‘Are you drunk?’
‘So what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hazel says. ‘I don’t think it makes much of a difference.’
Maybe Hazel should also get drunk. It’ll be easier like that even if afterwards she won’t remember it so well. It will make it less important somehow, and it seems careless to be drank when her life’s about to change for ever. Was it even possible to change your life if you were drunk? Sadly, probably, yes. It happens all the time.
Hazel waves Sam Carter away. She tells him to come back later. She’ll have a think about it.
And there it is, she thinks, as she watches him walk away, sex on a plate. She wonders if there’s a special type of divine retribution for people like her who feel the melancholy of good luck, which only the lucky can understand. Her easy victories seem banal against the chance of being touched closely and changed by car crashes. She regrets always coming out unscathed. She longs to be pale and interesting, truthful even, not blonde and very completely sexy alluring and in control, like now, when whatever happens is entirely her own decision.
She wishes that life, as it has with Olive, would show her who to be. She feels that home has nothing more to teach her, because if the world were really as frightening as her mother thinks then how would anyone live, how would they carry on from day to day? With the assistance of prescription drugs, is the lesson to be leamt from her mother. As for her father, he’s always away in foreign countries convincing strangers that a single purchase can make all the difference.
If only Spencer was at home, waiting for the phone to ring. Then Hazel could forget how easy it all was: check none of the teachers are watching, kiss Sam Carter on the lips, take him somewhere quiet. Why wait? Spencer lives miles away, and she hasn’t seen him since he was a child with no head wearing a single stripey glove. She doesn’t even know what he looks like any more. She suspects, however, that he is somehow more real than her because his family has less money, and because he doesn’t have a scholarship to a private school. She imagines that bad things happen to him all the time, just like on the television and in the newspaper.
Or perhaps it has nothing to do with Spencer and she’s saving herself for River, or for Val Kilmer or Harvey Keitel. But River’s dead and anyway, she should have grown out of that by now. It’s time she started living in the real world.
Hazel steps over the slack corpse of the dummy River Phoenix, and pushes through the fire-door into the corridor. She feeds John Lennon’s eyes into the mouth of the telephone and as she does so she hears footsteps behind her. She glances round and it’s Sam Carter. She turns back to the telephone and he breathes on her neck. She punches in Spencer’s number while Sam Carter, bolder, kisses the pulse behind her ear (Jesus!) and Hazel, waiting for the phone to be answered, has to do something. A decision won’t solve all her problems, she knows that, but at least it solves the problem of indecision. And anyway, right or wrong the most it amounts to is a popular song.
Spencer’s Dad answers the phone, and he tells her Spencer isn’t back yet, but if it’s that slut Emma Thompson again doesn’t she have anything better to do?
‘No,’ Hazel says quietly. ‘It’s not Emma Thompson. It’s no-one special.’ She hangs up.
11/1/93 MONDAY 11:12
'This isn’t turning out how I expected,’ Spencer said. ‘I was hoping we could have the whole day to ourselves.’
Hazel had found him sulking in the office, a small room at the front of the house with two chairs on wheels and an IBM on the desk. Next to the computer there was a colourful row of game-boxes. Asterix and the Great Rescue and Mephisto Chess and TOC A Shoot-Out Touring Cars and PGA European Tour Golf. Spencer often hid himself in the office, spending long hours sitting at the computer like a working person. ‘God knows why he had to choose today, of all days.’
‘It’s not his fault, Spencer. He’s had a shock.’ William had gone upstairs (second floor, front) to watch television. At this time of the morning he had a four-channel choice between Good Morning with Anne and Nick or Daytime on Two or This Morning or Time for Maths. Hazel had checked the paper, in case William ended up watching something which made outside seem even worse. She reckoned he was safe enough.
‘You shouldn’t worry about him,’ Spencer said. ‘He’s a tough old bird. He’s fine as long as he stays indoors, or in the garden.’
‘And in my opinion he’ll be fine outside, as soon as he knows what to expect.’
‘And in your opinion we can have a baby, no trouble.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’
Both her opinions were stupid, in Spencer’s opinion. She seemed to have forgotten that Britain was a huge place. There were four separate countries involved and every day it was different, so how could they tell William what it was like? Which town or time of day or region or event best represented the whole? If William was disappointed by Britain, then outside the front door it was only one street in London, and it wouldn’t be accurate to suggest that this was all there was.
‘We can’t give him a history of the whole country,’ Spencer said.
‘You could start with the people.’
‘What people? The only person I’m qualified to talk about is myself.’
‘There you are then.’
Hazel irritably flicked a speck from the shoulder of her dress. Spencer said: ‘This isn’t about William, is it?’
‘It was supposed to be our special day.’
In that case, Spencer could have asked, why did you arrange to have lunch with an old friend? Instead, he betrayed a complete ignorance of women by looking at his watch. In less than an hour he had to fetch his niece from the bus stop, and he still hadn’t bought her a present. She was only ten, and he didn’t want her walking into the middle of an argument, especially on her birthday. It was therefore about time he and Hazel sorted themselves out.
‘About this baby,’he said. ‘What are we going to do?’
Hazel looked away, like someone who needed to count very slowly to ten. She covered her front teeth with her tongue and put her hands on her hips. She actually tapped her foot. Then she turned back to face him, unblinking.
‘Who’s this Jessica woman?’
‘Who?’
'I think you heard me the first time. Jessica.’
‘Nobody. She’s not anybody.’
‘That’s not what William seems to think.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Jessica.’
‘Come on, Spencer.’
'I promise you. I don’t.’
‘The name means nothing to you?’
‘For God’s sake, Hazel,’ Spencer said. ‘Half a day and you’re already possessive.’
He didn’t mean it. Or he did mean it but he didn’t mean to say it. Or he didn’t mean to say it quite like that. Or he had no idea what he meant to say. They let it hang there between them. They circled round it, Hazel moving from the desk to the chair to the desk. She said:
'I never expected you to be like this.’
There was a brief moment in which they could have stepped back from here, and away from the many things it was always possible to say which were usually best left unsaid.
‘In what way, exactly?’
Well, for a start, there was his annoying habit of looking elsewhere when he spoke to her. There was his sporadic sense of humour. She would also like to explain, very slowly so he’d be sure to understand, that a little tenderness was due when they woke up naked together in the same bed. It wasn’t generally considered good manners to rash straight out for a morning-after contraceptive pill.
‘I expected you to be more worldly,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d know that it doesn’t literally have to be taken the morning after. You didn’t have to panic quite so much.’
‘I knew that,’ Spencer said. ‘And I wasn’t panicking. I was increasing our options.’
‘You had to ask at the library. I couldn’t believe it. And what would Jessica make of all this? I
presume she’d have an opinion.’
'It’s not what you think,’ Spencer said, looking down, relieved to see Hazel’s feet still in his best socks. All the same, he was absolutely certain that Jessica would never have put him in a position like this. He stared at the blank computer screen, remembering all the times he’d crashed and burned on the track.
‘I have to go out,’ he said.
‘Don’t run away, Spencer.’
‘I have to get a present for my niece.’
‘You’ll know what she wants of course,’ Hazel said, and because he still refused to look at her she couldn’t help the meanness that crept into her voice. ‘You the renowned expert on what girls want.’
‘She wants a horse,’ Spencer said, no surrender. ‘I read it somewhere. All girls her age want a horse.’
‘You’re getting her a horse then?’
‘Of course I’m not. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Why won’t you tell me about Jessica?’
‘When did you give me the chance?’
Ideally, Spencer would have liked to climb down from here, a rung at a time. He would step down from her carelessness in sex to her infuriating attitude of hands up I’m the scholarship girl. Back down again to the way she knew what was best for William after knowing him for at least forty minutes, and down once more to the way she borrowed his socks and library books without asking, an annoyance so close to rung zero it was almost solid ground.
There was, however, no climbing down.
‘Presumably,’ Spencer said, 'if we’re destined to spend our lives together I can tell you whatever I want?’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
Hazel’s lips quivered at the edges. Her hair curled to the inside where it touched her shoulders, something Spencer hadn’t noticed before. He said:
'If you want to leave I won’t stop you.’
‘I might be pregnant with your baby.’
‘But probably you’re not.’
‘You’re right. Probably I’m not. Nothing will change and our lives will go on exactly as they were, except without the possibility of you and me. Is that what you want?’
‘I want to go out,’ Spencer said.
‘Who’s Jessica?’
‘Forget about Jessica. Who’s Henry?’
‘Henry who?’
‘Your Henry. Henry who’s coming here for lunch.’
6
It beats having beans, for instance (5).
THE TIMES 11/1/93
11/1/93 MONDAYI 1:24
To be alive was glorious! The way everything could change so quickly! This was much better than money, and there was positively no better time or place to be alive than here in London on the first day of November 1993, following the road towards the woman he loved. Henry had decided to walk, calculating that he’d arrive at the library at the latest by noon, or perhaps quarter past. It had even stopped raining.
He doffed an imaginary hat to Gerald Davies, Rugby Union legend and journalist for The Times, to Jessica Brown, a spokeswoman for the Consumers’ Association, and to Martin Purves, a city surveyor who’d handled the sale of the former Billingsgate market. Ever since leaving the hotel Henry had sensed that Miss Burns was somewhere close, and it turned out that he was right. He took it as a sign, a good omen, and it occurred to him that luck was just a question of finding and following what was already destined. He definitely felt lucky. He looked for a betting shop and immediately found a William Hill. In the doorway lay Matthew Beeston, former director-general of the National Economic Development Office, dressed as a beggar in a bath-robe tied with string. Henry stepped daintily around him.
Inside the betting shop a row of televisions was jammed into the angle between wall and ceiling. Half of them were running a preview of tomorrow’s Melbourne Cup, while the others listed the afternoon’s runners at Newcastle and Plumpton and Southwell.
The only other person in the shop was John Maxey, more commonly known as Mad Dog. He was chewing on a very short pencil while watching the Irish St Leger runner-up, Drum Taps, prance for some Australians in the paddock at Flemington. The set of John Maxey’s face, bored but hostile but indifferent, reminded Henry of the wasteground outside Wakefield and the fireworks at Aintree, but this was no time to falter. He was doing this for Miss Burns, because a man needed money of his own if he was going to get married, and with enough money he could live wherever he liked. This was an unwritten international law properly sanctioned by very rich people who wanted to live in Geneva. Henry therefore took a deep breath and tried to ignore John Maxey, Mad Dog, son of the former Romford Raiders’ coach, with a tattoo on his fore-arm saying Oberhof.
For last-minute luck Henry crossed his fingers and closed his eyes and recalled his vision of Miss Burns. Older, English rose, spectacles from reading so much, small affectionate cat and hair in a schoolmarmish bun. Greying hair, or brown hair, or she had black, blonde, red hair. She was rich, virtuous, fair, mild, noble, of good discourse, an excellent musician (woodwind), and her hair could be of whatever colour it pleased God. It didn’t really matter, although it would be nice to be right about the cat.
He went over to the ticket-window where Clive Milnes, veteran bookie and former member of the Ulster Defence Regiment, waited to take his bet. Henry glanced back at the TV screens, but the display had changed again, switching to a promotion of some of the wilder bets always on offer to the reckless. You could bet on anything in Britain: the chances of sighting rare birds or the probable dates of the deaths of famous people. You could speculate on the date of an Irish ceasefire, or the length to the second of the Queen’s Christmas speech, or the recent employment history and physical condition of Elvis. It was as if life was only a wager where nothing was ever certain. Some things were more possible or more plausible than others, obviously, but all these bets created the impression that nothing was ever impossible: you could probably put money on it.
At this point, Henry would have liked to stake all his father’s money on the long-shot of getting engaged to Miss Burns by the end of the day. It would be a way of showing faith, as if he could make it happen just by having the courage to make the bet on it. Following the same principle he would make several side-bets, even at longish odds, that the first man to answer the phone had been an old and harmless friend of the family. As for the second man, the younger one, Henry would bet it was just a boy delivering a pizza, or maybe a younger brother. He would bet, anyway, that it was a voice of no importance.
The afternoon horses for Newcastle were back on the screen, and Henry pushed most of his father’s bundle under the grille for the unfancied Mr Confusion in the High Society Rated Handicap at 2.30. Clive Milnes, bookie, former UDR man, father of five, said:
'That’s a lot of money.’
'It’s my lucky day.’
‘Then it can’t be mine.’
Clive Milnes, bookie, former UDR, father of five, often dreamt he was an astronaut. He licked his thumb and counted the notes. Conversationally, because the British people liked a bit of conversation, Henry asked him if he thought Mr Confusion had a chance.
‘Everyone has a chance, my friend. However, if this horse comes home a winner I’d call it a miracle.’
‘Miracles happen though, don’t they?’
‘It is not unknown. Unfortunately.’
Clive Milnes, bookie, UDR man, father of five, dreamer of outer space, coveter of the new Peugeot 405, wished he had this much money to put on a horse. He pushed Henry’s ticket back under the partition.
Mad Dog John Maxey, son of the former Romford Raiders’ coach, Oberhof tattoo (fore-arm), recently charged with Grievous Bodily Harm, looked up sharply and asked Henry how he planned to spend his winnings. At which point Matthew Beeston, former director-general of the NED, dressed as a beggar, pursued by the Child Support Agency, fell through the door and just about managed to stay on his feet. He swayed alarmingly, trying to focus on Henry, and the TV screens, and then both at the same time. Jo
hn Maxey, Mad Dog, son of the Romford Raiders’ coach, Oberhof, charged with GBH, set free by the Crown Prosecution Service, stood up and shoved him back out to the street. Then he focused his attention exclusively on Henry.
‘Nice holiday maybe? The Algarve. Lovely. Malta’s not bad at this time of year.’
Henry wanted to be outside again, away from the accumulating, distracting, demanding weight of the full lives of other people. He wanted to concentrate on the ideal future he planned to enjoy with Miss Burns, where holidays would be intimate affairs somewhere at the British seaside, involving a little inshore yachting and idle games of bowls and special trips at dawn to catch crabs from the local sandbanks.
‘Well where then?’ said John Maxey, Mad Dog, son of the former Raiders’ coach, Oberhof, GBH, freed by the CPS, bound over to keep the peace, and casual nutcase. ‘Back home is it?’
Henry remembered Belfast, and it suddenly seemed vitally important to avoid all the terrible avoidable things which could happen to him before he met Miss Burns. Now was not the time to be the victim of an arbitrary stabbing, or to be run over or stoned or kidnapped or poisoned or fall from a high place, nor for that matter to be hit by fireworks or attacked by a lunatic racist.
He quickly backed out of the shop, and immediately collided with Matthew Beeston, former director-general of the NED, dressed as a beggar, pursued by the CSA, who only needed a handful of coppers to see himself right again. Henry peeled off most of what was left of the money and gave it to him, just in case there was a God watching. He couldn’t afford to be picked out and punished by untimely lightning, not now that Miss Burns was so close.
After he met her it would all be different, of course. She was going to save him from all this.
It is the first of November 1993 and somewhere in Britain, in Ipswich or Harrow or Walsall or Llanelli, in Ilkeston or North Walsham or Motherwell or Leigh, Hazel Burns has given up boys. She is sixteen. To replace the excitement of the opposite sex she has embarked on a life of crime, and as often as once a week she takes a bus into the town centre where she steals money from kind old people and students. It couldn’t be easier. She has her own collection box and depending on what’s in the news she attaches a sticker for the Leukaemia Research Fund or Mencap or Corda or Help the Aged or the Webb Orphan’s Fund. The trick is to smile brightly and project the image of suffering children, who would all smile as brightly if only they could. Most eager to be robbed are casual acquaintances of the family who vaguely remember Hazel’s disabled sister, and unhappy students who look at her breasts. Towards the end of the afternoon, Hazel empties her collection box and launders the loose change by taking it to the Post Office to buy phonecards.
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