The People at Number 9

by Felicity Everett

  “And I’m meant to be pleased, am I?” she said gruffly. “That I’ve become visible?”

  She was pleased. She was ecstatic. What greater compliment could there be from an artist?

  “Here,” he leaned behind him, took a beer from the cooler box and made to hand it to her. As she reached across, he jerked it out of her reach, laughing. He held it out again, she stretched, he snatched it away. Pouting with indignation and effort and amusement, she lunged. He snatched it away again and she collapsed, giggling, onto the rug and lay there, flailing like an upended beetle, his face blocking out the sunlight.

  “Can’t leave you two alone for a minute, can we?” Lou’s voice sounded more amused than angry. Sara snapped back upright so fast she saw stars. She smoothed her hair self-consciously and tried to swig from a bottle that had not yet had its top removed.

  “What took you so long?” Gav asked, without so much as a hint of awkwardness or compunction. “We’re wasting away here.”

  “Couldn’t find the car, mate,” Neil said, staggering towards him with a bag full of barbecue fuel. Gav shook his head in amused despair.

  The next twenty minutes were spent in feverish activity. The men, stripped to the waist (a prettier sight in Gav’s case than Neil’s, Sara couldn’t help thinking), took turns squatting beside the barbecue, blowing on the coals, tossing match after match onto the pyre, swearing good-naturedly when the wind changed direction. The two women dodged around each other, marshalling sausages, slicing open finger rolls, prising the lids off tubs of coleslaw, amid more pleases, thank yous and could I possiblys, than had passed between them in all their previous months of friendship. Sara couldn’t say for certain which of them was responsible for this awkward politesse, only that the harder she tried to recapture their accustomed insouciant tone, the hollower it rang.

  It didn’t get any easier when the kids came back. Sara saw them first, bounding up the slope towards her. They looked carefree and rambunctious, the way children ought to look; the way hers hadn’t looked in quite a while, she realised. Patrick was in the lead. As he got nearer, Sara watched his expression change, from childish insouciance, to incomprehension and then to indignation. Remembering too late, that she had promised he could cook his own sausages, she watched Lou ferry the last charred banger from the griddle to the warming rack, as if in slow motion. The children swarmed around them now, breathless, excited, ravenous.

  “Here you go Patrick, first come, first served.” Lou held out the hotdog, but Patrick ignored her, training his eyes accusingly on Sara instead.

  “What the hell!” he said. “What the hell!”

  “I know, darling, but if we’re going to go and see The Jerem…”

  “I don’t care about The Jeremiahs.” Patrick’s bottom lip was wobbling dangerously now. Sara could see him struggling to master himself in front of the bigger boys.

  “I suggest you take this now, Patrick,” said Lou, tapping her foot, “if you want supper this evening.”

  “I don’t!” said Patrick and he barged past her and stomped away.

  “Well!” said Lou, in a tone of mock outrage. “Somebody got out of bed the wrong side this morning.”

  “He wanted to cook his own dinner,” Sara explained in an undertone. “I promised him he could.”

  “In our house, ‘I want’ doesn’t necessarily get,” said Lou, handing the hotdog to Dash, instead.

  Sara gawped in disbelief. The irony of it – the overindulged princeling, who got every blessed thing he asked for, chowing down on Patrick’s supper, while his mother counselled restraint?

  “Just save him one for later,” she muttered.

  “Well, if you think that’s appropriate,” said Lou. “Personally, I’d have thought a little tweak to the ego wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Sara stared at her, incredulous. That she should invoke ego – the woman who had put them all on hold for weeks while she faffed about with her pretentious film; the woman who had swanned off to Ann Arbor to suck up to some other bunch of narcissists in the hope they’d return the compliment, until the whole lot of them disappeared up each others’ fundaments in a government-sponsored, grant-aided vortex of self-indulgence. The injustice was more than Sara could stand. She turned on her heel and walked away before she could act on an overwhelming urge to force Lou’s face onto the barbecue and hold it there until it sizzled.

  19

  Patrick was standing a few feet away, hands clasped on his head, scuffing the earth with his toe. He had his back to Sara, but she could tell he was fighting back tears.

  “Pat?” she called tentatively. He flinched at the sound of her voice and ran off, each lolloping stride carrying him closer to the mêlée, where, in a moment, he would be lost. Sara followed him, keeping her distance but never letting him out of her sight. Eventually he slowed and, affecting a macho indifference almost as heartbreaking to witness as his earlier meltdown, he paused at one of the stalls and began examining a glow stick.

  “Want one?” she said, sidling up to him.

  He scowled at her and shook his head.

  “Quid each,” said the youth behind the stall, “or six for a fiver.”

  “We could take some back for the others. They don’t look much now, but you snap them and they—”

  “I know what a glow stick is,” muttered Patrick, “we had them at Multicultural Day.”

  “So we did,” said Sara.

  For a moment, she was transported back to a summer’s afternoon, when the school playground had echoed to the sound of a steel band and the scent of curry had wafted on the breeze; when pearly kings had dispensed falafel and kameez-clad Somalis, cream teas. Sara had been put in charge of the tombola, which, alone, had raised sixty-four pounds thirty for Cranmer Road’s sister school in Malawi. It all seemed a lifetime ago now.

  Sara took one of the glow sticks, snapped it, and marvelled as it began to radiate fluorescent light.

  “Amazing,” she said, fashioning it into an impromptu headdress.

  “I wonder how they work. Remind me to Google it when we get home. We might be able to make our own. It’d be a great science project.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Patrick.

  “Then you don’t have to,” said Sara peaceably. “The great thing about learning at home is that you’ll be able to do stuff you do want to do. Fun stuff.”

  “It won’t be fun with her.”

  “Oh now Pat, look.” Sara squatted in front of him. “Lou didn’t mean to be unkind. She didn’t know I’d said about the sausages.” She fought down the bile that was rising in her at the memory of Lou’s sanctimony and took a deep breath.

  “She’s going to be a really good person to learn from. She’s got tons of ideas. Did you know she’s even got a friend who makes puppets for her job? Really cool ones. And she’s going to ask her to come and do a workshop with us.”

  “I’m not a baby,” said Patrick.

  “I know you’re not, darling,” Sara said, “but there’ll be other stuff too. Grown-up stuff. Much more grown-up, actually, than the things you’ve been doing at Cranmer Road, because there won’t be other less… motivated people to worry about.”

  Patrick gave her a puzzled stare.

  “I mean, when you think about it,” Sara went on, “you had, what? Thirty children in your class at Cranmer Road?”

  “Thirty-one, because that boy that can’t speak English came halfway through.”

  “Exactly,” said Sara, “that’s what I’m saying. Miss Nicholls has thirty-one students to teach, at least one of whom has English as a second language.”

  “He doesn’t have it as any language.”

  “Which is fine,” said Sara, “absolutely fine, but what I’m saying is, Miss Nicholls has thirty-one students to teach all on her own.”

  “Well, now she’s only got thirty again, ’cause I’ve left.”

  “Yes, thirty then. At least one of whom struggles with English.”

  “He doesn’t struggle
with it. He can’t speak it.”

  “No. Okay, well, that’s very challenging, obviously, for Ms Nicholls. But you,” she said, turning a beaming smile on him, which he met with some suspicion, “did brilliantly. So imagine, if you managed to learn as much as you did, even though there were thirty other children, all with their various… challenges, how much more you’ll be able to learn in a class of four.”

  “That’s not really a class.”

  “Well, it is. It’s a small class, and you’ll have two teachers, between four. Which is…?”

  “Half a one each.”

  “Yes, very good,” she ruffled his hair affectionately. “Or two to one, expressed as a ratio.”

  By the time they had done a loop of the festival site and were heading back up the slope towards Gavin and Lou’s pitch, Patrick seemed to have forgotten his grievance and was happily demolishing a burrito. As they came within sight of the tent, he broke into a run, eager to hand out glowsticks to the other children.

  Lou was squatting by a tap, rinsing dishes.

  “Hi,” Sara said, tersely.

  Lou rocked back on her heels, squinted up at her and smiled the disarming smile of someone who has no inkling that her behaviour has caused offence.

  “You’re back!”

  “I’d have done those,” Sara said, nodding towards the washing-up bowl.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. I just thought if we’re going to get to The Jeremiahs…”

  “We are going, then?”

  “The boys seem keen.”

  Sara did her best to smile. It was nice of Lou to wash the dishes, she told herself. It was nice of her to go to the gig for the sake of the kids. It was nice.

  “Okay. I wouldn’t mind getting changed first, though.”

  “You don’t need to get changed,” said Lou, hooking an arm through hers, “you’re lovely as you are.”

  The others were already heading down the slope, strung out in a line, Zuley perched on Gavin’s shoulders, the boys chattering happily and bedecked in glow sticks, like a psychedelic Von Trapp family heading for the Swiss border.

  The crowd in front of the main stage was dense by the time they got there but the vibe was relaxed, which was just as well, as Lou and Gavin had no hesitation in pushing their way to the front. Gripping the boys’ hands, Sara put her head down and followed in their wake, surprised at the docility with which people were prepared to cede ground to those with an air of entitlement. Once they had muscled in, the four adults passed around a bottle of tequila and chatted amongst themselves as the sun went down. It was a young crowd, but to Sara’s way of thinking a hip crowd. Lithe-limbed teenagers in cut-off denim, shared joints with their Peter Pan parents who, for the most part, could match them piercing for piercing, tatt for tatt; if this was The Jeremiahs fan base, Sara couldn’t see what Gavin had to be so snotty about.

  At last, to a roar of approval, the band came bounding onstage, a raggle-taggle bunch of geeks in jerkins and neckerchiefs, great shocks of hair on their heads, wisps of bumfluff on their chins. They struck up the opening chords of their breakout hit and, pleased to find that she knew all the words, Sara sang along, smiling indulgently at Caleb and Dash who punched the air in time to the music. During the second song, she committed a little further, tapping both thighs in syncopated rhythm. Neil, she noticed, was in seventh heaven, head bobbing, eyelids a-flutter, like a newborn rooting for the breast and, despite the unworthy thought that he looked a bit of a tit himself, Sara couldn’t help envying him his wholehearted enjoyment. Gavin now showed some sign of being mildly entertained too, but it was always possible that his sporadic bopping was just to oblige Zuley, who was still perched on his shoulders. Certainly Lou looked less than enthralled. Two or three times she stood on tiptoe, cupped her hand and bellowed something into Gav’s ear, to which he responded with a wry smile and a nod.

  A final stomping chorus, a shimmer of brass and the set was over. The audience whistled, whooped, cat-called and finally, with a collective sigh of satisfaction, started to disperse.

  “So what do you want to do now, guys?” Gav lifted a protesting Zuley off his shoulders and rubbed his neck. “If we’re quick we could still catch Billy Bragg in the Spiegeltent…”

  “I thought we were going backstage,” said Sara.

  “Oh God, really?” Gav pulled a face.

  “I think we’d better, actually, Gav. I’m pretty sure Will saw me,” Lou said.

  “Who’s Will?” asked Sara.

  “The keyboard player,” said Lou, with a pitying smile.

  By the time they’d got through the cordon, to the Artists’ Village, Sara was having second thoughts. The hallowed space into which they were ushered was just an oversized Portakabin designated HOSPITALITY, but the very act of admission seemed to confer a prestige of which she felt unworthy. Lou and Gavin, as always, exuded an effortless downbeat glamour. Even Neil just about passed muster with his six-o’clock shadow and his Converses; but Sara was still wearing the jeans and T-shirt she’d had on all day. She had sweat rings under her armpits, her face was greasy and her hair was limp with the heat. The only thing right with her outfit was her ACCESS ALL AREAS wristband.

  The room itself was simply furnished, to cater for the band’s essential needs. A table was laid out with bottles and snack food. Two beaten-up armchairs accommodated a couple of bored-looking girlfriends. The band members were wandering about, stripped to the waist, drinking beer. They looked spent but exhilarated. Gavin and Lou did the rounds, fist-bumping, shoulder clasping, air-kissing. They introduced Dash and Caleb as big fans, and the band obliged them with selfies. Neil struck up a conversation with the sound engineer and Sara hovered for a while, but then got bored and drifted off to get a drink. A party atmosphere was cranking up, the decibels rising as more guests were admitted. She watched the room fill up with people who seemed to have a legitimate reason to be there and felt, more than ever, the imposter. She could see Lou and Gavin across the room, chatting with a good-looking bloke of fifty or so, who, despite his hooded eyes and incipient paunch, still radiated a plausible rock and roll charisma. This must be Mick, the band’s manager. Gav was telling him some convoluted story, one arm slung matily around his shoulder, but Mick’s attention was all on Lou. Neither the sleeping toddler on her hip, nor the proximity of her husband, could distract him for one second from her cleavage, to which he addressed his every remark. Lou didn’t seem to mind in the least; on the contrary, she appeared to be enjoying it. Sara might almost have felt sorry for Gav, if she hadn’t known only too well that he was prone to temptation himself.

  Raised voices nearby caught her attention. Dash and Caleb were squabbling over the table football. It was getting out of hand and a few of the guests were beginning to cast disapproving looks in their direction. Sara started to make her way over, but was intercepted by Lou.

  “Yeah, time they went home, probably,” she shouted, over the din. “We’ll be right behind you when we’ve said our goodbyes. And as long as you’re taking the boys…?” She bundled a sleeping Zuley into her arms. “Would you mind having this one, too? I knew we’d be pushing it bringing the kids.”

  “I mean, what am I, the nanny now?” Sara stumbled across the campsite, Zuley’s head bouncing against her shoulder with every step.

  “You’re waking her up,” said Neil, hurrying along beside her, “let me take her.”

  “I never even said I was leaving,” Sara went on, “she just assumed.”

  “Sar,” Neil warned her, “the boys’ll hear you.”

  Sara stopped and faced him.

  “I don’t give a shit,” she said. “She’s got a bloody nerve!”

  Zuley lifted her head and whimpered and Sara looked down a little guiltily.

  “Poor little thing,” she said, “should have been in bed hours ago. Wasn’t exactly child-friendly, was it? All that smoke? And who thought it was okay to give the boys Red Bull, for God’s sake?”

  “They helped themselves,” sa
id Neil. “Lucky they went for that and not the Jack Daniel’s. But I don’t know why you’re blaming everyone else – you were the one twisting Gav’s arm to meet the band.”

  “Yeah, I thought it’d be a quick autograph and then goodnight,” hissed Sara, “not a love-in. Did you see that guy perving on Lou? I didn’t know where to put myself. And that’s another thing: one minute they’re the least cool band on the planet, and it’s a total drag to have to go and see them, the next it’s all ‘Oh, Will you were fucking amazing’, ‘Mick, mate, long time no see,’ I mean… which is it? D’you know what I mean?”

  They were back at the tent by now. Neil unzipped it and Sara clambered through the flap and deposited Zuley on Carol’s airbed. The child’s nappy was almost soaked through, but there was nothing to be done. In the outer compartment, Neil was trying to quieten the boys. From the sound of it, the Red Bull was just kicking in.

  20

  “Hello? Knock knock. Anyone for coffee?”

  Sara opened her eyes to searing brightness. Her head was thumping. She tried to move, but found herself pinioned beneath Patrick’s sleeping form, his warm, hay-scented breath whiffling past her nostrils. Gingerly she slithered out from under him, taking care not to pitch him sideways into the tangle of comatose children that surrounded them.

  “Coming,” she whispered irritably, picking her way through the bodies. She unzipped the tent flap and stepped outside.

  “Mornin’!” Lou thrust a cardboard tray at her and she helped herself, grudgingly, to one of the three coffees it contained.

  “Ouch!” Lou said. “You look like I feel.”

  Sara glanced down at her shapeless night attire, then stared at Lou, radiating vitality, in her frayed shorts and Blundstone boots, hair coaxed becomingly into two tiny plaits. She could not bring herself to reply.

  “Great party last night,” Lou said.

  Sara winced.

  “What time did you leave in the end?”

  “Oh, not that long after you,” said Lou, “we came by to pick up the kids, but it was so quiet we thought we’d better not disturb. You must have got them to bed in record time.”