Goose (7 page)

Lying back on my bed I listen to the lyrics of Gordon's music. The chorus of one song is:

How can Christ be your smile? I try not to overthink it and attempt to lose myself in the music. I want to have learned all of the words in time for the gig tonight. I have an hour before I have to leave. That would be a pretty cool thing to do. Cool in a going-to-a-God-themed-rock-concert kind of way.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Gordon since Thursday. I know he isn't the sexiest guy ever, but there is something about him I really fancy. I think it's just how well he knows himself, how self-assured he seems. How comfortable he is with his faith. Comfortable enough to stand on stage in front of a room full of people and sing songs about it. I can't imagine doing anything like that. I haven't even told my own mother I am religious, let alone an entire ticket-paying audience. I want to have as much conviction – I want to feel what he feels and believe the way that he does. I close my eyes.

‘Dear God,' I say quietly, ‘thank you for the last few weeks. I've really enjoyed getting to know you. I'm not sure I am at the stage of head banging to rock songs about you, but I am not really the kind of person who would head bang to rock songs anyway, so please don't be offended. I will give it a go though, I promise. I just wanted to tell you that I have been feeling better about Dad. I still miss him every day of course, but I think I feel less guilty, or at least more understanding about the fact there was nothing I could have done to stop his heart attack. And I can breathe through those moments where I miss him so much I could cry. I just focus on him and smile and somehow the tears just don't come. That is when I feel you the most, when I find a way to stop the tears. It's like you dry them up for me. I have created a voice for you in my head – I think you would like it. It's quite deep and slow, and soothing. It wouldn't work on anyone else – a human might come across as a bit creepy – but for you, it works. I think you might have sent me a message the other night at Tudor Falls? I thought making me sit through the sex with Miss Trunks and Mr Carter was a really odd way to do it, but I did get your message. You showed me that I am a good person, didn't you? You reminded me how other people do bad things, how they lie, how they cheat, and that my guilt and my issues with myself really are not based on anything I have actually done. That is right, isn't it? That is the lesson you wanted me to learn? So thank you, God. I  … '

‘Who on earth are you talking to?' asks Mum. She is inside my room. I can feel the heat coming off her. What do I do? Do I tell her, or do I pretend I am learning something for school? She looks exasperated with me, but then she often is. This is who I am now. I must be strong.

‘I was talking to God.'

‘What?'

‘God. I've been going to church for weeks.'

She looks confused.

‘God?'

‘Yes, God. Do you believe in God, Mum?'

‘No, I do not. You know I don't go to church.'

‘Well, I do. Did you want anything?'

I can't quite gauge her reaction. It's impossible to tell whether she's angry, or surprised, or possibly even frightened. She just keeps staring at me lying on the bed, her eyes scanning me up and down. Then it's almost as if she remembers what she is here for.

‘I need you to babysit Abi tonight. I have been asked out.'

‘By a man?' I ask.

‘Yes, by a man, Flo. I wouldn't have thought I will be late.'

I very rarely say no to my mother. Partly because I rarely need to, because I hardly have the world's most kicking social life, but mostly because even though our conversations might make us sound like two people who are virtual strangers to each other, we actually get on better than ever now, and I want it to stay that way. My life is now a juggling act of trying to keep her on a level so she doesn't have a nervous breakdown – something I am aware she could have at any given moment if she had the opportunity – and I worry that saying no to her will put us back to where we were even two years ago. She hated me, and I hated her. These days we can just about stomach each other. It's a vast improvement. But tonight I am not available, and she is going to have to be OK with that.

‘Sorry, Mum, I can't. I have a date too.'

‘You have a what?' She looks flabbergasted, which doesn't do much for my ego. ‘Is Renée going?'

‘No, Mum. I love Renée, but I wouldn't take her on a date with me.'

Mum is obviously having trouble processing almost everything I have laid on her since she walked into my room.

‘What is this music?' she asks.

‘It's The Trinity. My boyfriend is the lead singer.'

She stands, staring at me, like I'm an alien. I close my eyes again. I feel so stupid for calling Gordon my boyfriend. I don't know where that came from. Maybe God made me say it. I keep my eyes shut and hold my breath, hoping that my face doesn't turn bright pink.

Mum continues to stare at me for a bit, and then she gives a small shrug.

‘Well, I guess I could ask my date to come here,' she says at last, before she leaves the room.

I am shocked at two things. One is the fact that my mother is being so reasonable, when she is not a reasonable woman. And the other is that I just called Gordon my boyfriend, which he isn't. Yet. Did Mum and I just have some weird mother–daughter chat about boys by accident? I suppose I shouldn't question any of it. Just go with it.

Now, what on earth am I going to wear?

I struggle with outfits at the best of times, usually opting for the same thing of black trousers and either a black T-shirt with sparkly bits on the shoulders and my denim jacket, or I borrow something of Renée's. She has got some really nice stuff now that her aunty Jo takes her shopping. Mum, on the other hand, still thinks that as long as my naked body is hidden I don't need anything new. Even though we are not broke, not after Dad's life insurance came through, and she now works full-time on reception at an insurance firm, she still can't bring herself to give me money. My job helps – I get thirty-two quid a week from Smellies, and much more when I work the holidays, so I am doing OK after Easter. But since shelling out to fix my car, buying new shoes and paying Mum back for the magic kit she agreed to buy for me last year – as long as I paid back every penny – I am not left with much.

I put on my black trousers and the black T-shirt with sparkly shoulders. It's fine. The Trinity gig will hardly be the fashion party of the year, will it?

As I arrive at St James, a large church just above town that is now a concert hall, there are a lot of people outside standing in front of a big poster on the wall – with Gordon's face, a crucifix and the band name and logo (another crucifix with a hand around it) and the words
The Trinity, TONIGHT!

People are smoking. There doesn't seem to be anyone over about twenty-five, and at a glance it looks like any other group of young people hanging around outside a gig. Kerry runs over to me.

‘Flo!' she shouts to get my attention. ‘Here, have some of this before we go in. They are checking bags.'

She passes me a big bottle of cider and I have a sip. I didn't realise she drank. On Thursdays we just have tea and whatever high-sugar snacks Sandra brings, and we all munch away happily as we talk through whatever part of the Bible we are discussing that week. But no one has ever mentioned booze. I think I just presumed they didn't drink. Kerry definitely seems a bit pissed tonight, though. It doesn't take much to make me drunk, and I want to have a clear head tonight, so I just have a sip and hand her back the bottle.

‘I am so glad you came,' she says, hugging me affectionately and kissing my cheek. It's the kind of lingering hug that feels like more than just a hello, and more like a needy thank you. ‘I wanted to invite you myself, but wasn't sure if you were ready for a load of rocking Christians all in the same room. It can be a bit full on.'

‘I'm ready. I'm looking forward to it. Gordon said he would get me in for free.'

‘He did? Wow, he is usually quite tight with the tickets.' Kerry doesn't look too impressed. ‘Shall we go in?'

As Gordon promised, my name is on the door, but Kerry's isn't. I feel bad about that, but I guess I have to get used to that, if he is going to be my boyfriend. He can't get everyone free entry, can he? I feel cool for the first time in my life.

The room is huge, very churchy in shape but not churchy in how it's decorated. There is a big balcony with lots of seats and there are already lots of people up there, but down in the main bit in front of the stage people are just standing and waiting for the band to come on.

I had no idea there were so many young people on Guernsey who are into God. It's like another world. I recognise some of them from other years in school – a couple of girls from Tudor Falls, for instance – and some from just being out and about. I should probably say hello or something, but I am happy sticking with Kerry, and I am keeping my eyes open for Gordon. I wonder if he'll come and see me before he goes on stage?

‘I learned all the words to Gordon's songs,' I tell Kerry. ‘Well, most of them.'

‘Wow, you're like their groupie,' Kerry says in a weirdly unfriendly tone. ‘Free entry, memorising his lyrics  …  Next you'll want to get together with the lead singer.' She isn't looking at me, but her body language has completely changed. I could take a guess that Kerry is being so off with me because maybe she's jealous because she fancies Gordon and wants him all to herself. But I like Kerry and I don't want to go there. So instead I pretend I haven't noticed and allow myself to fantasise about going out with a guy like Gordon. I wonder if he's ever had sex.

I'm eighteen and a virgin. I'm all right with that – I was never in a hurry to lose my virginity before – but I definitely feel like I might be ready, if I find the right guy. Since going to church and meeting with the group I feel a bit more confident, like I am really part of something. I don't feel like the saddest person in the room when I am with these people. Like I can trust them. The thing that put me off sex in the past was the idea of a boy getting to know my body before he gets to know me. I overhear so many conversations in the common room where the boys are telling their mates about the girls they got off with, or making fun of girls' fannies and boobs in some way. It makes me really paranoid. I would rather be a virgin so no one could make those jokes about me than have sex with someone just because I feel I should, and open myself up to that kind of humiliation. The last time I let a boy put his hands in my knickers I forgot I had my period and he told everyone. I'm still not really over it, wondering who knows and who is laughing about me. The thought of someone laughing about how I smell down there or how weird they find my body is too much for me. It's horrible. A guy like Gordon wouldn't laugh and joke about a girl's body, I can tell.

And there's something else – I've never been hugely sexual, and I don't think I'm normal. Renée is so comfortable with being sexual with guys that it's kind of intimidating to talk about it with her, because she doesn't understand how it feels to not want to share yourself with anyone else. She also masturbates a lot, but I rarely do. I try it sometimes but nothing really happens and I just feel embarrassed. I am generally of the mindset that if you are doing something that makes you feel embarrassed when you are on your own, you should probably just stop.

The lights dim a bit and people start clapping. Then Gordon and his band walk out onto the stage. He looks different. There is something about his aura that has changed. He looks a bit like a rock star. I get a fizz of excitement.

‘Thank you all for coming,' Gordon says into the microphone. Everyone cheers, and it is obvious that the vast majority, if not all of the people in this room, are already fans of the band. I have only ever been to one gig. It was when Sister Sledge performed at Beau Sejour, the local leisure centre, about ten years ago. It was full of screaming girls under the age of twelve. This is full of seventeen- to twenty-five-year-olds with bottles of beer in their hands. It is not the same kind of gig. Still, I like the atmosphere. When I've been to a few more Trinity gigs I'll probably know how to behave at them. For the moment I am just being an observer.

‘I am Gordon Macintyre.' There is a cheer from the crowd. ‘We are The Trinity. Welcome to St James – is everybody ready to tell the big man how we feel?'

Everyone in the room shouts yes. It makes me jump. Gordon looks so sexy up on stage. I don't feel cool, and these people aren't supposed to be the cool kids, but here, in their world, they kind of are. The band kicks off, a sea of hands go into the air. Most people shut their eyes and drop their heads, which seems a bit odd when you have come to watch a band. I soon pick up the words to the first song.

‘I will follow you, Jesus, I will follow you, Jesus, I will follow you, the Lord.'

The song pretty much just repeats that line with various levels of intensity as it goes on. Everyone, absolutely everyone, is singing along, totally consumed, from the second it starts. They are lost in it. Arms in the air, eyes closed, praying. Gordon looks up the whole time, staying focused on a spot on the ceiling at the back of the room as if he is talking directly to it. In church it's so quiet that people are subdued in the way they pray. Here it's different. This is dramatic worship, loud, expressive, confident. I am standing in the middle of it feeling for the first time since I started coming to church that I don't fit in. This is all a bit much for me. I don't get it. I look at Kerry. Her head is facing up but her eyes are closed. Her arms are in the air and she is limp. She knows all of the words, and there is even a tear rolling down her cheek. I want to be like that – I want to feel that too. I close my eyes, put my arms in the air and reach up. I try to imagine God above me, watching me, grateful for my love. I want to feel my faith tingling in my fingertips as I connect with him and everyone around me in this other dimension they have all gone into. But I can't. I feel silly and self-conscious. Insincere and unconfident. I want to ask Kerry to teach me, but I don't want to disturb her. Plus she's been sending out hostile signals for the past half an hour, ever since we talked about Gordon. Right now, her mind is somewhere else.