Читать книгу Selfish People - Lucy English - Страница 9

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.