Jan Carson

  * * *

  The Last Resort

  Stories

  Contents

  1 Pete

  2 Lois

  3 Richard

  4 Anna

  5 Vidas

  6 Alma

  7 Malcolm

  8 Kathleen

  9 John

  10 Lynette

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Jan Carson is a writer and community arts facilitator based in Belfast. Her first novel, Malcolm Orange Disappears, was published in 2014 to critical acclaim, followed by a short-story collection, Children’s Children (2016), and two flash fiction anthologies, Postcard Stories (2017) and Postcard Stories 2 (2020). Her second novel, The Fire Starters (2019), won the EU Prize for Literature and was shortlisted for the Dalkey Novel of the Year Award. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and on BBC Radio 3 and 4. She has won the Harper’s Bazaar short-story competition and has been shortlisted for the BBC National Short Story Award and the Seán Ó Faoláin Short Story Prize. She specializes in running arts projects and events with older people, especially those living with dementia.

  Also by Jan Carson

  Malcolm Orange Disappears

  The Fire Starters

  STORIES

  Children’s Children

  Postcard Stories

  Postcard Stories 2

  Written in Lockdown, conceived up the north coast with Hilary Copeland and Emma Must.

  1

  Pete

  Frankie’s rallied the troops. They’re eager to get the show on the road. Frankie says he thinks the rain’s for lifting. They all nod optimistically, though every one of them’s dressed for a downpour. ‘Happy’ Trevor’s in his wellies. The ladies are sporting Dunnes anoraks, hooded and zipped to the chin. They’d put you in mind of Teletubbies. But you wouldn’t want to tell them that. Frankie has donned a fisherman’s hat, the sort Oasis wore in the nineties. It sits high on his head like a loft extension. Given his age and the sombre occasion, it strikes me as somewhat undignified.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ asks ‘Happy’ Trevor. I want to say, of course I want a bloody hand. It near killed me getting the bench out of the van. I had to roll it arse over end across the car park. It’s still sitting where it landed, outside my caravan. I’d started picturing me out there in the summer, strumming the guitar while the sun went down. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have bothered – I’d feel a right numpty singing, with this lot gawping through their curtains – but the idea of it appealed. Obviously, I knew the bench was Frankie’s. It’s his name on the wee brass plaque. To Lynette. Always remembered. Love forever, Mum and Dad. I knew he’d want it put somewhere meaningful. I just wasn’t expecting him so soon.

  We’re only going two hundred yards, but Kathleen has packed for a day trip: tea in a flask and china mugs, sandwiches, traybakes, a first-aid kit. She’s made her hubby bring his camera. ‘Happy’ Trevor looks suitably thrilled. She has him documenting everything for Frankie’s sake. What’s a blind fella going to do with photos? He’s hardly going to frame them. If you ask me, the whole thing’s a bit unhinged. But there’s no point reasoning with this lot. You’d sooner turn the DUP.

  Today’s the first day of the season. It gets earlier every year. Most of the regulars will arrive later. The ones with kids, like Lois’s lot, can’t get down till after school. The retired contingent appeared before six: a.m. not p.m. (I kid you not.) They wanted to beat the traffic. The way they talk, you’d think it was nose to bumper from Dunsilly. It hasn’t been like that for years. We’ll be half empty till Easter. Ballycastle’s a ghost town in winter. Anybody with sense or money’ll take every opportunity to easyJet the hell out of Ulster. For forty quid you can half-term in a proper city, somewhere with fountains and decent wine. It’s only the desperate and depraved who’d choose to spend February in a caravan. Muggins here doesn’t have a choice.

  I heard the oldies arriving in my dreams. Ford Mondeos reversing slowly. Kettles and hoovers grumbling. Good Morning Ulster on the radio. I should’ve been up. I’m meant to be responsible now. If I don’t make an utter bollocks of this season, the whole shebang is coming to me. I’m not off to the best of starts. I was still flat out when Frankie appeared at my door. ‘Are you up yet, son?’ he shouted. ‘It’s today, so it is. When do you want to do the bench?’

  He was all for starting then and there, at ten to seven in the dark. I fobbed him off with a mug of tea. While I was making it, I’d a stroke of genius. Pure hanging, I was – God knows where the idea came from – but I heard myself telling him Lynette would’ve wanted everybody there. We should wait till folks got their breakfasts in them. This seemed to sit well with Frankie. He took his tea and a chocolate digestive and plonked himself down on the bench to wait.

  I felt awful, lying to him. I’d no notion what Lynette would want. She was well dead by the time I heard about her. My cousin Kevin filled me in the summer I turned nine. Dad buggered off that Christmas, leaving me and Mammy on our own. Uncle Jim had us down to Seacliff for the Twelfth fortnight. Uncle Jim’s always been kind like that. Me and Kevin were in the car park kicking a football when he pointed out the scorch mark. ‘That’s where the wee girl exploded,’ he told me. ‘You weren’t born back then.’ After I found out about Lynette, I wouldn’t do goalie any more. We always piled our jumpers up that end and I felt sick, standing where she’d died.

  The rain definitely isn’t lifting. I can feel it sogging through my jacket. ‘Happy’ Trevor’s still waiting for an answer. Do I want a hand with the bench?

  I’m not that fit at the best of times. After two months ‘caretaking’ – with nothing to do but eat and booze – I’ve gone to flab. I could seriously do with a hand. I consider my options. They’re limited, to say the least. Frankie’s blind. Trevor’s pushing eighty. John has his hands full with the wife. She’s clearly doting. Him and that woman Anna – the lonely-looking one in the cardigans – have her firmly clamped between them. You’d think Martha was about to bolt. There’s a bad-tempered Yorkie to contend with and a quarter-mile of boggy field. God almighty, it’s Last of the Summer Wine I’ve landed in.

  ‘Naw, you’re grand,’ I say. ‘I can manage.’ I’d like to say ‘Happy’ Trevor looks relieved, but he’s only got two facial expressions, both of which are scowls.

  I haul one end of the bench on to my shoulder. My back makes a noise it’s never made before. Now’s the time to admit defeat. I could call Uncle Jim and ask him to send a cousin down. But the oldies are already falling in, forming a kind of cortège. Martha starts humming the funeral march. It’s not her fault – she doesn’t know where she is – but it isn’t helping one wee bit. Frankie starts sniffling. ‘Right, son,’ he mumbles, ‘let’s take my wee girl home to rest.’ Seemingly, this is a funeral now. I don’t have the strength to object. ‘Let’s go,’ I wheeze, and we’re off. The back legs trail behind me, scooping two deep rivets out of the grass. Tomorrow, I’ll have to come back and fix the mess. It’s a nightmare being the responsible one.

  Uncle Jim’s left strict instructions: do whatever Frankie wants. He still feels bad about Lynette. She would’ve been turning fifty this year. Not that Jim could’ve stopped it. If anything, it’s Frankie’s fault. If you were in the RUC back then, you knew to be careful about your car. You didn’t send your weans on ahead with the keys, even if you were on holidays. Frankie must know this himself. We’re all here to help him but you can tell all the same the fella doesn’t want helping. It’s the pain that’s keeping him alive.

  Frankie wants Lynette’s bench up on the cliff, so up on the cliff it’ll have to go. Even if I wreck my back in the process. Even if it seems a bit demented, encouraging folks to sit up there, when the cliff’s eroding. One false move and you’d be over the edge. Frankie claims Lynette liked the view: the sea and the scenery and all that. Aye right, she was fifteen when she died. What sort of teenager likes ‘a view’? If I was older, or had more gumption, I’d level with him. I’d tell him to leave the bench down here, near the kiddies’ playground, where everybody can get the good of it. I’d tell him it’d be symbolic: peace and children being the future and all that crap they put on murals now.

  Maybe this is a kind of test, Uncle Jim’s way of discovering whether I’ve got what it takes to run Seacliff. It’s not too late for him to call things off, though it was only yesterday he dropped down the deeds. ‘Think about it, son,’ he said. ‘I’d like to retire before the summer.’ I haven’t looked at them yet. It won’t feel real till I see my name there, next to ‘owner’. I’ve been carrying the envelope around inside my jacket. I haven’t opened it yet. I’m not ready for Seacliff to be real.

  Do I have what it takes to step into Jim’s shoes? Do I even want to try? Uncle Jim’s the Richard Branson of our family. He has the barber’s, a pub, two takeaways (Chinese and ordinary) and this site. He called it Seacliff because the sea can be seen from the cliff behind it. Uncle Jim hasn’t a creative bone in his body. Nobody in our family does. Mammy’s always wondering where I got the music from and why I couldn’t have got something useful instead, something a bit more lucrative.

  You’ll be surprised to hear I had no great ambition to run a failing caravan park. Six months ago, I was all for leaving. London. Berlin. Amsterdam. I won’t be telling Uncle Jim – he’s big up in the Orange himself – but I got the Irish passport and everything. Sure, we’d no notion what Brexit was going to mean. There were mad rumours flying around. You’d need a visa to get down to Dublin. Derry was declaring independence. They were digging a moat around the border. I knew if I didn’t leave soonish, I’d end up staying. Here, you either go when you’re young, or you’re stuck for good. I wanted to have a stab at the music. I wasn’t Dylan or anything, but I’d a few good songs and a decent voice. If worst came to worst, I could do covers in the Irish bars. U2. Van. The Cranberries. Foreigners go mad for an Irish accent. Especially the Americans. They can’t tell the difference between East Belfast and the wilds of Cork.

  Then Uncle Jim had the stroke and the doctor told him to start thinking about early retirement. The pub and the barber’s went to Kevin. My cousin Nigel got the takeaways. I wasn’t expecting Jim to offer me Seacliff. If he’d gone about it any other way, I’d have been all, thanks but no thanks, Uncle Jim. But he made such a scene of it, standing up at the Christmas table, announcing that I was like a son to him and he wanted me to have a bit of his empire. Jesus, it was touching stuff. I was sat there, gurning in my cracker hat, and Mammy, she was gurning too. She hadn’t looked that proud since I got my bronze Duke of Ed. After that, I could hardly tell them I was heading off.

  There’ll be no leaving now. Seacliff’s got me. There’s something stuck about this place. All the caravans here are statics; nobody’s going anywhere fast. It already feels like the future is dragging me down. In fairness, it’s probably just the bench. We’ve barely made it fifty yards and I’m dripping sweat. That big muscly boyo who’s taken Marty McClintock’s van comes out to see what the commotion’s about. For a minute I think he’s going to help, then he yells, ‘Do the Parades Commission know about youse lot?’ and cackles at his own wit.

  ‘Bloody eejit,’ mutters ‘Happy’ Trevor. I almost drop the bench. I can’t believe the language on him. Him and Kathleen are good-living. She actually says ‘crop’ instead of ‘crap’.

  It’s all too much for Frankie. He’s started wailing like a child. Martha’s doing her best to harmonize. I could weep myself, I’m that exhausted. I feel like that Greek lad shoving his boulder up the hill. How much longer is this going to take? I drop my end. I sit down to stretch the stiffness out of my back. Kathleen thinks we’ve paused for refreshments. She tells ‘Happy’ Trevor to start pouring the tea. Out come the buns and the egg salad sandwiches and, to be honest, I’m glad of the distraction. We huddle beneath golf umbrellas while Trevor prays for the food and the task ahead. I’m not what you’d call a religious man but at this stage, if the Good Lord wants to help, I’ll not be laughing in his face.

  Just as Trevor’s labouring over his last Amen, a young fella comes out of the big green static. He does a double take when he spies us. He’s not expecting a rake of oldies picnicking in the rain. He recovers quickly and asks what we’re up to, then accepts a sandwich and a mug of tea. He offers Frankie his condolences and says – all casual like – ‘Do you want a hand with that?’ This is my Damascus moment. May the Good Lord forgive my unbelief. He’s answered ‘Happy’ Trevor’s prayer with a genuine angel. I’m so relieved, I almost cry. ‘What about your good shoes?’ asks Kathleen, for your man’s all decked out in a swanky suit. He glances down as if he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. He shrugs. ‘Sure, it’s only a bit of mud.’

  Richard – this is our angel’s name – rolls up his sleeves. He positions himself at the bench’s foot. We one, two, three and lift together. It’s not half as heavy spread between two. We shuffle forwards through the field. The rain lifts a bit and it’s kind of scenic. I can do this, I think. Not just the bench: the job, the site, the staying put. It was daft to think of leaving. I should be grateful to have this job.

  When we get the bench positioned, I’m going to make an announcement. I’ll wait till Frankie’s said his piece and ‘Happy’ Trevor’s done his sermon, then I’ll tell them I’m taking over Seacliff. Saying it will make it real. Maybe I’ll even sign the deeds up there, in a sort of symbolic way. The oldies’ll like that, being included. They’ve been here since Seacliff began. I reach to check I have the deeds with me but my jacket pocket’s empty. The envelope must have fallen out. It’s that windy this morning, it’ll be halfway to Scotland by now. I try to work myself up to feeling annoyed. But I’m not. I’m almost overcome with relief.

  2

  Lois

  Nobody wants to sleep on the table. It used to be a novelty, the kids’ favourite feature of the caravan. Anders had a whole palaver he’d go over: the table was a Transformer. They needed to say the magic word before it’d change into a bed. The kids are too cool for table beds now. They want their privacy: a girls’ room and a separate room for Fergus. Besides, their dad has taken the magic word back to Norway. I can’t figure out how to make the bed myself.

  I sleep in the lounge, stretched out along the built-in sofa. I’d be more comfortable on the floor. I hardly sleep at all and, when I do, I always dream the bad dreams. Down here, close to the ocean, they’re more real. It’s the quiet. There are no car alarms or sirens, no raised voices returning from the pub; nothing like reality. There is the wind, the rain and the angry sea, pitching itself against the cliff face. I know it can’t be, but this place always feels haunted, as if something or someone is watching me. Every night this week I’ve dreamt about slimy black creatures, faceless things with fins and scales. They crawl out of the sea to steal my children. I wake sweating in my sleeping bag and have to force myself not to check on them.

  You don’t have to be a psychologist to work out where the dreams come from. Take one comparative mythologist with a PhD in sea monsters. Add a traumatic divorce. Place in a godforsaken caravan site. Wait to see what unimaginable horrors emerge.

  What did I think I was doing, dragging the kids down here for half-term? Who knows? It’s me I feel sorry for, not them. They’ve another holiday coming. Their dad’s whisking them off to Bali for Easter. I can’t afford anything except Granny’s caravan. Orla’s never done reminding me how crap it is. Bali will be paradise after Ballycastle. Anders wins again. The salary he’s on, he can afford to spoil them. Norwegian universities hand out tenure like it’s going out of fashion. In Belfast you’re lucky to get a couple of undergrad tutorials and a pass for the staff canteen. I’d go down the research route but they’re not exactly tripping over themselves to fund research into things that go bump at the bottom of the sea. Anders, on the other hand, had no problem securing funding for his research into the Jörmungandr. He’s some pup, that Jörmungandr; the Norse equivalent of the Kraken. The second he lets go of his tail, the world’s going to end. Anders left me two days after he got the Jörmungandr gig. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

  While we’re on the subject of metaphors, let me present the static caravan. If you’re being technical, it’s an oxymoron. A caravan’s meant to make you mobile. But this one’s static, which means, despite my best intentions, I am perpetually stuck. It didn’t always feel like this. We used to have good times here. Anders and I would take turns minding the kids so we could work on our PhDs. We brought them down to hunt monsters in the caves. I didn’t realize it, but those were our best times. Back then, the future felt infinite. The kids aren’t little any more. They’re not interested in ploutering round windswept beaches, searching for kelpies and selkies or whatever mad thing their mammy’s researching this week. They want high-speed broadband, Starbucks and their mates. I can hardly blame them. Alma’s eleven now. Fergus and Orla are nearly fourteen. Gone are the days when they’d run screaming in delight at the mere mention of a Grindylow emerging from the water to grab an unsuspecting child’s ankle. The Grindylows in Harry Potter gave them a bit of extra mileage, but the twins are well over Harry now. Alma won’t be far behind.

  My kids have grown up. They’re no longer afraid of unbelievable things. Now their fears are sharp and specific. Who will Alma run around with in big school? What if nobody watches Orla’s YouTube channel? Do I think Dad’ll get a new family in Oslo? Now, it’s only me who dreams about monsters. I don’t know what to do with my fears. I don’t know how to get over them.

 

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