Selfish People

by Lucy English

  SELFISH PEOPLE

  Lucy English

  Copyright

  Fourth Estate

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1998 by

  Copyright © 1998 by Lucy English

  The right of Lucy English to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Lines from Mrs Robinson

  Copyright © 1968 by Paul Simon

  Used by permission of the Publisher

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9781857027631

  Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007484935

  Version: 2016-02-29

  TO MY FAMILY

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  This is a dream. I’m in the middle of a field making a daisy chain. The chain is long and curled round and round in my lap. Rachel, next to me, is knitting a picture jumper. Trees, long grass, buttercups, she is knitting the countryside around us. Knitting fast and the picture pours out of her hands. Now a piece of sky, now an elder bush. We don’t speak. The needles clack. I can smell the hot sun on the grass. The field is so full of daisies it’s bursting. The chain is longer. Then the jumper changes and the blue sky becomes grey and more grey. ‘Because I’m sad,’ says Rachel …

  She woke up and she knew she had to see Rachel. Across her room the geraniums cast grey shadows on the rug and this confirmed it; Rachel always wore grey. It was eight o’clock, too early for a Sunday morning, but Al was shouting at the children. Her dream snapped shut and she ran downstairs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ There was milk on the floor and Shreddies everywhere.

  ‘We were hungry,’ they wept.

  ‘It’s too much. They woke me at six.’ Al, in his stripy dressing gown, stood in the middle of the room picking damp Shreddies off his foot.

  ‘I was asleep,’ apologised Leah. She had done the wrong thing, again. He began to clean up, ineffectively. He had fair curly hair which he hadn’t brushed for days and it was now matted at the back. It irritated Leah.

  ‘Let me do it. You go back to bed.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got two essays to write and a project and I’ve got to hand them in tomorrow.’ He plonked himself on a chair and rolled a cigarette. He had established himself as martyr of the day.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ said Leah, a bigger martyr. ‘Did you eat any of this?’ Two pink faces watched her tipping squashed Shreddies into the bin.

  ‘It was Tom’s fault, he did it,’ said Ben.

  ‘I didn’t!’ And Tom began to cry.

  ‘Shut up and sit down.’ Leah made toast. She was glad Jo was staying with a friend. Al was sneaking away. ‘I’ll take them to Rachel’s, I haven’t seen her for ages and I had this dream about her …’ She spread the marmalade, but Al was halfway up the stairs.

  There was silence in the terraced house kitchen which never seemed to get any light even when it was sunny. It was sunny now. She stood by the sink, her hands in the washing-up water, staring out of the window. The window looked out on to the wall separating them from next door. The children watched her nervously.

  ‘Yes. We can see Rachel and her boyfriend and Oliver and play with all his toys.’

  ‘And his battery car?’ asked Ben with a third piece of toast.

  ‘And his battery car.’

  ‘Has he got a torch?’ asked Tom.

  She ran a bath. She had a bath every morning. Despite the rush getting the children to school and Al’s protests she spent half her life in there. The bathroom was tacked on to the back of the kitchen. It was damp and full of black mould and slugs who slipped in at night to disgust those foolish enough to step on them in bare feet. She poured in rose oil and stepped into the sweet water.

  This is my only quiet space. Here I can float. Here I can be queen.

  Al rattled the door handle. ‘How long are you going to be? I thought you were going out?’

  ‘I am going out.’

  ‘When? When? I can’t possibly concentrate with those two.’

  She splashed the water over her. In the summer her skin went golden but now she felt pale and dull and flabby like a huge white slug. ‘When? When?’ She heaved herself out of the bath and opened the door to Al. She found it difficult to talk to him when he was angry.

  Why are you so angry? What have I done? But she said none of this.

  ‘I suppose you’ve used up all the hot water, then?’ said Al, sounding very like Jo.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ And she squeezed past him and ran up to her room.

  They had separate rooms. When they first moved to Bristol this was something to do with Tom being a tiny baby and Al saying he didn’t want to be disturbed any more. But that was four years ago. Leah’s room was neat and rather prim, with geraniums by the window and an Indian rug. China on a big chest of drawers, a carved mirror and watercolours on the walls. She had a dolls’ cot with six old dolls in it, dressed in gowns. In an alcove cupboard were all her clothes. Leah had plenty of clothes. Years ago she stopped buying china and paintings because they didn’t have the money, but she still bought clothes from jumble sales and charity shops. Al saw it as reckless extravagance. What shall I wear? She had to get it right, she had to feel right. Today, she chose blue and white striped leggings and a sea blue jumper: she wanted to feel strong and clear. Al was coming up the stairs. The children were squabbling in the front room.

  ‘When are you going out?’ He was standing outside her door, waiting, as if he wanted to catch her naked. He opened the door quickly, but Leah was dressed, in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Her hair was long and gold blonde. Al watched. Leah didn’t look at him, but at herself in the mirror.

  I am small. I have slanting blue eyes and a pointed nose. Sometimes I
feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel like an old witch.

  He went to his own room and kicked something in the doorway. Al’s room was a muddle. Clothes on the floor, newspapers, cups of coffee, college projects, children’s drawings and half-eaten biscuits. If things from the house landed up in his room they were never seen again. It might have been his idea in the first place but Al hated having separate rooms. To other people he would say, ‘That’s my study,’ but it was obvious nothing could be studied in there. If questioned further he would get angry and admit it, with a postscript, ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t sleep together.’

  She phone Rachel twice but she was engaged.

  ‘So, when are you going?’ Al was still in his dressing gown. Ben and Tom were now playing a wild whooping game on the stairs.

  ‘Sod it, we’ll go now.’ She stuffed wriggling children into their coats and bundled them out of the door. ‘Good luck with your essay.’

  It was a long walk to Rachel’s, right over the park and up the hill to Totterdown. It was November. Leaves had fallen off long ago. The park looked wintry, but it was sunny. The city below was shades of pink and gold. The wind pushed against them, stinging ears and blowing hair all over the place.

  ‘Can I play with Oliver’s torch all day?’ said Tom.

  ‘We might not be able to stay long …’ They were at the highest point in the park and they stopped to look at the view. ‘Look, there’s St Mary Redcliffe, and there’s the suspension bridge … We might not be able to stay long because her boyfriend isn’t very well.’

  ‘Has he got measles?’ said Ben.

  ‘No, he’s got cancer, it’s a bit different.’ My dream, the picture world turning sad grey, and now I feel bad. He’s been ill since June and I haven’t been round there once. Rachel’s having a bad time with it. She watched two seagulls flying towards the city. Her children next to her were waiting for an explanation. Why am I always answering questions? ‘He has to lie down a lot. He gets very tired. We’ll have to be good and quiet.’

  The Wells Road was steep as they walked into the wind.

  ‘Can we have a snack soon?’ said Ben.

  ‘You’ve just had breakfast.’ He put on his grumpy look. He was the sturdiest of her children and tall for his age. Tom was flimsy and fine boned. He had golden curls. He was often mistaken for a girl. At that moment he was sucking his thumb, but Ben was frowning like a tank commander. ‘Don’t,’ said Leah. They turned into Rachel’s street and for a second were protected from the wind. Up here the houses were larger and grander than the terraced boxes of Garden Hill. Leah hesitated. She wondered if she were doing the right thing.

  Rachel opened the door. She was all in grey. Her face was grey too. She wasn’t surprised or shocked to see them. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s not convenient, we’ll go away.’

  ‘No, come in.’ She moved into the darkness of the hall and Leah followed her. Oliver bounced down the stairs and when Ben and Tom saw him they all ran squealing into the sitting room, which was full of people. Upstairs were more people. Leah was confused: she had expected a hushed hospital-like atmosphere. In the kitchen was Rachel looking lost and weary. On the table were vases and vases of flowers.

  ‘Where’s Ian?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Rachel.

  ‘It was last week.’ Rachel wiped her eyes with a large man’s handkerchief. She was so thin her jumper was slipping off her shoulders.

  ‘Was it here?’

  ‘No, he was in hospital. I couldn’t cope with it here any more. They were decent. He had all his friends there.’

  Leah had only met Ian once. He was from Liverpool. He was down to earth, likeable and had friends everywhere. It seemed insane somebody so full of life should die like that.

  ‘He was unconscious. He kept slipping in and out … it went on for days … I’m glad it’s over.’

  Leah knew Rachel wasn’t hard hearted. Ian had rotted away for months. Rachel blew her nose loudly; she was not delicate sometimes. She looked delicate, though. She was pale and her hair was fine and very dark, cut straight across. Now she was thin but her face was usually rounder. She had exceptional dark grey eyes. She could look quite ethereal.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said. She filled the kettle, turned on the gas, got the cups. Each movement slow and deliberate as if she had to concentrate.

  The kitchen was quiet but the rest of the house was not. The children were now running up and down the hall. The people were leaving and Rachel went to see them off. Upstairs somebody was banging radiator pipes. The noise reverberated right through the house.

  Rachel came back. ‘Family,’ she said.

  ‘Rachel? Rachel?’ called a voice. ‘Where did you put the doodah?’

  Down the stairs came Bee, Rachel’s mother, in bright green slacks, a gin and tonic in one hand, a cigarette in the other. ‘Do introduce me to your friend.’

  ‘It’s Leah. You’ve met before.’

  ‘How sweet of you to call.’

  ‘It seems like a most inconvenient moment,’ said Leah, acutely aware of her rampaging children who now burst into the kitchen making all sorts of unreasonable requests. She attempted order.

  ‘They’re adorable,’ said Bee, backing away. She put her glass by the sink and began opening cupboards. ‘What shall we have for lunch?’

  ‘Anything you like. You’re cooking it,’ said Rachel.

  Leah made the children a drink. ‘We won’t stay long.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel. Bee had found some courgettes and potatoes and was looking at them as if they were aliens.

  ‘What about baked potatoes?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Of course.’ Rachel never wore make-up but Bee wore orangy foundation and today her lips were crimson. Upstairs the banging was becoming deafening.

  ‘Daddy’s mending the radiators.’

  ‘I’ll see how it’s going,’ said Bee.

  ‘They’ve been here since Thursday. Mummy’s doing all the cooking. We usually have lunch around six.’ Leah had to smile, but Rachel wasn’t smiling. She had dark circles under her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s OK. They look after Oliver as well.’

  Oliver, Ben and Tom were blowing bubbles into their mugs and giggling. Oliver was fair haired, he had a chubby face and a turned-up nose. Only in certain lights did he look like Rachel.

  ‘Ian died,’ he said suddenly to Ben, who looked blank: he had forgotten who Ian was. Rachel listened with her hand on her face.

  ‘Did he get shot?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He just got sick and died. Mummy was crying. Weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rachel, still watching them.

  ‘When next door’s cat died they buried it in the garden,’ said Ben, blowing bubbles. Leah could have kicked him. ‘It’s not the same,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ said Tom who probably hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

  ‘There’s some chocolates in the front room,’ said Rachel. ‘You can have one each.’ The children disappeared instantly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Leah.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rachel.

  ‘How’s Oliver?’

  ‘He asks questions. He’s funny about going to sleep …’ She didn’t say any more. Ian was not Oliver’s father.

  I remember sitting on Brandon Hill and you told me about this person you’d just met. You were hesitant. You liked him, but … you described him and what he wore, dreadful trainers, and his friends who got drunk all the time … and the stars above Brandon Hill were bright and clear. It was back in the spring …

  Hugh came into the kitchen carrying a radiator. ‘That’s the one in the spare room done. This is from Oliver’s room. Got any enamel paint and I’ll fix the rust stains?’

  ‘In the cupboard,’ said Rachel. Hugh was smallish, like Rachel. He had gold-rimmed glasses which made him look like a bank manager.

  ‘This is Leah. She didn’t know Ian had
died.’

  ‘Well … yes …’ He stopped for a moment by the cupboard. ‘I’d better find this paint, then. What’s for lunch?’

  ‘Ask Mum.’

  Bee appeared. ‘Hugh’s made such a mess up there, I don’t know. Where’s your dustpan, darling?’

  ‘Under the sink.’ Rachel was looking more weary every minute.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be there, darling.’

  ‘Can’t find this paint.’

  Rachel sighed. She found the dustpan and the paint and followed her father upstairs.

  ‘It was very good of you to come,’ said Bee.

  ‘I hadn’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘He was a nice boy.’ And she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘It’s very upsetting. We did have our hopes.’ She meant marriage. Rachel had often complained about this. Bee turned on the oven and fiddled with the timer. ‘Oh dear, I much prefer microwaves.’

  Rachel and Leah sat together again in the kitchen. The rest of the house had become quiet.

  ‘You’re exhausted. When it’s all over perhaps you can have a holiday.’

  ‘I was on holiday. Then the hospital rang and I had to come back. I was fucking angry about it …’

  Leah laughed. Rachel was always fucking angry about something. They used to see more of each other, but recently with her working and not getting on with Al …

  Rachel gazed beyond the flowers. She had a habit of drifting into a private space and in these moments there was little point in talking to her. Leah waited. Rachel picked a petal off a white chrysanthemum.

  ‘How do you get on with his friends?’ asked Leah.

  Rachel considered this. ‘At first I thought they were right wasters. It’s so competitive. They brag about who gets the most wrecked. But when he was ill … they came to see him. The more sick he became he didn’t want to see them. I suppose it reminded him of what he used to be. He wanted to see me. He thought I could save him. He thought if I loved him more I would save him …’ She stopped and Leah thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t, she slipped back to her private world as if she would find answers and comfort there. ‘He had no belief. He thought death was the end. He was so fucking scared … he didn’t want to talk about death. He wanted to get better. His friends are the same. They’re so thrown but they don’t want to talk about it.’ She smiled. ‘They wrote poems to read at his funeral.’