Bitterhall by Helen McClory (story books to read .txt) 📕

A Seed

That evening Órla came in and sat herself down in the living room, and Badr went off and made her tea ‘and a biscuit, if there are any!’, and Tom was not home.

‘Have you noticed Tom’s been . . .’ she began. Hurriedly, offhand.

‘What? Is something wrong? Are you . . .’ I said. Órla flapped a hand at me,

‘Oh it’s nothing like that, what you’re thinking, disaster-man.’

‘No, seriously. Órla. You look rattled.’

Órla turned in her seat. We sat close together. I thought of two people on a dinghy in the sea, and the sofa squeaked in just such a way.

‘He’s – oh this is going to sound fucking stupid. He’s been – his speech is different. Have you noticed?’

‘I think he forgot the word gym earlier, if that counts.’

‘Hmm,’ said Órla.

‘What do you think’s up?’

Badr came in the room, put mugs down, little plates and forks and pieces of kitchen roll.

Órla looked down, ‘Nothing, probably,’ she said. I prodded the side of the sofa, felt its squeaky hollow give, and someone laughed on the TV, and an angel passed over the room.

Come to the House

At Mark’s mother’s place, the last weekend of October, there was a Hallowe’en party I had gone to since I was an adolescent, though I had known Mark since we were both little. This year I invited Órla and Tom. And Badr, but Badr didn’t care for fancy schmancy dress-up parties, he said. The MacAshfall house was on a slight hill in the north of the town. Three storeys tall, modernist, with lots of glass and flat concrete slabs at angles, a garden – great square concrete-sided pond, huge rectangular foliage beds – that merged into the home via the giant glossy Swiss cheese plants set against the glossy wooden panels and spartan concrete of the interior, and at night through gentle reflections of those inside appeared as if they were outside in the garden, which was, so late, long gone to seed.

Mark’s uncle welcomed us in, taking Órla’s coat first, with gleaming eyes. He always looked, to me, like Mark’s future self, large in the face, bald, shiny, settled in comforts, but good hearted, except for the times he was not; he had a blunt streak, not cruel but thoughtless sometimes. Mark and his uncle. Who was, as no one was saying, now Mark’s stepfather. Who was, as Mark had confessed to me once while stoned, probably his dad. Not that he gave a shit, except it all had to be a great secret. Mark was alluring in that way and in that way only, in his witty charming spoiled rich family intrigues, and that he had known me since we were both four, and had managed not to give up on me despite my issues. In my worst moments, I thought this was down to too much ego on Mark’s part in concealing other people’s varieties of faults unless they happened to pertain to or interrupt the smooth and daily happiness of Mark himself. It was so easy to be friends with him, it made me feel almost young to be with him, with so many years held up by the two of us like it was no weight at all. And Mark had, still, all this cool stuff in his attic and I was always perfectly willing to be his pet, so long as we both knew it and drew attention to it. As we did. Everyone in the MacAshfall household found me lightly, artificially hilarious. You’re like a little cat, Daniel, come and go as you want, take anything from the fridge. Daniel, if you fail your exams I’ll tip you down the stairs, so don’t. You’re my lucky charm, so if you pass I will too, and if you fail that’s me done. What does this mean, here, chapter twelve, the company’s let me go, the latest girlfriend’s dumped me – and so on, and Hallowe’en, and the MacAshfalls’ wistfully beautiful party.

Blithe Spirit

Mark’s tall, angular and terrifying mother – always Mrs MacAshfall, ‘call me Maggie’ as she might – had set up the turntable, with Mark choosing the records. She had a considerable collection from many past MacAshfalls and her own curation. This night, all songs selected were from the twenties and thirties – the ambience was right, the crackle of haunting, between-wars voices turning in the air of the study as guests got into this year’s theme in ivory and sooty satin.

Órla had chosen the top hat and tails route – with some considerable help from Quick Zip Alterations, who were, she said, amused at her need for considerable darting, and the trousers having to be from a separate set entirely, made for her hips. She gave a sharp, quick turn on her bright black heels to show off, after which Tom swept her to the dancefloor – the parquet space between the turntable on the sideboard and the grey blocky fainting couch, space in which no one else but the two of them danced an improvisational twirling dance.

Mark said, ‘Well.’

Mrs MacAshfall said, ‘Look how beautiful they both are!’ And then, to me, ‘You’ve chosen well.’

I said, ‘Thank you for having us, here’s some wine. Is the punch ready?’ and to myself, and a little to Mark, in white coat tails, ‘I’ve been ready for the punch all month long.’

It was known as Blithe Spirit and always served in crystal Marie-Antoinette glasses: frothy, liquid, white, with an impossibly delicate perfume, a silken kick, and acting upon the whole tussle with great adept fingers was something that seemed derived from the bodily, something sleazy and worrying, but quickly buried under a sudden jolt of lime. Of course it was Mark’s uncle’s favourite drink to make, but was undeniably the pleasure of the year as well. Mark and Mark’s uncle and I stood in a line by the punchbowl watching Órla and Tom dance, and took short sharp gulps of the drink, making such conversation