Rick White

Before Kelly wanted to be an actress, all she wanted was to be like her mother. When she was a little girl, five or six, she’d put on Christine’s patent heels and shuffle around on the linoleum kitchen floor — knee high and invisible to the crowds of grownups who occupied their home most evenings — heads wobbling and chattering above her in a cumulus of cigarette smoke.

All little girls idolise their mothers, but in the middle of those kitchen parties, Kelly felt sure there was no mother more beautiful or worthy of adoration than hers — with her blonde hair piled up and red lipstick, throwing her head back laughing at something some handsome gentleman had said to amuse her. It seemed as though the whole wide world were friends of Christine.

As the other adults noticed Kelly playing dress-up, they would join in, finding some of Christine’s necklaces to put on her, making up her face with Christine’s foundation and smearing lipstick across her mouth with unsteady hands.

‘Oh she’s adorable!’ they’d sing and cackle, ‘I want one!’

They’d teach her to mix drinks — white wine spritzers, rum and cokes, vodka lemonades. Asked her to get up and dance with them to Madonna, Kylie and the Human League. Kelly played her part to the fullest, giving the audience what they wanted and revelling in the applause.

In the mornings, when Christine’s eyes stared bloodshot and vacant at the TV talk shows and her mascara streaked its way down her face (trying to leave, same as everyone else) Kelly played a different role —  a girl who had had enough sleep to go to school, who had got herself up and ready and dressed in her uniform even though it hadn’t been washed or ironed, who had made herself a packed lunch from what little she could find in the cupboard, because she knew this was what her mother wanted to see.

But whatever Kelly did, no matter how hard she tried to be the perfect daughter, Christine only became more and more miserable. Soon her friends stopped coming over; she didn’t dance in the kitchen anymore and she didn’t throw back her head and laugh anymore and she didn’t even say ‘Well done my good little girl, you make mama so proud’ when Kelly got herself ready for school in the morning because she couldn’t take her eyes off the daytime TV anymore and she didn’t go to the shops anymore and she couldn’t even take care of their cat, Spark, anymore and she gave Spark away to someone or other who came round to the house one night and Kelly loved Spark and when she came down one morning and Spark wasn’t there she thought he’d run away but why would he do that? And mama explained how Spark couldn’t live with them anymore and she’d given him away ‘to a good home’ somewhere better for him to live but Kelly couldn’t understand any of it because the best place for Spark to live was here, in this house, with Kelly.

Kelly who loved her mum. And Kelly who loved her cat.

And it’s strange how, of all the events Kelly remembered from her childhood, Christine giving Spark away to some stranger was the only one she couldn’t quite forget.

There is a pain, quite extraordinary and unique, which comes from knowing that someone or something you love is out there in the world, and not knowing if they are happy, or safe or warm and not being able to do anything other than keep them in your heart and imagine some alternate version of a future in which they have everything they need. And when you imagine, you pray. And when you pray, you promise. You promise you will gladly and willingly give up everything you have, if it means the creature you care about can have a home — can know love, and kindness.

Maybe this was what made Kelly get a job working in a vets clinic to pay the bills after she graduated drama school. During her time working on reception she got to know a lot of animals and owners and she lost count of the amount of awful cases whose narratives had begun with ‘Free to a good home.’

And years afterwards, when she was a successful actor and had worked hard to put her past behind her; to deal with everything that had happened to her. To confront her mother, to blame her mother, and finally to forgive her mother. After everything, maybe it was still the memory of Spark, that made Kelly want to adopt a child.           

*******

Tabitha was eleven years old. In her short life she’d already known more pain and suffering than most people have to endure in a lifetime, certainly more than Kelly had to cope with in a childhood which she’d always thought of as being singularly tragic in its unfairness.

No matter how bad you think things are. Things — as life has a habit of reminding us — can always be worse.

Tabitha had loved her mother; this much Kelly knew for sure. She also knew that one night Tabitha’s mother had fallen asleep on the couch, and Tabitha, as she’d done on many other nights before, had lain down next to her and curled up in the crook of her arm. And in the morning, the vomit which had choked her mother to death in her sleep, was also in Tabitha’s hair.

When Kelly first met the girl, she saw her looking at the world the same way a captive chimpanzee looks at the glass walls of her zoo enclosure — through eyes untaught to hope for anything better. Kelly recognised the way the girl was trying to disappear in plain sight. It was something you learned when you lived in small spaces amongst violent tempers. But her eyes did meet Kelly’s, for just a moment. And when they did, something silent and unspoken and primal passed between them. If there was one thing Kelly had taken away from her time as a veterinary receptionist it was the sure and certain belief that all living creatures naturally seek comfort, or what human beings might naively call, love.

And so it was, in almost no time at all (compared with how long it had taken to get this far), Tabitha came to live with Kelly.

The first problem was getting the girl to talk. Not to ‘open up’ or ‘express herself’. She had a counsellor assigned who was supposed to be doing that, but literally — to speak. Tabitha had a stammer. It wasn’t clear whether she’d always had it or whether it was the result of the trauma she had suffered. The only words she ever really attempted were ‘thank you’ which was usually a complete disaster, the voiced fricative hammering relentlessly against the poor girl’s teeth.

So, for the most part they learned to communicate wordlessly. Tabitha stayed in her room a lot, listening to music. She’d arrived with a Sony Discman and a whole load of CDs in a plastic wallet. Kelly bought her an iPhone and some Bose headphones and a Spotify subscription. She’d downloaded all of Tabitha’s favourite artists and albums, somehow the girl had absolutely impeccable musical taste.

In the beginning, Tabitha would come downstairs only for meals, which were eaten in silence. Then she would creep back up to her room. But occasionally, as the weeks passed, Kelly would be sat under a blanket watching TV and she’d sense a presence — there Tabitha would be, waiting just outside the living room door, standing silently in the hall. Kelly would beckon her in and she’d curl up under the other end of the blanket, the two of them: bookends on the sofa, watching EastEnders or some other shit on TV.

Kelly worried about Tabitha’s mental stimulation. She was due to re-start secondary school next year and it was impossible to tell how advanced she was in her studies, and Tabitha wasn’t going to tell her. Then there was the social aspect — an encyclopaedic knowledge of The Cure, Joy Division and David Bowie would carry no weight with the dead-eyed denizens of Year Eight.

She bought Tabitha a PlayStation, silently cursing herself for turning to modern technology to occupy her child’s brain, but clinging nonetheless to the notion she might actually enjoy it. She set it up in Tabitha’s room and came back an hour later, only to find Tabitha sitting in the cardboard box in which it had arrived, arms hugging her knees, listening to Television’s ‘Marquee Moon’ on her headphones.

Enough was enough, thought Kelly. It didn’t matter to her whether the girl stayed in her room sitting in boxes listening to music all day; some people would see it as a pretty decent way to spend one’s time. But if she was going to go to school then she needed to learn to express herself or they’d tear her to shreds. So even though it was going to be painful, she was taking her to see Henry.

*******

‘Good afternoon Tabitha dear!’ said Henry, smiling politely from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. A decade had passed (God — had it really been so long?) since Kelly had last seen him and she had to admit he’d weathered nicely. He still had a full head of pleasantly unruly, dishevelled hair which was now almost completely white. It went well with his open plaid shirt and faded old band t-shirt, a uniform of which he would never tire. Today’s band was The Melvins, not one Kelly was familiar with.

Tabitha didn’t respond, she just slinked behind Kelly and eyed Henry coolly, appraisingly.

‘Care to have some wine?’ asked Henry.

‘She’s eleven,’ replied Kelly.

 ‘Ah, well, let’s pretend I was asking you then? How are you, you silly old slag? Give me a hug for God’s sake!’ Kelly rushed forward and embraced Henry. It was wonderful to see him again. For a while he’d been a part of the closest thing Kelly had ever had to a family. Until it all ended, as things have a way of doing, and life swept them off down different paths which never re-converged, until now. Funny how, just occasionally it seems life might have a plan for us after all.

 ‘Alright, enough’s enough. Get off. There’s no point trying to turn me straight you know. Even your last raunchy play couldn’t do the job!’ Kelly slapped Henry on the arm and laughed in a way she hadn’t allowed herself in years.

‘Now, Tabitha,’ said Henry, ‘Kelly tells me you’re a big music fan. Who’s your favourite band.’

‘She likes The Cure, don’t you sweetheart?’

‘Ah, ah, ah…. button it Mummy dearest.’ said Henry, pouring two glasses of ice-cold white wine for them both. ‘Rule number one — if you speak for her, she’ll never have to do it herself. Tabitha, you were saying?’

‘Th… th… th…’

‘Who’s the lead singer?’

‘Robert Smith.’

‘Aha, so we’re not a fan of the definite article then, ok I can work with this.’

Henry had done many things in his working life, most of which revolved around helping people in some way. He was not, by his own admission, a professional speech therapist, but he did have some experience.

Tabitha had brightened somewhat after successfully naming Robert Smith, but suddenly, out of nowhere she bared her teeth and let out an audible hiss. Kelly was stunned but Henry seemed not to notice, as his attention was now focused on the thing which had caused her reaction.

‘Ah! Here she is, here she is. Hello my little darling have you woken up from your nap? Yes, yes, yes, good girl.’

Henry was talking to a brown and white Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who he now scooped up into his arms and kissed repeatedly on the forehead. The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth, its eyes bulged in its head, its back limbs flailed around before Henry cradled them to his chest.

‘Meet Miss Chablis Grand Cru!’ said Henry, bursting with pride.

‘Oh for God’s sake Henry. Can’t you ever just call them something normal?’

Kelly scratched the dog obligingly behind the ear. Tabitha kept her distance, not keen on the dog at all — Kelly made a mental note.

‘Tabitha,’ said Henry, ‘why don’t you go and make yourself at home in the living room through there. Me and your mum will be through in a minute. Chablis will go with you, go on my darling.’

Tabitha slinked off to the living room, closely followed by Chablis, eager to get to know their new guest. Kelly stood frozen to the spot in absolute consternation while Henry (a typical man) had no idea of the gravity of what he’d just said and simply swirled his Viognier in his glass before sticking his nose in it, savouring the rich notes of lychee and elderflower.

‘Henry,’ said Kelly.

‘What?’

‘You just referred to me as ‘Mum’. We haven’t done it yet, officially. I’m not sure if I was ever going to.’

‘Ah, yes. Well now it’s done isn’t it? So you don’t have to spend the rest of your life worrying about it. Now look, the poor girl does seem rather introverted and this stammer won’t help. Have you thought about changing her name?’

‘What? Why on earth would we do such a thing?’

‘Because darling, the one word stammerers find most difficult is their own first name. And think how many times she’ll have to say it when she’s starting school.’

‘Oh bugger. I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Yes, it’s a tricky one. I’ve met quite a few stammerers who’ve changed their name to something easier, and she does seem to have trouble with her T’s. Plus, you know — a change of name can actually give people the little extra confidence they need. A new identity, gives them back a tiny bit of the power they’ve lost, I suppose. It’s all to do with perception — ours and other people’s. What’s the old adage? Whether you’re a confident person, or whether you’ve just become very good at pretending to be confident, the effect is exactly the same. You pretend to be an actress so you should know what I’m talking about.’

Kelly slapped him round the back of the head this time. Funny, she thought — you meet maybe a couple of people in your life with whom time does nothing to dull the friendship. You’ll always just be able to pick up straight where you left off.

‘I worked with this one chap quite recently who’d taken a new name,’ Henry continued. ‘Idolised his brother from what I recall. Then his brother died in an accident, hit and run or something, and so my guy changed his name to his brother’s name, just found it easier to say. He was called Richard and his brother was called Douglas, or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, nice guy, very handsome. Gay, so don’t get any ideas. Took a long time to realise it though. You’d like him.’

‘We’re not changing her name.’

‘Fine, whatever you say. Let’s go and see what we can do for her then.’

Henry’s house hadn’t changed much since Kelly had last seen him. The living room was an expression of the man himself — chaotic yet comforting. The ceiling had low wooden beams, and a log-burning stove crackled in the hearth. Stained-glass Tiffany lamps balanced on stacks of dusty old books. Expensive looking throws casually strewn about the room, mainly (Kelly suspected) for the dog.

Tabitha was sat in the corner of a well-worn, bottle-green sofa, pressed right up against the arm; Chablis sat facing her — tail wagging furiously — trying desperately to make friends. Kelly took the battered armchair by the fire and Henry plonked himself down on the floor, glass still in hand, looking up at Tabitha and Chablis. He didn’t speak, seemingly testing to see whether the girl was capable of initiating a conversation.

Tabitha, realising all of the attention had shifted towards her, looked around the room for a distraction. Her eyes quickly scanned and measured her surroundings (Kelly had seen her do this before, like a bodyguard or an ex-marine in some cheesy action film who instinctively checks every room for entrance and exit points) before coming to rest abruptly on an ornate, silver photo frame which sat alone on the wooden mantelpiece above the fire.

The photo contained within was grainy, black and white, slightly blurry. It was of a man sitting cross-legged on the floor, listening to music on large headphones plugged into an old Hi-Fi unit and a vinyl turntable. At his feet were the discarded sleeves of several 12” vinyl records. The man was looking down at the floor but you could just about make out his face, smiling. The audio equipment certainly predated the man, but to Tabitha, it all looked old.

‘Who’s he?’ the girl asked softly.

‘Ah,’ said Henry. ‘Our friend, Jeff. He’s the reason your m…Kelly and I, are friends.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked Tabitha.

‘Well, it’s quite the story. He’s actually conducting a research mission, in deepest Africa. Living amongst the Werawe Tribe of the Great Savanna.’

‘Henry….’

‘They live in the long grass of the Great Plains, you see, and they’re naturally very short people, like Kelly here. So they’re always getting lost and jumping up and down shouting “Werawe!? Werawe!? Werawe!?”’

‘Henry!’

‘What?’

‘You can’t tell that joke anymore, especially not to kids. It’s racist.’

‘Er…don’t think so. The Werawe Tribe are short. Short isn’t a race.’

‘Well it’s cultural appropriation then.’

‘In what sense?’

‘Just stop it.’

‘Fine.’

‘He’s dead isn’t he?’ said Tabitha.

Kelly looked at Henry, feeling as though she should apologise for the bluntness of the child’s question. Ready to take full responsibility if any offence were caused. How quickly this newfound parental anxiety had consumed her.

‘Yes,’ said Henry, with a kindness to his voice, not wishing to lie to a girl who clearly did not need to be protected from the truth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he is sweetheart. He was a wonderful man.’

Kelly reached over and took Henry’s hand, as they both held a moment for their friend.

‘H… he… he….’ Tabitha sounded like she had the hiccups. ‘He’s still with you though,’ she managed to say.

Kelly felt the familiar stab of pain for this poor girl. She had obviously been told this herself, many times by well-intentioned people and now she was repeating it to try and comfort Henry, a man she had only just met. Amazing how children who had suffered so much, still held such a huge capacity for empathy.

‘He’s your eyes in the darkness.’

Well that was a surprise. Tabitha didn’t stutter or trip over those words. She spoke them clearly, definitively. And suddenly Kelly could swear the afternoon sunlight in Henry’s living room had been turned down a little, and the orange of the fire and the reds, yellows and greens of the lamplights all seemed to glow a little brighter.

Henry felt it too, as though the whole universe had just been dimmed and a single spotlight had fallen upon this living room stage and these four players — two middle-aged friends, a young girl and a spaniel. And at once they were aware, every single thing that had been, or ever would be, were all just threads intertwining. Their lives were a tapestry, and up to this point they’d been standing too close to it, looking only at the individual strands, but now, once they stepped back, they could begin to see a picture. They were moving along the same vectors, travelling together through the astral planes.

They could see Jeff, listening to vinyl records on headphones. Jeff who hated having his photo taken and always refused and so Henry had captured this singular shot, when he was perfectly at peace, his face and mind serene. And Kelly could see herself as a little girl, winding around the legs of the guests at her mother’s parties — ghosts of an aperture now, spectral in framing.

And both adults would spend years pondering what the girl had said — your eyes in the darkness. Did she mean eyes watching over you? Maybe. But the dead lacked agency, their counsel was worthless. And it was sad to think of a soul forever watching, longing for what it could not have. Eventually they would each arrive at the same notion, quite separately and years apart — that the eyes in the darkness are the eyes only we can see, quite unique to all of us. Eyes shining brightly in the darkest of places, if only to let us know we are not alone.

‘I tell you what…’ said Henry, clapping his hands together. ‘Tabitha, would you like to help me give Chablis her biscuits?’

The girl looked at Kelly, and nodded her head.

‘Excellent,’ said Henry, ‘let’s all have biscuits. Except, instead of biscuits, I think I might have gin.’

‘Make that two,’ said Kelly.

---

About Rick White

Rick White is a fiction writer from Manchester, UK whose work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, Best British and Irish Flash Fiction and the Pushcart Prize. Rick’s debut short story collection, ‘Talking to Ghosts at Parties’ was released in 2022, however, due to the unending cruelty of the universe/economic climate, the book is now in need of a new publisher. Rick is currently working on a new collection and novel, both of which he hopes to finish before he expires. 

To read more of Rick’s work head to www.ricketywhite.com or follow @ricketywhite on Instagram and X.