JACKIE LYNN

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: JACKIE LYNN AT MOTH CLUB, HACKNEY - 18/5/20 - CANCELLED

“Was that the postman?” says wife.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Well?” says wife.

  “It was a record for me,” I say.

  “Another one?” says wife.

  “Yes, I know,” I say. “I’ve got a problem.”

  “We could have gone on holiday with the money you’ve spent on records recently,” says wife.

  “Well, we couldn’t,” I say. Holidays, like Jackie Lynn and everything else, have been cancelled. “But yeah, I take your point. I have been buying a lot of records recently. I’m trying to stop. I haven’t bought a record for two days now.”

  “Oh, wow, well done,” says wife. 

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, “I’ve got a big problem.” 

I take the kids for a walk. They find a wall that they like sitting on. Nothing will induce them to move on. “Sorry,” I say, when the residents emerge at one point, “they love your wall.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” say the residents. “You enjoy it.” The residents smile at the kids and the kids smile hesitantly back. 

  There’s a deep unquietness in the air.

Evening. Kids asleep. When I walk into the kitchen wife is lying on the floor by the fridge.

  “Are you OK?” I say.

  “Of course I’m not fucking OK,” she says.

  “Are you hurt? Have you fallen?”

  “No. It’s just the only place that feels safe right now.”

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “What’s not that bad?” 

  “Today. This. Everything. Come on, let me help you get up.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to help you get up.”

  “I don’t need help. I don’t need physical help.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I don’t know, is there? Is there anything you can do?”

  “I don’t know. Can I get you anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like something to eat, a cup of tea, a hug? Sometimes you say you just need a hug when you feel like this.”

  “I don’t need a fucking hug from you right now. You’ve been like a shark all fucking day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. Just you. This. Fucking Pence eyes all day.” 

  I know what she means. She means cold, hard, unflinchingly unsympathetic. Like Mike Pence.

  “Oh look, it’s not about you. OK.”

  “What’s wrong then?”

  “I don’t fucking know. What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. Just if you wanted to talk about it.”

  “About what?”

  “How you’re feeling.”

  “Why is the onus always on me? I’m having some sort of psychotic break here. What do you expect from me?”

  “Nothing. I don’t expect anything.”

  “Good.”

  We fall into silence. I examine my reflection in the window. I exchange a sympathetic look with myself.

  “I don’t want you looking at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I don’t want you.”

  “Look I’m going to leave you alone, but if you need me, I’m here for you.”

  “But you’re not, are you?”

  “Well, I am.”

  “But you’re not, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re fucking not. Don’t fucking patronise me.”