Expectation

by Anna Hope

  Expectation

  Anna Hope

  Contents

  London Fields

  2010

  Abjections

  2010

  Soulmates

  2010

  Resistance

  2010

  True North

  2010

  London

  2010

  Bras

  2010

  Hens

  2010

  Epithalamium

  2011

  2012

  London Fields

  Acknowledgements

  Read More

  About the Author

  ANNA HOPE studied at Oxford University and RADA. She is the acclaimed author of Wake and The Ballroom. Her contemporary fiction debut, Expectation, explores themes of love, lust, motherhood and feminism, while asking the greater question of what defines a generation. She lives in Sussex with her husband and young daughter.

  Love for Expectation

  ‘SO GOOD. A “what they did next” story of characters from a Sally Rooney novel.’

  SARAH FRANKLIN

  ‘Few novels leave me genuinely breathless with their brilliance. Expectation is one of them.’

  HANNAH BECKERMAN

  ‘A generation-defining book, honest and relatable on motherhood, ambition and sex. Like Normal People with female friendship under the microscope.’

  ERIN KELLY, author of He Said, She Said

  ‘I absolutely loved this. What really appealed to me was the depiction of the parents, about legacy and about what the mother’s generation leaves for the one that comes after.’

  ANNE YOUNGSON, author of Meet Me at the Museum

  ‘Anna Hope has a way of getting inside difficult and painful moments, turning them inside out. I felt I knew these women as my own friends. Taut, electric, complex, funny.’

  RACHEL JOYCE

  ‘Raw, honest, unputdownable.’

  TAMMY COHEN

  ‘Jaw-droppingly good.’

  SARRA MANNING

  www.penguin.co.uk

  Also by Anna Hope

  Wake

  The Ballroom

  For Bridie, when she’s older,

  and for Nimmi, who wove me back into the tale

  You do not solve the problem or question of motherhood. You enter, at whatever risk, into its space.

  Jacqueline Rose, Mothers:

  An Essay on Love and Cruelty

  London Fields

  2004

  It is Saturday, which is market day. It is late spring, or early summer. It is mid-May, and the dog roses are in bloom in the tangled garden at the front of the house. It is still early, or early for the weekend – not yet nine o’clock, but Hannah and Cate are up already. They do not speak much to each other as they take turns at the kettle, making toast and tea. The sun slants into the room, lighting the shelves with the haphazard pans, the recipe books, the badly painted walls. When they moved in here two years ago they vowed to repaint the dreadful salmon colour of the kitchen, but they never got around to it. Now they like it. Like everything in this shabby, friendly house, it feels warm.

  Upstairs, Lissa sleeps. She rarely rises before noon on the weekends. She has a job in a local pub and often goes out after work – a party at a flat in Dalston, one of the dives off Kingsland Road, or further afield, in the artists’ studios of Hackney Wick.

  They finish their toast and leave Lissa to sleep on, taking their faded canvas shopping bags from the rack on the back of the door and going out into the bright morning. They turn left and then right into Broadway Market, where the stalls are just getting set up. This is their favourite time – before the crowds arrive. They buy almond croissants from the baker at the top of the road. They buy strong Cheddar and a goat’s cheese covered with ash. They buy good tomatoes and bread. They buy a newspaper from the huge pile outside the Turkish off-licence. They buy two bottles of wine for later. (Rioja. Always Rioja. They know nothing about wine but they know they like Rioja.) They amble further down the road to the other stalls, looking at knick-knacks and second-hand clothes. Outside the pubs there are people, in the manner of London markets, already clutching pints at nine o’clock.

  Back in the house they lay out the food on the table in the kitchen, make a heroic pot of coffee, put on some music and open the window out on to the park, where the grass is filling with small clusters of people. Every so often one of those people will look up towards the house. They know what the person is thinking – how do you get to live in a house like that? How do you get to live in a three-storey Victorian townhouse on the edge of the best park in London? Luck is how. A friend of a friend of Lissa’s offered her a room, and then, during the same year, two more rooms came up, and now they live in it together; the three of them. In all but deed the house is theirs. There is an agent somewhere in the far reaches of Stamford Hill, but they have a strong suspicion he does not know what is happening to the area, as their rent has remained stable for the last two years. They have a pact not to ask for anything, not to complain about the peeling lino or the stained carpets. These things do not matter, not when a house is so loved.

  Sometime around eleven Lissa wakes and wanders downstairs. She drinks a pint of water and holds her head, then takes her coffee to the steps outside and rolls a cigarette and enjoys the morning sun, which is just starting to warm the lowest of the stone steps.

  When coffee has been drunk and cigarettes smoked and morning has become afternoon, they take plates and food and blankets out into the park, where they lie in the dappled shade of their favourite tree. They eat their picnic slowly. Hannah and Cate take turns to read the paper. Lissa shades her eyes with the arts pages and groans. A little later on they open the wine and drink it, and it is easy to drink. The afternoon deepens. The light grows viscous. The chatter in the park increases.

  This is their life in 2004, in London Fields. They work hard. They go to the theatre. They go to galleries. They go to the gigs of friends’ bands. They eat Vietnamese food in the restaurants on Mare Street and on Kingsland Road. They go to openings on Vyner Street on Thursdays, and they visit all the galleries and they drink the free beer and wine. They remember not to use plastic bags when they go to the corner shop, although sometimes they forget. They cycle everywhere, everywhere, all the time. They rarely wear helmets. They watch films at the Rio in Dalston, and then go to Turkish restaurants and eat pide and drink Turkish beer and eat those pickles that make your saliva flow. They go to Columbia Road flower market and buy flowers in the very early morning on Sundays. (Sometimes, if Lissa is coming home early from a party, she buys cheap flowers for the whole house – armfuls of gladioli and irises. Sometimes, because she is beautiful, she is given them for free.)

  They go to the city farm on Hackney Road with hangovers, and they eat fried breakfasts in amongst the families and the screaming children, and they swear never to go there again on a Sunday morning until they have children of their own.

  Sometimes on Sundays they walk; out along the Regent’s Canal to Victoria Park, and beyond to the old Greenway, to Three Mills Island, savouring the sideways slice of London that the canal offers up.

  They are interested in the history of the East End. They buy books on psycho-geography from the bookshop at the bottom of the road. They try to read Iain Sinclair and fail at the first chapter but read other, more accessible books instead, about the successive waves of immigration that have characterized this part of the city: the Huguenots, the Jews, the Bengalis. They are aware that they too are part of a tide of immigration. If they are honest, they would like to halt this particular tide – they fear encroachment by those who resemble themselves.

  They worry. They worry about climate change – about the rate of the melt of the permafrost in Sib
eria. They worry about the kids who live in the high-rises, right behind the deli where they buy their coffee and their tabbouleh. They worry about the life chances of these kids. They worry about their own relative privilege. They worry about knife crime and gun crime, then they read pieces which suggest the violence is only ever gang on gang and they feel relieved, then they feel guilty that they feel relieved. They worry about the tide of gentrification that is creeping up from the City of London and lapping at the edges of their park. Sometimes they feel they should worry more about these things, but at this moment in their lives they are happy, and so they do not.

  They do not worry about nuclear war, or interest rates, or their fertility, or the welfare state, or ageing parents, or student debt.

  They are twenty-nine years old. None of them has children. In any other generation in the history of humankind this fact would be remarkable. It is hardly remarked upon at all.

  They are aware that this park – London Fields – this grass on which they lie, has always been common land, a place for people to pasture their cows and sheep. This fact pleases them; they believe it goes some way to explaining the pull of this small, patchy patch of green they like to feel they own. They feel like they own it because they do; it belongs to everyone.

  They would like to pause time – just here, just now, in this park, this gorgeous afternoon light. They would like the house prices to remain affordable. They would like to smoke cigarettes and drink wine as though they are still young and they don’t make any difference. They would like to burrow down, here, in the beauty of this warm May afternoon. They live in the best house on the best park in the best part of the best city on the planet. Much of their lives is still before them. They have made mistakes, but they are not fatal. They are no longer young, but they do not feel old. Life is still malleable and full of potential. The openings to the roads not taken have not yet sealed up.

  They still have time to become who they are going to be.

  2010

  Hannah

  Hannah sits on the edge of the bed, holding the vials in their plastic case. She runs her thumbnail along the thin wrapper and brings out one of the tubes. It weighs almost nothing. A quick fit of the needle, one flick of her fingertip to release the bubbles – she knows what she’s doing, she has done this before. Still. Perhaps she should mark the moment somehow.

  The first time, two years ago, Nathan bent over her with the needle, kissing her belly each day as the injections went in.

  He kissed her differently this morning.

  Promise me, Hannah, after this, no more.

  And she promised, because she knew after this there wouldn’t need to be more.

  She lifts her shirt and pinches her skin. A brief scratch and it is over. When she has finished she stands, straightens her clothes and heads out into the morning to work.

  Lissa is not there when she arrives at the Rio, so Hannah gets a tea from the little bar and moves outside. It is September but still warm, and the small square beside the cinema is busy with people. Hannah spots Lissa’s tall frame threading its way up the street from the station and lifts her hand to wave. Lissa is wearing a coat Hannah has not seen before; narrow at the shoulders, fuller below the waist. Her hair, as ever, is long and loose.

  ‘I love this,’ Hannah murmurs, as Lissa leans in to kiss hello, catching the rough linen lapel between finger and thumb.

  ‘This?’ Lissa looks down as though surprised to discover she’s wearing it. ‘I got it years ago. That charity shop on Mare Street. Remember?’

  Never anywhere you might be able to go and get one for yourself, always a charity shop, or that little stall in the market, you know, the man in Portobello?

  ‘Wine?’ says Lissa.

  Hannah wrinkles her nose. ‘Can’t.’

  Lissa touches her arm. ‘You’ve started again then?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine. I’m feeling fine.’

  Lissa takes her hand and squeezes it lightly. ‘Won’t be a sec.’

  Hannah watches her friend weave over to the bar, watches the young man serving light up at her attention. A bright, shared laugh and Lissa is back outside in the sun, her red wine in a plastic cup. ‘All right if I have a quick cig?’

  Hannah holds the wine while Lissa rolls. ‘When are you going to give that up?’

  ‘Soon.’ Lissa lights up and blows smoke over her shoulder.

  ‘You’ve been saying that for fifteen years.’

  ‘Have I? Oh well.’ Lissa’s bangles clink as she reaches back to take her wine. ‘I had the recall,’ she says.

  ‘Oh?’ It’s terrible, but Hannah never remembers. There have been so many auditions. So many parts almost got.

  ‘A fringe thing – but a good thing. A good director. The Polish woman.’

  ‘Ah.’ She remembers now. ‘Chekhov?’

  ‘Yeah. Vanya. Yelena.’

  ‘So how did it go?’

  Lissa shrugs. ‘Good. In parts.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Who knows? She worked with me quite a bit on the speech.’ And then she launches into an impression of the Polish director, replete with accents and mannerisms.

  ‘Here, do it again. Make it real. None of this – how do you say it? Microwave emotion – put it on high. Two minutes. Ping! Tastes like shit.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Hannah, laughing. It always astonishes her, the crap Lissa puts up with. ‘Well, if you don’t get the part, you could always do a one-woman show, Directors I Have Known and Been Rejected By.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’d be funny if it weren’t true. No. It is funny. Just …’ Lissa frowns, and throws her cigarette into the gutter. ‘Don’t say it again.’

  ‘Not bad,’ says Lissa, as they emerge from the cinema into the darkness of the street outside. ‘Bit Chekhovy, actually.’ She threads her arm through Hannah’s. ‘Not much happens for ever and then the big emotional punch. The Polish director would probably have loved it. Long though,’ she continues, as they head down towards the market, ‘and no decent parts for women.’

  ‘No?’ It hadn’t occurred to Hannah, but now she thinks of it, it’s true.

  ‘Wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test.’

  ‘The Bechdel test?’

  ‘Jesus, Han, call yourself a feminist?’ Lissa steers her towards the crossing. ‘You know – does a film have two women in it? Do they both have names? Do they have a conversation about something other than a man? This American writer came up with it. Loads of films fail it. Most of them.’

  Hannah thinks. ‘They did have that conversation,’ she says. ‘In the middle of the film. About the fish.’

  They both snort with laughter, as arm in arm they cross the street.

  ‘Speaking of fish,’ says Lissa, ‘you want to eat something? We could head down and get some noodles.’

  Hannah pulls out her phone. ‘I should get back. I’ve got a report due tomorrow.’

  ‘Through the market then?’

  ‘Sure.’ This is their favoured route home. They weave their way past the shuttered-up fronts of the African hairdressers, past sliding piles of cardboard boxes, crates of too-ripe mangoes buzzing with flies. The blood-metal stink of the butchers’ shops.

  Halfway down the street a bar is open and a knot of young people stand outside, drinking lurid cocktails with retro umbrellas. There is a rackety, demob air to the throng; some of them still wearing sunglasses in the dusky light. At the sight of them Lissa hangs back, tugging on Hannah’s arm. ‘Come on – we could just have a little drink?’

  But Hannah is suddenly tired – irritated by these young people laughing into the weekday night, by Lissa’s spaciousness. What does she have to get up for in the morning? By her constant capacity for forgetting that, lately, Hannah does not drink.

  ‘You go. I’ve got to be in early. I’ve got to do that report. I think I’ll get the bus.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Lissa turns back. ‘I guess I’ll walk. It’s such a lovely even
ing. Hey’ – she brings her hands either side of Hannah’s face – ‘good luck.’

  Cate

  Someone is calling her. She follows the voice but it twists and echoes and will not be caught. She struggles upwards, breaks the surface, understands – it is her son crying, lying beside her in the bed. She brings him to her breast and gropes for her phone. The screen reads 3.13 – less than an hour since his last waking.

  She had been dreaming again: the nightmare; broken streets, rubble and her with Tom in her arms, wandering, searching the burnt-out carcasses of buildings for something, for someone – but she did not recognize the streets, or the city, did not know where she was, and everything was over, everything destroyed.

  Tom feeds, his grip slowly slackening, and she listens for the change in his breathing that signals the beginning of sleep. Then, with the barest of movements, she slides her nipple from his mouth, her arm from above him, turns on to her side and pulls the covers up over her ear. And she is falling, falling down into the pit of sleep and the sleep is water – but he is crying again, escalating now, announcing his distress, his indignation that she should fall like this away from him, and she hauls herself back awake.

  Her tiny son is writhing beneath her in the gritty light. She lifts him and rubs his back. He gives a small belch and she puts him back on the breast, closing her eyes as he suckles and then bites. She cries out in pain and rolls away.

  ‘What? What is it?’ She pushes her fists into her eyes as Tom wails, hands and legs flailing, fists closing on nothing. ‘Stop it, Tom. Please, please.’

  On the other side of the thin wall there are low voices, the creak of a bed. She needs to pee. She moves her crying son into the middle of the bed and goes out towards the landing, where she hovers. To her right is the other bedroom, where Sam sleeps. Nothing wakes him. Downstairs is the narrow hallway, filled with piles of boxes, the lumped, heaped things she has not attended to since the move.