permission to leave the room. ‘Go on,’ Jocelyn says. Trevor stands up straight. 

“What do you want that for?” Dad says. 

“Because we’re staying the night, you can’t be on your own. Go on Trevor.” 

“There’s no need for that.” 

“I think there should be someone here for you tonight.” The nostril is off again. 

“To do what, exactly?” dad’s voice is very quiet which means he’s about to blow his top, you’d think she’d know by now. Trevor’s shoes squeak. 

“You are not staying here.” dad whispers. I look at Jocelyn, she’s bound to crack on now, but she stands there with her arms folded refusing to budge. 

‘Go on, Trevor,’ she says. 

Dad fixes Jocelyn with his eyes. “Stay where you are, Trevor.” Trevor dithers. 

Jocelyn tugs at her jacket sleeves as if she’s squaring up for a fight. “I think you shouldn’t be on your own tonight.” 

“Oh? Is that what you think.” Dad fills his glass. 

“And you shouldn’t be  drinking like that, you should think of mum.” 

That did it. Dad lumbers across to her and sticks his face right up against hers. “I don’t give a toss what you think! Not a flaming toss!” 

She does a backward shuffle,” There’s no need to shout!’ 

“I’m going to tell you what I think,” he waves the bottle in the air. “I think you should go home and see to poor old Trevor, you know what I mean – see to him – take him to bed!” 

Jocelyn’s face is bright red. “You’re drunk!” She makes a grab for the bottle, dad staggers back against the wardrobe, the cardboard boxes crash down and my books fly out.  

“She was seeing somebody,” dad slithers down the wardrobe, “your mother. Some other bloke. Bet you didn’t know that Mrs. Smart-arse.”  

Jocelyn kicks through the books and bangs down the stairs. 

Trevor says, “Erm…” and follows her. 

Gulliver, pinned down by the Lilliputs, gives me a look from the pile on the floor. I knew my books would be here somewhere. 

by Gill Blow

Gill is a short story writer from Lincolnshire. She has adapted a number of her stories which have been performed on the amateur stage.  A few of her stories have been published and one broadcast on Radio 4.