Flamingo

by Rachel Elliott

Genres: LGBT Lesbian

Synopsis

A novel of love, homelessness, and learning to be fearless

In the garden, there were three flamingos. Not real flamingos, but real emblems, real gateways to a time when life was impossibly good. They were mascots, symbols of hope. Something for a boy to confide in.

First, there were the flamingos. And then there were two families. Sherry and Leslie and their daughters, Rae and Pauline - and Eve and her son Daniel.

Sherry loves her husband, Leslie. She also loves Eve. It couldn't have been a happier summer. But then Eve left and everything went grey. Now Daniel is all grown-up and broken. And when he turns up at Sherry's door, it's almost as if they've all come home again.

But there's still one missing. Where is Eve? And what, exactly, is her story?
FLAMINGO is a novel about the power of love, welcome and acceptance. It's a celebration of kindness, of tenderness. Set in 2018 and the 80s, it's a song for the broken-hearted and the big-hearted, and is, ultimately, a novel grown from gratitude, and a book full of wild hope.

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: February 3, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

He is cross-legged on the floor of the public library, deep in cookery, holding a book of old recipes, gripping it tight, his tears tapping out the code of how lost he is on its sun-bleached cover.

He is soft rain.

He is a filthy shirt.

He is two nights on a bench, one night in a doorway, two nights under a tree after years and years of mattress and cotton sheet.

The book in his hands is simply called Fruit. It’s hard and heavy, a book to be used and passed down, built to last. On the front cover, there’s a still life painting: a table draped with cloth, a ceramic jug, a plate of apples and pears.

For a second, he has the sensation that he is a boy sitting in a church, holding a bible.

He has never been to church.

And his own kitchen table, his jug and plates, where are they now?

The library is quiet this morning. Silent slo-mo papery room.

There is no one close but Daniel Berry is not alone. The bodies of these books have thick spines and buttery fingerprints. A man can do worse for company than cooks and celebrity chefs, and he imagines them lined up with offerings: a pot of strong coffee, bowls of broth and noodles, bread and flapjacks straight from the oven.

He closes his eyes, and it scares him, so he opens them again.

He feels like he is outside in his pyjamas.

Sometimes the only thing to do is keep perfectly still.

He remembers being knocked off his bike last year, how he lay on the road for a long time, too scared to move, to discover what damage had been done. After a while it was sort of pleasant, looking up at the sky, watching the clouds from inside a private bubble of shock.

His stillness now, it’s something like that.

Funny what the mind does. How it leaps from chefs to flapjacks to pyjamas to falling off a bike and watching clouds, all without him moving a muscle.

Also, he is not dead. This is what he thinks next. He is not dead, but he is a body in the library.

Very Agatha Christie, Daniel.

It’s true, he thinks. He is a warm living damp body in a public library. He has dragged the wet swamp of himself in here and no one has stopped him.

As a boy, he was often in the library. His mother would come with him sometimes, but mostly she would leave him while she went off to run errands – this was the story she used to tell, a tale of bills to pay, letters to post, things to buy from the market. By the time she collected him on her way home, he would be the proud temporary owner of a pile of books, he had a way to fill the hours and the hours, a way to avoid the packs of other boys who didn’t take kindly to newcomers. He was frightened of these burly boys, fascinated by them too. The way they would sit for ages on a wall, languorous and slow and short-sleeved in the sun. They made the passing of time look easy. They made being a boy look easy.

Just when they began to notice him with friendliness instead of suspicion, even throwing him the occasional All right, Dan as he walked past, it would be time to move on again.

Will there be a library? he would say to his mum.

And Eve Berry would say yes, don’t worry, I’ve checked and there’s definitely a library.

What would she say if she could see him now? If she could smell him now?

Mainly, he smells of fear.

He reaches out to the shelves, places his hand across two spines, strokes them as if they are wood he has just finished sanding, a job well done, smooth and good and real.

This helps, just a little, he can feel it helping.

He listens to the sounds around him, tries to tune in to something other than himself.

Health and safety warning for all visitors to the library this morning: please be careful not to trip over the poor excuse of a man on the floor of the cookery section, or step in his puddle of sorrow. We hope to have this mess cleaned up as quickly as possible.

How the human mind will turn on itself. As a species we think we’re so evolved, so superior, and yet hidden inside the cave of the human mind, we’re all beating ourselves with sticks.

Tears come, again.

He is an empty stomach.

He is the urge to steal.

He is a boy’s facial tic, a twitch of the nose that should be long gone.

Excuse me, a voice says.

Daniel looks up.

There is a woman standing beside him. She crouches down, puts her hand on his shoulder.

I just want to say, she says. Whatever it is that’s hurting you right now, it won’t last forever.

His mouth opens, he doesn’t speak.

Trust me, she says.

And the weight of her hand on his shoulder.

He will feel it through these filthy clothes.

He will feel it through pyjamas.

He will feel it through a clean T-shirt, a soft jumper.

He will feel it through all the seasons as they manifest around him, in the skies and underfoot, in blossom and birth, in hibernation and awakening, in the simple air, in snow and sunlight, in resilience and rot, in a flourish and a fading, in the many guises of an old tree, in every living thing.

Over time, the story changes.

Sometimes, in his mind, she is not a woman at all.

She is a pool of still water.

She is a rush of colour and flight.

Like a kingfisher, here then gone, that no one saw but him.

I found him in the library, check-shirted, cross-legged.

I had gone in for a novel, something hard and fast and stark, preferably overwhelming.

I found him in the library, a crumple of salt and blue eyes.

Silver-brown stubble on olive skin, that was him.

Mousy hair, rough hands.

He was staring at a book as though it were a map, or a photo of someone he loved.

But this man was not the first thing I noticed.

It was his small companion, beside him on the dirty carpet.

A ceramic sheep.

He kept looking at this ornament, as if it was speaking in a small sheepish voice, as if they were having an important conversation.

Unlike this time last year, no one has started a fire in the back garden using shoe protector spray, a lighter and someone else’s coat. There has been no physical violence. No one has deliberately thrown the past in someone else’s face, as far as Rae can tell. A successful party by this family’s standards.

And now a bell is ringing. An old brass bell, once owned by a town crier. The bell their mother likes to brandish when she wants to demand attention.

We’ve all been summoned to the lounge, a voice says.

Tell me it’s not what I think it is, another voice says.

I’m afraid so. Hope you remembered your earplugs.

As a gift for her husband on his eightieth birthday, Sherry is about to serenade him with her special a cappella version of ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner.

Please no, not again, Leslie wants to say. Must you sing this every year on my birthday? It’s not special, it’s painful. I had more fun when I went for the snip, if you can remember that long ago – yes, that’s right, that is what I’m saying. Going into hospital to have the tubes that carried my sperm cut and heat-sealed, that was more enjoyable than standing in front of our entire family, their partners and ex-lovers and all the other randoms you like to invite, and trying to work out what to do with my face. They’re looking at me, you’re looking at me, everyone’s looking at me – it’s excruciating. You know I’m a quiet man, Sherry, I’ve always been more reserved than you. The perfect gift for my eightieth birthday? That would be you not singing ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner.

Please, not again, Rae wants to say. Honestly Mum, I don’t know how to say this, but your rendition, your highly unique cover version, well basically it haunts me, it floods my mind at the very worst moments, like when I’m trying to sleep, like when I’m working, and sometimes honest to God I even hear it during sex, not that there’s been much of that lately. You have to stop singing it, Mum. You have to make it stop.

But who would be so selfish as to silence a caged bird, whose song is her only freedom? A woman who feels like a caged bird, that’s what she often says to her husband.

Let me out let me out let me out, she shouts.

Darling, you know where the front door is, Leslie says.

I just need to vocalise my sense of entrapment. That’s enough for me. It’s a release in itself, she says.

No one’s trapping you, my dear, he says. You’re free to leave whenever you like.

Life’s not that black and white, Sherry says. Emotions are not that simple.

For me they are, he says.

Well maybe that’s what traps me, she says.

What? he says.

Your simplicity, she says.

Leslie smiles and looks back at his sudoku. He is a patient man with a nervous twitch in his left elbow, which juts out when he is feeling stressed. Once, after queueing in a post office for forty-five minutes, he elbowed a teenager in the head and was accused of assault.

*

The Marsh family and their guests are perched on the sofa in the cosy – i.e. small, cramped, suffocatingly cluttered – living room of 4 Abigail Gardens. They are squeezed into armchairs. They are sitting on the floor, waiting.

It’s fine, Rae tells herself. This get-together is almost over. Not long now until she can grab her trainers, jump on a bus and forget these people exist until the next unsolicited reminder.

Who invited the postwoman? her sister says.

The answer is engulfed by a power ballad.

Sherry makes a theatrical, what some might call experimental start, part song, part spoken word. If you have ever heard an a cappella version of ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’, you will understand how curiously arresting it is: a release of heightened emotion, an act of oversharing, teeming with eerie pauses.

Now she loosens up, finds her groove, gets into it.

She sings about heartache, if singing is the right word, which it isn’t.

Rae turns to look at the stranger beside her, who seems to be crying. This makes her laugh, not because she is cruel or insensitive, but because she is, in this moment, traumatised.

She pulls a neatly folded square of tissue from her cardigan pocket and offers it to him.

His name is Rufus. She has no idea if this is his real name, presumes it isn’t, but who knows.

Rufus mouths thank you while nodding slowly and unfolding the tissue as if it were a secret note. He is a picture of earnestness, but not the kind Rae likes in a person, the serious-minded studious kind. His earnestness is mawkish and disorientating. It makes her feel travel-sick.

And now the best/worst bit, depending on how easy you find it to witness desperation:

With outstretched arms and a glossy grin, her mother begins to flap her hands up and down. She resembles a pop star, inviting a huge crowd to get up and sing along. But she is not a pop star. She is sixty-five-year-old Sherry Marsh in her faithful trouser suit and silk blouse, standing on a purple rug in front of a gas fire, its fake briquettes spilling onto the floor, most of them half chewed during puppyhood by a neighbour’s golden retriever. Inside her jacket, the sleeve of her blouse is still torn from when she snagged it on a holly bush after too many ginger wines in the Dog and Duck.

As usual, no one moves. This is how it always goes.

Until it doesn’t. Thanks to Rufus, who jumps to his feet and starts singing.

Sherry is illuminated. She is emboldened. She is happiness personified. Once a year since 1988 she has invited her family and friends to get up and join her in song. In this song. And no one ever has.

There are many ways to describe this, depending on your outlook on life, depending on whether your glass is half full or half empty.

1. Foolishly persistent.

2. Wonderfully persistent.

3. A moving display of love and optimism.

4. A cry for help.

And now Rufus is right beside her, looking into her eyes.

She picks up her brass bell, shakes it about, carries on singing.

Sometimes, a moment of joy is so surprising, so overwhelming, that if a bell is close to hand why the hell wouldn’t we ring it.

The word cacophony does not suffice. The word discordant does not suffice. There is no word for how Sherry’s notes don’t even come close to those sung by Foreigner, for how this surge of joy has inserted a brutishness into her voice that is frankly quite scary – and this, mixed with the sound of the old bell, mixed with Rufus’s overzealous baritone …

Rae remembers the huge headphones she used to wear as a child, often for hours on end to keep everyone at bay, plugged into the empty pocket of her corduroy trousers. She had loved those headphones, and those cords for that matter – they were gold, with a square patch sewn onto the left knee by Eve Berry, her mother’s friend, who had attempted to capture the likeness of Wonder Woman in embroidery. And yes, fair enough, this superhero emblazoned on jumbo cord could in fact have been any woman with long brown hair, but to Eve and Rae she was Wonder Woman and this was all that mattered.

Embroidery is an underrated art form, Rae thinks. Because she is highly skilled at psychological off-roading, at heading off down any available track; how else to distract herself from moments like this? So much better than having to experience the odious assortment of emotions aroused by her mother: disgust, fear, pity and contempt, all rolled up in the shabbiest kind of love, and that’s just for starters.

Rae glances at the curious duo, who seem to have deviated from the original song, their heads thrown back in untuneful anarchy.

She looks away, decides to focus on the painting hanging on the wall, one of the few objects in this house that she actually likes. It’s a painting of a blue kitchen, a bright window, a long table. On this table there is fresh bread, butter, cheese and fruit. There’s a jug of water and a bottle of something Spanish, sweet, profoundly alcoholic, this is how Rae has always seen it. It’s a still life, but to her it’s anything but still. As a girl she would lie for hours on the sofa, staring at this painting, imagining all kinds of different people entering its kitchen, lighting candles and gathering around its table. These people would eat and drink until the early hours. They would talk about all the best parts of being human, like cinema, sea and forests. They would lean in close, fall in love.

Now she notices Pauline looking in her direction. Is that hatred on her face? Oh come on. How was she to know that Rufus would supply backing vocals? That he would egg their mother on, inflate her?

Her sister is mouthing something now.

What? she mouths back.

WHAT THE FUCK? Pauline shouts.

Rae vows to make an official complaint to Stranger of Mine, otherwise known as SOM, through which she hired Rufus. She hadn’t asked for an extroverted singer who would make himself as visible as possible. She had specifically requested a soft furnishing. I’m looking for a male this time, someone to attend a family function with me across an afternoon and evening, she wrote. I need him to serve as a kind of cushion. You know how soft furnishings absorb sound in a room? Well I would like him to absorb the audible impact of my family, to limit their reverb, so to speak. This is the brief, I hope it makes sense. I look forward to hearing from you. Kind regards, Rae Marsh. PS The improvements you have made to your app are excellent, well done.

It brought her pleasure and a rare sense of importance to type the word brief, to feel that she was giving someone instructions. It also gave her a secret to keep from her family, something else to put between them, which made her more distant, safely out of reach.

Rae is addicted to the Stranger of Mine app. She can’t resist hiring a Stranger to sit with her in the cinema, walk with her through an arboretum. What appeals to her most is the lack of pressure. She doesn’t have to make an effort, be a good conversationalist, wonder if they might want anything more – and if not, why not. But even better than this, there is no boomerang effect, which is Rae’s term for what it feels like to get to know a new person. You reveal something about yourself, while believing that this revelation belongs to that moment in time, to that particular conversation, and then BAM – the next time you meet there it is again, coming back at you, hitting you in the face when your new friend refers to it all of a sudden. Getting to know a person – the continuity, the unpredictability – is alarming, to say the least. And with SOM there’s no continuity. No boomerang. The person Rae arranges to meet is simply another body beside her as she goes about her business, to be sent on their way when she says so, never to be seen again.

I think you can go now, Rae says to Rufus in the hallway.

He looks at his watch. Really? But I was just popping to the loo. I don’t have to go yet.

Don’t worry, I’ll still pay for the whole time. Actually, I’ve already paid online, so –

Honestly, I’m happy to stay.

Just go, she says.

But why? Have I disappointed you?

She considers saying yes, you’re as mad as my entire family, I don’t know why I bothered. In fact, I want my money back.

You’ve been fine, she says. But please leave.

Are you aware that you haven’t smiled once since we arrived? he says.

Excuse me?

I don’t care if you give me a bad review. Some people need a mirror holding up to them. You have a really interesting family and you’re a miserable sod. I wish my family would sing.

What the hell do you know about my family? You think coming to one party tells you anything?

Lovers’ tiff? Pauline says, squeezing past on her way to the kitchen for another Bacardi and Coke.

He is not my lover, Rae says.

Too right I’m not your lover, Rufus says. No wonder you have to hire a friend.

What happens next is something that will haunt Rae for years, despite her attempts to block it out. Again and again she has witnessed the members of her extended family losing their tempers, slamming doors, arm-wrestling to win an argument, everyone apart from her father always hurling their weight around, making a racket. Throughout all of this, she has considered herself to be quite unlike them. A black sheep in a separate field, dignified and intelligent, chewing on better grass. A light drinker, in control of her emotions. Certainly not boorish or violent. Certainly not someone who would raise her hand to a stranger in her parents’ hallway, slap him across the face –

They both stumble backwards in shock.

Oh my God, Rufus says, his hand pressed against his left cheek.

Fuck, Rae says. I’m so sorry. I’ve never hit anyone before, I don’t know what happened. It was the weirdest reflex. I am so sorry.

Now Rufus is crying, muttering something about hating his fucking job, wishing he’d stayed at Sainsbury’s, why must everything turn to shit.

Rae is an open mouth, a buttoned-up cardigan, a cracked mirror.

Rufus was full of song and now he is distraught.

How life changes in an instant.

You’re not supposed to judge me, she says.

What?

You’re supposed to be neutral and impervious.

Impervious?

Yes. It means –

I know what it means.

You insulted me.

Does that justify violence?

It was hardly violence.

If I were a woman and you were a man, would you call it violence then?

Rae grimaces. Because he’s right. Do you need a hug? she says.

A hug?

She nods.

No I do not need a hug, he says, moving forward just the same, sobbing into her shoulder.

Sherry emerges from the lounge and spots her daughter embracing a man. What a sight! Like morning sunshine through her ill-fitting curtains. Like discovering a rare antique being sold unwittingly for 50p at a car boot sale. She rushes towards them, throws her arms around Rufus.

And then there are three.

Group hug, Sherry says.

Jesus Christ, Rufus says, spinning around.

Oh, are you crying, dear? Sherry says. Why are you crying? What has my daughter done to you?

I’m afraid she just hit me.

Rae?

That’s right.

Our Rae?

She slapped me in the face.

Well what are you crying about that for? What kind of man are you? For goodness’ sake, I’d like to slap you myself. You arouse passion in a woman who’s usually as bland as a Rich Tea biscuit and just stand there crying?

He does not arouse my passion, Rae says.

Oh shut up, Sherry says.

Don’t tell me to shut up.

Your generation, you’re always crying. Do you see me crying? Don’t you think I’d like to be bawling my eyes out?

Silence.

Rae and Rufus look at each other.

I actually really like Rich Tea biscuits, Rufus says.

Thank you, Rae says. Then she pauses, glances sideways at the wall, at the lilac flock wallpaper coming undone. Why did she just thank him? You’re doing it again, Rae. Being submissive. You are not a fucking Rich Tea biscuit!

She calls a taxi, and on the way into town, Rufus makes them stop at McDonald’s so she can buy him a Happy Meal to apologise. She has never said sorry with junk food before. The taxi drops him five streets away from his house because he wants to safeguard his privacy, says he doesn’t want her turning up in the middle of the night to slap him in the face again. For all he knows she might have a problem, a compulsion, she might be one of life’s slappers. She laughs at this and slips two £10 notes into the pocket of his jacket, which feels wasteful and exciting, as though her evening has been far more illicit than a family party. Consider this a tip, she says, while a wide-eyed taxi driver watches through his rear-view mirror. You won’t take this any further will you? she says. I really am terribly sorry for what happened. Well, you’ll just have to wait and see won’t you, Rufus says, enjoying the sensation of power, of knowing something she doesn’t, of having something on her. Then he and his Happy Meal are gone and she is sitting in the back seat of a taxi by herself. Nice one, love, the taxi driver says. I beg your pardon? she says. Good for you, he says, women’s lib and all that.

At home, Rae showers and changes into an old T-shirt, makes a cup of camomile tea, reads four poems aloud to calm herself down.

After tonight, she will try to forget about the slap, and about her family in general. They are simply people she knows, people she spent too much time with until she was eighteen. They have little to do with her daily life. They do not represent or define her. And it’s highly unlikely that she will ever hit another human being again – it was a blip, that’s all, an involuntary misdemeanour, entirely out of character and no doubt caused by a deficiency of some kind. She will visit the doctor and ask for a blood test, buy a good multivitamin, go back to having porridge for breakfast (she is sure she was calmer when she ate porridge). And she will buy herself the biggest pair of headphones she can find, at least as big as the ones she had when she was a girl, and wear them as muc. . .