# The Living

Anjali Joseph

LONGLISTED FOR THE DSC PRIZE FOR SOUTH ASIAN LITERATURE 2017In this tender, lyrical, and often funny novel, Anjali Joseph, author of Saraswati Park, shines a light on everyday life, illuminating its humour, beauty, and truth.There is a certain number of breaths each of us have to take, and no amount of care or carelessness can alter that.This is the story of two lives. Claire is a young single mother working in one of England’s last remaining shoe factories, her adult life formed by a teenage relationship. Is she ready to move on from memory and the routine of her days? Arun makes hand-sewn chappals at his home in Kolhapur. A recovered alcoholic, now a grandfather, he negotiates the newfound indignities of old age while returning in thought to the extramarital affair he had years earlier.These are lives woven through with the ongoing discipline of work and the responsibility and tedium of family life. Lives laced with the joys of friendship, the pleasure of sex, and the redemptive kindness of one’s own children. This is the story of the living.In this tender, lyrical and often funny novel, Anajli Joseph, author of Saraswati Park, shines a light on everyday life, illuminating its humour, beauty, and truth.

## Copyright

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.4thEstate.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2016

Copyright © Anjali Joseph 2016

Anjali Joseph asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover photographs: © Suparat Malipoom / EyeEm / Getty Images (top); © Rahul Kattayil / Getty Images (bottom)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Source ISBN: 9780007462841

Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007462827

Version: 2017-05-26

## Dedication

To my parents

## Epigraph

The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead.

Bhagavad Gita, 2.11,

translated by Swami Sivananda

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part I: Shoes

Chapter 1: A long way from the morning

Chapter 2: Like heavy water

Chapter 3: Nothing’s new

Chapter 4: A person who could be looked at

Chapter 5: Life was simple

Chapter 6: The day and what it wanted

Chapter 7: Waiting

Chapter 8: People want everything to look perfect

Chapter 9: When I’m tired

Chapter 10: There was weather

Chapter 11: The smell of the ink

Chapter 12: Sunny delight

Chapter 13: He doesn’t look like his dad

Chapter 14: A spotlight

Chapter 15: This is better

Chapter 16: Autumn couldn’t ever come

Chapter 17: The cars carried on passing

Chapter 18: That feeling

Chapter 19: Alphabetti spaghetti

Chapter 20: Ash

Part II: Chappals

Chapter 1: A small temple

Chapter 2: Is it time?

Chapter 3: Ghost story

Chapter 4: All in the head

Chapter 5: The hides

Part III: Shoes

Chapter 21: His good white shirt

Chapter 22: A bottle of something

Chapter 23: The way she is

Chapter 24: Summer doesn’t have a date

Chapter 25: From the doorway

Chapter 26: Higher faster

Chapter 27: Like sugar

Chapter 28: Bad for you

Chapter 29: Closing time

Chapter 30: About right

Part IV: Chappals

Chapter 6: In the dark

Chapter 7: The living

Chapter 8: Coming and going

Chapter 9: A tap on the shoulder

Chapter 10: Two plastic chairs

Chapter 11: The voice of heaven

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

### I

*

Shoes

## [1]. A long way from the morning

This morning I couldn’t open my eyes. It was light, mind you. Sunrise is that early now. But I wasn’t waking up. The alarm went at a quarter to six so I could have tea, roll a fag, look at the sky, put on the radio quiet, take a shower. I left cereal on the table for Jason, and some fruit. It’d be there when I got home. Getting back at five … It’s hard to imagine, like a place at the end of a walk, across fields, a river, a bridge, a forest, hills, and a motorway. It’s a long way from the morning till the end of the day, a long long stretch.

Late. I flew down Plumstead Road, and up the inside way. My hair was wet, I was breathing too fast. By the time I came up the hill, the cathedral spire behind me, turned in at the factory shop and hurried through the gate it was a minute off seven thirty.

The morning had got brighter, real daylight. I came through the first door, and the second, up the little slope, through the double doors, hurried to my table, put away my bag and sat looking calm, trying not to breathe hard as the first bell went. From the corner of my eye I saw Jane’s head move. She was stood talking to John near the heel attacher but her hair swung as she turned towards me. I put my head down and started checking the first box of Audrey, a vintage sling-back with a bow on the vamp. I got out my black wax stick and fixed a scuff on the toe. The roughing machine was on now and that first smell of leather was in the air, sweaty and sweet and sharp from the spray the men use in the lasting machines. The windows at the closing end were bright but high up and far away. The lights were on, they’re always on, and it was warm, like it always is, from the machines, and there was the sound of the machines, the humming. I carried on checking the shoes, making sure they paired, and writing down how many times I’d done it and I heard the radio and other people’s voices and felt everyone around me at their machines or their station and Jane moving about to check on things and that busyness there always is as the shoes move around all of us a busyness where each one is doing the same thing over and over but fast enjoying being able to do it smoothly but thinking too or in another place and it was like I’d always been there, never left, never gone home or done anything else, and that’s how it always is.

## [2]. Like heavy water

Mum, Jason was saying. I pulled myself out of a dream. I was on the sofa. What time is it? I said. It was eight thirty. The telly was on.

I’ve turned into one of those people who fall asleep on the sofa, I said. At thirty-five. All I wanted to do was go back into the dream, one of those tired ones where you’re always on the move looking for something just around the next corner.

I was saying, Gran phoned today, Jason said.

Oh God, I said. I rubbed my face. When?

Before you got home.

Of course she did. No flies on her.

Mum, he said. Don’t start. He was frowning.

I’m not starting, I said. Definitely not. I chewed on my bottom lip. What did she say? I asked.

She wants me to go round and see them. She said Granddad’s not been well.

What did she say it is? I asked. Jason’s face was in between, talking to me, but vulnerable too. She knows how to make him feel guilty.

He leaned against the doorway, dug a hand in his pocket. She said he’s short of breath, he said, gets tired all the time. He watched, waiting to see if I was going to be unreasonable. I felt the nap of the sofa under my hand, fucked old velvet, and thought of the dream again, inescapable, like heavy water.

Okay, right, I said. How much was she making up, I wondered. I started looking around for my tobacco. Did she say he’d seen the doctor? I asked.

She said he says he’s fine, but she’s worried. They’re getting older, he said.

Yeah, I said. I sometimes regret letting those people near him. Especially her. The way she behaved when I was pregnant. I licked the gum strip and stared at the end of my cigarette.

Here. Jason lit it for me. Mum, he said. Don’t get into all that again, all that stuff from the past. His eyes held mine, blue and steady.

Okay, I said. I smoked, and felt depressed.

He straightened up. Anyway, he said, I told you. He squeezed my shoulder and went out.

You did, I said. I got up. Better do the washing-up, I said to no one. I did it carelessly and felt like the clattering dishes were harassing me. Afterwards I wiped up and cleaned the counters. I made my sandwiches. I had a shower and went to bed, but knew I wouldn’t fall asleep for a while. My neck ached, and my shoulders. And I knew it’d be there, waiting to swallow me up: the humming of the machines, the smell of the aerosol, the leather dust, the lights, the heat. I wouldn’t think about it when I’d got going and all day I’d be on the shop floor but something would be leaving me and at the end of the day I wouldn’t even remember what it was.

## [3]. Nothing’s new

I thought I’d forgotten the phone call but it came back. I thought about it on the way to work, then decided I wouldn’t think about it any more. Mum in her flowered apron in the kitchen making tea, her eyebrows raised, saying something, complaining. No one ever does things right. I’ll have to tell him, she says. Why do you have to? Dad says.

I don’t even know what they look like now. I’ve seen them since I left, now and again. They used to come and take Jason out for the afternoon. Before Christmas they’d come round with his present, and something for me. A scarf, a bath set. The presents made me angry. Everything about them makes me angry. Dad because he doesn’t say anything, he just lets her go on. And her because …

I got to work on time and smiled at Tom. He’s one of my favourite people. He’s in his late sixties, over retirement age, but he keeps coming in. He likes it. He says he doesn’t want to stay home, find ways to fill the time. He told me about his wife’s grandparents once. They used to be the loveliest couple, but when he retired things changed. They started bickering. You’d look at them and think, That’s not you. And about the retired men where he lives. He doesn’t live this way, he’s the other side of town. There’s a man who goes out for his paper the same time every day, he says. An Indian gentleman, Mr Singh. You could set your watch by him. Every day he goes for a walk, but so slowly, because he’s got nothing to hurry for. I’d hate to be like that.

All right, lass? Tom said. You look better today. He smiled.

I grinned at him. Better than what?

He looked down. All the while, his hand was working, pulling tight a last with the pincers. You were a bit at sixes and sevens, like, yesterday, he said.

And today? I said. Fives and tens?

He smiled, and hammered down the last with the end of the pincers. I like the way he still looks like a boy, small, his head neat.

I worked without thinking till it was near first break. There’s a watchfulness about us all, like animals that measure time. When it gets near break we stop chatting or passing the time and finish as fast as we can. Then when the bell goes it’s silent. People walking across the floor to the coffee machine, or a few of the men – John, Tom, Derek – sitting down near it. I took my coffee to sit with Helen in the closing section. I like the older ladies. Jane was talking to Cathy near her machine. Cathy had the paper open. Karen was doing her puzzle, head down. You could hear the silence and people’s heads humming. I had my book but I didn’t read. I stared at the same part of the same page and thought about the spring when I’d moved into Nan’s house, and all the things my mother said before I left. Don’t think about it, Nan said. She’s always been like that. My mother’s face, her mouth drawn tight then opening to spit out something poisonous. Don’t think about it, I thought. I thought about it furiously.

When the first bell went I shook myself and went to the loo. Someone had used the cubicle before me. I sat breathing in her smell. I thought, nothing’s new. I washed my hands, didn’t look in the mirror, and reached my station before the second bell went. The morning just passed.

## [4]. A person who could be looked at

Jason’s football practice today. I found myself slowing down on the way home. I went into the Three Bells. I sat in the garden with my shandy, thinking, there’s nothing to do, nothing to do. It was bright, white clouds moving fast across the sky. It wasn’t really warm, but it felt good to sit with my face in the sun. I drank slowly, and thought about smoking. A wasp buzzed around my glass. On another table there was a man with a lanky dog, maybe a lurcher. The man was drinking a pint and talking on the phone. The dog lay at his feet. Every now and then it got up and he would tear off a bit from a slim packet, probably a Peperami, and feed it.

After a while a couple came in. They sat down but got up again and went inside. Then a man on his own. I caught him looking, a sharp glance. Suddenly I thought about my clothes. I go to work wearing anything: jeans, a t-shirt. It’s not worth wearing nice stuff, and anyway half the year I get dressed in the dark. Jane dresses up, but she isn’t working like we are. She wears heels – not stilettos but two or three inches.

I looked at the man again, and saw him looking at me. Was he good-looking? I looked away. The wasp was getting in my drink. I waved my hand at it, caught the glass, and shandy slopped over the side.

Fuck, I said. I moved the glass and shifted away from the wet part of the bench. The man was smiling at me. He was blond, tall maybe, thinnish. His clothes fit well. He looked comfortable on his own, like he always looked the same. I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped shandy off my elbow. Yeah, very cool.

I stared under my hair at the glass, drank from it. I tried to imagine the way he might see me. He probably thought I fancied him. I didn’t want to be looked at, I wasn’t ready. Make a bit more effort, I thought. Try. Wear mascara. Do something with your hair. You’re not dead yet. Something Nan used to say. I’m not dead yet. Then she’d smile. Had I forgotten how to live? Just going on, getting things done.

I finished the shandy, imagined myself outside the factory, and the same person inside, saw myself as though I wasn’t me. A figure in the fluorescent light on the shop floor, walking there in the morning, leaving in the afternoon. A person who could be looked at without disappearing.

I pushed away the glass. A shadow went over me. It was the same man leaving. He slowed as he passed, and looked into my face. He smiled. Afternoon, he said. Nice day. I stared at him, like someone in a dark room when the light goes on. In the puddle of spilt shandy the wasp was on its side, buzzing and flailing. I had the urge to bring the glass down on it, then I was ashamed. I should have said something back. When I got up, I picked up the wasp on the edge of a beer mat and left it to dry in the sun. All the way home I was aware of myself, and my sticky elbow. What each person I passed near the shops and on the road saw when they looked at me, if they did look. I got home and took out the clothes I’d wear tomorrow.

## [5]. Life was simple

By now I should know not to listen to Katie. I should know not to listen to you, I heard myself tell her at some point in the evening but by then we were both drunk. By now, I said. We thought it was funny. It was her round and she’d come back from the bar with two drinks and two shots of something green.

What the fuck do you think that is? I said. I’m not drinking that.

It’s herbal, she said. She grinned. Come on, you can’t be boring all your life.

I picked up the glass and tilted it about. Does it get the toilet whiter than it’s ever been? I asked.

Wait and see, she said. She knocked hers back. I did the same. My throat burned and my eyes watered. Jesus, I said. She took it as a compliment.

Thursday night, she said. It’s the best time.

I work on Fridays, I said.

Half day, she said, which was true.

Why can’t we just go out on a Friday, or at the weekend? I said.

I’ll tell you everything when I see you, she said.

She always wants to go somewhere different, whichever is the new best place. You wouldn’t think there’d be so many, but she always knows – from someone at work, or someone she’s met out. This time we were in a vodka bar off Tombland.

This place is all right, I said. It was black inside, with chrome railings, and high seats at tall tables. At the bar there were groups of girls ordering pitchers of cocktails. The music was loud.

She nodded. I do salsa here on Tuesdays, she said.

Salsa? You do salsa now?

I’m going to start zumba, she said. You should try it. It’s a real laugh. She eyed me. You need to do new stuff, Claire. Shake things up. It’s like life’s –

It’s like life’s what?

She stirred her mojito and looked at me. Oh, just a sec Claire, she said. She checked her phone and started replying to a text. I watched her strong, toned arms, and the way she sat.

She put down the phone. What was I saying? she asked. Her eyes were vague.

It’s like life – I said.

She focused on me. It’s good to shake things up, Claire, she said. Change things.

Oh yeah, I said. You know me. Change, I love it.

I’d made an effort. I was wearing a dress, boots, eyeliner. I’d done my hair. I still felt invisible. The way she held herself, and her clothes, it was like she expected attention. And she got it. We were at a table near the door and all the men who passed looked at us quickly, a rush of cold air as the door opened, and then back at her as it closed.

She’s always been this way. Not just with men, but always changing, on the move, rushing from one thing to another. She talked fast, ate fast, gulped her words down. Never had to wear a coat because she ran everywhere. That Katie’s a hasty one, Nan used to say. Is she on her way to the moon?

So what’s your news? I asked.

She’d met a man, at the accountancy firm. Maybe that’s when she changed, I was thinking as she talked, after she did that course, and got her job in reception. New clothes, work, men. This one’s name is Graham.

He’s older, she said. He has his own house. Near Angel Road. He’s got a son, Sean, he’s seventeen. Graham’s divorced. He’s nice, she said. He takes me out for dinner, or we go bowling. It’s nice to actually do stuff. For someone to make an effort, you know?

It sounds great, I said. I felt sad, as though things were leaving me behind. Oh, I like your hair, by the way, I said. It suits you.

Thanks! I think I might go blonde again, though, soon. She shook it out, dark brown strands. The last time I saw her it was red. When we were young her hair was light brown, mousy Nan called it. Katie started dyeing it when we were fourteen or fifteen.

Do you fancy going for a bit of a dance? she asked.

Maybe in a bit. Hey, I said, Jason said Mum called.

Oh, really? she said. Hang on, just a minute. Sorry, Claire. She stopped to check her phone. Graham wants to go away for the weekend, she said. Up to the coast.

That’s nice, I said. I wish Mum would leave me alone.

Katie made a face. Maybe it’s time to put water under the bridge, Claire, do you think? It’s been a while.

Seventeen years, I said.

Katie changed. Her mouth became tight and angry, and her voice went nagging. Well, you always had to be special, didn’t you, she said. You think you’re better than other people.

Jesus, I said, don’t.

She shrugged. Well, she said. You had your Nan. I ran into your mum the other day, by the way.

What? You didn’t tell me. When?

Um, I can’t remember. It was near Anglia Square. I was walking through on my way to Graham’s. Evening time. She said hello to me, Hello Katie. I said hello, how are you, and all that stuff.

How did she look?

Kind of the same, a bit smaller, her hair was whiter. I see her now and again, I bump into her. Once a year, something like that. It’s not a big place, is it?

No, I said. I’m always surprised I don’t run into them more. Maybe it’s meant to be.

Katie rolled her eyes. Claire, she said. She leaned forward on her elbows. Why don’t you do something different? Leave that job. Do something new.

Like what? I don’t have any experience.

You could train. You could get some.

Doing what?

It’d be better paid.

This is a good job, I said. I mean, it’s solid.

She shook her head. Then she told me more about Graham, and Sean. Sean was getting to like her, she said. He lived with his mum, but Graham was hoping when Sean went to university he’d spend more of the holidays with Graham and Katie.

When we said goodnight I was properly drunk. On the way home off the main road I found myself running, only because I could. I was light, and fast. The drink. I went to bed too late and in the morning everything hurt: my head, my arms and legs. It was only a half-day. I couldn’t think because I was so tired. I kept drinking water, and felt a bit sick, but nothing happened. In a way I liked it, not being able to think. There was a sweetness to being hungover. Life was simple.

## [6]. The day and what it wanted

I woke up aching, with a sore throat. My back hurt. That doesn’t normally happen. I was having a dream. Brad Pitt came to start at the factory. I had to show him around. We ended up in bed. But people kept breaking into the room to talk to him. They wouldn’t behave normally. Brad and I sat in bed discussing it, how people couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t be human. I got up thinking, Who’d have thought Brad would be so sensible? And, it’s a pity it wasn’t Johnny. And, my back hurts. My legs hurt. My shoulders hurt. I went to bed at eleven, lights out at midnight. Friday: you know you can do what you want, assuming you can remember what that is.

I made coffee, and sat on the sofa. Then lay down. My head was full of the people I knew, little aches, like insects buzzing. Katie, Helen, Sandra, who’s Jason’s friend Steve’s mum, my older brother, haven’t seen him for years, Dad. I didn’t want to see any of them, but feeling them there made me more lonely. It was amazing how tired I was. I lay on my front and closed my eyes. I tried to ask myself what could be wrong. What should I do today? What’s wrong? Go into town. Look at some shops. Have a coffee. Behave like a person. I couldn’t even imagine the noise and press in the city on a Saturday coming up to summer. I didn’t feel sick in an obvious way. Should I have a cigarette? I asked the quiet part of me, right inside. Should I have a cigarette? It said it really didn’t matter, and that put me off more than the voice in my head saying, stop smoking, which always made me want to.

Mum, Jason said. He came in talking loudly. I can’t find my shirt. My strip. I can’t find it.

He wasn’t upset yet. He was just raising the issue.

I said still face down, Have you looked in the laundry basket the airing cupboard under your bed your chest of drawers your kit bag?

I’ve looked everywhere, he said. He went to look in the places I’d said or some of them. The conversation would be continued. He came back in. Are you ill? he said. What are you doing?

Maybe I’m coming down with something, I said.

What does it feel like?

My back was heavy. It feels I wanted to say like thirty-five years came into my body and forgot to leave. There’s too much time in here. I’m done for.

Aching muscles, I said. He snorted and went out. A bit later I heard him shout, It’s not in the laundry bin or the airing cupboard!

I needed to go to the shops and buy food. Buy food, I thought. That was one thing. And get up and move a bit. Move. That was another.

Should I call someone, I asked myself. Arrange to meet for a coffee? Too late notice. Weekend. Are you depressed? I feel uneasy with things. You’re not getting younger. You look relatively all right now. You’re relatively young. Shouldn’t things be happening? Isn’t this when things should happen? Is there something you forgot to do to make them start?

But the quiet part of me said there was no point forcing anything. It wouldn’t work. Then what should I do? Shouldn’t I do something? Is this all you want from me? I nagged. But it didn’t want me to do anything. Why is everything so fucking simple? I asked, then wanted to laugh.

Jason came back in. Kick-off’s in an hour! he said.

Did you look in your bag? I said.

He went away. Got it! I heard.

By the way there’s no food, he said when he came back in, wearing his tracksuit, bag slung over his shoulder. I had cereal. I’m just telling you. I can go to the shop on my way back but it’ll be later. Text me if you want me to. Bye Mum.

Bye, I said, and I went back to trying to understand something about the day, and what it wanted.

## [7]. Waiting

The hardest times passed like fire. I don’t remember much till Jason was two. Till he was at school. I used to think of this documentary they showed when we were in school. It was a woman talking about World War Two. Her hair was set in white curls like Nan’s, her face a map of wrinkles. You saw a photograph of her before, a young woman, round-cheeked, wearing lipstick, and wondered how she’d let herself get old.

The door again, he was back. I heard coughing panting kicking off his trainers and chucking his keys on the counter.

The old lady said something, her eyes sparkling. About the war. Ooh it was a difficult time but a wonderful time. There were love affairs. You never knew what was going to happen so you didn’t think about tomorrow. You just lived. Her face shone.

That was how it was when Jason was a baby or I first started work or looked after him when he was ill. There wasn’t that terrible sadness I used to feel when I was a girl standing on the common knee-deep in grass on a cloudy summer day looking at a line of trees waiting just waiting for something to happen.

In the other room he was breathing lighting up putting on the kettle. His phone beeped. Sometimes I think if I had long enough to sit and think I’d understand what to do, how to get out of the grass and move ahead.

We still hadn’t talked about it properly, college, and next year – what he was going to do.

All right, he said, when I went into the kitchen. He didn’t look up from putting peanut butter on his toast. The knife went down on the counter. I imagined picking it up later, wiping the counter, washing the knife. Getting the kitchen clean, which it wouldn’t stay.

Jason, have you had a chance to think about college? I said. I picked up the knife and laid it across the open jar.

He breathed out harder and put down the plate. I’m just having some food, he said.

I know you are, I said. He leaned back against the counter and stared at the wall.

I don’t want you to miss out, I said.

No chance of that, he said.

I’m not having a go, I said. Sound of him chomping, crumbs everywhere. He finished the toast and put in another slice.

I might not want to go to college, he said. I might get a job.

Oh Jason, I said. If you don’t go to college you’re just stupid.

He yanked up the toaster lever and the bread popped. He walked out. That didn’t come out right. I stood there buzzing with things I wanted to explain, waiting for him to return. Music came out of the closed door of his room, something thumping. After a bit I washed the knife, wiped up the crumbs and the peanut butter, disliked myself for doing it.

## [8]. People want everything to look perfect

The curtains at work are striped, ticking I think Nan would have called it: light blue with a few other colours, yellow, white, navy, pink. Pretty. The windows on our side face west. The morning light comes in the other side. I was spraying the heels on a stand of wedding shoes, covering my face because the spray catches in your throat, and when I looked up sunlight was coming through a window on to the trolley, and the spray was caught in a cloud, slowly dancing.

It’s always warm on the floor, and in summer it’s sweaty. The compressor stopped working because of a fault. While we waited for them to fix it we became slower, like bumble bees on a hot afternoon. We did what we could by hand. Tom worked on his lasts. He smiled. You know, lass, this is how we used to do it, he said, in the old days. And we’d be fast.

I know, I said. It was piecework.

It was piecework, he said.

That’s what Nan used to talk about, I said. No time to hang about.

I never took any days’ leave, do you know that? he said. Maybe three or four in thirty years of piecework. There was a week when I started. I think it was the chemicals. I got really sick but I didn’t take a day off. I was going in with a fever.

His hands were working while he talked, pulling tight the leather around the last, hammering it in place. What is it, I thought, about this work; the same thing, over and over, it takes your life but in the process it gives you this quietness, it takes away the struggle. Or maybe that’s just Tom. Or what I see of Tom from the outside.

You’re quiet today, Claire, John said. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He’s a bit older than me, John, but probably not much. He’s nice, too – smiles, and follows me with his eyes. We don’t talk a lot, except if we’re outside smoking. He always looks the same: jeans and t-shirts, his hair cut like it probably was twenty years ago, close and smooth.

Just checking what I can do till the compressor starts, I said. I like talking to Tom, and I don’t like it when people come along. It’s not even that I’m telling Tom private things. It’s just a way of being.

John smiled and went back to his work. He was using his hands too, but more slowly than Tom. It would mostly have been machines when he started.

I went to see Derek at the heel attacher. He was hammering in nails by hand to fix the heels on Eveliina, a red high heel, strappy. One I’d almost wear, if I had somewhere to wear it. Maybe I’ll try it in the factory shop. But what for?

Jane had sent down six boxes of handbags to have them checked and freshened up. We don’t make them, but we sell them as part of the line. The girls and I opened the plastic, took out the bags, checked them for marks, and stuffed them with tissue so they didn’t look crushed. In the shop, people want everything to look perfect.

Does that even look better? I asked Ellie. I held out the bag, plumped out. That looks the same, doesn’t it?

But she said that looked better.

Just before lunch the compressor started again and we all stopped doing the things we’d been doing to keep busy and we worked and worked. It was the busyness again the radio the noise of the machines the smell of leather dust and all of us working without mind, like bees in a hive. I didn’t think till just after four when I thought, I’ve had enough, that’s enough of today. The last twenty minutes crept by but when we were walking out it was still bright and hazy and everyone was chattering about what they were going to do tonight. Helen’s husband came to meet her like he always does – he’s retired. But not in the car, because the weather was so fine. He took her hand and she went off pink-cheeked and smiling like a little girl and the pair of them over sixty. How’s that done, I thought, but I liked it.

## [9]. When I’m tired

On the way home I stopped and sat on the wall near the shop, just to be in the sun. There were three kids messing around next to the bottle bank. The littlest reminded me of Katie. He had expressions on his face that must have come from other people: his stepdad, his older brother: a toughness, a blankness, that didn’t belong to him. Then he scowled, and looked for a minute like an older woman, maybe his mum. It’s like you come into the world a person, with something it means to be you. In no time – a few years – you’re carrying all these things you borrowed, like I started chewing my lip because Jim did. Those habits become what people meet in you.

When I’m tired things are clear. It takes the edge off. I feel like a saint in a stained-glass window, everything coming to me in a halo, revelations.

I shut my eyes and turned my face up. Orange. Red thread veins. Little things like bacteria moving. My body sleepy with a private hum like one of the machines.

Hi. Excuse me, someone said.

I opened my eyes. Everything yellow and blue, like a seventies film. A shirt, white, slim fit, tucked in. Brown trousers. Brogues, nice ones. Up again, slowly. He was standing close.

Sorry to disturb you. (A golden voice. It had a softness it knew would please.) Do you have a light?

His wrist, golden hairs, brown canvas watchstrap. The man from the pub.

Yeah, I said.

While I was looking for it he waited. He put out his hand. Thanks, he said. I watched him look down and light his cigarette. He inhaled, didn’t give me the lighter. Didn’t I see you in the Three Bells the other day? he said easily. In the garden?

Oh! Oh, yeah, probably, I said. What day was that?

He smiled. I’m not sure, he said. Few days ago. Wasn’t as nice as today.

It’s lovely, isn’t it?

It is. He smoked. I got out my tin and started rolling.

He sat next to me on the wall to light it. Held on to the lighter, looked at it. I’d smelled his hand, nicotine and skin. It’s nice to smoke when it’s hot. Some days I want to smoke because something at work’s already irritated my throat. It’s like having a tooth that’s loose, or a cut that’s closing.

What about a half in the Bells? he said. If you have time.

I tried not to smile because the first thing I thought was but this never happens to me.

Now? I said.

Why not? he said.

Could do.

At the Bells we, Damian and me, smoked a lot. He bought the first drink. That’s when I found out his name. He handed me my beer and said, I’m Damian by the way. Claire, I said, but he didn’t hear because we were walking out to the garden. It was nearly full.

Sorry, he said.

Claire, I said again.

Beer garden, it’s one of those phrases, like holiday home, it tells you you’re meant to be having a good time. I did a quick scan but didn’t see anyone I knew. Damian seemed comfortable. He rolled up his sleeves and put his arms on the table.

So, Claire, do you live round here?

I live with my son. Up the road. He’s sixteen, I said quickly. I always say it fast, because I don’t want to have to think about it later.

He nodded. What’s his name?

Jason.

Jason and the Argonauts, he said.

You didn’t say Jason Donovan, I said.

Is he named after Jason Donovan?

No.

That’s good, he said. He laughed. I used to have the piss ripped out of me at school for looking like him.

You don’t really, though, I said. He is blond, but his face isn’t the same. Blue eyes but a bit more round. He looks like a kid, especially when he laughs.

I used to hate my name, he said. Everyone made fun of it. People thought I was posh.

Are you?

He looked down, shook his head.

You don’t have an accent, I said.

Moved around a bit, he said. His eyes asked for understanding. Tell me about you, Claire, he said.

I turned my glass around. Not much to say, I said. Born and brought up here. I looked around the beer garden. Sometimes I feel like I’m not from here, I said. That I’ve moved around too. But I’ve never lived anywhere else.

He nodded. Got lots of family here?

I don’t see them much, I said. I noticed I was holding my glass tightly. I took a big sip, had to wipe my chin.

Damian nodded. He was just listening, accepting what I said.

What about your family? I asked.

He smiled, waved his right hand. All over the place, you know, he said. Here and there.

Right.

And what do you do, Claire?

I work at a shoe factory, I said. Up near Ketts Hill.

Oh, really? That’s interesting.

There were twenty or more factories at one time, I said. Loads of people worked in the shoe trade. I felt like a tourist guide.

I think I’d heard that, he said. He took his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. I felt relieved. People usually think it’s weird, or they say, I didn’t realise there were any shoe factories left.

What do you do? I asked.

He smiled. For a moment I saw my head in the glasses, distorted, waving.

I sell children’s books, Claire. I’m a rep. I travel round and talk to bookshops about our titles. And schools. Books for little kids, he said. Not Jason’s age.

I didn’t mind hearing him say Jason’s name. Normally I don’t like it when someone I don’t know uses it.

He’d finished his drink. My arms were cold. I rubbed them. On the road, I heard traffic. It was beginning to turn into evening. A few more people filtered into the garden. Shall I get another? I asked.

Can’t, he said. Got to go, meeting some people. He got up sudden and I did too. Can I give you a lift? he said. The car’s just round the corner.

Oh no, I said. It’s only a minute.

Well, see you again, Claire, he said, as though we met up every week. And he left. He still had my lighter, I realised when I got in.

## [10]. There was weather

A funny day when inside and outside weren’t as separate as normal. What’ll happen next, I thought. What’s going to happen? Partly about Damian. Nothing, said my mind. That was it. He had an hour to kill in between things probably. I thought of my face without any make-up, and my t-shirt and jeans, and felt no confidence.

Chris who works the drying machine wasn’t in and I’ve done that job before, so I worked it all day. One of the styles we’ve been making for the past few days, the red heel, it was coming through from the rougher. The flat shoe in the rubber cradles looks like a woman’s body. The part after the instep has a shape, like hips. But it just lies there, upside down, a sad fish. It’s only when the heel gets put on that it looks like anything.

I worked on the dryer, then glued on the soles with the attached heels, put them on a trolley to pass to John so he could fix the heels. I like John, how he’s calm, often looks amused. When we smoke he’s friendly, chats, remembers things I’ve said. A pouch of tobacco and a packet of papers sit next to the box of nails on the side of the heel attacher. I sometimes pinch a fag from him at break.

It rained all day. Not heavy but it was colder. I’d forgotten the forecast and come to work in sandals. With the sound of the rain and the chill near the windows, and smelling the glue as the shoes came out of the dryer, and looking at the pictures of mountains that Chris has stuck on the side – he likes climbing, he and his wife go on walking holidays – I forgot to wonder what was going to happen.

At four thirty there was still weather. I had to walk home in it, and listen to my feet squelch, feel them slide. I smoked a sad cigarette in the rain, dirty fumes and chilled fingers. It makes my kidneys cold, this weather, Nan used to say. I got in. The kitchen needed cleaning. The house was cold. I put on the lights it was that dark. The bin needed taking out. Everything smelled damp. Nothing would happen, it was obvious. Everything was just the way it was, the only way it ever would be.

## [11]. The smell of the ink

I knocked on his door. Hip hop coming out but quietly. Knocked again.

I SAID YEAH!

I pushed open the door, went in, smiled. He was lying on the floor drawing, a cigarette next to him in an Indian metal ashtray someone from school gave him. I clocked some King Size Rizlas on the shelf above the bed, the end of the packet torn.

Your clothes, I said.

Thanks, he said. He didn’t look up. I heard the scratch of a Rotring. For a minute I stood looking at the back of his head, his biceps in his blue t-shirt, the looseness of his jeans under the waist, the instep of one foot in a stripy sock.

He cocked his head, wondered silently why I was still there. All right? he offered.

I bent down and kissed the warm whorl at the crown of his head. An absent-minded big hand came out, patted my calf, carried on drawing a line of buildings – some tall, some with spires, pointed roofs.

Do you want me to close the door, I asked like an idiot.

He nodded, didn’t look up. Thanks, Mum.

When I gave birth and saw Jason was a boy, I cried. I knew if I had a girl she’d hate me.

I remember when he was about three there was something I wouldn’t let him do. I forget what. He stood in the middle of the room and screamed,

I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

You’d think I’d have been upset, but I wasn’t. I felt like swinging him into the air and spanking him and shouting, I hate you more! A thrill went through me. I saw myself doing it.

I should have hugged him, but I left the room and had a fag and thought about what a horrible little world it is. When I came back he’d fallen over, or hit his head. He was crying, and I cuddled him. I felt sorry for him, for both of us.

He stopped crying. He was holding on to my top with one fist and he leaned away and stared at me, all weary, like an old person. As though he was saying, Oh, I get it, this is what it’s like? This is it? We looked at each other.

One of the worst things I did was when he was old enough to have a key and come home from school on his own. I was back to doing full days. He must have been ten or eleven. We’d had an argument all weekend, about these football boots he wanted, which Ronaldo wore. They were gold and cost a fortune. I told him he already had perfectly functional boots and he became furious and said he needed them.

I got back and he was sitting in the middle of the lounge tearing something. It looked like there was grey water all over the floor. The ripped-up sports sections. He must have been at it for an hour.

He looked up at me, distracted, like he’d gone into another place, though he must have been angry when he started.

I said, Jason, what have you done?

I imagined screaming, What have you done? What the fuck have you done? You stupid boy! I’m going to kill you!

I stood on the edge of the sea of newsprint. Then I said very quietly, One of these days I’m going to leave. I’ll just go. You’ll get back and I won’t be here. And I won’t ever come back.

He looked at me with his mouth open. As though he’d suspected I was mad but couldn’t believe it.

I sat down, closed my eyes and said I was sorry, and I’d never do that. He said, It’s all right, Mum, but I think he meant, Don’t cry, you’re only crying for yourself. I remember that with my mother, her hitting me and then crying.

I sat down in the paper.

What are you doing? he said.

I’m tired, I said. And I was, I realised. I lay down.

Mum!

Close the door, I said.

I lay there while it got dark, maybe for an hour. I thought about my grandpa and how he’d say I was having a reaction. I remembered sleeping between them, him and Nan, in their bed. In the night if I tried to get close to Grandpa he’d turn away. But I’d cuddle up to Nan’s back and a big arm would come over me and pat my bum. I’d be warm. I’d hear next door’s dog or a dog in the street howl and I’d think that’s the sound of loneliness. I’ll always remember that sound I’d think. After a while of lying there and crying I thought about how old I was now – thirty years old. I’m thirty years old, I thought, with my cheek in newsprint. It smelled cheap, the ink. I wondered if I’d have black smears on my face, or half a word. From an ad. SALE, but backwards. I was cold, and hungry, and it was dark. I needed a wee. I got up, turned on the light, picked up the paper, made us fish fingers and chips, and went to the corner shop for ice cream. I gave Jason a hug before and told him I did love him. He let me hug him and said he knew.

While I was on my way to the shop I had a smoke. I felt done in, like I’d been crying for days. I thought to myself something I often thought at that time when anything went wrong, whatever it was, and then when it stopped, at least for a bit: Well, that passed the time. And then I’d laugh, really laugh, because no one else would have understood.

## [12]. Sunny delight

An arm out of the window, sleeve rolled up, sun shining on the golden hair. Dark glasses, a face: Claire, he said. Give you a lift?

Oh, hiya, I said.

Hop in.

I hopped in. We were off.

He gave me a big smile. Hello, sunny delight, he said.

I laughed. What did you just call me?

He smiled and pushed his sunglasses up his nose. In a hurry? he asked.

No, I said. I felt wonderful, like everything had opened up.

Let’s go for a little drive, he said.

I saw familiar things: the shop, the pub, the hill, and houses I see every day – one at the corner with an apple tree and a hedge, and a white one with a conservatory and a sharp-leaved plant near the door. But they passed by fast, and then they were gone.

In the end he parked not too far from the house, and we went for a walk in Lion Wood. Lots of couples here and there on seats. We walked through the clearing, where the sun hung in slow soft bars, and up into one of the bits with more trees, then we were alone.

Well, Claire, he said. He looked at me and smiled, waiting.

I had questions I wanted to ask, things I wanted to say, like, I didn’t think I’d see you again, how did you know when I’d be walking past, where have you been for the last month – but instead he kissed me. It was too fast. I was still thinking. His tongue was in my mouth, his hands were on my arse, then touching my breasts, in my hair, pulling it. I opened my eyes. His face looked different, blind. He put my hand on his trousers and I felt his hard-on. He sighed. Voices, and three kids came up the path. They giggled as they passed.

Casey! one said, and shoved a skinny boy.

Oh, I love you, I love you, he whined and pushed her back.

Damian moved away from me. He took out his tobacco, papers, filters, sat down and began to roll.

I sat near him and did the same. He didn’t speak, he seemed further away than he was. The sunlight fell through the trees, and got lost before it could reach the ground.

Well, he said, best be getting back, I suppose. You probably need to get back, don’t you. He seemed to have lost energy.

Not really, I said. But I did. I hadn’t said anything to Jason.

Let’s get you home, he said. We didn’t talk on the way.

When he dropped me at the corner he said, So when am I going to see you again? He said he often went to the Star, nearer town, on a Friday night. Will I see you there? he asked.

What time?

Oh, later, he said. About eight. Eight or so. So long then.

He drove off and I went towards the house, doing things to my hair.

Jason was home, with Steve. They were making tea – potato waffles, baked beans, fish fingers. He put more on. I sat at the table with a cup of tea. The kitchen was light, a good smell in the air, the back door open, summer coming in. Something white and grey flitted across the edge of my eye. I turned. The cat from up the road – it likes our garden.

Steve smiled at me. How are you, Claire? he asked. He’s a nice lad. There’s something damp about his eyes, but he has a sweet smile.

I’m all right, I said. How’s it going? How’s your mum?

I was going to ask about his plans for next year, college or what, but then I thought better. A good day, why not just let it be a good day.

## [13]. He doesn’t look like his dad

Jason and I needed to talk about next year. I didn’t remember when we’d had a conversation that lasted longer than a few minutes and didn’t end with him walking off. I watched him eating his tea tonight, but he didn’t look at me. He knew I wanted to talk; I knew he didn’t.

He doesn’t look that much like his dad, thank God. Except his colouring. There was an age – when he was eleven, twelve – when he looked just like Pete. It was strange – the first man I’d been with appearing from time to time in my son. Pete wasn’t even a man when we started up. We were kids, but we thought we were grown up. He looked older, more like a man, around the time he left. It hurt for so long. Now I can’t believe how young we were – almost Jason’s age.

Jason’s the same build as Pete now – tall, broad in the shoulder, not like me. The same dark hair and blue eyes. But he reminds me more of Jim, Jim who isn’t there any more. I used to tell him when he looked like someone. Now I don’t bother. He doesn’t like it. He’s good at shaking things off, Jason. He doesn’t have to say anything. He just looks across, like a little bull, eyes big and direct, and gets ready to refuse.

But he did say something, just before he took his plate to the sink. Mum, some of the lads are going to Newquay in August.

Oh right? I said.

For a week or ten days. Staying in a hostel. I want to go.

Do you, I said. I find myself saying stupid things, like my mum, when I don’t want to say yes but I don’t know how not to.

Can I? For my birthday? He stopped and looked at me straight. He was properly asking.

When are they leaving?

The fifth or so.

Can’t you come back for your birthday? I was thinking of having a party. You could have your friends round.

He didn’t quite roll his eyes.

Why am I always trying to stop him, I thought.

We could have it when I get back, he said. Couple of days later.

Like the nineteenth or twentieth? All right, I said. Have you got enough money?

Yeah yeah, he said. He had his back to me. He was even washing the plate. Nearly, he said.

How much do you need?

Maybe a hundred and fifty quid.

Early birthday present, eh? I said.

He turned round and grinned at me. His grin can floor you, that boy. Thanks, Mum, he said.

I went to the bedroom and tried not to think about Jason battered out of his mind in Newquay and the stories you read in the paper. I’d make him text me every day. Because that’d help. It always went like this. I said no no no no oh okay then. I didn’t want to be that parent, the one who says no and doesn’t know what happens. Not that anyone knows.

And this wasn’t why I’d said yes, I swear, but I also thought: the house empty for ten days.

## [14]. A spotlight

He turned me over. Here, he said. He put a pillow next to me.

What? I said. I looked at him over my shoulder. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see his face. He was kneeling over me.

Put it under you. Here. He helped me shift it, then got into me. There you go, he murmured as he started moving. He said things to himself. Yeah … Mmm … and got turned on quickly. Do you want me to come? he asked.

I thought it was a general question. Course, I said. He moved faster and did, with a shout. When he’d finished, he breathed in and moved in me a few times, just I guess because it felt good.

I waited for him to say something about the fact that I hadn’t come, offer to do something. He leaned back, took the pillow from me, put his head on it, got me in the crook of his arm. I liked that, the warmth. He’d be here for a while; he was in no hurry. And it was still early. I looked up at him, but he was different. Before, he was concentrated on me, like a spotlight. Now, he was here, my head was on his chest, but I’d disappeared.

He looked up at the ceiling. So, Claire, he said, how do you like doing it?

How do you mean? I said. I like it, I added.

He chuckled. His chest moved under my face.

What?

You’re funny, he said. He squeezed me with his arm. No, I meant, which way? Which other way do you like?

Like, position?

Mm.

I don’t know, I said. Er, from behind, sideways. I felt depressed, like in school when people would ask, What’s your favourite band, and you knew there was a right or wrong answer.

He looked down at me, interested. Embarrassed? he said.

Not embarrassed, I said. It’s just weird, talking about it.

Not embarrassed, but it’s weird talking about it, he repeated. He stretched his free arm towards the bedside table, looked at his watch, put it on his wrist.

What time is it? I said.

I’ve got a bit of time, he said.

I put my arm over his stomach. Under the curtain I could see the colour of the light, going from orangey to golden. Maybe it was around five thirty, six. When I’d got his text that afternoon I’d rushed home, taken a shower, waited for him. He usually left around six. Somehow he never ran into Jason. I didn’t plan it, or have to try.

Did I ever tell you about Lisa? he said. He put his free arm behind his head, looked up at the ceiling.

Lisa?

She was my first proper girlfriend, in school.

Oh, I said. No, you didn’t.

We were fifteen. We used to hang out at her house after school. Both her parents worked so we – she had a key.

Right.

He stroked my arm. She was so beautiful, he said. A really sexy girl. I didn’t know anything then – neither of us did. His voice was dreamy. He looked down at me suddenly. We did everything, he said. He laughed. We even got a book out of the library, can you imagine?

I smiled. He was looking at me but I wasn’t me. He was still talking and I began thinking, remembering how I’d felt in the afternoon, knowing I was going to have sex in a few hours. The smell of the machines and the oil giving me a headache, and being turned on, it reminded me of school, when I’d just started secondary. Sex had arrived then, for all of us – not that I was having sex yet, but all of a sudden it was there. There was a while, a few months, when it was all I could think of. I’d do it to myself whenever I could. A few times in a cubicle in the loo. It took no trying. Things were happening to all of us – breasts, hair on our legs, the boys starting to get spots and shave. For some reason, though, I thought I was the only one having this experience, this dirty but amazing secret.