by Fiona Mozley
Being a grandmother suits Precious better than being a mother ever did. There are fewer details, more grand plans. It has more to do with artistry and enthusiasm and less to do with following a strict routine of feeding, burping, changing, washing, sleeping, playing, educating. She wasn’t—isn’t—a bad mother, but it has never felt like her natural role, rather a part in which she was cast against type. She loves her sons and has done her best for them, but when they were small she found them very tiring and, when they got older, they became more difficult to manage. As teenagers, they got into a lot of trouble at school, and they hung around on street corners with people who were no good at all. It was around this time that they went to live with their paternal grandmother in Crystal Palace. Precious moved in with Tabitha in Soho.
The boys had more space with Ondine—she had a little semi-detached with a garden and parks nearby, and the change of schools did them good too. They started to apply themselves. Neither of them would have got any qualifications at all if they’d stayed where they were. Precious sent Ondine money so didn’t feel too bad about leaving the boys with her. And Ondine bloody well ought to have atoned for bringing up that prick of a son who left Precious with a one-year-old while she was pregnant with their second. Now and again, Precious wonders if the boys had been angry with her; angrier than they had let on at the time. But if she hadn’t made that decision, she wouldn’t be in the secure financial position she is in now. She definitely wouldn’t have been able to give Marcus and Nicky the deposit for this flat, with the same amount stored safely in the bank for when Ashley gets to that stage. Marcus and Nicky don’t know anyone of their age who has been able to buy a place of their own—all of their friends will be renting well into their forties. Precious feels a huge amount of pride when they tell her this.
It has been three months since she and Tabitha moved in. Though among family, both women feel uncomfortable. Marcus and Nicky have been accommodating, but the house is small, and having two additional adults in it has made things cramped. Nicky keeps telling them it’s fine. “You do so much around the place, Precious. It’s honestly a godsend.” It’s true Precious and Tabitha have been making themselves useful. They have been cooking and cleaning and helping with the kids. Precious’s elder granddaughter Connie is at the stage of her life when she is learning that her grandmother allows her to get away with more than her parents do, and she is pushing at those boundaries, testing how far they will stretch.
After the incident, Nicky advised Precious and Tabitha to get some counseling. “You’ve just experienced something very traumatic. You’ll need help to process it all.”
Precious was reluctant, being naturally averse to talking about her feelings, but she agreed to go and see someone who Nicky recommended. She spoke to him about being up on the roof with Tabitha and Robert, feeling the tremors becoming more and more pronounced, the building moving beneath her feet, the timbers giving way, all her plant pots cascading out of sight.
What she didn’t tell the counselor was how exhilarating she had found the experience. She was worried that it would make her sound callous: people died that night. But, in some ways, it had been spectacular; the most alive she had ever felt.
It wasn’t clear what had caused the building to fall into the earth. There was talk of a sinkhole. Other people mentioned the construction of Crossrail, and the subsidence of listed buildings. Precious had argued vociferously that the building had collapsed because dozens of rowdy men in riot gear suddenly ran through it hitting people over the heads, and although it wasn’t a particularly convincing argument, it was politically savvy. Precious has to be politically savvy these days. At first all the activists only wanted her to run for the council, but now they’re being more ambitious. After the building collapsed, she received even more attention than before, and now her profile has soared.
It is the spring equinox, and bird song has been more noticeable these last few weeks. Precious can hear it now, the sharp, twinkling treble cutting through the low hum of traffic. It is the first day of the public inquiry and she and Tabitha will head over to Westminster in a couple of hours. Some lawyers have become involved (on a pro bono basis) and the press will be there too. Precious has prepared a statement. She runs through it in her head as she holds the baby, keeping her soft skin shielded from the sun.
Nicky comes out onto the patio. She is dressed but her curly hair is wet. She is holding a comb and a bottle of serum. She tilts her head to the side, squeezes a drop of gloopy liquid from the bottle, and rubs it into her hair then uses the comb to tease out tangles.
“You’ve got the baby-wearing down, I see.”
Precious smiles, but the baby hears her mother’s voice and gurgles.
“Just let me do my hair,” Nicky says, “I’ll take her from you in a sec.”
Precious holds her little finger next to the baby’s mouth, hoping to tempt her for a second time, but now that her mum, and the possibility of milk, is nearby, there is no settling her. The gurgle soon becomes a plaintive cry, and Nicky hurriedly readies herself. Precious unwraps the fabric, and Nicky turns away as her mother-in-law reveals skin.
Precious smiles. “Sorry, love, I’ve never been private about my body and I forget that other people are. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No, no, no, it’s fine,” Nicky insists, turning back around to make a point, though looking everywhere but at Precious. She takes the child.
“I’m guessing you’re more shy about your body,” Precious says as she picks up her bra and slips her arms into each of the loops.
“You could say that. I’ve always been a bit of a prude. I get nervous when it comes to nudity. Don’t know why. I’m one of those women who use the little separate cubicles in the changing room at the swimming pool.”
“Ah, you’re one of those! I’ve always wondered who those cubicles were for.”
“I assume you are fine with getting naked in front of everyone.”
Precious laughs. “Well, I’m not one of those who parades around, checking out my own arse in the mirror, but yeah, I’m totally fine with stripping off in front of other people.” Then she says, “It’s sort of, you know, part of the job.”
Nicky smiles awkwardly, then looks at Precious, who is now fully clothed. She opens her mouth as if she is about to say something but doesn’t.
Precious has enjoyed getting to know Nicky better. The pair of them have long chats while sitting out here on the patio, or while on walks with Connie, and now with the new baby too. Nicky was never shown how to cook when she was growing up, so Precious has been teaching her these last few months. Tabitha offers contradictory advice from her seat at the kitchen table while she completes the crossword or a number puzzle.
Precious has also been getting to know her sons. Perhaps unconsciously, she has always thought of them as wandering, somewhat wayward, portions of herself, rather than as men in their own right. Now, Marcus is slowly revealing himself to her, and Ashley too, to a lesser extent, when he comes over at the weekend to watch football on his brother’s Sky Sports pass. From the sofa, she and Tabitha and Nicky ask deliberately annoying questions while Marcus and Ashley sit on the floor, cross-legged or knees up in front of them with their arms looped around. The pair have sat like this since they were children—as close to the telly as possible.
On the bus to Westminster, there is only room to stand, and Precious holds on to the pole with a hand that becomes clammier, and tighter, as the journey progresses. Through the window she sees London whirling past like a magic lantern. A woman is stacking green mangoes onto the fruit and vegetable shelves outside her shop. A cyclist in pink Lycra is skipping a red light. Up high, an intrepid cat is sunbathing on a flat roof, licking her front paws then rubbing her eyes. The bus crosses the river, and Precious looks out to see white swans and pleasure boats and tourists taking photos.
The bus stop is a little way from the inquiry. A crowd has already gathered outside the building. There are journal
ists and photographers. Precious recognizes some faces from the neighborhood—shopkeepers and waiters who have come to show their support. A couple of times, she spots a woman who she thinks might be her—tall, glamorous, cold—but she can’t be sure. These women have her aspect—from the pictures she’s seen—but something about them isn’t right. They are too old; too eager.
Then Precious spots a blue Rolls Royce reversing into a parking space.
“That’s her,” she says quietly. It is unclear even to her whether she is speaking to the other women or to herself. Tabitha and Nicky follow her gaze.
“Oh right,” says Tabitha.
“Who is it?” Nicky asks.
Precious doesn’t answer. She begins to walk in the direction of the blue car, but Tabitha holds out an arm. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, love. You shouldn’t do or say anything without lawyers being around.”
Precious shrugs her off and continues along to the car. She always felt that if she could have had it out with this woman, one to one, it would never have ended the way it did. Precious has a huge amount of faith in the power of human communication; of two people looking each other in the eye and speaking their minds, generously, politely, but clearly.
The driver’s door opens and a man steps out. He is old, but not elderly. He moves around the large car, catching her eye, looking her up and down, spotting Tabitha, looking back to Precious. He then pulls at the rear door, swings it open. A huge dog jumps out, and Precious steps back, startled. It is tall and thin, with long, white fur, a pointed face and dark eyes. After the initial shock, she steadies herself, and crouches, then holds out a hand. The dog comes forward and touches his wet nose to her upturned palm.
The Last Laugh
Bastian and Laura are lost.
“Shank, it’s called Shank. Not Hunk. Shank.”
“You thought it was called Hunk? Why would it be called Hunk?”
“You know, like a hunk of meat. I thought that was the general vibe.”
Bastian and Laura are trying to find the restaurant, only Bastian has been typing the wrong name into his phone map and has been met with confusing search results.
Bastian tries to visit Laura every weekend. He gets the train on Friday night and another back to London on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning. This is the first time Laura has been down to London to visit him. Her mum has assured her she is able to cope without her. Bastian left his office early to go and meet her at King’s Cross.
They are now heading in the right direction. Bastian holds his phone in front of him with his right hand. Laura has slipped her right hand into his left and he grips it tightly, eager to endorse this rare public display of their relationship.
They stop outside the door of a restaurant. It looks to be newly opened. The windows are very clean and it smells of fresh paint. The decor takes its inspiration from an old-fashioned butcher’s shop. The waiters are all wearing stripy aprons. They look up at the sign.
“Here we are,” says Laura. “Hunk.”
Bastian laughs sarcastically. “It quite clearly says Shank.”
“Oh no,” says Laura. “I was actually referring to you.”
She gives him a coy smile. He shakes his head but laughs anyway. Then he pulls her towards him by her coat and kisses her lips.
They have a table reserved, booked in advance by Lorenzo.
They are greeted by one of the waiters in the stripy aprons. He is very tall and muscular. Many of the waiters seem to be tall and muscular. The selling point of the restaurant (according to an online review Bastian read) is that huge pieces of locally sourced meat are cooked publicly. You can see into the kitchens as you eat. There are parrillas, which are a kind of Argentine barbecue, and at one side of the kitchen there is a huge, enclosed fire pit where whole animals are roasted on a spit. The waiters have to be strong because they parade around the restaurant carrying the meat.
Glenda and her Lorenzo are already there, sitting at a rectangular table with two place settings at either side. Glenda grins when she sees them, and Lorenzo smiles too. They both get up and come round the table to greet them. Bastian shakes Lorenzo’s hand. Then Bastian goes round the table to hug Glenda. He opens his arms and draws her towards him in a tight embrace. She sinks into the hug easily and rests her head on his chest briefly before pulling away. Bastian has only seen Glenda once since she left London, and only for a short time. She looks healthier and happier, and stronger, physically and emotionally.
They all sit down. Bastian and Laura are on one side; Glenda and Lorenzo are on the other. “We should just get Lorenzo to order for all of us,” suggests Glenda. “He’s been here before and knows what’s good. And I find that when you’re sharing stuff in a restaurant it gets annoying when everyone has their own suggestions but also everyone is too polite to make any firm decisions, and you end up going round and round.”
Lorenzo orders the suckling pig spit roast. “It’s basically a heart attack on a plate,” he says. His tone makes it clear he considers this to be a good thing.
The furniture in the restaurant is made from chipboard. Lorenzo says that chipboard is the new exposed brick. The restaurant is lit by bare lightbulbs hung from long electrical cables that have been finished in copper tape.
Bastian and Laura are fascinated by Lorenzo’s profession and the actors he’s been working with on the TV show. They ask questions about his day-to-day life, what so-and-so and so-and-so are like as people. They offer their opinions on what so-and-so and so-and-so are like in real life even though they’ve never met them. Bastian mentions somebody he was at school with who’s now famous, but none of the others have heard of him. Lorenzo is discreet but makes it clear that he is not totally convinced by the project, and that he’s even thinking of looking into a career change.
“What would you be if you weren’t an actor?” Glenda asks.
Lorenzo shrugs. “I’m not sure. The thing about being an actor is that, in theory, you get to be a bunch of different things at the same time. One day you can be a doctor, and the next day you can be a medieval prince, and the day after that you can be an astronaut. You don’t have to settle down at any point. But it’s also kind of disconcerting, for that very reason. I’m not sure it’s good for me. I’m not sure it’s good for anyone but, well, some people are addicted to that feeling of endless possibility.”
One of the waiters walks towards them carrying a spit struck through a huge hunk of pork. Some of the pork fat drips onto the floor. The waiter places the meat on a wooden board at the center of their table and begins to carve it with a long steel knife. The four friends eat in silence, digging their teeth into the roasted flesh, biting down on crackling. They wipe their chins with paper napkins. When they are done, they sit back in their chairs.
During pudding Lorenzo makes his excuses and heads off towards the men’s toilets. On his way he takes a left, through a door labelled private, and follows a corridor round to where he supposes the pantry might be.
“Can I help you?” says someone in kitchen whites.
Lorenzo sees no reason to lie. “I’m looking for Cheryl Lavery.”
The man in kitchen whites looks confused by the request but leads him into a back storeroom where Cheryl is stacking boxes. She is still wiry, dreadfully thin, as he remembered, but she seems healthier. Her skin is smoother, her hair is sleek. She appears at least two decades younger than she used to—younger than Lorenzo, just about.
“Cheryl,” says the man in kitchen whites. “There’s someone here to see you.” He raises his voice at the end as if it is a question, clearly surprised.
Cheryl puts down the box she is holding. It hits the floor with a heavy thud. She turns towards Lorenzo. Her face exhibits confusion, then recognition, then confusion.
“You’re that man from the pub,” she says. “But why are you here?”
He isn’t sure he’s ever heard her speak before. Her voice is unexpectedly ethereal.
“Did you know a Robert Kerr?”
“Yes,” she says. “He was kind to me.”
“I was appointed executor of his will. He’s left you a little bit of money. This letter, addressed to you, was among his papers.”
Lorenzo pulls out Robert’s letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. Cheryl takes the envelope from him and turns it over in her hands, now pale, clean, manicured. She opens it and begins to read, and Lorenzo turns. He gets to the door of the storeroom but then Cheryl says, “He’s not my father.”
Lorenzo turns back but doesn’t say anything. He feels disappointed for Robert, but it is too late now anyway.
“My dad’s dead,” Cheryl continues. “My mum told me. He was some kind of businessman. And he was geriatric. Eighty-four or something. He had a heart attack right afterwards, while he was still in bed with my mum.” Then she laughs. “Knocked up my mum and got killed in the process. Hahahahaha.” Her laugh is as ethereal as her speech. It echoes around the storeroom, against the boxes and shelves, stacked with glasses and plates. “He kicked the bucket right on top of her, with his willy still inside.” She laughs and she laughs. Lorenzo turns and leaves, and hears her laughter as he walks back along the corridor, and he even thinks he hears it still when he’s back at the table talking to Glenda and Bastian and Laura, though they say they can’t hear anything and throw him quizzical looks. But Lorenzo hears it. He hears her laughing and laughing, the sound rising from the basement of the restaurant, hahahahaha, up through steel girders and polished floors, hahahahaha, up through the foundations of the building, hahahahaha up from the belly of the city.
