The Things We Learn When We're Dead Page 13

  Suzie’s father was a lawyer, whatever that was, and owned a shiny Porsche. Lorna longed to grow up and to own one. She loved looking at its silver bodywork and seeing her own incredulous face looking back. More than anything, she wanted to grow up and earn lots and lots of money, and buy a car just like it.

  ‘What about a barbeque?’ suggested her mum, who had been in the kitchen. Lorna was in the living room watching TV.

  This was an unusual suggestion, what with Tom being in hospital for tests. Barbeques were usually family affairs, with both of the children, although not generally including their dad. On good days, when he wasn’t working, he was golfing. God gives us only a few days of sunshine, he’d say, we mustn’t waste them. Her father rarely dispensed advice; this was as good as it got.

  ‘A barbeque?’ echoed Lorna and instinctively looked out the window. From that angle, it was difficult to tell if the sun was shining.

  ‘You may not know it, young Lorna, but it’s a nice day outside. I just thought it might be a nice idea to go to the beach. Is it a nice idea, Lorna?’

  Her mum’s repeated use of the word nice suggested to Lorna that she was meant to agree and normally she would have leaped at the chance. But something made her hold back. It was the novelty that was wrong. Her dad had only taken Tom to hospital that morning, and her mother was due to visit when he got back. It didn’t seem right to be having a barbeque. Lorna suspected that her mother had something she wanted to tell her.

  ‘OK, Mum,’ Lorna dutifully agreed. ‘That would be nice.’

  Although warm, a stiff breeze was blowing off the sea, carrying grains of sand that caught in Lorna’s hair. So, instead of plonking themselves down on the beach in front of the town, they walked some way along the beach to the dunes by the golf course. Lorna half expected her father to walk up the fairway. They found a reasonably sheltered spot, sufficient for her mother to light the barbeque at the third attempt. ‘Phew!’ she said, ‘that was lucky. I only had four matches!’

  ‘I know you’ve been worried,’ her mother began, kneeling on the sand and drawing patterns with her fingers. ‘You have, haven’t you?’

  Lorna shook her head. She wasn’t old enough to believe that bad things could happen to her or others around her. She did, of course, watch the TV news each night – well, she had to, it was one of her dad’s obligatory programmes – and she knew that bad things did happen to other people. But always to other people, although it could come close. On Friday nights on the High Street, right outside their living room window, she sometimes heard bad things. Usually only drunken singing but, once, the sound of breaking glass and a burglar alarm sounding. Someone had chucked a brick through a shop window.

  ‘Not really, no,’ replied Lorna. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Fine?’ Her mother seemed disappointed.

  ‘Fine.’

  Her mum reached into a plastic bag and extracted burgers and sausages. In all of their many barbeques she had never attempted to cook anything else. She placed a selection on the smoking grill and prodded them with a fork. Opened rolls, already spread with butter, were laid on another plastic bag and slowly gathering blown sand.

  ‘What Tom has isn’t serious, young Lorna. It’s just that his insides have got a little bit twisted. He just needs a wee operation to sort it out.’

  ‘Will he be asleep?’ Lorna didn’t like to think of Tom having knives stuck into him.

  Her mother laughed. ‘Of course he will! Goodness, what made you think that he wouldn’t be?’

  Lorna looked at the sausages and hamburgers. Her mum had forgotten to turn them, as she always did. ‘It’s just that you said it was a wee operation. I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It means that they open up his tummy and untangle his intestines. Do you know what intestines are?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Mum,’ she said.

  Her mother had finally remembered to turn the sausages and burgers. As always, they were black. ‘Looking good,’ she said hopefully, as she always did. Then she took a deep breath and laid down the fork beside the buttered rolls. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were stupid, Lorna. I was only trying to reassure you. About Tom, I mean. It’s just a silly little operation, and it’s nothing to worry about.’

  Lorna had finally realised that this outing to the beach wasn’t for her benefit. She really hadn’t been worried. Her faith in doctors, like her faith in her parents, was boundless. Until then, everything that had gone wrong with her had been cured. Chicken pox, no problem. Cut knee: it’ll hurt a bit but we’ll get it sorted. Twisted intestine? Lorna had no doubt that her mother was right. It wasn’t serious and, in any case, nothing bad could happen to her family.

  ‘When is his wee operation?

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ said Lorna. ‘Really, it will.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Her mother smiled, hair across her eyes. ‘Anyway, how’s school been this week?’ Lorna thought that this was a pretty lame way to change the subject.

  ‘We learned about space,’ she replied. All week they’d been learning something different: finding out how the universe was created, and what it would be like living in a spaceship. Her class had even made papier mâché space helmets, then written their names on the front. Lorna had thought this was stupid. Surely everyone on a spaceship would know everyone else?

  ‘My, how interesting!’ replied her mum, but didn’t really seem to be listening.

  ‘We also learned about Einstein and how spaceships might someday fly across the universe.’

  Her mother was looking out to sea, a frown creased on her forehead. ‘And how might they do that, young Lorna?’

  ‘It’s quite hard. But first of all, you’ve got to find the right TV station.’

  They ate their burgers in silence and stared out over the water. Lorna didn’t know what her mum was thinking. She only knew that her burger, as always, tasted of charcoal.

  * * *

  ‘So, you want to be a lawyer.’ Mr Sullivan, the careers-guidance teacher, didn’t seem impressed. He was sitting back in his seat, his feet up on the table. Only teachers could get away with doing something like that; Lorna would have been told off. His small room was thin, book-lined, and had a partition wall. It had only recently been sectioned off from the secretarial office next door, from which could clearly be heard the tap-tap-tap of a keyboard and the slamming of a file drawer. On the wall behind his head, Mr Sullivan had hung his diplomas – presumably to remind his students that he, unlike them, was qualified.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lorna.

  ‘And on what have you based this momentous decision?’ Mr Sullivan looked bored. Raindrops dripped down his office window. It overlooked the primary school in which her schooling had begun. ‘What process of logical deduction has led you to this choice?’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she replied, feeling that it was her career and it didn’t need any justification. ‘It’s just what I want to do, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s just what I want to do,’ mimicked Mr Sullivan and, grudgingly, opened a manila file. On its front, Lorna saw her name stencilled in black felt pen. ‘You have achieved exemplary grades, Lorna. Your teachers speak highly of you. It’s likely that you’ll achieve excellent results in your Highers. So why spoil it all by becoming a lawyer?’

  ‘What’s wrong with lawyers?’ she asked. Everyone else said that being a lawyer would be cool. OK, maybe a bit dull, but really quite cool as well. You get to make lots of money, do interesting things, maybe change the world. That’s what Lorna wanted to do. She’d give some of her money to charity, or her parents. ‘I simply believe I have the aptitude to study law. It’s what I want to do,’ she added stubbornly.

  ‘I hear you, Lorna. However, my job is to make sure you’ve made the right choice. I have to be, if you like, a devil’s advocate. Do you know what a devil’s advocate is?’

  ‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  Mr Sullivan tapped a fing
er against her file then closed it. ‘That’s not what I was implying,’ he said. ‘My concern is not so much with your choice of university course, but in the reasons for your choice. I don’t want you to rush into this and realise, two years from now, that it was all a big mistake. Making the transition from school to university can be difficult. My job is to make it easier for you.’

  ‘Transition?’

  ‘From this life to the next. It’ll be a big change, Lorna. University. Not like school.’

  ‘I know what transition means, Mr Sullivan. And if I thought that university was going to be like school, I wouldn’t go. No way. Look, if it proves to be a mistake, then it’ll be my mistake,’ she said. ‘It just seems the right thing to do. With the right grades, I can get into Edinburgh.’

  ‘I know that.’ Mr Sullivan had threaded his hands together then made a steeple of his forearms. He laid his elbows on the desk and his chin on his laced fingers. ‘But you have so much potential, Lorna. Too much potential to let it go to waste. For example, have you ever thought about journalism?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Teaching?’

  ‘Definitely not.’ Mr Sullivan looked pained, if unsurprised.

  ‘Business studies?’

  ‘I want to study law, Mr Sullivan.’

  ‘I have to tell you, Lorna, I think it’s a bad choice. You’re not just doing it for the money, are you? Listen, I appreciate that your family ...’

  ‘My family have got nothing to do with it! I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re not supporting me. Everyone else seems really excited. Except you,’ she said.

  ‘Is it for the money?’ he repeated.

  Lorna pressed her lips together in exasperation. ‘No, not the money,’ she said quickly, although she still secretly coveted Suzie’s father’s car. He’d replaced his Porsche several times over the years, but always with another one. He’d even promised her a shot in it when she passed her test. If she passed, she had to remind herself. Her father would be worse than useless at driving lessons, and would mostly be committing an offence, and her mother had never learned how to drive. Austin Bird, who had passed his test and who owned a cast-off Fiesta from his mother, had offered to take her out, although new drivers aren’t allowed to teach learner drivers; but maybe she’d take him up on the offer, on a quiet country road.

  ‘In which case, do you honestly believe you’ll be making the world a better place?’

  Lorna nodded, sure of herself. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  Mr Sullivan leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck. ‘Jesus wept!’

  ‘Then perhaps you might like to tell me why you think I’d be making a mistake.’ The tap-tap-tap from next door had stopped. Lorna had the impression they were now being listened to. Hardly surprising, Lorna had raised her voice.

  ‘Please don’t underestimate my intelligence, as I certainly don’t underestimate yours,’ said Mr Sullivan, who had also raised his voice. His cheeks had flushed, and a reflection from the rain-soaked window had patterned one side of his face and made it look as if he was melting. Lorna looked at his face, seeing molten wax. ‘It’s all about intellectual capability, Lorna, and what choices we make in our lives. You, I have to say, have both the aptitude and intellectual capacity to make a better choice than the one you have done.’

  Lorna was at a loss of words. ‘What exactly have you got against lawyers?’ she finally asked. There was still an eerie silence from next door.

  Mr Sullivan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Until recently, nothing. Then I got divorced and, now, quite a lot, actually. Now, I don’t get to see my kids very often. Now, I don’t have a house to call my own. Now, I’m having to pay those bloodsuckers every last penny I’ve got.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Lorna.

  A few days later, Mr Sullivan went on sick leave, and still hadn’t returned by the end of the school year, by which time Lorna had also left. By then, with Austin’s help in the dunes, she was officially a woman but still hadn’t taken him up on his offer of driving lessons. Having sex with him was OK but tuition in the front seat of his car seemed too intimate an act. It would also have smacked of a relationship she didn’t really want.

  But the interview with Mr Sullivan had unnerved her. Before it, she’d received nothing but praise and admiration. Her mum, who hadn’t advanced further than the bakery, was ecstatic. Her father seemed pleased as well, although it was harder to tell. Despite the high school having a good attainment record, being accepted for a degree course in law was an achievement: something to be proud of, not a choice to be belittled.

  ‘Fuck Mr Sullivan,’ was Suzie’s advice. ‘Forget it, babe.’

  So Lorna tried not to think about Mr Sullivan or the reasons for his mental anguish. We all have our problems, she could have told him, but hadn’t. In any case, she had decided, she was going to be a good lawyer, whatever that was.

  Home

  ‘Welcome, Lorna, to your new home.’

  A door slid open to reveal a small living room. Irene stood aside to let Lorna pass, which she did with some trepidation. On Earth, generally speaking, you had a choice about where you lived. If you didn’t like it, you could always move on. Here, she was acutely aware, her property ladder had begun and ended.

  ‘Of course, sweetie, if you don’t like the furnishings you can always change them. Don’t feel that you have to live with beige if you’d prefer pink. Here, I thought you might like this.’ Irene picked up an IKEA catalogue from a glass coffee table. ‘It might give you a few ideas on how to spruce up the place. If you see anything you want, just ask Trinity. She’s terribly good at interior design, by the way. But you don’t have to stick with IKEA, not if you don’t want to.’

  Her new home was filled with an eclectic mix of the familiar and unfamiliar; she was sure she recognised the glass coffee table from somewhere, but couldn’t place it. However, the leather sofa in the living room was an exact replica of the one in her Edinburgh flat, even down to a cigarette burn in one of its arms. Lorna ran her fingers across it wistfully, remembering different times when she and Suzie would put the world to rights. As with her previous apartment in Heaven, it seemed a place designed to put her at ease, providing comforting reminders from her old existence. Against one wall was the set of bookshelves from North Berwick that Tom had assembled. Sure enough, in the bathroom, was the giant tub with lions’ feet.

  More annoyingly, in the kitchen was her old fridge, which now contained several bottles of white wine and one bottle of soda. In her old kitchen, it would have also contained milk and salad. Now, it was devoted to a dozen bottles of Chateau d’Yquem, each dated 1787. Lorna had to peer closely to confirm this, the interior light having broken, as hers had in Edinburgh.

  ‘You don’t actually have to use the damn thing,’ said Irene. ‘With Trinity at your beck and call, it’s superfluous. You can therefore get rid of it any time you like. It does, however, add a certain primitive charm and, well, we thought you might like it.’

  Lorna pulled out a bottle and looked closely at the label.

  ‘A bottle of this stuff also came up for auction,’ said Irene, ‘and I couldn’t resist asking Trinity for the recipe. Not my cup of tea, of course, but I thought it might be yours.’ Before Lorna could say anything, Irene had turned on her heel and marched off to the bedroom. ‘Excellent!’ Lorna heard her call. ‘Everything’s been delivered. Cinderella can go to the ball!’

  In the bedroom, laid out neatly on the bed, was the vast wardrobe that she had purchased that afternoon – each, except for the M&S underwear, with their luxurious designer labels. Well, not quite purchased. Taken.

  Like the living room, the bedroom had the same mix of old and new, of things remembered well and others dimly so. The bed was from her Edinburgh flat, with a rattan headboard that was both practical and uncomfortable. The chest of drawers into which she deposited the underwear and a diamond necklace was from North Berwick. Its top was ringed from years of Coke cans
, which her mother had constantly berated her for. The room also contained an empty bookcase and writing desk. Above the desk were drawn curtains; She didn’t recognise the floral pattern, and made a mental note to ask Trinity to change them. Lorna drew back the curtains to reveal a blank wall.

  ‘You can have whatever view you want,’ advised Irene. ‘Something inspirational, perhaps? A particular landscape you once saw and thought especially beautiful? It’s up to you, sweetie. Just tell Trinity and she’ll put your choice of view into the window.’

  ‘I can choose my view?’

  ‘Of course. But we didn’t want to make that choice for you.’

  Lorna thought about this. ‘What choice did you make, Irene? Or,’ she added, ‘do you change your view depending on which famous person you happen to be?’

  Irene merely shook her head. ‘Just the stars, petal. I like to look at things as they are, rather than what I’d like them to be. Anyway, Lorna, I have to dash. Duty, alas, beckons. However,’ she said, turning smartly and heading towards Lorna’s new front door, ‘I’ll be here on the dot of eight to pick you up. So no dilly-dallying, young lady.’

  Before Lorna could reply, the door had swished shut.

  She returned to the kitchen and, without thinking, opened a drawer beside the sink and took out a corkscrew. Then she extracted a wine glass from a cupboard over the fridge. Then she stopped and thought about what she’d just done. She’d known where to find the corkscrew and where the glass would be. Lorna looked around, remembering. Above the sink were more curtains framing a blank wall. But it should have been a grimy window smeared with grease and bird droppings that looked out over rooftops with, far in the distance, and only if you looked closely, a glimpse of the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

  She sat on the leather sofa and drew her legs up under her bottom. She fingered the hole in the settee arm, then balanced her wine glass over it, covering up the burn and the memories it exuded.

  Welcome, Lorna, to your new home.