Don’t manhandle me, she says, I can manage!
Anna holds her mother’s elbow as she inches her way up the stairs, lifting her right leg with her free hand, positioning it on the next tread, before easing herself up on her left.
Like Jake the bloody Peg, her mother says, cackling into her shoulder, You should let me do it my way!
Your way? asks Anna, raising an eyebrow, Go on then.
Her mother nudges Anna out of her way, and bending over, puts her weight on her hands. She crawls up the flight on all fours, stopping to catch her breath at the top of the landing.
Howzat! she cries, triumphant.
Just as well there aren’t any guests, says Anna, stepping up behind her, You look like a bat.
An old bat, says her mother, That’s right, you be cruel. See if I care.
Once Anna has got her mother to lie down, she makes her way back to the Nelson Suite. A close darkness has settled in the hall and the dining-room, giving the house a gloomy feel. Now, she could have that drink.
I don’t know what to do for the best, Vernon, she says, as a way of beginning.
He’s standing in front of her, fingering the pockets of his waistcoat like a naughty child: she’s not at all clear of how she will phrase what she has to say, only that something needs to be said. He sits back down, gesturing to Anna to take the other chair.
I’m clueless, he agrees, frowning at a piece of fluff he’s found, But all ears. Fire away.
I don’t think it’s such a great idea, the drinking. Do you? she asks, It can’t be good for her. Especially with the medication she’s on.
Vernon puts his chin on his chest and takes a deep breath. He starts to say one thing, then stops himself, running his hand over his head to flatten the stray hairs.
We always have a sherbet or two in the p.m., he says, in a piqued tone, Oils the engine, you know. We find it quite acceptable.
Anna stares at him. It’s not so much his appearance she dislikes, it’s this way he has of talking, as if he’s auditioning for a part in a play.
But she’s not well, is she? She should be taking it easy. She should be resting.
Not too much excitement for the old girl, is that it? A trip to the shops, a couple of gins—it could kill her! he says, his eyes wide and mocking.
Well, yes, says Anna, finding her way through his antagonism, Why go to the shops today? It’s freezing cold out there—it’s blowing a gale.
We would have asked you to come with us, says Vernon, smiling oddly, She wanted you to. But you’d gone out on your own, vanished into thin air.
He says it with a rising tone, as if he could make it happen simply by conjuring the right voice. Anna recognizes his petulance: she’s being called on to explain herself.
I’ve come here—I’ve been summoned here, to look after her—
Vernon cuts the air with his finger,
No one summoned you, Anna, the choice was yours, was it not? I merely thought you would like to be kept informed of her state of health. Perhaps your conscience is playing tricks on you.
I don’t have a guilty conscience, she says, feeling the heat of the lie, I just want to do what’s right. And for that, I need some support.
Leaning across to switch on the table-lamp, Vernon is calm again, his voice low.
And your mother needed new glasses, he says, straightening up, She can’t see a thing without them. Bumps into the furniture. Or did you not notice that small detail?
Anna understands that this gesture—the switching on of a lamp—is something he automatically does, as does anyone in their own home: an action that requires no thought. It isn’t meant as a slight, but his proprietorial air makes her furious. Vernon knows all there is to know about this house and her mother, what she likes to do, and when. It has the precision and regulation of a life well-oiled, and she is fluttering around behind them. Behind him. And now, because she has mismanaged the whole conversation, he’s on the attack.
I have been looking after your mother—Vernon continues—And she me, let’s not forget that, she has looked after me, too, for nearly ten years. I think we’ve managed pretty well so far.
Do you pay my mother rent, Vernon?
Slowly, he eases himself out of the chair, looking up from his brogues and directly into her face. Stage left, she thinks. Here’s the big speech.
It’s probably none of your business, he says, mildly, But as a matter of fact, I do. Anything else?
Else?
Anything else you’d like to know, only I usually take a nap myself before dinner—if that meets with your approval.
Anna blinks hard. Is there anything else? She’s finding it difficult now to fathom what it was she wanted to say. She didn’t start out to make an enemy, but she can’t see a way back.
Are you two an item? she asks, sounding ridiculous. Even Vernon laughs at this.
Ah, he says, You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Another stick to beat her with. That’s not really any of your business either, is it? But we have been thinking of a holiday, if that makes us an item. You gave her the idea, you know; she’s very taken with your suggestion of a short break. Just not very taken with being cooped up in your flat.
Vernon pauses, staring at her with a round-eyed, innocent look.
Then I’ll go with her, says Anna, As I’ve apparently nothing better to do.
He bends down behind the chair and pulls up the stash of brochures. Holding them out to her, he smiles broadly.
We so hoped you would, he says, Somewhere warm, we thought—for her arthritis. We picked up the brochures today, only you seemed in such a brown study earlier, Rita said not to mention it. I’ve marked the places. We thought Crete might be nice at this time of year.
He pauses at the door, turning to deliver his final line, before leaving her alone.
Rita will absolutely love it. An excursion en famille.
Sur mon corps, whispers Anna, to the empty room.
SIXTEEN
At the booth inside the Fun Palace on Yarmouth promenade, Lewis gets ten pounds’ worth of change. His skin smells of hostel, and a greasy slick coats the roof of his mouth. He shouldn’t have had that breakfast; he can feel the fat bubbling in his stomach, and the taste of burnt coffee on his tongue. He thinks he knows what will cure him. The coins in his hands are warm and sweaty, the thought of what he will do with them makes his jaw set tight. This is how it feels at the beginning—a magnesium flare in his blood; at this point, the end is never a consideration. He positions himself in front of the Super Sweeper penny-falls, and rolls the two-pence pieces into the slot, mechanically, one after the other until his hand is empty. He hasn’t lost the technique; he believes the faster he gets rid of the coins, the more chance he has of winning. After a while, the automatic gesture becomes part of him again, like blinking, like taking a breath.
Lewis graduates his gambling: two-pence, ten-pence, fifty, a pound, working up from the penny-falls to the whirling, flashing fruit machines. He began to play seriously as a teenager, him and his brother Wayne bunking off school and getting the train to Barry Island, where they were less likely to be seen by anyone they knew. Wayne would initiate the trip, and then spoil the day; wanting to pick up some girls, or chance their luck in a pub, or get into a fight. And it was Wayne who insisted that they should take his mate Carl with them, show him how to work the machines.
As Lewis pumps the coins into the slot, it’s not Carl Finn he’s thinking of, but his brother. It’s Wayne he’s remembering, and Wayne he’s trying to forget: the green eyes lit up in the flickering glass are his brother’s eyes, and the sound of the coins falling in a rush into the tray below is his sudden, mocking laughter.
That face will get you into bother, she said, so that Lewis could almost believe she was flirting with him. She was Miss Hepple, and he was in love; and Wayne had to go and spoil it.
She wore long tasselled skirts and embroidered blouses with the top two buttons undone. According to the other boys, she smo
ked hooky cigarettes in the store-cupboard. She was the art teacher, and the first time Lewis saw her, she had a tidemark of purple paint, from wrist to elbow, that he couldn’t take his eyes off. Every time she raised her hand to write something on the board, or smooth back her long brown hair, he saw it. He needed to keep checking after that, and was pleased to find that she almost always had marks of various colours halfway up her arms. Wayne said her first name was Valerie; she’d told him so herself. Lewis could believe this was true. Although he looked much older than his brother, a foot taller, nearly, and broad to Wayne’s narrow frame, it was Wayne who was blessed with charm. Lewis had inherited features he presumed belonged to his father: a downward, brooding curve to his mouth, a suggestion of surliness. Wayne, thirty minutes younger, was fairer skinned from birth and remained so, and his mouth was wide, laughing, full of crooked teeth, just like his mother. The boys shared their father’s eyes, she’d told them once; green with irregular hazel flecks. According to her, they had inherited other traits from their mysterious father: Wayne had words at his disposal, many of them, and was quick with his hands, despite the tremor. That wasn’t inherited, she said; that was down to lack of oxygen. Lewis had taken up too much space in the womb, and too much time being born. He gathered from this that he had inherited his father’s selfishness.
At secondary school, they were separated into different streams; Wayne would get easily bored, his mother said, but Lewis would get on well enough if left to his own devices. Which is how Wayne eventually came to be in Carl Finn’s class, sinking like a stone to the bottom. Remedial, they called it, although, if anything, the boys in the group were too forward, too full of everything. Lewis wasn’t surprised that Wayne knew Miss Hepple’s first name. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Wayne had tried it on with her; he’d certainly got more than his fair share of girlfriends. At fourteen, Lewis hadn’t kissed anyone.
It took him two months before he got up enough courage to stay behind at break-time and ask if he could help her tidy up. It had been snowing; out in the playground, the boys would be having fights. Wayne had spent that morning assembly passing notes, trying to organize a battle with some other lads in Lewis’s stream: he’d written Snobs v Sharks on the sheet, and you were supposed to sign up. Carl Finn and Sam Robson had put their names underneath Wayne’s, but Lewis was happy to have a reason not to take part. Sam was alright, he thought, but he’d already had enough of Carl, and his effect on Wayne. He didn’t like the way the two of them egged each other on. Wayne could find trouble in an empty room; he didn’t need Carl to encourage him.
Miss Hepple showed Lewis how to pile all the colour palettes into the sink, running the tap until they sank. Some of the paint hadn’t been mixed properly, and pockets of powder bloomed to the surface. The water swirled green and blue and red, black spiralling through yellow. He put his hand in and pulled it out again immediately; it was freezing cold.
Just rinse them, she said, You don’t want to be stuck in here all break-time.
She leaned over him to dig out a block of soap from a cardboard box on the windowsill. Her smell was sweet and bitter, like biting into orange peel. It made Lewis’s tongue tingle.
And don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards, she said, her face so close to his, he could see the pores of her skin.
Later, when he looked at his arm, trying not to think about the cane coming down on his palm, he saw, running from wrist to elbow, the marks of a rainbow.
It was Wayne’s idea of a joke. Lewis found him at the edge of the playground, with Carl and Sam. They had their jumpers pulled halfway up, and were carrying something in the folds.
What’s going on? He shouted, chasing Wayne’s back. His damp hands were stinging in the air, the knuckles bright red. His brother was laughing and out of breath. Over-exciting himself, his mother would say, if she could see him. He followed them round the corner, and understood what they’d been doing. On the car park adjoining the football pitch was Miss Hepple’s 2CV. The car park itself had been cleared of snow, but it didn’t stop the boys finding some: the driver’s seat was full of it. They’d undone the poppers on the flap, and had been piling it in through the sun-roof.
We’re going to fill it up, c’mon! shouted Wayne.
She’ll shit herself when she sees it, said Carl, piling more snow into the gap.
Whose is it? Asked Lewis, although he already knew. There was a hot feeling in his chest.
Come on, said Wayne, You’re such a chicken!
As he flashed a look at him, Lewis saw his eyes, sharp as the sun on the snow, shining too bright, and knew what was going to happen. In a slow second, Wayne paused, looked troubled, as if he’d got something stuck at the back of his neck, had been hooked on an invisible line. He let his hands drop, jerked once sideways, then sank to the ground. Lewis was ready for this. He cleared a space around his brother and let him make his own particular shape in the snow. Carl stood still, amazed at the sight unfolding, but Sam had run for help. He came back with the teacher on duty.
It was Wayne’s idea of a joke, but it was Lewis who paid the price, standing with Carl and Sam in the headmaster’s office. He had only ever seen the headmaster on stage in assembly, or the back of him as he disappeared into his office. Everyone feared him, because of the rumours of his time spent as a governor of a Borstal, but it was common knowledge that no one got caned any more. Now he was close-up, Lewis could see he was shorter than he looked on the stage, with a pink face and a rill of shimmering sweat along his hairline. He gave them a lecture, and as the three boys began to relax, he searched in a cupboard behind his desk, and pulled out a thin strip of wood.
Lewis worried about Wayne, who had been taken to the sick-bay, and then driven home. Counting the strokes—one, two, waiting for three—he hoped their mother would be back from work. He wondered if Wayne would tell her what had happened. Lewis’s palm was turning pink now from the thin whip of the wood. At three strokes, he wondered if anyone had removed the snow from the inside of the car, or whether it would be slowly turning to liquid, soaking into the fabric of the seat, dripping into the footwell. He wondered whether Miss Hepple would ever trust him again.
You can put your hand away now, the headmaster said to Lewis, Unless you’d like another three?
Lewis looked up and saw that the caning was finished.
What do you say? This to Carl.
Thank you, sir.
The headmaster repeated the question to Sam, who also thanked him, and then to Lewis, who said nothing.
The two other boys, holding their left hands in their right as if to press the pain away, were staring at him as if he too were about to fall down in a fit. He hadn’t felt the caning at all, but here was the proof, coming up red across the centre of his palm, blue-edged along the thin web of skin between finger and thumb.
What do you say? The headmaster repeated.
Lewis couldn’t trust his mouth.
He says, thank you, sir, said Sam, shooting a glance at Lewis, He’s lost his voice, sir.
The headmaster turned on Sam in a swift rage.
Are you trying? To be funny?
Sam, brave despite the threat, shook his head.
No, sir! It was the shouting, sir. He was shouting for help. For his brother.
The three of them marched back down the stairs in silence. It was Sam who broke it.
He would’ve done you again, he said, He’s a sadist.
Lewis nodded. He wanted to say something to Sam, to thank him, but knew better than to do it in front of Carl, who was walking between them, breathing heavily through his mouth. His skin looked green in the ceiling lights of the corridor, the muscles in his face working as if he were chewing gum. Finally, he spoke.
Tell your fucking spaz of a brother he’s in deep shit, he said, raising his palm to emphasize the point, Tell him he owes me.
SEVENTEEN
Anna paces the car park. She counts forty-two steps to the door of the Little Chef, and turns abou
t; thirty more steps take her to the massive grey dump-bins pushed against the fence, another fifty-one back to the car. It’s a blustery morning; the wind carries intermittent sheets of rain. Squall, her mother called it, when she said goodbye to Anna this morning.
You’ll need a mac if you’re going out in that squall, she shouted, Shall I lend you mine?
Her mother was standing at the top step, hanging on to the edge of the door. She was wearing a moth-eaten towelling robe, and her hair was stuck up from her pink scalp in wayward tufts. Her bare feet looked blue.
Go on in, mum, it’s freezing, she called back, You’ve got no slippers on!
As she made to drive off, Anna felt a flare of embarrassment: she was back at her first day at secondary school, and there was her mother, standing at a different door on a busy street, shouting, Mind the road, Anna, watch out for the traffic.
The same cry again today:
Watch out for the traffic, that A11’s a bloody death-trap!
Except back then, her mother wouldn’t be seen in public without full make-up on. Over twenty-five years later, and now even her bare feet are acceptable.
There are four cars parked near the entrance, but none of them belongs to Brendan. As soon as she arrived, Anna went inside to make sure he hadn’t got there before her. She stood at the Please Wait to Be Seated stand and craned her head over the banquettes. Two family groups sat at either end of the room, as distant from each other as physically possible. A lone diner watched a television high overhead in the far corner. Outside again, Anna went across to the petrol station and bought ten cigarettes and a box of matches. She sat on a low wall and lit one, pulling her mother’s coat round her, scraping her feet along the mud slick at the side of the verge, waiting.
She’s still trying to smoke it when Brendan arrives, screeching to a halt in the middle of the car park and jumping out of the car. He fetches a large bag from the boot, which he slings over his shoulder. As he approaches her, laughing, he pretends to fall over with the weight of it. When he reaches Anna, he pulls her close into his body. From a distance, they could be taken for lovers. She presses her face against his shoulder; he smells of warmth and the city. She wants to stay right there as she is, breathing him in, but he pushes her backwards and holds her at arm’s length.
Winterton Blue Page 10
