by Laura Hird
‘Just to try and get on like we used to. Remind Vic I’m his wife, not some ghost, y’know? I have needs. Is that so bad?’
OK, so it’s left with me looking like the bastard. To be honest, though, I don’t really care. If that’s what it takes to have a quiet life, then fine. I’m getting too old to enjoy being on the front line every day. Besides, Joni’s all for it. I have to do it for her. Moved by my own decency, I get a huge lump in my throat as I shake the woman’s hand and thank her profusely.
The rain’s stopped when we get back outside. The shock of the clear air, compared to the stuffiness in there, gives me the weirdest sensation that we’ve just had sex in public. It’s kind of erotic. We look at each other awkwardly. Angie’s blushing.
‘So how was it for you?’
I gulp back about a hundred comments on the sex thing and just say, ‘I’ll try and talk more next time.’
‘I thought she was going to tell us to fuck off and stop being so silly,’ she laughs. We both laugh. It’s nice.
By the time we get home, at quarter to seven, Angie’s been sober for nearly a full day. Joni’s out. It feels like so long since we’ve come into the empty flat together, I somehow expect there to be piles of mail behind the door. When I go to hang my jacket up, two suitcases are still lying on the bed from earlier. I feel like a complete shit. To salve my conscience slightly, I volunteer to go to the chippie. In our early days, Angie always appreciated a white pudding supper more than flowers. As she’s already started knocking together some loaves-and-fishes-type pasta creation, I put the telly on instead and have a fag and a fart.
We watch Channel 4 News as we eat. Apparently, they signed the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement when we were out.
‘D’you think Jake’s converted to Fenianism yet?’ comments Angie. When I turn to tell her off, though, she pulls a ‘gotcha’ face and we manage to laugh together again. Christ, twice in one day. What’s the world coming to?
I make a point of complimenting her several times on the dinner. It’s fairly bland, but it seems to please her. The conversation remains stuck on spaghetti junction, even after the dishes are done, but I’m quite relieved, to be honest. I’m maybe buzzing with ideas about earlier but, as they’re all potentially volatile, it’s safer just to talk about food. I sip my tea and smoke another fag. The room is warm. I just want it to stay like this for as long as possible.
Joni appears at ten, looking anxious and wanting to know if everything’s all right. God, is the sight of us not fighting really that unusual? Her mother tries to tell her about the counselling but her eyes glaze over and she scurries off to her room to watch a film on ITV. I’m quietly pleased that their touchy-feeliness of earlier has died down a bit. It made me feel uncomfortable.
Left alone together again, a different kind of silence takes over. It’s as if, just by uttering the word ‘counselling’, Angie’s thrown everything that was said earlier into the air again. It’s like the ‘don’t mention the war’ episode of Fawlty Towers. I try to relax to the lulling burr of the television. Angie goes to make us a coffee. Soon, the comforting dullness of it all settles the atmosphere down again. This is all I want. Please make her have been telling the truth about her man and the drink earlier. I’m big enough to feel partially responsible. It makes it easier to forgive her. If we could just pretend the last month never happened. I’m sure it was all right before.
At midnight, Angie wakes me up and says it’s time for bed. Still half in a dream, it almost sounds like an invitation. Rubbing my sticky eyes into focus, I look up to see if her expression matches my impression. She’s already gone through. Gulping back a mouthful of tepid coffee, I try to recall the exact tone she used. ‘Time for bed.’ It was the emphasis on the last word. It made it sound like a question rather than a statement of intention. And why wake me up and tell me? Why not just chuck the duvet over me? I don’t know. After what she said this afternoon, I really don’t know.
I sit to-ing and fro-ing about it until excited curiosity eventually gets the better of me. She’s already in bed when I go through. The suitcases are back on top of the wardrobe. Glancing at her as I self-consciously undress, I see her expression is more one of puzzlement than longing. Still, she lets me under the duvet without screaming or punching me, which has to be a good sign. Braving my arm around her, she rolls onto her side, facing the wall, but doesn’t pull away. I savour the feeling of flesh on flesh, just wanting to be snug and warm.
Only when I start to stroke her belly does she tense up but surely that’s to be expected. It’s so long since we’ve done this I feel like some fumbling virgin myself. She’d be back in the living room like a shot if she wasn’t enjoying it, surely.
As I lean over to switch off the bedside lamp, I go hard against the warmth of her hip. Determination starts to grow. Burying my hand in her hair, I free her neck and shoulders for my kisses. God, I’d forgotten what skin tasted like. Still she remains motionless. Only when I reach up to gently brush her nipples does she start to respond. Her breathing becomes erratic. She begins quivering at my touch. It feels so unfamiliar. Almost like being with a complete stranger. I like it.
Buoyed by the effect I seem to be having, I pull her onto her back and ease myself on top. Her body starts to heave. Thinking she’s really going for it, I crush my lips against hers and try to force my tongue between them. It’s not until she turns her head, to avoid me, that I taste the tears. Their briny tang just makes me worse. I breathlessly inquire if she’s all right. Her lack of response, other than the sub-sexual pant of her sobbing and her hands on my arse, is all I need.
As I push into her, she lets out a wail. Her arms drop to her sides but still she makes no sign that she wants me to stop. As I lean down to kiss away the fresh tears, the only resistance is in her eyes. I pretend not to notice. This isn’t going to take long anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to SAC for giving me funding to complete this book. KW, JB, MS, JM and everyone at CB, ID and PS at BL and JB at UEA for their encouragement. JH, EL, A&GD, AW, DW, KW, AB, RS, PR and PL for putting up with my shit. RH, JH, J&MG, AH, DP, R&H, AC, AD, CB, PH (all RIP) and JO, AG, JC, ML, AB, HD, GO, WA, IW, BG, JM, BB, DM, DN, CA, ABBA, CRASS and SA for inspiring me. MF for bringing RI to my attention in the first place. GA and JK for research. Everyone at the TA for being so gentle with JP and any other FB that might have slipped my mind.
About the Author
Born Free
Born Free is Laura Hird’s first novel and has been shortlisted for the Whitbread First Novel Award and nominated for the Orange Prize. A previous collection of short stories, Nail and other stories, was published by Rebel Inc. Two other novellas appeared in the anthologies Children of Albion Rovers and Rovers Return. Her short stories have appeared in publications such as The Face, Blvd. (Netherlands), Barcelona Review (Spain), Bang (Sweden), Grand Street (USA), and Story (USA). She lives in west Edinburgh.
Praise for Born Free
‘It’s the portrait of a dysfunctional family, sharply observed and told with a mixture of humour and honesty … Hird’s ear for dialogue is excellent.’ Independent on Sunday
‘The end result is a multi-layered, darkly funny, quietly despairing snapshot of a family falling apart at the seams.’ Uncut
‘Laura Hird’s debut approaches adolescence with shocking frankness; yet from its unabashed honesty and sympathy for its vigorously dysfunctional central family, it gathers a positive energy that leaves the shock tactics of many of Hird’s contemporaries standing.’ The List
‘There’s an adrenaline kick in the words that carries you through the grubbiness and seediness of the subject matter … Born Free is not a pleasant read, but it is very readable.’ Sunday Herald
‘… what differentiates Hird’s writing from the pack is the strength of her fictional characters… Hird manages to be just as convincing as Joni – a fifteen-year-old itching to lose her virginity – as her nerdy younger brother Jake … Born Free is shot thr
ough with misery-defying humour … Her observational skills are shrewd and unflinchingly accurate.’ The Face
‘Superb … a warm current of humour runs through this saga … Born Free is peppered with pop culture references which give it a deliciously fresh, contemporary flavour … Hird’s observational humour is laser-guided.’ Esquire
‘Born Free exhibits a maturity that suggests Hird has emerged from the coat-tails of her peers and has ceased to play the literary wee sister … Hird’s portrayal of a woman in alcoholic free-fall is uncomfortably accurate … shifts with ease from the screamingly funny to the gut-wrenching … thought provoking and entertaining.’ The Scotsman
‘The dialogue is sharp … A tremendous energy carries the reader on, and despite the grimness of the subject matter it is leavened with a kind of black humour that some people simply won’t get, and sharp little moments of poignancy … Laura Hird thinks for herself and toes no lines.’ The Guardia
‘Born Free is warm, funny and empathetic.’ Scene
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 1999 by
Rebel Inc, an imprint of
Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,
Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
Published simultaneously in the United States of America and Canada in 2001 by Canongate Books
This digital edition first published in 2009
by Canongate Books
Copyright © Laura Hird, 1999
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
The publishers gratefully acknowledge subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards the publication of this volume
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coinciental
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 704 4
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