He says his dad works in the cemetery.
Some people might say that for a joke, but I can see that he means it and I hope my face doesn’t show what I’m thinking. He’s a bit slow as well as quiet and I guess I should be encouraging him, helping him to feel better, but I can’t stop wondering about the shoes.
Think about it. His dad must bring home little bits of graveyard turf on his shoes - even if he wipes his feet really thoroughly some is bound to stick. They can get DNA from something as tiny as a bit of hair, I saw it on TV. So all those decomposing bodies under the soil must spread out, get moved by worms and rain and there you are. He’s got bits of everybody’s DNA on his shoes and Martin treads where his dad has trodden and bingo. Before he’s even finished doing up his laces he’s got his hands full of people.
Martin looks at me like I am supposed to say something but I just want to sneak a look at his trainers. We’re sitting next to each other on the wall, and his trainers are so white they practically leave a vapour trail, like aeroplanes on his feet.
‘There’s worse ways to make a living,’ I say, but I’m not sure if there are. I can’t stop thinking about all those poor corpses that might stick to my clothes if he touches me.
‘It can be really interesting,’ he says in a voice that tells me that he saw the face I pulled. He sounds upset, as if I had trodden on something really important.
‘Once this woman jumped in the grave and she got stuck. It had been raining, see, and the coffin started sinking under her weight. My dad had to lie on his stomach in the mud and haul her out.’
I’m not sure where this conversation is going. Or this relationship, come to that.
Martin asked me out, so I think he is my boyfriend, but I’m not sure if there is a time limit, maybe a month or six weeks before I can say that. I never thought that I would get a boyfriend, even one with bits of bodies on his shoes, and anyone who knows me would tell you the same thing.
I suppose the truth is I’m pretty ugly, bad enough to stop traffic and make people walk into lampposts trying to get a second look. I was born with a cleft palate and a cleft lip and my baby pictures could be in a horror film. My lip disappeared up into my nose like it was trying to get out of the top of my brain and it’s not true that they can do wonderful things with surgery. I’ve had surgery and all that’s happened is that my top lip has got more and more like the beak on a plastic bath duck and I spit when I say s words.
Hence the fact that here I am, 17, unkissed and outside the flats with a gravedigger’s son who probably had to sit next to the teacher’s desk when he was at school.
‘Do you think you might want to follow in his footsteps then?’ I ask, even though I’m trying not to think about feet or steps or shoes at all.
He looks shocked.
‘Oh no,’ he says, ‘I’ve got plans.’
I nod as if having plans is something everyone does but actually, it’s pretty rare round here.
‘It must be nice that, having plans,’ I say and then wish I had said good instead of nice because of the s.
He looks at me quickly and then back to the floor.
‘Tell me about yours then,’ I say. I haven’t been out a lot but I know that most blokes like that; they love being asked stuff about themselves. He looks as if he is deciding whether to cut me in or not, and I hum a bit from a song I like. I’m good at humming, I could win a humming talent show but I can’t take the risk of singing the words because there are always too many s words. I don’t know why that is true, but it is. Think of any song you like, any of your favourites, and I can guarantee there will be an s in the first line.
‘I’ll show you if you like,’ he says and I can see that it means a lot to him from the way he is hugging himself, arms practically meeting round the back and it isn’t that cold.
‘Ok,’ I say and he takes my hand. I am holding the hand of my boyfriend, I think and for a moment my feet forget how to move. I’d like to take a picture on my phone and send it to everyone I know.
‘How come you’ve got a boy’s name?’ he says as we walk though the skeleton of the playground. There used to be swings and a slide and a little train for the kids to go in but all that’s left now is the shadows on the ground from where they used to be, and a part of the swing frame like a gallows. I’m used to the boy’s name question and I’ve even worked out a way to answer without an s.
‘You write it differently,’ I say, ‘J A M I E for a boy, and J A I M E for a girl, like the French for I love you’. I’m not embarrassed about it at all, and I’m glad my mum didn’t call me Susanna or Cecilia. He stops and looks at me as if he is thinking hard about the spellings and I fight to keep the arm that isn’t holding his hand by my side. I would love to cover my lip but it’s not like I can pretend it isn’t there.
‘I like it,’ he says and for a moment I think he is talking about my twisted mouth, but it’s my name, of course, my pretty, French, boy’s name.
We’re round the other side of the flats now, the place where people used to park their cars when there were more than a handful of us here. They’re going to knock the whole lot down soon and build townhouses with gardens. Martin stops for a moment as if he is thinking, and lets go of my hand. I feel more upset than I expected, as if no one will ever hold my hand again, as if I had been left on a mountain top without a rope rather than stood in front of a row of empty garages with a boy with death on his shoes.
Martin looks at me with a serious look.
‘You absolutely mustn’t tell anyone,’ he says.
‘I would never tell anyone,’ I say. I’ve been trusted with lots of secrets over the years because I’m quiet, and I’ve never told. Things might have turned out better all round if I had, but a promise is a promise, and that’s another story.
He gets a key from his pocket and goes to the last garage in the line. The door isn’t smashed in and there is a big padlock holding it closed.
‘Tell me if you see anyone coming,’ he says over his shoulder and it’s like he is fighting with the lock, cursing and grunting and wrenching. I look around and realise that the only flats that overlook us have shutters over their eyes and it feels exhilarating, to be in a private space in the middle of a crowded city.
‘Done it,’ he says, shoving the padlock into his pocket and opening the door. It’s dark, and I can’t make out much, but it looks like there’s a van.
‘Come and see,’ he says, and I’m honoured. The van takes up most of the space inside but there is just enough space to step daintily along the wall, like a crab. I wonder if he will kiss me, but he takes a tissue from his pocket and starts rubbing at some piece of dirt on the bonnet he can’t possibly see, because it’s too dark.
‘This is it, Jaime,’ he says, and I store away the way he says my name so that I can get it out later and think about it. ‘This is the future.’
It is one of the times when I wish my s words were under control. ‘It seems a very nice van,’ would be my sentence of choice, but it feels too risky in a confined space.
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Can you read the writing on the side?’
I can see that there is writing, a curly script with something – fishes I think – dancing in and out of the letters, but it’s too dark and I’m too close to read it properly. I’m twisting and squinting and trying to get the whole picture and Martin realises, and side walks along the wall to where I am standing. He gets his mobile phone out and opens it, for the light. I can read it, but I wait for him to say it anyway.
‘Monsieur Poisson,’ he says, as if the words are the most precious things he owns, ‘it’s French for Mister Fish.’ I don’t let on that I knew that straight away.
‘The van belongs to my brother. Luke. He’s got this idea, and I’m going to help him, for children’s parties. Not round here, but in Blackheath, and up North London, where they’ve got the money. Parents hire us, see, and we turn up with a tank full of fish, bringing the seaside to their door. The children will love it.’
‘I never had a party,’ I say, and it’s ridiculous, it feels like my eyes are filling up at the thought of those birthday fish, swimming in paper hats while children knock gently on the glass and hold each other’s hands.
‘You can come with us,’ he says, ‘we could do with a girl, you know, in case the kids cry or something.’
I can imagine it, me holding the hand of some little tot who was scared of the big fish. Little children don’t even notice if you look odd, it’s all the same to them.
‘Have you got any?’ I ask, and point to the van, ‘you know, fish.’
‘We did have, but one of them ate the others, and then died,’ he says, ‘so we’re waiting for some more. And that’s not all.’
He looks excited, as if he had the best news in the world to tell me. I remember an old film I saw with a man selling newspapers and shouting, read all about it, war is over. I wait, thinking that news this good deserves a bit of silence before it arrives.
‘Luke is going to steal a penguin,’ he says and his voice trembles a bit.
‘I love penguins,’ I say.
‘That’s just the thing,’ Martin says, ‘everyone loves penguins. Luke’s got a huge waterproof coat, like people wear when they go fishing, and he’s sewn a pocket inside, big enough for a small penguin. We’re going to go to London Zoo just before closing time, hide in the snake house while they shut up shop, jump over the wall into the penguin enclosure, pop a baby one into the pocket and get out the next morning, while they’re busy feeding the animals.’
I can see several flaws in this, although I can see people really do love penguins. I am loyal, so I don’t mention any of the difficulties. I wait a beat or two before speaking, to show him that I know this is important.
‘Wow,’ I say.
Martin looks pleased, like someone had just given him a whole dance troupe of penguins. He smiles and I’m glad it is dark, because he kisses me. Right there by the side of the van, with the painted fishes swimming in and out of our mouths and the sound of the South London surf in our ears. I lean in to the kiss like a motorcyclist going round a corner, and I forget the bodies on the soles of his shoes and imagine instead a small penguin sheltering between us.
Pengiun by Rosalind Stopps was read by Danielle Fenemore at the Liar's League Surf, Turf & Vodka event at Proud Galleries Camden on Tuesday 23 June 2009.
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