SELFISH PEOPLE

Lucy English

Copyright

Fourth Estate

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1998 by

Copyright © 1998 by Lucy English

The right of Lucy English to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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

Lines from Mrs Robinson

Copyright © 1968 by Paul Simon

Used by permission of the Publisher

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable 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 e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9781857027631

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007484935

Version: 2016-02-29

TO MY FAMILY

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

This is a dream. I’m in the middle of a field making a daisy chain. The chain is long and curled round and round in my lap. Rachel, next to me, is knitting a picture jumper. Trees, long grass, buttercups, she is knitting the countryside around us. Knitting fast and the picture pours out of her hands. Now a piece of sky, now an elder bush. We don’t speak. The needles clack. I can smell the hot sun on the grass. The field is so full of daisies it’s bursting. The chain is longer. Then the jumper changes and the blue sky becomes grey and more grey. ‘Because I’m sad,’ says Rachel …

She woke up and she knew she had to see Rachel. Across her room the geraniums cast grey shadows on the rug and this confirmed it; Rachel always wore grey. It was eight o’clock, too early for a Sunday morning, but Al was shouting at the children. Her dream snapped shut and she ran downstairs.

‘What’s going on?’ There was milk on the floor and Shreddies everywhere.

‘We were hungry,’ they wept.

‘It’s too much. They woke me at six.’ Al, in his stripy dressing gown, stood in the middle of the room picking damp Shreddies off his foot.

‘I was asleep,’ apologised Leah. She had done the wrong thing, again. He began to clean up, ineffectively. He had fair curly hair which he hadn’t brushed for days and it was now matted at the back. It irritated Leah.

‘Let me do it. You go back to bed.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got two essays to write and a project and I’ve got to hand them in tomorrow.’ He plonked himself on a chair and rolled a cigarette. He had established himself as martyr of the day.

‘I’ll take them,’ said Leah, a bigger martyr. ‘Did you eat any of this?’ Two pink faces watched her tipping squashed Shreddies into the bin.

‘It was Tom’s fault, he did it,’ said Ben.

‘I didn’t!’ And Tom began to cry.

‘Shut up and sit down.’ Leah made toast. She was glad Jo was staying with a friend. Al was sneaking away. ‘I’ll take them to Rachel’s, I haven’t seen her for ages and I had this dream about her …’ She spread the marmalade, but Al was halfway up the stairs.

There was silence in the terraced house kitchen which never seemed to get any light even when it was sunny. It was sunny now. She stood by the sink, her hands in the washing-up water, staring out of the window. The window looked out on to the wall separating them from next door. The children watched her nervously.

‘Yes. We can see Rachel and her boyfriend and Oliver and play with all his toys.’

‘And his battery car?’ asked Ben with a third piece of toast.

‘And his battery car.’

‘Has he got a torch?’ asked Tom.

She ran a bath. She had a bath every morning. Despite the rush getting the children to school and Al’s protests she spent half her life in there. The bathroom was tacked on to the back of the kitchen. It was damp and full of black mould and slugs who slipped in at night to disgust those foolish enough to step on them in bare feet. She poured in rose oil and stepped into the sweet water.

This is my only quiet space. Here I can float. Here I can be queen.

Al rattled the door handle. ‘How long are you going to be? I thought you were going out?’

‘I am going out.’

‘When? When? I can’t possibly concentrate with those two.’

She splashed the water over her. In the summer her skin went golden but now she felt pale and dull and flabby like a huge white slug. ‘When? When?’ She heaved herself out of the bath and opened the door to Al. She found it difficult to talk to him when he was angry.

Why are you so angry? What have I done? But she said none of this.

‘I suppose you’ve used up all the hot water, then?’ said Al, sounding very like Jo.

‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ And she squeezed past him and ran up to her room.

They had separate rooms. When they first moved to Bristol this was something to do with Tom being a tiny baby and Al saying he didn’t want to be disturbed any more. But that was four years ago. Leah’s room was neat and rather prim, with geraniums by the window and an Indian rug. China on a big chest of drawers, a carved mirror and watercolours on the walls. She had a dolls’ cot with six old dolls in it, dressed in gowns. In an alcove cupboard were all her clothes. Leah had plenty of clothes. Years ago she stopped buying china and paintings because they didn’t have the money, but she still bought clothes from jumble sales and charity shops. Al saw it as reckless extravagance. What shall I wear? She had to get it right, she had to feel right. Today, she chose blue and white striped leggings and a sea blue jumper: she wanted to feel strong and clear. Al was coming up the stairs. The children were squabbling in the front room.

‘When are you going out?’ He was standing outside her door, waiting, as if he wanted to catch her naked. He opened the door quickly, but Leah was dressed, in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Her hair was long and gold blonde. Al watched. Leah didn’t look at him, but at herself in the mirror.

I am small. I have slanting blue eyes and a pointed nose. Sometimes I feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel like an old witch.

He went to his own room and kicked something in the doorway. Al’s room was a muddle. Clothes on the floor, newspapers, cups of coffee, college projects, children’s drawings and half-eaten biscuits. If things from the house landed up in his room they were never seen again. It might have been his idea in the first place but Al hated having separate rooms. To other people he would say, ‘That’s my study,’ but it was obvious nothing could be studied in there. If questioned further he would get angry and admit it, with a postscript, ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t sleep together.’

She phone Rachel twice but she was engaged.

‘So, when are you going?’ Al was still in his dressing gown. Ben and Tom were now playing a wild whooping game on the stairs.

‘Sod it, we’ll go now.’ She stuffed wriggling children into their coats and bundled them out of the door. ‘Good luck with your essay.’

It was a long walk to Rachel’s, right over the park and up the hill to Totterdown. It was November. Leaves had fallen off long ago. The park looked wintry, but it was sunny. The city below was shades of pink and gold. The wind pushed against them, stinging ears and blowing hair all over the place.

‘Can I play with Oliver’s torch all day?’ said Tom.

‘We might not be able to stay long …’ They were at the highest point in the park and they stopped to look at the view. ‘Look, there’s St Mary Redcliffe, and there’s the suspension bridge … We might not be able to stay long because her boyfriend isn’t very well.’

‘Has he got measles?’ said Ben.

‘No, he’s got cancer, it’s a bit different.’ My dream, the picture world turning sad grey, and now I feel bad. He’s been ill since June and I haven’t been round there once. Rachel’s having a bad time with it. She watched two seagulls flying towards the city. Her children next to her were waiting for an explanation. Why am I always answering questions? ‘He has to lie down a lot. He gets very tired. We’ll have to be good and quiet.’

The Wells Road was steep as they walked into the wind.

‘Can we have a snack soon?’ said Ben.

‘You’ve just had breakfast.’ He put on his grumpy look. He was the sturdiest of her children and tall for his age. Tom was flimsy and fine boned. He had golden curls. He was often mistaken for a girl. At that moment he was sucking his thumb, but Ben was frowning like a tank commander. ‘Don’t,’ said Leah. They turned into Rachel’s street and for a second were protected from the wind. Up here the houses were larger and grander than the terraced boxes of Garden Hill. Leah hesitated. She wondered if she were doing the right thing.

Rachel opened the door. She was all in grey. Her face was grey too. She wasn’t surprised or shocked to see them. ‘Come in,’ she said.

‘If it’s not convenient, we’ll go away.’

‘No, come in.’ She moved into the darkness of the hall and Leah followed her. Oliver bounced down the stairs and when Ben and Tom saw him they all ran squealing into the sitting room, which was full of people. Upstairs were more people. Leah was confused: she had expected a hushed hospital-like atmosphere. In the kitchen was Rachel looking lost and weary. On the table were vases and vases of flowers.

‘Where’s Ian?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Rachel.

‘It was last week.’ Rachel wiped her eyes with a large man’s handkerchief. She was so thin her jumper was slipping off her shoulders.

‘Was it here?’

‘No, he was in hospital. I couldn’t cope with it here any more. They were decent. He had all his friends there.’

Leah had only met Ian once. He was from Liverpool. He was down to earth, likeable and had friends everywhere. It seemed insane somebody so full of life should die like that.

‘He was unconscious. He kept slipping in and out … it went on for days … I’m glad it’s over.’

Leah knew Rachel wasn’t hard hearted. Ian had rotted away for months. Rachel blew her nose loudly; she was not delicate sometimes. She looked delicate, though. She was pale and her hair was fine and very dark, cut straight across. Now she was thin but her face was usually rounder. She had exceptional dark grey eyes. She could look quite ethereal.

‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said. She filled the kettle, turned on the gas, got the cups. Each movement slow and deliberate as if she had to concentrate.

The kitchen was quiet but the rest of the house was not. The children were now running up and down the hall. The people were leaving and Rachel went to see them off. Upstairs somebody was banging radiator pipes. The noise reverberated right through the house.

Rachel came back. ‘Family,’ she said.

‘Rachel? Rachel?’ called a voice. ‘Where did you put the doodah?’

Down the stairs came Bee, Rachel’s mother, in bright green slacks, a gin and tonic in one hand, a cigarette in the other. ‘Do introduce me to your friend.’

‘It’s Leah. You’ve met before.’

‘How sweet of you to call.’

‘It seems like a most inconvenient moment,’ said Leah, acutely aware of her rampaging children who now burst into the kitchen making all sorts of unreasonable requests. She attempted order.

‘They’re adorable,’ said Bee, backing away. She put her glass by the sink and began opening cupboards. ‘What shall we have for lunch?’

‘Anything you like. You’re cooking it,’ said Rachel.

Leah made the children a drink. ‘We won’t stay long.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel. Bee had found some courgettes and potatoes and was looking at them as if they were aliens.

‘What about baked potatoes?’ said Rachel.

‘Of course.’ Rachel never wore make-up but Bee wore orangy foundation and today her lips were crimson. Upstairs the banging was becoming deafening.

‘Daddy’s mending the radiators.’

‘I’ll see how it’s going,’ said Bee.

‘They’ve been here since Thursday. Mummy’s doing all the cooking. We usually have lunch around six.’ Leah had to smile, but Rachel wasn’t smiling. She had dark circles under her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s OK. They look after Oliver as well.’

Oliver, Ben and Tom were blowing bubbles into their mugs and giggling. Oliver was fair haired, he had a chubby face and a turned-up nose. Only in certain lights did he look like Rachel.

‘Ian died,’ he said suddenly to Ben, who looked blank: he had forgotten who Ian was. Rachel listened with her hand on her face.

‘Did he get shot?’ asked Ben.

‘He just got sick and died. Mummy was crying. Weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Rachel, still watching them.

‘When next door’s cat died they buried it in the garden,’ said Ben, blowing bubbles. Leah could have kicked him. ‘It’s not the same,’ she said.

‘Why?’ said Tom who probably hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

‘There’s some chocolates in the front room,’ said Rachel. ‘You can have one each.’ The children disappeared instantly.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Leah.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rachel.

‘How’s Oliver?’

‘He asks questions. He’s funny about going to sleep …’ She didn’t say any more. Ian was not Oliver’s father.

I remember sitting on Brandon Hill and you told me about this person you’d just met. You were hesitant. You liked him, but … you described him and what he wore, dreadful trainers, and his friends who got drunk all the time … and the stars above Brandon Hill were bright and clear. It was back in the spring …

Hugh came into the kitchen carrying a radiator. ‘That’s the one in the spare room done. This is from Oliver’s room. Got any enamel paint and I’ll fix the rust stains?’

‘In the cupboard,’ said Rachel. Hugh was smallish, like Rachel. He had gold-rimmed glasses which made him look like a bank manager.

‘This is Leah. She didn’t know Ian had died.’

‘Well … yes …’ He stopped for a moment by the cupboard. ‘I’d better find this paint, then. What’s for lunch?’

‘Ask Mum.’

Bee appeared. ‘Hugh’s made such a mess up there, I don’t know. Where’s your dustpan, darling?’

‘Under the sink.’ Rachel was looking more weary every minute.

‘Doesn’t seem to be there, darling.’

‘Can’t find this paint.’

Rachel sighed. She found the dustpan and the paint and followed her father upstairs.

‘It was very good of you to come,’ said Bee.

‘I hadn’t seen her for ages.’

‘He was a nice boy.’ And she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘It’s very upsetting. We did have our hopes.’ She meant marriage. Rachel had often complained about this. Bee turned on the oven and fiddled with the timer. ‘Oh dear, I much prefer microwaves.’

Rachel and Leah sat together again in the kitchen. The rest of the house had become quiet.

‘You’re exhausted. When it’s all over perhaps you can have a holiday.’

‘I was on holiday. Then the hospital rang and I had to come back. I was fucking angry about it …’

Leah laughed. Rachel was always fucking angry about something. They used to see more of each other, but recently with her working and not getting on with Al …

Rachel gazed beyond the flowers. She had a habit of drifting into a private space and in these moments there was little point in talking to her. Leah waited. Rachel picked a petal off a white chrysanthemum.

‘How do you get on with his friends?’ asked Leah.

Rachel considered this. ‘At first I thought they were right wasters. It’s so competitive. They brag about who gets the most wrecked. But when he was ill … they came to see him. The more sick he became he didn’t want to see them. I suppose it reminded him of what he used to be. He wanted to see me. He thought I could save him. He thought if I loved him more I would save him …’ She stopped and Leah thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t, she slipped back to her private world as if she would find answers and comfort there. ‘He had no belief. He thought death was the end. He was so fucking scared … he didn’t want to talk about death. He wanted to get better. His friends are the same. They’re so thrown but they don’t want to talk about it.’ She smiled. ‘They wrote poems to read at his funeral.’

‘Poems?’ And Leah remembered. ‘Do you know Declan and Bailey? They live on the other side of the Wells Road.’

‘They’re Ian’s friends.’

‘I didn’t know you knew them.’ And they both laughed.

‘Declan’s a terrible drunk but I like him, but I don’t know Bailey all that well.’

‘Oh I do,’ said Leah, feeling all excited now.

‘Oh do you?’ said Rachel with all her old sarcasm.

‘I was round there the other week. I had such a weird time. Declan said his friend was dying and later Bailey told me about the poems.’

‘The funeral was yesterday.’ Rachel was not laughing now. Leah understood all she had said about competitive wrecking.

‘Bailey teaches basketball at the Project. That’s how I know him. What do you think of him?’

Rachel frowned. She was very critical of men. ‘He’s scattered. He’s all over the place.’

‘There’s a lot of him,’ said Leah, thinking.

Rachel was becoming more dreamy. It was time to go. They went to find the boys. As they opened the sitting-room door three guilty faces stared at them.

‘They’ve eaten the lot!’

‘Ben and Tom made me,’ wailed Oliver, and Leah quite believed that.

‘A whole box of chocolates! Boys, you’ll be sick.’

Rachel could do without this. Leah got their coats. On the doorstep she hugged Rachel, who seemed to be fading away. Upstairs Bee and Hugh were arguing.

At the top of the street she caught up with the boys. ‘You are very, very naughty, you ate all her chocolates.’ But going round my head is, Ian is dead, Declan and Bailey, and Rachel knows them. She wiped the boys’ faces with a spat-on handkerchief. They grimaced and wriggled.

‘Oliver didn’t have a torch,’ said Tom.

‘Does it matter?’ She wished they weren’t with her.

‘Is it lunch soon?’ said Ben.

‘How can you be hungry? How can you?’ They were on the Wells Road being knocked about by the wind.

‘Are we going home?’

‘No we’re not. We’re going to see Bailey.’

Bailey and Declan lived in Steep Street. It was aptly named. The end of it fell off the edge of Totterdown into a flight of steps. The wind blew up it like a gale.

‘Can we run?’

‘Yes, run. Go on, run.’ And she ran too. It seemed she would jump off the end of the street and fly right across Bristol, the wind underneath her. They skidded to a halt in front of the door. The boys knocked loudly, all giggly from running, and she was light-headed too. Bailey opened the door. The first thing she noticed were his odd clothes. A pink and black spotty shirt and baggy turquoise trousers. Then his face, pale and unshaven and evidently not pleased to see them. But Leah was too excited to stop now.

‘It’s remarkable. I know Ian. I know Rachel. I’ve just been round there. I didn’t know he had died. I didn’t know he was Declan’s friend. I had this dream I had to see her, so I did and we’ve just been running. Isn’t it windy, can we come in?’

‘Well, if yer must.’ He had a sarf London accent.

Bailey’s and Declan’s house was tiny. Even smaller than Leah’s. The front room was all blue. The walls, the sofa and the curtains. There were art books, large plants and an even larger television. A Cézanne print hung over the fireplace. It was pretty tasteful really. On a low table were three ashtrays stuffed full of fag-ends. The children immediately started fiddling with everything. Bailey spread himself on the sofa. He was six foot four. When he sat on a sofa he took up all of it.

‘How are you then?’

He didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette. Leah sat on the other sofa.

‘Are there any toys?’ asked Ben, half at Leah and half at Bailey.

‘Nope,’ said Bailey.

‘Why?’ said Tom, knocking something off the mantelpiece. Luckily it didn’t break.

Bailey blew out smoke noisily.

‘Can they watch the telly?’ said Leah, desperately.

He handed Ben the remote control, which was a bad move since they now started flicking through the channels and arguing. Leah felt her insides gurgle. Ian’s dead. Rachel’s in grey. The wind’s racing up Steep Street and Bailey’s big bare foot is dangling over the arm of the sofa.

‘Where’s Declan?’

‘Asleep.’ Another whoosh of smoke.

‘Boys. Declan’s still asleep. You must be quiet!’

‘Who’s Declan?’ said Ben.

‘He lives here. He’s Ian’s friend.’

‘Who’s Ian?’ said Tom.

‘He’s dead,’ said Ben. Fortunately they found some American football and started watching this. Leah watched too.

‘Is Declan all right?’

‘No.’ Bailey stubbed out his fag.

‘Poor Declan. Rachel looked terrible. I hadn’t seen her for months.’

Bailey yawned and stretched himself. Leah was embarrassed. He hadn’t even offered to make a cup of tea, which was odd, he drank gallons of the stuff. He lit up again. She half watched the telly and half watched Bailey.

Bailey was not handsome. His face was too long and his ears too big. But he was impressive. For a start he had dark red hair, not ginger, but chestnut red, shoulder length and wavy. He was vain about his hair and was always patting or flicking it. When he played basketball he tied it up with scarves and headbands. The first time Leah met him he said, ‘Yer hair’s almost as thick as mine,’ which she understood later was a compliment. Secondly, Bailey wore odd clothes. Plaid trousers, red shirts, a lime green tracksuit and fluorescent pink cycling shorts. What with his scarves, dangling earrings and all-revealing shorts, the old biddies at the Project stared at him. So did everybody else.

‘Take one,’ he said, pointing to his fags on the low table. Leah did; the smoke made her more dizzy.

‘How’s your training going?’

‘Mega naff.’

‘Have you not been well?’

‘No, I’ve been pissed.’

They sat in silence, their smoke mingling in the tiny sitting room, the children mesmerised by the wrestling Americans.

I should go. I’m an intruder. But I can’t quite believe this, because muddled up with Ian and Rachel and dying and things changing is last Friday …

CHAPTER TWO

She was walking home from a particularly boring Project meeting when she saw Bailey. She recognised him immediately: he had a peculiar stiff way of walking as if he were trying to conserve energy.

‘Bailey!’ she called. She expected him to wave back and keep walking, but he didn’t, he crossed the road.

‘Yo! Wotcha!’

‘Friday night, Bailey, you on the town?’

‘Sure am.’ He was wearing his best plain trousers and a bright orange anorak. He let her admire him for some moments. ‘What you been up to then?’

‘Oh God, meetings, meetings, they’re so tedious!’

Bailey laughed. ‘You’re always at meetings.’

‘I know. Somebody’s got to make decisions.’ She turned to go.

‘Come for a drink,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m off to the Cambridge.’

She was surprised. She saw him frequently but only in a work context. Yet now he looked so friendly and ridiculous and harmless. ‘Yes, why not.’

The Cambridge was on the other side of the park on the main road. It was seedy. Inside, he looked sharply around and went straight to the bar. Leah sat in a corner. The interior was as tacky as the exterior. Smoke-stained wallpaper and plastic-upholstered chairs. A few young men were playing snooker. Apart from the barmaid Leah was the only woman. Everybody stared at Bailey. He wasn’t bothered. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and stretched himself as if he had just landed in paradise. He took a great gulp of his drink. It was Guinness, thick and black, and he wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Take one.’ He tapped his cigarette packet. She did and sipped her drink, which was white wine.

‘They’re here!’ Bailey jumped up as through the door came two men, one dark haired and tall, the other small and fair.

‘Bailey!’ ‘Yo, Declan! Mike!’ ‘How’s you?’ ‘Pint of Guinness? You buy the next one.’ Bailey and the dark-haired man went to the bar. Bailey’s laugh could be heard right through the pub. The small man sat down.

‘How do you do. I’m Declan.’

‘I’m Leah, I work with Bailey.’

‘He has mentioned you.’ He smiled. He had a soft public school voice. He wasn’t much taller than Leah. His hair stuck up like an unbrushed schoolboy’s. He leaned close: ‘Is he dreadful to work with?’

‘He’s shocking, he never does what he’s told.’ Across Declan’s nose were tiny freckles. Mike joined them. Bailey was at the jukebox pronouncing every record ‘mega naff’.

‘He does this every time,’ said Declan and drank nearly half his Guinness in one go. ‘Mike’s from Birmingham.’

‘Don’t tell her that!’ yelled Bailey. ‘Never say you come from Birmingham.’

‘Well, what can I say – he’s from Guildford?’

Bailey roared, ‘Never! Guildford? Never say you’re from Birmingham or Guildford!’

‘Actually … I don’t live there now,’ said Mike.

‘Where do you live?’ Bailey was on his third pint.

‘I’ve just moved to Milton Keynes …’

‘Milton Keynes?’ Bailey and Declan were almost choking. Mike might have been good looking if he hadn’t had such a hesitant manner. He had large brown eyes, which made him seem rabbit-like. He also appeared stunned as if he had been subjected to a week-long trauma.

‘He’s staying with us,’ said Declan with a cute smile.

‘You buy the next one,’ said Bailey.

‘And what do you do?’ Mike asked Leah. Bailey’s choice of music was making conversation difficult.

‘She’s my boss!’ Bailey’s voice could be heard above anything.

Several drinks later Leah had learned very little about Declan and Mike except that Mike never rode scooters, never ever and Declan taught delinquents how to be louts. Mike had become silent and only his drink was keeping him alert. Bailey and Declan had downed at least six pints. There was talk of a party.

‘So how do we get there?’ said Leah, who had no intention of going.

‘On Mike’s scooter!’ shouted Bailey.

The landlord started sweeping up and giving them threatening glances. Eventually they stumbled out. They were the last to leave. Declan and Mike untangled their bicycles. Bailey yawned.

‘Where’s this party then? William Street? Gwilliam Street?’

It occurred to Leah that Al didn’t know where she was. ‘I think I’d better go,’ she said.

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Bailey. Declan and Mike were trying to mount their bikes. ‘We’ll see you there.’ They watched them wobble up the street. Bailey and Leah stayed outside the pub. Inside the lights were being switched off one by one.

‘I don’t fancy a party,’ said Bailey, yawning again. ‘Coffee at my place?’

It’s nearly midnight. Al will be in bed. ‘Yes,’ she said.

They went up the hill to the Wells Road. Leah had to run to keep up with Bailey. This made him laugh; he was extremely fit. ‘This way!’ And he pulled her across the road and into the sloping streets of Totterdown. Terraced houses skidded down the hill off narrow uneven pavements. There were few street lights. They passed an area of bushy wilderness and on the top of it was a row of houses. ‘Up there,’ said Bailey, pointing, and they turned into a street so steep Leah gasped.

‘I run up here every morning,’ said Bailey.

When they reached his house she was only too glad to sit down. He didn’t. He tidied up magazines and emptied ashtrays. ‘Do you like this room?’

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and it was, it was blue and peaceful apart from Bailey standing there patting his hair.

‘I’ll show you the rest. I helped Declan choose the colours. That’s the kitchen. That’s the back room, but we haven’t done that yet. Come and see my room.’ He bounded upstairs.

Perhaps I shouldn’t visit strange men’s bedrooms. He was standing in the doorway holding the door open for her.

Bailey’s room was large and blue, a sea-greeny blue. There were at least eight plants, big ones, and pictures all over the walls. Paintings of unicorns and other, winged creatures.

‘Did you do these?’ asked Leah. She didn’t think of him as an artist.

‘They’re my dreams,’ said Bailey. She wanted to look at them longer. On the floor were crystals, dried flowers in vases and an enormous double bed.

‘Tea or coffee?’ said Bailey.

They sat downstairs. Bailey slurped out of a huge cup, smoked two cigarettes in a row, put on some music, didn’t like it, went through all his tapes and eventually chose some band he knew from France, who were ‘mega brilliant and nobody has heard of them’. Fortunately he didn’t turn it up loud. He sat next to Leah. She wasn’t drunk, but she was in that odd state where she didn’t care what time it was or what was happening.

‘How long have you been married?’ said Bailey.

‘Ten years.’

He laughed. ‘I’ve never done anything for ten years! But I’ve been a cook, taught English in France and managed a band.’

‘And now you’re on to sports.’

‘But this is permanent.’ He was dead serious. She didn’t contradict him.

‘Well, you must be busy, what with your kids and all?’

‘I do far too much. Work. Husband. Children.’ She looked at him. In one ear he wore an earring with the sun and moon dangling off it. Then, she didn’t know why she asked it, she said, ‘Bailey, have you got any children?’

He went very quiet and spread out his fingers. ‘Yes, I’ve got a little girl in France.’

‘In France? Do you see her?’

He patted his hair. ‘No, not really. I lived there for a while. Things started to go wrong and I left.’

‘What, just like that?’

‘Just like that,’ said Bailey. He took a picture out of a drawer and showed it to her. A little girl of about four with Bailey’s long face and big ears. Leah almost felt like saying, poor little thing.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘She’s called Ghislaine.’

They were now sitting quite close together on the sofa and she was looking into his eyes. What a strange colour they are, a greeny greeny blue, and you smell sweet as if you rub yourself all over with aromatic oil. ‘Bailey, have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No. Have you got a boyfriend?’

‘Don’t be silly, you know I’m married.’

‘Why should that stop you –’ Then the front door crashed open. It was Declan tripping over his bike in the hall. He was completely drunk. Bailey hauled him into the sitting room. ‘Where’s Mike?’

‘God … who? I think he’s lost.’

‘I’d better make some tea then,’ said Bailey.

‘Was it a good party?’ asked Leah. Declan had collapsed on the sofa. ‘Awful.’ He grinned at the ceiling. ‘And you … enjoying yourself?’

‘I’m having the time of my life.’

‘Oh good … and what music is this?’

‘An unknown band of Bailey’s.’

‘It’s … terrible.’ He eased himself to the deck, stopped the music abruptly and began looking through the tapes. ‘This –’ he held up an Andy Sheppard tape – ‘is better … my friend gave it to me … and now –’ he was saying each word slowly as if in an elocution lesson – ‘he is dying, he might be dead now and he gave it to me, my best friend.’

‘Are you sure you want to listen to it?’

‘Absolutely.’ He put it on. It took him ages. He sat next to Leah and the music began.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your friend,’ said Leah.

‘It happens … we all die … one day … everything dies …’

Bailey brought in the tea tray. He looked critically at Declan and slammed the tray on the table. ‘I’m not listening to this jazzy crap!’

‘Everything dies, Bailey.’

‘Not right now it bloody doesn’t. Drink yer tea!’

Declan sipped his grumpily. ‘I think there’s wine in the fridge.’ They started arguing about the tape and eventually settled for reggae. Bailey danced at one end of the room. Leah and Declan watched him. He danced awkwardly, but it was fascinating, he was so serious.

‘He practises in front of the mirror,’ whispered Declan.

Someone was knocking on the door. It was Mike with a taxi and no money.

‘Where’s your bike?’ shouted Bailey. ‘Where’s your scooter?’

‘Oh Christ,’ said Mike. Declan found a fiver for the taxi man.

‘Where’s your bike, Mike?’ yelled Bailey.

‘I need a drink.’ Mike held his head. Bailey got the wine and glasses, which were like brandy glasses.

‘I have to go soon,’ said Leah.

‘No, not yet,’ said Bailey. She drank the wine. It was thick and red. Mike began rolling joints. Bailey turned the music up. Declan started rolling joints and soon the room was a Turkish bath of dope smoke.

‘I really ought to go,’ said Leah but she couldn’t move.

‘Have you noticed …’ began Declan, ‘about filo pastry … sometimes it’s much more … Greek than other times?’

‘What?’ said Mike.

‘It’s important … the Greekness of it … the essential Greekness.’

‘It’s mega important,’ said Bailey.

‘What is?’ said Mike.

‘All of it, right through to the last crumb, the last flake.’

‘It’s mega flaky,’ said Bailey, drinking all his wine and starting on Mike’s.

‘What? Just what is what?’ shouted Mike.

‘That’s another question entirely.’ And Declan handed Leah the fourth joint.

I’m on the sofa, smoking and thinking, and what did I just think? That I’m myself, I’m Leah and I’m not somebody’s mother or somebody’s wife … I’m here because I’m myself … and the music is through the ceiling and all the furniture and down the street and inside me … it’s dreamy and perfect … ‘What time is it?’ she asked. Mike was going to bed.

‘It’s three … in the morning,’ said Declan.

‘My God! I really really have to go. I really do!’

She got as far as the front door. Bailey was there, all brilliant colours and smiling.

‘Oh Bailey, I don’t want to go home!’

‘Well, don’t then,’ he said.

She woke up on the sofa. Cold and under a musty-smelling blanket. She rushed into the kitchen. Bailey was making toast. Relaxed and clean in a different outfit. Leah looked at the clock. ‘Oh my God, half-past nine, oh my God!’

He handed her a cup of tea. Her mouth felt like a furry glove.

‘Oh Bailey, what a thing! I’ve never … Al’ll be furious, he’s always furious and today’s bonfire night and I’m selling sausages at the Project …’

She rang up Al. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry. I just got drunk and fell asleep …’

‘Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been up all night … I rang the police, I rang the hospitals.’

‘Oh Al …’

‘Couldn’t you have phoned, eh?’

‘I did think about it.’ She could hear children crying in the background.

‘Yes, your bloody mother is perfectly all right!’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Where the hell are you, anyway?’

‘I’m at Declan’s.’

‘And who the fuck is Declan?’

‘He’s Bailey’s friend.’

‘Bailey? Bailey. What, that ponce in the tracksuit?’

She was about to say he wasn’t a ponce but Al shouted, ‘Oh I see!’ and slammed down the phone.

In the kitchen Bailey gave her toast and a sympathetic smile. ‘Rough, was it?’

‘He thinks … but I didn’t … we didn’t … did we?’

‘Drink yer tea.’ She did and ate half a piece of toast and watched him eat four. He did have an incredible appetite.

‘Bailey, what shall I do?’

‘You’ll be all right.’ And he patted her hand.

Bonfire night was dreadful. Al didn’t speak to her. She saw Bailey again briefly on Wednesday at the Project.

‘How are you?’ she asked, feeling flushed. He was in a hurry.

‘Mega naffed off. Declan’s mate died and he’s been writing poems ever since.’ And he was gone.

Now he was watching television with a face like marble. Leah stood up.

‘It’s time to go,’ she said to the children. ‘Say goodbye to Bailey.’ She led them into the hall. He was still staring at the telly.

‘I’ll see you, Bailey.’

‘You probably will.’

CHAPTER THREE

Al had convinced himself Leah was having an affair with Bailey. The whole business became another thing to row about. They didn’t sleep together, they barely conversed, Al was fed up with his teacher’s course, Leah was fed up with Al and the house was full of mould and crumble. But these things weren’t important. Leah was bonking Bailey. ‘But I’m not,’ she said, quite desperately now. Al came back from college. They pushed tea into the children and put them to bed. Then it all started.

‘Did you go down the Project today?’ Leah was tidying up the kitchen. Al was smoking, smoking and watching her.

‘Oh yes … for a bit.’ She had her back to him.

‘For a bit of what!’ He laughed but there was an underlying hysteria in his voice.

‘I’m tired,’ she said, rinsing the last plate. ‘I think I’ll go to bed soon.’

‘No you won’t.’

She looked at the window and the stained flowery blind and the wet night behind it. ‘I’m tired,’ she said again. Tired and dry and shrivelled up like an old leaf.

‘Why don’t you be honest with me –’ he tried to sound reasonable – ‘then we can deal with it. Why hide it. Why lie all the time?’

She turned round. He was sitting with his feet on the table, rocking the chair. His hair was all over the place. He was wearing his blue stripy dungarees which were the only clothes he had that Leah liked. In the last two days he had managed to get red paint on them and coffee and tobacco ash.

‘You’ll break the chair,’ she said.

‘Fuck the chair!’ He looked demonic.

‘I go to the Project to work,’ she said in her calmest voice. ‘You know what I do there. I help out in the office. I answer the phone. You know this.’

He relit his cigarette. He smoked roll-ups and they always went out. ‘You go there to see Bailey. Ponce-bag Mr Sexy Lycra-shorts.’

‘Al, I do not.’

‘Was he at the Project today? Was he?’

‘No … I mean yes … he came in to collect some keys.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He said nothing? The other week he had you out all night and now he’s saying nothing to you. What do you feel about that?’ He put his feet on the floor and straightened up.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? Nothing? Is that all you can say? Don’t you feel anything? God, you amaze me.’ He tossed his fag-end into the sink and rolled himself another. ‘Your boyfriend’s ignoring you and you feel nothing?’

‘I’ve told you this a dozen times. I don’t even know why I did it. I just felt …’

‘What? What did you feel? You tell me you feel nothing!’

How can I explain this? I felt I was myself and I didn’t belong to anybody.

‘What?’ he was yelling. And she started to cry because she was tired and it all seemed impossible and where was the end?

Al hated her crying. He smashed the table and made the cheese dish jump.

‘Don’t break it!’ sobbed Leah. There had been too much broken crockery lately.

‘Is this all you care about, bits of china? Don’t you care about me?’

This made her cry more. She could only think about being alone and peaceful. He was storming up and down the room banging his fists on the wall. ‘Tell me!’ he screamed, loud enough to wake up the whole street.

‘Tell you what?’ sobbed Leah.

He stopped. ‘You are so fucking stupid I don’t believe you. Look at you. You’re pathetic. All I want to know, it’s so simple and you can’t answer me, is why did you go off with that … ponce. OK you didn’t bonk him. OK you don’t fancy him …’

‘I don’t. He’s got big ears, he’s ugly and stupid.’ She wasn’t looking at Al but at the table and the cheese dish. She had found it in a junk shop and wasn’t it pretty with flowers and gilt. She wanted to pick it up and protect it. ‘Bailey’s thick,’ she said, trying to calm herself. ‘He wears stupid clothes. He’s an idiot.’

Al relit his cigarette. ‘Then why did you go off with him?’

She looked at him and his hungry tired face and his matted hair. ‘I felt I wanted something different.’

‘Different?’ He picked out the word and inspected it. ‘In what way?’

‘From this,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted something different from this.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’ And he walked out of the kitchen and out of the front door. She waited. He was given to storming out and storming back in again, but this time he didn’t. She went upstairs. She felt defeated and insignificant. On the landing was Jo, her eldest child.

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘He’s gone for a walk. It’s very late. Go back to bed.’ She hated it when the children woke up in the middle of a fight. Jo was ten, he was skinny and pale. His pyjamas were too small for him and showed an expanse of bony leg. She wanted him to go away. She opened her bedroom door. ‘Go to bed, dear,’ she said. He looked baffled and half asleep. She felt a pang of pity for him. ‘Be nice to Daddy in the morning.’

It was Thursday and the last week in November. Leah was in the bath. It was her day at the Project. She stayed in the water until it was quite lukewarm. She wanted to be queen of the fairies in a bubbling stream, but she wasn’t, she was Leah in a mouldy bathroom in Garden Hill.

She dressed in her brightest clothes. An egg-yellow jumper and pink leggings. She still felt blank. She put on bright pink lipstick and a coral-coloured coat and went outside.

Garden Hill wasn’t much of a hill and even less of a garden. There were four roads. Garden Hill, at the bottom, Arthur Road, Clarence Road and Walter Road, all named after turn-of-the-century local dignitaries. At the top of the hill were two modern tower blocks also named after forgettable notables. They were built on the site of a large house and gardens demolished in the fifties. Older residents could remember it. A late Victorian heap owned by a successful draper. Around his house terraced rows had crept up right to the garden walls until he was so hemmed in by urban life he sold up and moved elsewhere. There had been an orchard but all this had gone to the tower blocks.

Looking up the hill Leah could see the blocks in the mist. Ugly grey shapes hanging above the houses of Walter Road. The end of Garden Hill had been bombed in the war and there was now a children’s playground, with four swings and a seesaw. From here, on the other side of the railway line she could see all of Bristol. She looked as she always did. The sky was low and heavy, the buildings were shades of grey and the air, too, felt heavy and damp. She could see her breath and she walked on.

The road went under the railway line in a sudden steep lunge and from here on it was flat. This was Brewery Lane. It led to the Project past the tyre sales depot and the masons’ yard. Above it was the railway embankment. She walked along past the stone dust and the fumes of burning tyres, then suddenly there was a country hedge and rowan trees. This was the Garden Hill Project.

It was on four acres of land bordered by Brewery Lane and, on the other side, a huge printing works. It was most unexpected to find a part of the countryside here, but here it was. Twelve years previously a group of local people got fed up with this piece of land earmarked to be a lorry park and they took it over and turned into allotments. Then came the community gardens, the pond and the wildlife area. The Council gave them a grant to make a community centre. When Leah moved to Bristol the Garden Hill Project was bursting with children, old people, plants for sale, vegetables for sale, soup, tea and cakes and sports sessions. Leah worked in the office. She was also on the committee.

The office was a poky room in the old Brewery building. It was not a nice place to work. Lesley answered the phone, booked the various rooms and typed letters, usually at the same time. Barbara dealt with petty cash and salaries and Debbie worked with the children. The phone rang all day. Staff came in to collect keys, management came in to collect staff and anybody else who had a problem or a query. Today, the cleaner was off sick and several mothers were complaining about a dirty floor in the play centre. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Lesley, ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ and soon everybody in the office was apologising. Lesley and Barbara were working mothers with teenage children. They dressed in smart clothes as if they worked in a proper office and not a badly lit room with wobbly shelves crammed full of files. The women left. Barbara made coffee. The phone rang.

Then Bailey burst in. ‘The floor ain’t been swept!’ He was furious. Lesley disappeared to the bank; Barbara was suddenly busy with the accounts. This left Leah. He was the last person in the universe she wanted to see.

‘I’ve got a class at two and I’m not doing it on that bloody floor!’

‘The cleaner’s sick,’ said Leah. Bailey was wearing his best lime green tracksuit. His hair was in a red band. He seemed to fill up the whole room.

‘I’m not doing a class on that floor!’

‘The cleaner is sick,’ said Leah.

‘That’s your fucking problem.’

Barbara coughed. Bailey wasn’t her favourite person. He made a fuss every week about his pay cheque.

‘There is nobody to clean today, we are very short-staffed –’ began Leah.

‘Then there’s no bloody class, that’s it, I’m off!’ and he slammed the sports hall keys on the table.

Oh God, I am so sick of angry men! ‘What do you want me to do, clean the floor for you? I’ll show you where the broom cupboard is.’

‘I’m not paid to clean floors!’

‘Then you won’t get paid at all. Barbara, Bailey isn’t getting paid today.’

‘You can’t do this, I’m on a contract!’

‘Yes I can, I’m on the committee!’ They stared at each other. Leah was charged up and raging. ‘This is the way to the broom cupboard,’ she said, and Bailey followed her, slamming the office door.

The sports hall was a newish building on the other side of the Project. Leah stormed past the café, Bailey still following. People in the café watched them with oh-yes expressions on their faces. ‘This,’ said Leah, pushing open another door, ‘is the broom cupboard.’ It was a small room filled with brushes and mops and various cleaning fluids. They went inside and the door shut behind them.

‘This,’ said Leah, ‘is a broom.’ And she handed one to Bailey. He looked at it and held it at arm’s length. He sniffed and patted his hair. He looked so vain and ridiculous she began to giggle.

‘What’s up with you?’ he snapped.

‘Bailey, it’s a broom,’ said Leah.

‘So fucking what? And that’s a lightbulb.’

‘Oh Bailey.’ She put her hand to her mouth and propped herself up against the wall. She felt quite hysterical. ‘And that’s the floor,’ she said.

‘You’re fucking mental, you are.’ He had the broom in one hand; the other was still patting his hair, his stupid red hair. There he was in his vile luminous green tracksuit with a pink stripe down one side and massive trainers with multicoloured laces.

‘Bailey, what do you look like?’

‘And what do you fucking look like … a liquorice allsort! You do, you bloody do, one of them liquorice allsorts.’ He began to sweep the floor.

‘Bailey, stop it!’

‘I thought you wanted me to do this.’

‘Out there, not in here.’ They were both laughing. He swept up clouds of dust which made them cough as well as laugh. Bailey opened the door. Go on, get out,’ he said and they stumbled into the foyer of the sports hall. ‘I’ve got a lesson,’ he said importantly.

In the office Barbara was still doing the accounts. ‘That man!’ she said to Leah as she walked in and then, ‘Oh, heavens!’ because Leah’s face was grimy with dust and tear-marked from laughing.

‘What on earth happened?’

‘I’m not quite sure.’ Leah sat down. She felt shaky all over and completely crazy. Lesley came back from the bank. ‘Has he gone?’ she said, looking anxiously round the office.

‘Ask Leah,’ said Barbara.

‘What did he do?’ said Lesley, wide eyed because Leah looked deranged.

‘He thought it was funny … in the end.’ Leah was quite aware this wasn’t a satisfactory explanation. ‘I think I’d better wash my face.’

In the loo she splashed herself with cold water. She was still shaky. He was angry, but I didn’t crumble. I changed it. But into what? I’m not sure.

It was half-past three and the office was closing. Leah was thinking about children and what to have for tea. Barbara left and Lesley; Leah was going to lock up. Bailey came in with the sports hall keys.

‘Good lesson?’ asked Leah.

‘All right.’ He had showered and his hair was wet. He fiddled with the keys before putting them on the table. ‘What you doing tonight?’

I was thinking about tea and children and Al coming back. ‘There’s a committee meeting.’ She put on her coat and picked up her bag.

‘What you doing after the meeting?’ He tapped the table and she looked at his finger, then up his arm and right into his greeny eyes.

‘Bailey, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because … because last time I got into terrible trouble.’ She felt herself blush; she hated talking about Al and her.

Bailey put his head to one side. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Because … he thinks I’m having an affair with you.’

‘Well, he’s a dickhead because you’re not.’

Then the whole business seemed much clearer. ‘I’ll see,’ she said.

‘I’ll be in the Cambridge. See ya later.’ That was it, he was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

Al came back from college and slumped into a kitchen chair. The children were in the front room watching Blue Peter. Leah was heating up bean soup, which the children hated but if she gave it to them in front of the telly they might eat it.

‘Nice day?’ she said to Al.

He did not look like a person who had had a nice day. ‘They’re bloody sending me to the Blessed Martyrs for teaching practice.’

‘What’s wrong with the Blessed Martyrs?’

‘It’s Catholic.’

‘Is that bad? Do you want some soup?’

‘I’m not going to go.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I’m not going to that place, it’s so uptight. I can’t possibly work there creatively for six weeks … Catholic God and bullshit stuff … nuns – and I have to wear a tie!’ He ate his soup, spilling a large glob of it on to his jumper. He wiped it off with his hand, which he wiped on his knee. ‘I told my tutor, I said, I’m not going to that place, I’m not bloody going.’

Leah had a vision of her husband as a child screaming, ‘I won’t go to school,’ and now he was a teacher and he still wouldn’t go. It made her smile.

‘Oh, you would think it was funny, wouldn’t you?’

‘It was something else.’ And she quickly took the children’s bowls to the front room. They were sitting in the dark watching the presenter making an Advent ring out of coat-hangers. They began to eat their soup mechanically.

Al was helping himself to more so it couldn’t have been that bad. She took a small portion and sat down.

‘… Catholic repression turning out fucked-up individuals who are too repressed to think for themselves and too fucked up to feel anything …’ Leah’s family were Catholic. ‘Stupid ignorant nuns forcing children to believe in hell and fat complacent eunuch priests, and repressed Catholic Mafia families with their insidious network of do-goodism.’

‘I’ve got a meeting tonight,’ said Leah, ‘at half-past seven, so could you –’

‘Put the children to bed. Yes, dear wife. I like to spend time with my children.’

‘We’ll probably go for a drink afterwards, at the Swan, we usually do.’

‘I like to spend time with my wife, but unfortunately she doesn’t like to spend time with me.’

‘It isn’t that,’ she said as casually as she could. ‘It’s good to socialise with people you work with. Clive has invited us all for a drink.’

‘Good old Clive. Do you fancy him as well?’

Leah sat through the meeting not taking much of it in. She doodled on her notepad. She drew a path going over a hill into a sunset, and a funny little house with a chimney and smoke coming out, but she scribbled that out and drew boxes like cages and more boxes and more boxes.

‘Item five, compost bins,’ said the chairperson. This was Phil. He had been chair for the last three years because nobody else wanted to do it. He was tall and thin with a trim beard. He was a history teacher at the local comprehensive. ‘Clive, I think this is your area.’

Clive was the community gardener. He was about forty with a bald head and an enormous bushy beard. He was square set and rather rounded. While working he wore a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He had tanned skin from working outdoors and red cheeks, probably from too much beer.

‘Ho, the problem, as I see it, is that basically, the residents of Brewery Lane have been complaining about the present siting of the compost bins, basically because of the smell.’

‘Smelly bins,’ said Phil. ‘Well, what to do?’ A map of the whole site was produced and every alternative discussed at great length. Leah looked at the clock: it was gone nine. Doris and Betty kept knitting and started reminiscing about who used to live at 21 Brewery Lane, which was the house opposite the offensive bins. ‘That Madge Parkins, ooh, she were a compost bin ’erself.’

‘Um ladies,’ said Phil. ‘I think we have to wind this up soon. Let me make a suggestion. How about over here at the back of the sports hall?’

‘We’ll have to consult that sports hall chappy,’ said Vic, the treasurer, who could always think of a reason why something wouldn’t work.

‘Leah, that’s your department,’ said Phil.

‘I think it might be better to inform him rather than consult him,’ she said, going pink. Doris and Betty started whispering: ‘… and he wears earrings.’

‘Clive, what do you think?’

‘Well, basically …’ said Clive and the matter went on for another ten minutes.

The meeting finished. Clive was rubbing his hands: ‘Ho, ho, time for a drink. Up the Swan.’ Vic lit up his pipe and blew it near Phil, who had banned smoking at meetings two years ago.

‘I have to go,’ said Leah, gathering up her things and rushing out before anybody could ask her any more questions.

Bailey was at the far end of the bar, a pint of Guinness in front of him and several empty glasses on the table. He looked glum. He was not wearing his usual wacky clothes but a grey jumper and ragged-look jeans. He didn’t see Leah until she sat down opposite him.

‘Yo!’ he said and managed a smile. ‘Well, you got rid of the liquorice allsort.’

‘I can’t wear that to meetings.’ She was also in jeans, decent ones. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, it was one of those last agenda items that go on and on.’

‘I don’t know why you bother.’ His hair was tied back in a ponytail and he had taken off his earrings. ‘What was it about this time?’

She hesitated. Compost bins to be moved near sports hall. Leah to inform Bailey. She didn’t want to talk about that now. ‘A load of rubbish,’ she said and shook her hair as if she were shaking out all the day’s worries.

‘Do that again,’ said Bailey, ‘I liked that.’ And she did, self-consciously, as Bailey watched her. He took a great gulp of his Guinness and handed her a cigarette.

‘Is Declan coming out tonight?’ she said and dropped Bailey’s lighter on the floor. Flustered trying to pick it up she nearly fell off her chair and had to steady herself. She put her hand on Bailey’s knee. There was a huge hole in his jeans, she was touching his knee. He didn’t react. ‘Fuck knows about Declan,’ he said.

They sat there awkwardly. Bailey finished his drink and bought another. Leah smoked a cigarette; so did Bailey. Two lads and a plump girl in a white miniskirt were laughing loudly at the bar. ‘I’m not into this,’ said Bailey. ‘I’m off.’ He stood up. ‘Come and have a spliff at my place.’

It was uphill all the way to Bailey’s. Leah told silly tales about the members of the committee so by the time they reached Steep Street it felt as if they were old friends. The house was the same as she remembered, tiny and blue. Bailey made tea and they smoked joints. He undid his ponytail and rearranged his hair. He hadn’t put on any music so there was just the hissing gas fire to listen to.

‘I was mega naffed off before I met you tonight,’ said Bailey.

‘Because of Declan?’

‘Sod Declan. No, I got a letter from London.’

‘Oh? And that was bad?’

‘From me mum, with photies.’

Leah didn’t understand any of this. ‘You don’t like your mum?’

‘You’re fucking right I don’t.’ He smoked his joint furiously.

‘You don’t like her sending you photographs?’

‘No! I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, she’s growing up and I don’t see her.’

‘Your little girl.’ She understood now. ‘Does your wife write to your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘And not to you?’

‘You got it.’ He picked at the hole in his jeans.

‘Do you write to her?’

‘Sometimes …’

‘And she never writes back?’

He shrugged and pulled out a thread. He had long fingers. They were not graceful. After a while Leah said, ‘Why did you leave? Was it that bad?’

He said nothing and then he said, ‘I couldn’t hack it, that’s why.’

‘And you walked out: that’s a weird thing to do.’

‘I was going fucking mental, I had to.’

How odd it must be to just leave, to leave behind a child, with no explanations, or apologies, or anything. ‘Things change all the time, you think something’s bad, you can’t stand it, and then it changes.’ She knew she was saying that for her own benefit as well as Bailey’s.

‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘they were nice photies. I stuck one on me wall.’ And he smiled. Leah smiled too. They sat there for a while until Leah said, ‘I have to go home,’ and Bailey said, ‘That’s OK.’

As she walked home the roads were frosty and slippery and the air was sharp. She felt peaceful and light-headed. She crossed the park and she was unafraid: so much so she stopped at the top to look at the view. All the lights of Bristol. Bailey, I want to know you better. She walked down to Garden Hill skidding on the frosty roads as if her feet didn’t belong on the earth, as if they had no place there.

CHAPTER FIVE

When Leah arrived home the house was dark and quiet. She unlocked the door and crept up the stairs. She was halfway up when Al said from the darkness, ‘So, you’re back then?’ She was startled. She didn’t want to converse but he had different ideas.

‘Good meeting was it?’

‘Not too bad, a bit boring.’

‘Nice drink? At the Swan?’

‘Oh you know, same old stuff …’

They were, both of them, still in darkness. ‘Who was there?’

‘Phil, Clive, Vic Rodgers, Doris and Betty, for a bit, then they went home.’ She leaned on the banisters and peered into the front room: she could just see Al standing in the doorway.

‘So you had a good time?’

‘Yes … well … I’d better get to bed, it’s getting late.’

‘You lying bitch,’ hissed Al.

Leah froze. Al ran up the stairs and grabbed her. He dragged her into the front room. He pushed her on to the sofa and turned on the light. She blinked.

‘You’re lying!’ He was furious and pale.

‘I’m not.’ She was confused and beginning to shake.

‘You were never in the Swan.’ And before she could speak he threw a notepad at her. It hit her on the cheek. She picked it up off the floor. It was hers.

‘Nice Mr Chairperson Phil brought it round after the meeting because you left it behind, because you were in such a hurry. You didn’t go to the Swan, did you?’

‘No,’ said Leah, thinking as hard as she could of a way to stop this getting worse.

‘You’re a fucking liar.’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘What I think? What do I think? I think you were down the dogs’ home.’

‘I had a drink with Bailey.’

‘Ah ha, well, well. Mr Sexy Shorts. So how did this come about?’

‘I arranged it.’

‘A nice secret little liaison. I would never have known, would I?’

‘I didn’t want you to get upset,’ she said pathetically.

‘How nice of you. How sweet and kind.’

She felt foolish and wretched. ‘We can’t talk sensibly now. Let’s discuss it in the morning.’ But this was the wrong thing to say. Al exploded and pounced on her, shaking and hitting her.

‘You’re sneaking off under my nose and you won’t discuss it. You bitch, I knew you were with him …’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you? You went back to his place.’

‘I did … but I didn’t … I mean I didn’t …’

‘I can tell, you know, if you’ve just bonked. I can tell, you know.’ He began to pull at her clothes. Leah screamed but Al had lost control.

‘You let him do it, but you won’t let me, he’s all over you … he fucks you, and you lie and pretend. What do you take me for, a complete idiot?’ He had got her on the floor and was trying to pull off her clothes. She struggled and wept. The more she struggled, the more he hit her. Then from upstairs came a loud bump and a wail. Someone had fallen out of bed. Al stopped and Leah scrambled back on to the sofa. They both listened, then looked at each other like frightened children. Leah was crying and tucking in her clothes. Her arm hurt and her leg and her face.

‘Oh get out!’ said Al. She didn’t move. She thought he was telling her to leave the house. ‘Get out!’ he said more desperately. ‘Go to bed, that’s what you want.’ And she ran. Upstairs and into her room. But even her room didn’t feel safe. She was too scared to get undressed and got into bed with her clothes on. Under the duvet she trembled. This wasn’t the first time he had hit her. This is going to go on and on and what can I do? What can I do? Downstairs she could hear thumps and bangs: it sounded like he was smashing up the whole house, but she wasn’t going to move, even if the children woke up and cried she wasn’t going to move.

I was stupid, stupid to meet Bailey and lie about it. I will never be able to go out like other people and chat and laugh. I will have to stay at home always because he will always be angry and one day he will get something completely wrong and lose his rag and kill me, and that will be the end. He will get a knife and kill me and I don’t mind because it will be over … I will be in a coffin surrounded by flowers and he will cry … but he will go to prison and what about the children? Not his parents, that would be awful, but my mum, she could have them and make cakes and pies and they could play in the garden like me and Jimbo … My friends will all cry and send flowers … and Bailey? But I mustn’t think about Bailey … He will be upset, we could have been friends … I’m thinking of you in your jeans, smiling like you did when I left. Perhaps you’re in bed, perhaps you’re asleep and if I think hard enough perhaps you can hear me. I’m thinking of your room and the pictures of dragons and you’re in bed. Wake up Bailey, please wake up. Al is going to kill me …

Al suddenly burst into her room. She rolled over with a jolt. He went over to her bed and with a huge cry pulled one end of it from under her and tipped the whole thing over. She fell down and hit her head on the wall and the blankets and duvets fell with her. ‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted and left, slamming the door and breaking the handle. She lay there, her head ringing. She was wedged on the floor between the upended mattress and the wall. Strangely, it felt safe and protected. She was very tired now, too tired to move. Wrapped up in bedlinen she felt like a chrysalis. It was better not to move. It was better to be still.

She was a girl at her parents’ house in Ruislip. The sun was shining on her bed. It was summer. Her brother was in the garden mowing the lawn. She could hear him up and down with the old mower. He was the boy, it was his privilege to mow the lawn. She was never allowed to do it. Up and down. She could smell the cut grass through the open window, the curtains were flapping. She could smell that sweet sickly summery smell. Up and down the lawn. The twin tub gurgled water down the drain. Mama was in the kitchen feeding the washing into the spinner. The baby was in the pram outside hitting the string of rattle bunnies and wafting upstairs was Daddy’s tobacco pipe smoke. She crept downstairs in bare feet. The hallway floor was tiled with yellow, black and brick-red tiles in a pattern. They were cold to walk on. She tiptoed into the study. Daddy Claremont was marking papers at his desk. He was an English teacher at the monastery. The boys called him Daddy Claremont. Jimbo told her when he started there. Now they both called him that.

‘Are you very busy, Daddy Claremont?’ she said.

‘So-so my fairy. Nothing to occupy you?’

‘I finished my game.’

‘Well, I’m still playing mine.’ He was puffing his pipe. He was in his weekend clothes: khaki trousers and a beige cardigan with leather patches on the elbows. She looked over his shoulder. He was circling words on somebody’s essay in red pen. ‘Cooper cannot spell, nor can he write English, nor can he understand the beauty of Hopkins.’

‘Is he in Jimbo’s class?’

‘No my petal, he’s in the upper fifth. Could do better, Cooper.’ He stopped writing and puffed his pipe. She wanted to ask if she could help with the lawn but she knew he would say no. She wished she was a boy. They had much more fun.

‘How about helping Mama?’

She grimaced. ‘I think she’s nearly finished.’

‘Play with the baby?’

‘She’s not crying.’ This was the worst option. All babies did was sleep and poo and cry. Outside, Jimbo was still struggling up and down the lawn. He was a year older than her but she was the same size and she was much stronger. She looked around the study. On either side of the fireplace were shelves of books, rows and rows up to the ceiling. There was a large map of the world on the wall and framed photographs of India. On the desk were several fossils, a sheep’s skull and a horseshoe. Her father went back to his marking. ‘Ah, Eldon the elder, let’s see what you have to offer …’

‘Can I read?’ said Leah. ‘Can I read an art book? I’ll be very quiet.’

‘Any noise …’ warned her father.

She was delighted. She chose a large book called The Renaissance. She took it to the sofa at the far end of the room. She opened it. It smelt of clean paper with only the faintest whiff of pipe. This was her favourite book. She didn’t read it, although she could have. She looked at each picture over and over again. A lady coming out of the sea on a shell, a wind god blowing her hair. Another lady in a flowery wood. Little cherubs in the sky and a man with not much on and three ladies dancing. That was called Primavera which meant ‘Spring’. In the paintings the women had hair to their waists and the men looked like angels with wistful sad faces. This painting was called St Sebastian and he was the most beautiful of them all. Strapped up a tree in a strange stony landscape and being shot at with arrows. He was staring up to heaven in a resigned sort of way. His wavy hair was down to his shoulders. He looked like no man she had ever seen. He didn’t have a moustache or a hairy chest or go pink in the sun. He was tall and smooth and beautiful and so sad she wanted to cry …

She was woken by Jo peering over the edge of the mattress. ‘Mum, what have you done to your bed?’

‘Daddy did it,’ said Leah.

‘Wow!’ And Ben and Tom came in to look as well.

‘Were you making a house?’ said Tom.

‘We were having an argument,’ said Leah, trying to sit up in the tangle of sheets.

‘I heard you shouting,’ said Ben. ‘I fell out of bed.’

‘Oh dear …’ said Leah. ‘Oh dear … what time is it?’

‘It’s eight.’

‘You better have your breakfast, boys.’

‘Daddy’s making porridge,’ said Jo. ‘He said he’s going to get us ready today and you’re to stay in bed, he said you’re not very well today.’ They all looked at her for a visible sign of illness. ‘You’ve got a black eye,’ said Ben.

‘Oh, I haven’t!’ She felt her head where she had hit the wall. Downstairs, Al was calling. The boys scampered away. She crawled back under the duvet. She felt like lead, a piece of grey flat lead. She listened to the voices coming up from the kitchen. Al was laughing, he sounded quite cheerful. A car honked and the children left for school scolding each other about who had forgotten what. Then the house was quiet. Leah felt herself go tense but Al didn’t come to see her. She could hear hoovering noises from the front room. Then silence. Then the front door slammed. Al had gone to college.

She got out of bed past midday. She went to the boys’ room as she always did, to make their beds, but they were already made and the toys put away. Downstairs was the same. Whatever he had broken last night he had tidied up and the kitchen was clean. She was disorientated, it was as if she didn’t exist. She ran a bath and floated there for some time. She had a large bruise on one leg and on her arm and one just above her left eye. It wasn’t a black eye, it was hardly noticeable. She got dressed in a turquoise jumper and lilac leggings, the colours of summer. And what could they all do this summer? Go to the sea? She thought about it and sorted out the boys’ shirts into tidy piles, humming to herself. She rearranged the books on the shelf, the tallest ones at one end going right down to the little Beatrix Potter books. In her room she hauled the mattress back on to its base, it didn’t take that long. I better start thinking about tea soon … but I haven’t had any lunch or breakfast … She went to the kitchen and heated up the bean soup from last night and made a sandwich and sat down at the table.

She bit her sandwich and chewed and chewed it but she couldn’t swallow. When she did the food fell into her stomach as if it didn’t want to be there. She stirred her soup but she couldn’t eat that either. If I don’t eat I will get ill and I won’t be able to cope. Al is always telling me I don’t eat enough, that’s why I have no energy … I must eat. But she couldn’t. Then all the fear from last night came back.

I’m going to die. She pushed away the plate and began to cry. She rested her head on the table. She could hear herself crying as if it were somebody else and she couldn’t stop it. If I don’t leave I will die. I have to leave this place. I have to leave.

She didn’t hear Al come in. He had bought a bunch of flowers, which he put on the table. She accidentally touched them and looked up. She was so startled she screamed.

‘They’re for you,’ said Al, pushing the flowers towards her.

They were a mixed bunch, the sort one buys at garages. She tried to stop crying.

‘I’m sorry … about last night.’

‘Oh? Oh?’ She was convinced he was still angry with her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as if she hadn’t heard the first time. She was still crying. ‘I was out of control. It was wrong. I know you’re not bonking Bailey. It got mixed up with everything … There’s a lot we have to sort out. We have to do a lot of talking … Can you please stop crying.’

‘I can’t,’ wailed Leah.

‘I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t mean to. Can you hear what I’m saying? Leah, I’m trying to sort things out.’ He waited. He ate the sandwich and the bowl of soup. Leah stopped and was wiping her nose on her sleeve.

‘How are you feeling?’ said Al.

‘I don’t know.’ But she did know. She felt totally and utterly wretched, but she wasn’t going to tell Al that.

‘We have to find a way of relating properly. Communication between us is appalling. If we are to progress we are going to have to be more honest with each other …’

‘I’ve had enough,’ said Leah.

‘I see.’ He sounded slightly irritated.

‘Al, you don’t understand, I’ve had enough. I have. This is the end.’

‘Well, naturally you are going to be feeling negative –’

‘No, Al, listen, it’s the end. I don’t want to go on.’ She looked at the flowers. They would be dead by the end of the week. ‘It’s the end.’ And she could see he finally understood. An expression passed over his face which she hadn’t seen for a long time, an incredulous expression that had none of his recent anger or cynicism. He used to say, ‘Are you sure?’ and Leah would say, ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Leah the way she used to when they first met, before they had children and everything had gone wrong. But his face was hardening up again.

‘Well, that’s ten years down the drain. Now what? I’m not going to move out.’

‘I could go somewhere,’ said Leah vaguely. She couldn’t think about details.

‘Where? You know what the housing situation is like. And what about the children? They’re my children too, I’m not letting them go.’

‘We could sort something.’ She rested her head in her arms. She felt she could sleep for a week. Al was dividing up the furniture. ‘You’re not having the music system or the telly, I bought that …’ She closed her eyes.

He shook her. She sat up with a start. ‘Leah, go to bed. The children will be back soon. Go and have an early night.’

‘Was I asleep?’

‘Look, I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry, Leah.’ He led her to the foot of the stairs. ‘Everything’s going to change now, it’s all going to be different. You get your own place, then we won’t wind each other up …’ He was almost crying. ‘Then we can start appreciating each other again … Oh, and I forgot to tell you. I’ve packed in college, but we can discuss that in the morning …’

CHAPTER SIX

I’ve been in bed all Friday and most of today. Al brings me cups of tea and bits of food. He’s keeping the children away. He is being very nice. I’ve been dreaming and thinking and my thoughts are like my dreams. I’m thinking about Al.

I met him when I was at university in Norwich. He used to stand on the campus steps selling Anarchy Now. He was dirty then and dishevelled with his hair down his back and a stained old boilersuit. I was a first-year English student all keen to have discussions about postmodernism and structuralism and everything was so very very exciting … my hair in an Alice band and I wore pretty blouses and flowery skirts. I had never met anyone like Al before who was also reading English but he used to storm out of seminars shouting, ‘This is bourgeois crap!’ I had never even seen anyone like Al before. I was clever. I got As and Bs for my essays but Al and the anarchists they got straight Fs and didn’t care. They called me ‘Miss Brainbox’ and ‘Miss Middle Class’. I thought, why are they so angry? I sat opposite Al in the coffee bar and I said, ‘Hello, I’m Leah,’ and he said, ‘Who do you think you are? Fuck off.’ But I didn’t and it sort of went on from there.

He lived with the anarchists and five Germans in a farmhouse in Loddon. Their parties went on all weekend. I stayed with him and I stopped wearing blouses and flowery skirts. I got a boilersuit and I didn’t wash and I got drunk and stoned and fucked and loved it. It was all so exciting. He got kicked out of college and didn’t care and I still got As and Bs. He said I was drugged by the system and anarchy was the only way and the middle classes were to be demolished. His parents were at Oxford and he said they had forced him through a vile education based on repression and narrow-mindedness and he was going to establish a new method based on freedom. We moved to Brundall and he fell out with the anarchists. He did odd jobs in the boatyards and I was in my second year and my parents were having a fit … In the third year I was pregnant and I sat my finals with a belly like a barrel and that was in June and Jo was born in July. We got married because both our parents were having fits, but a wedding and a baby and they all became friends, even though Al’s dad writes books about Anglo-Saxons and his mum’s a specialist in Victorian women and my dad was just an English teacher in a tin-pot Catholic boys’ school and my mum’s, well, just a mum … But we were respectable and everybody adored little Jo. I got a 2.2, which was disappointing and Al kept working in the boatyards.

But he was always a rebel. He fell out with the boatyard owner and our landlord and we got evicted. Just before Christmas we left Norfolk with all our things in a van and went to Devon because Al wanted to learn furniture making. Six months later he fell out with the man who ran the course and set up on his own. And Ben was born. We lived in a tiny poky cottage and we couldn’t move because the rents were too high. Then Al’s mother did a generous thing: she bought us a house. I wanted to go to a town because I was sick of the countryside and being alone but Al liked it in Devon and we had plenty of rows about that. But we came to Bristol because there might be more work for him here but there wasn’t. Then Tom was born. I started going to the Project. Al was always angry with the world and now he was angry with me and we haven’t stopped fighting. He gave up the business and remembered his aim to transform Education and he started training to be a primary school teacher … and here we are.

She came down to breakfast on Sunday morning. Al and the children were round the kitchen table looking every bit of a happy family. I did the wrong thing, again. I was too independent and selfish. Why can’t I just shut up and be a mummy like all the other mummies and cook and sew and clean and smile at my husband. Why do I want a life away from all this?

‘Mummy,’ said Jo. ‘Daddy says you’re going to get a new house and live there and we’re going to stay here sometimes and see you sometimes.’ He looked at Al. ‘Does Mummy know yet?’

‘It was her idea,’ he said, glaring at Leah.

‘Will we have our own rooms?’ said Ben.

She sighed. As far as she was concerned it was still an idea. She sat down and helped herself to muesli. She felt quite hungry.

‘Can we have a big garden?’ said Tom.

‘Look,’ said Leah, ‘it might not be for ages.’

‘Oh really?’ said Al, tapping the table with a spoon.

‘Anyway,’ said Leah, looking at Al, ‘it won’t be till after Christmas, will it? It can’t possibly be, can it?’

He was triumphant and she felt how he could use this situation against her. He had told the children: everything to them was now, now, now.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘Mummy and Daddy keep arguing and I thought it might be better if I found another house because if we’re in different houses we might not argue so much.’

‘Why?’ said Tom.

She ignored this. ‘But it takes a long time to find a house, a long long time, like, not until after Christmas and a long time after that.’ To the children this would seem like years. She wanted them to go away. She wanted to talk to Al on her own.

‘What I can’t understand,’ said Jo, going pink, ‘is, why can’t you stop arguing anyway?’

The Project was quiet. Most people were out Christmas shopping or put off by the weather. The morning ticked over in the office. Leah wrote a presents list. At a rough guess it would all cost ₤200. She would have to discuss this with Al. The thought made her sick.

‘Hurry up and have your lunch,’ said Barbara.

The café was nearly empty. It was run by Joan and her son Johnny. He was a neat little man with a long spotless white apron and immaculately manicured hands. His mother left all the talking to him but made her presence felt with strong perfume and loud blouses.

‘Leah, darling. Done all our Christmas preparations, have we?’

‘None at all.’

‘Oh, leave it to the last minute, why not? Mummy, Leah’s done nothing for Christmas and you were making puddings in November. She’s very well prepared.’ She came in with a plateful of mince pies and put them on the counter. ‘And there’s nobody to eat them,’ moaned Johnny.

She sat at the far end of the café and listened to Joan and Johnny planning the next week’s menu. She ate her casserole, mainly for Johnny’s benefit. Then Bailey walked in. All those stupid rows were about you.

‘Mr Bailey, what can I get you?’ Nobody called Bailey ‘darling’.

He ordered a massive fry-up with chips and three cups of tea. He plonked his sportsbag by Leah’s table and sat down with a thump. She looked at him. He was unshaven and grim.

‘Just thought I’d tell you. I’ve cancelled this arvo.’ He drank his first cup of tea.

‘You could have phoned in.’

‘Nah, I wanted me lunch.’ Johnny put Bailey’s steaming plate in front of him. Bacon, egg, sausage, chips and beans and chips. He began to plough into it.

‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

Bailey, with a mouthful of food, shook his head. He took a swig of tea: ‘Nah, it’s something else.’ She waited. He finished his lunch and lit up a cigarette. At this point Vic Rodgers came in.

‘Our sports chappy smoking? Can’t have that. Did you tell him about the bins?’

‘Er, not yet,’ said Leah.

‘Well, the compost bins are going to be moved to the back of the sports hall.’

‘So what,’ said Bailey.

‘Exactly. No problems, I thought so. Sometimes the direct approach is needed.’ And he left.

Bailey snorted.

‘You mustn’t mind Vic, he’s terribly influential. He used to be on the Council.’

‘He’s a plonker,’ said Bailey.

They sat without talking. Leah realised he was looking at the faint mark above her eye and instinctively she covered it with her hand. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ she said.

‘Can we talk?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Not here, I can’t talk about it here. Come back to my place.’

She was once again in Bailey’s blue sitting room. She was anxious and he was not helping. He paced about, fiddling with everything: the fire, the ashtray, the newspapers. Eventually he sat down.

‘What’s the matter, Bailey?’

‘I’m going to have to pack in me job. That’s it.’

‘Why? I thought it was OK. Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s not that. It’s not the Project, or you, or nuffin. It’s me. I can’t hack it.’

‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ She was exasperated. Now there would have to be selections, interviews, and all before Christmas. ‘You can’t pack in your work just like that.’ She stopped. This was a man who had walked out on a wife and baby just like that. He was on the sofa looking despondent.

‘Why did you leave France?’ she said suddenly. He looked at her sideways. She had made a connection.

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said flatly. ‘I get bad dreams.’

‘So you have to pack things in. That’s weird.’

He coughed. He was sitting tensely as if holding back an enormous force. She moved on to the floor. She was near him, but not touching him. ‘Bailey, why do you get bad dreams?’

He winced and a look of panic flashed over him. I am stepping on ice here. I can hear it creaking and sighing.

‘It’s my past,’ he said.

‘Your past?’ she said, moving closer. He said nothing although several times it looked as if he were about to. He coughed again, and made a choking noise, but she didn’t back away. Then he said it. ‘I get bad dreams. I can’t sleep. My dad used to rape me.’

She was shocked and caught her breath. ‘When you were young.’

‘He did it a lot.’

‘And your mum?’

‘She didn’t know. She worked nights.’

‘And France?’

‘I forgot about it. Until I had Ghislaine. Then I had the dreams and then I started to remember. I thought I was going mental. I thought I was fucking mental.’

‘So you left?’

‘When I came back to England I was off me head. Then it went away …’

‘But it’s come back.’

‘Yes, that’s the probs.’

‘Well, I suppose it will, you can’t run away from it.’ They looked at each other. I have crossed the ice and we are now both hack on the ground. She had a headache from concentrating. Bailey was exhausted.

‘When did you last sleep?’

‘Dunno, seems like ages.’

‘You sleep now,’ said Leah, ‘and I’ll stay for a bit.’ He lay down on the sofa with his head on the cushions. He lay there stiffly.

‘By the way, it’s a secret. I don’t want folks to know.’

‘Of course.’

‘You didn’t flip. When I tell folks they usually flip.’

‘There was no need. Do you tell many people?’

‘No. Because they flip.’

She rested her head on the arm of the sofa. She wanted to sleep as well. Bailey’s eyes were now closed and his face was expressionless. She stayed, listening to the gas fire and the wind blowing up Steep Street.

I didn’t flip. I coped. I always cope. I never flip. Why didn’t I scream, my God that’s awful, that’s dreadful? But he would have ended it. He would have shut up like a clam. I held it. The whole weight of his confidence … I’m not sure I want it … You are so big and noisy it’s difficult to think of you as a small hurt person … but I’m thinking of you like that now, frightened and waiting for a footstep behind a door. No wonder you behave erratically.

But you forgot and that is so odd. How can you forget being raped?

His hand was under the cushion, under his head and then like a page turned in a book where one suddenly sees a shocking picture, she remembered.

There was a baby in a wicker basket … a baby … it was Tom, in a basket by my bed in my room in Garden Hill and I woke up. I thought it was the baby but it wasn’t, it was Al sitting on my bed in the dark and then, he didn’t speak, he got into bed and had sex … I didn’t make a noise or struggle because I didn’t want to wake the baby … but it was horrible. It was brutal and horrible. Then he went away and that was the end of it. I lay there in the dark and I thought, did that really happen? because if it did then he’s in charge and he can have me whenever he wants … but that was so scary and I thought it was a bad dream. He said nothing about it and neither did I. Then I forgot …

She turned away from Bailey and the tears were trickling down her face. And I stayed another four years with Al and I’m an adult with a rational mind. Bailey, you were a child. I remember I was scared because what happened was hate, and I couldn’t accept it, being hated like that. Bailey, I know what it’s like. I want to wake you up and say, I know, I know, but in spite of all this you are still a stranger.

Then Declan came home. He clattered his bike in the hall, but it didn’t wake Bailey. He went into the front room and saw Leah on the floor with her head on the sofa and he said, ‘Oh dear.’

‘He’s not very well,’ she said, unsure whether Declan knew about Bailey or not. ‘He hasn’t been sleeping.’

Declan looked tired as if he hadn’t been sleeping either. ‘Oh dear,’ he said again.

‘I have to go,’ said Leah. ‘My children will be back from school.’

Declan ruffled his hair and said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

Leah got up quietly but Bailey was in the deepest of sleeps. ‘He has bad dreams,’ she said, not sure how much she should reveal.

‘Not again! Oh no, oh dear. He never says. He never ever says.’ He sighed deeply. He too was a part of it all.

‘Will he be all right?’ said Leah.

‘He usually is.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bailey, I’m worried about you and I can hardly think of anything else. Why did you tell me? We hardly know each other. You said, it’s a secret. I want to talk about this with somebody but I can’t. I can’t discuss it with Al. I mention you and he goes berserk. There are too many things to discuss with Al: money, Christmas, moving out. There are too many rows to be had.

Al gave her ₤80 and said, ‘That’s for Christmas,’ and Leah said, ‘It won’t be enough!’ and Al said, ‘That’s all we’ve got.’ She nearly burst into tears because it meant no presents for her brother and sister and mother. The children had made their Christmas lists long ago including things like mountain bikes, computers and videos – and who would tell them? She ran upstairs with Al shouting, ‘What did you expect?’ She shut herself in her room and looked through her jewellery, but anything valuable had been sold long ago.

Al was calling for her because Rachel was on the phone.

‘I’m back in the land of the living. Do you want to come out?’

‘I’d love to, I would. When?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Tonight? I’ll have to ask Al.’

Rachel made a tutting noise. She didn’t get on with Al. He was listening to the conversation. ‘Yes, go on bugger off, I don’t want you round here.’

‘I think he says yes,’ said Leah.

She took a long time getting ready. She changed clothes at least four times.

‘I don’t know …’ She was in a blue velvet dress and in front of the mirror. The children had just had baths and were jumping about with no clothes on.

‘Mummy’s all posh,’ said Tom.

‘Daddy will read the story,’ said Al. ‘Looks like Mummy’s too busy.’

‘If it’s a pub then I’m overdressed …’

‘For goodness’ sake!’ and he took the children into their room.

By eight o’clock she had tried on nearly everything black and she had decided. Black jeans and a black polo-necked sweater. It was lamb’s-wool and felt soft and delicious. She dashed downstairs to show Al, who was now watching telly.

‘How do I look?’

‘Why on earth should you care about what I think about how you look?’

She had forgotten. They were splitting up. She had forgotten everything. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘You look like somebody who spent three hours getting ready so they can look like somebody who just walked out of the door.’

Leah smiled. ‘Oh good,’ she said. There was a car beeping outside. Rachel never came to the door.

‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ said Leah nervously.

‘You mean, don’t wait up and thump me. OK I won’t.’

‘Goodnight,’ said Leah.

‘Bugger off,’ said Al.

She had not seen Rachel since the visit after Ian had died. Lit up by streetlight she still looked pale and thin. ‘So, how are you?’ Leah asked.

‘I stopped walking around in sackcloth and ashes. Mummy and Daddy went home.’

‘Was that good?’

‘What do you think?’ and she screeched the car round a corner. She was not a careful driver. Leah grabbed the seat-belt strap and this made Rachel laugh.

‘Where are we going?’ said Leah, trying to be calm.

‘To the Queen of Sheba to see a band.’

‘I thought we were going for a quiet drink.’

‘God, no, it’s somebody’s birthday. Anyway I’m fed up with quiet. Quiet makes me fucking angry.’ She screeched round another corner.

The Queen of Sheba was a converted boat. It was dingy and half decorated. It smelt of tar and beer but it was a popular place. The hold of the old trawler was the bar. Rachel bought drinks. Leah looked at the other people. She didn’t know anybody. Rachel was wearing a huge bright pink sweater. She knitted jumpers and sold them in Bath but she hardly ever wore them. Tonight was an exception.

‘Come and meet everybody,’ said Rachel, leading her to a table. ‘This is Leah. This is Bill and Carol and Ange and Pete and the other Pete … and over there is Declan and Bailey, but you already know them.’ She turned, and at another table there they were, a whole heap of empty glasses in front of them. ‘Oi!’ shouted Rachel, ‘Leah’s here.’

Bailey stood up. He looked at Leah. He too was wearing a black polo-neck and black jeans. They faced each other. He sat down.

‘Stupid man,’ said Rachel. Declan waved, a big grin on his face, but his attention was diverted by Bailey telling a joke.

‘So you’re Leah,’ said somebody. ‘I’m Carol, sit next to me.’ Carol had a friendly face, lots of wavy dark hair and big square glasses. ‘It’s nice to see Rachel like her old self. We all knew Ian. It was so tragic.’

‘I only met him once,’ said Leah.

‘You’ll like Leah,’ said Rachel, sitting down as well. ‘She doesn’t go out much. Her pig-headed husband doesn’t let her.’

‘I’m leaving him. I meant to tell you earlier.’

‘Really?’

‘I really am … I really am.’ And she laughed because, yes, she really was.

‘I am sorry,’ said Carol, looking confused.

‘Don’t be,’ said Rachel. ‘This calls for a celebration. About time too. When? Next week?’

‘Not until after Christmas.’

‘Were you … married long?’ said Carol, embarrassed.

‘Whose birthday is it?’ asked Leah on a different tack.

‘It’s Bill’s birthday. This is Bill. I live with Bill,’ explained Carol.

Bill was small and dark. He had bottlebrush hair and little round glasses. ‘Rachel has such beautiful friends,’ he said charmingly.

Bailey was still with Declan. Rachel was getting drunk. Leah tried to distract her. ‘So, what do these people do?’ she asked her in a quiet moment.

‘Do?’ Rachel leaped up. ‘She wants to know what you all do.’ The conversation stopped and everybody looked at her. ‘Pete’s a social worker. Ange’s a nursery teacher. The other Pete’s in business management. My God, I’ve got interesting friends. Declan teaches. Carol’s an estate agent … that’s different, and Bill mends bikes.’

‘Bill the bike!’ shouted Bailey from the other end.

‘And Bailey does nothing except get drunk,’ shouted Rachel and sat down. She was being embarrassing and she didn’t care.

‘I do like you jumper,’ said Carol.

‘I don’t. I hate pink,’ said Rachel.

The band was introduced and the music started. ‘Venue says they’re a cheerful Nirvana,’ said Bill.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.