by Lucy English
‘Poems?’ And Leah remembered. ‘Do you know Declan and Bailey? They live on the other side of the Wells Road.’
‘They’re Ian’s friends.’
‘I didn’t know you knew them.’ And they both laughed.
‘Declan’s a terrible drunk but I like him, but I don’t know Bailey all that well.’
‘Oh I do,’ said Leah, feeling all excited now.
‘Oh do you?’ said Rachel with all her old sarcasm.
‘I was round there the other week. I had such a weird time. Declan said his friend was dying and later Bailey told me about the poems.’
‘The funeral was yesterday.’ Rachel was not laughing now. Leah understood all she had said about competitive wrecking.
‘Bailey teaches basketball at the Project. That’s how I know him. What do you think of him?’
Rachel frowned. She was very critical of men. ‘He’s scattered. He’s all over the place.’
‘There’s a lot of him,’ said Leah, thinking.
Rachel was becoming more dreamy. It was time to go. They went to find the boys. As they opened the sitting-room door three guilty faces stared at them.
‘They’ve eaten the lot!’
‘Ben and Tom made me,’ wailed Oliver, and Leah quite believed that.
‘A whole box of chocolates! Boys, you’ll be sick.’
Rachel could do without this. Leah got their coats. On the doorstep she hugged Rachel, who seemed to be fading away. Upstairs Bee and Hugh were arguing.
At the top of the street she caught up with the boys. ‘You are very, very naughty, you ate all her chocolates.’ But going round my head is, Ian is dead, Declan and Bailey, and Rachel knows them. She wiped the boys’ faces with a spat-on handkerchief. They grimaced and wriggled.
‘Oliver didn’t have a torch,’ said Tom.
‘Does it matter?’ She wished they weren’t with her.
‘Is it lunch soon?’ said Ben.
‘How can you be hungry? How can you?’ They were on the Wells Road being knocked about by the wind.
‘Are we going home?’
‘No we’re not. We’re going to see Bailey.’
Bailey and Declan lived in Steep Street. It was aptly named. The end of it fell off the edge of Totterdown into a flight of steps. The wind blew up it like a gale.
‘Can we run?’
‘Yes, run. Go on, run.’ And she ran too. It seemed she would jump off the end of the street and fly right across Bristol, the wind underneath her. They skidded to a halt in front of the door. The boys knocked loudly, all giggly from running, and she was light-headed too. Bailey opened the door. The first thing she noticed were his odd clothes. A pink and black spotty shirt and baggy turquoise trousers. Then his face, pale and unshaven and evidently not pleased to see them. But Leah was too excited to stop now.
‘It’s remarkable. I know Ian. I know Rachel. I’ve just been round there. I didn’t know he had died. I didn’t know he was Declan’s friend. I had this dream I had to see her, so I did and we’ve just been running. Isn’t it windy, can we come in?’
‘Well, if yer must.’ He had a sarf London accent.
Bailey’s and Declan’s house was tiny. Even smaller than Leah’s. The front room was all blue. The walls, the sofa and the curtains. There were art books, large plants and an even larger television. A Cézanne print hung over the fireplace. It was pretty tasteful really. On a low table were three ashtrays stuffed full of fag-ends. The children immediately started fiddling with everything. Bailey spread himself on the sofa. He was six foot four. When he sat on a sofa he took up all of it.
‘How are you then?’
He didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette. Leah sat on the other sofa.
‘Are there any toys?’ asked Ben, half at Leah and half at Bailey.
‘Nope,’ said Bailey.
‘Why?’ said Tom, knocking something off the mantelpiece. Luckily it didn’t break.
Bailey blew out smoke noisily.
‘Can they watch the telly?’ said Leah, desperately.
He handed Ben the remote control, which was a bad move since they now started flicking through the channels and arguing. Leah felt her insides gurgle. Ian’s dead. Rachel’s in grey. The wind’s racing up Steep Street and Bailey’s big bare foot is dangling over the arm of the sofa.
‘Where’s Declan?’
‘Asleep.’ Another whoosh of smoke.
‘Boys. Declan’s still asleep. You must be quiet!’
‘Who’s Declan?’ said Ben.
‘He lives here. He’s Ian’s friend.’
‘Who’s Ian?’ said Tom.
‘He’s dead,’ said Ben. Fortunately they found some American football and started watching this. Leah watched too.
‘Is Declan all right?’
‘No.’ Bailey stubbed out his fag.
‘Poor Declan. Rachel looked terrible. I hadn’t seen her for months.’
Bailey yawned and stretched himself. Leah was embarrassed. He hadn’t even offered to make a cup of tea, which was odd, he drank gallons of the stuff. He lit up again. She half watched the telly and half watched Bailey.
Bailey was not handsome. His face was too long and his ears too big. But he was impressive. For a start he had dark red hair, not ginger, but chestnut red, shoulder length and wavy. He was vain about his hair and was always patting or flicking it. When he played basketball he tied it up with scarves and headbands. The first time Leah met him he said, ‘Yer hair’s almost as thick as mine,’ which she understood later was a compliment. Secondly, Bailey wore odd clothes. Plaid trousers, red shirts, a lime green tracksuit and fluorescent pink cycling shorts. What with his scarves, dangling earrings and all-revealing shorts, the old biddies at the Project stared at him. So did everybody else.
‘Take one,’ he said, pointing to his fags on the low table. Leah did; the smoke made her more dizzy.
‘How’s your training going?’
‘Mega naff.’
‘Have you not been well?’
‘No, I’ve been pissed.’
They sat in silence, their smoke mingling in the tiny sitting room, the children mesmerised by the wrestling Americans.
I should go. I’m an intruder. But I can’t quite believe this, because muddled up with Ian and Rachel and dying and things changing is last Friday …
CHAPTER TWO
She was walking home from a particularly boring Project meeting when she saw Bailey. She recognised him immediately: he had a peculiar stiff way of walking as if he were trying to conserve energy.
‘Bailey!’ she called. She expected him to wave back and keep walking, but he didn’t, he crossed the road.
‘Yo! Wotcha!’
‘Friday night, Bailey, you on the town?’
‘Sure am.’ He was wearing his best plain trousers and a bright orange anorak. He let her admire him for some moments. ‘What you been up to then?’
‘Oh God, meetings, meetings, they’re so tedious!’
Bailey laughed. ‘You’re always at meetings.’
‘I know. Somebody’s got to make decisions.’ She turned to go.
‘Come for a drink,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m off to the Cambridge.’
She was surprised. She saw him frequently but only in a work context. Yet now he looked so friendly and ridiculous and harmless. ‘Yes, why not.’
The Cambridge was on the other side of the park on the main road. It was seedy. Inside, he looked sharply around and went straight to the bar. Leah sat in a corner. The interior was as tacky as the exterior. Smoke-stained wallpaper and plastic-upholstered chairs. A few young men were playing snooker. Apart from the barmaid Leah was the only woman. Everybody stared at Bailey. He wasn’t bothered. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and stretched himself as if he had just landed in paradise. He took a great gulp of his drink. It was Guinness, thick and black, and he wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Take one.’ He tapped his cigarette packet. She did and sipped her drink, which was white wine.
‘They’re here!’ Bailey jumped up as through the door came two men, one dark haired and tall, the other small and fair.
‘Bailey!’ ‘Yo, Declan! Mike!’ ‘How’s you?’ ‘Pint of Guinness? You buy the next one.’ Bailey and the dark-haired man went to the bar. Bailey’s laugh could be heard right through the pub. The small man sat down.
‘How do you do. I’m Declan.’
‘I’m Leah, I work with Bailey.’
‘He has mentioned you.’ He smiled. He had a soft public school voice. He wasn’t much taller than Leah. His hair stuck up like an unbrushed schoolboy’s. He leaned close: ‘Is he dreadful to work with?’
‘He’s shocking, he never does what he’s told.’ Across Declan’s nose were tiny freckles. Mike joined them. Bailey was at the jukebox pronouncing every record ‘mega naff’.
‘He does this every time,’ said Declan and drank nearly half his Guinness in one go. ‘Mike’s from Birmingham.’
‘Don’t tell her that!’ yelled Bailey. ‘Never say you come from Birmingham.’
‘Well, what can I say – he’s from Guildford?’
Bailey roared, ‘Never! Guildford? Never say you’re from Birmingham or Guildford!’
‘Actually … I don’t live there now,’ said Mike.
‘Where do you live?’ Bailey was on his third pint.
‘I’ve just moved to Milton Keynes …’
‘Milton Keynes?’ Bailey and Declan were almost choking. Mike might have been good looking if he hadn’t had such a hesitant manner. He had large brown eyes, which made him seem rabbit-like. He also appeared stunned as if he had been subjected to a week-long trauma.
‘He’s staying with us,’ said Declan with a cute smile.
‘You buy the next one,’ said Bailey.
‘And what do you do?’ Mike asked Leah. Bailey’s choice of music was making conversation difficult.
‘She’s my boss!’ Bailey’s voice could be heard above anything.
Several drinks later Leah had learned very little about Declan and Mike except that Mike never rode scooters, never ever and Declan taught delinquents how to be louts. Mike had become silent and only his drink was keeping him alert. Bailey and Declan had downed at least six pints. There was talk of a party.
‘So how do we get there?’ said Leah, who had no intention of going.
‘On Mike’s scooter!’ shouted Bailey.
The landlord started sweeping up and giving them threatening glances. Eventually they stumbled out. They were the last to leave. Declan and Mike untangled their bicycles. Bailey yawned.
‘Where’s this party then? William Street? Gwilliam Street?’
It occurred to Leah that Al didn’t know where she was. ‘I think I’d better go,’ she said.
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Bailey. Declan and Mike were trying to mount their bikes. ‘We’ll see you there.’ They watched them wobble up the street. Bailey and Leah stayed outside the pub. Inside the lights were being switched off one by one.
‘I don’t fancy a party,’ said Bailey, yawning again. ‘Coffee at my place?’
It’s nearly midnight. Al will be in bed. ‘Yes,’ she said.
They went up the hill to the Wells Road. Leah had to run to keep up with Bailey. This made him laugh; he was extremely fit. ‘This way!’ And he pulled her across the road and into the sloping streets of Totterdown. Terraced houses skidded down the hill off narrow uneven pavements. There were few street lights. They passed an area of bushy wilderness and on the top of it was a row of houses. ‘Up there,’ said Bailey, pointing, and they turned into a street so steep Leah gasped.
‘I run up here every morning,’ said Bailey.
When they reached his house she was only too glad to sit down. He didn’t. He tidied up magazines and emptied ashtrays. ‘Do you like this room?’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and it was, it was blue and peaceful apart from Bailey standing there patting his hair.
‘I’ll show you the rest. I helped Declan choose the colours. That’s the kitchen. That’s the back room, but we haven’t done that yet. Come and see my room.’ He bounded upstairs.
Perhaps I shouldn’t visit strange men’s bedrooms. He was standing in the doorway holding the door open for her.
Bailey’s room was large and blue, a sea-greeny blue. There were at least eight plants, big ones, and pictures all over the walls. Paintings of unicorns and other, winged creatures.
‘Did you do these?’ asked Leah. She didn’t think of him as an artist.
‘They’re my dreams,’ said Bailey. She wanted to look at them longer. On the floor were crystals, dried flowers in vases and an enormous double bed.
‘Tea or coffee?’ said Bailey.
They sat downstairs. Bailey slurped out of a huge cup, smoked two cigarettes in a row, put on some music, didn’t like it, went through all his tapes and eventually chose some band he knew from France, who were ‘mega brilliant and nobody has heard of them’. Fortunately he didn’t turn it up loud. He sat next to Leah. She wasn’t drunk, but she was in that odd state where she didn’t care what time it was or what was happening.
‘How long have you been married?’ said Bailey.
‘Ten years.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve never done anything for ten years! But I’ve been a cook, taught English in France and managed a band.’
‘And now you’re on to sports.’
‘But this is permanent.’ He was dead serious. She didn’t contradict him.
‘Well, you must be busy, what with your kids and all?’
‘I do far too much. Work. Husband. Children.’ She looked at him. In one ear he wore an earring with the sun and moon dangling off it. Then, she didn’t know why she asked it, she said, ‘Bailey, have you got any children?’
He went very quiet and spread out his fingers. ‘Yes, I’ve got a little girl in France.’
‘In France? Do you see her?’
He patted his hair. ‘No, not really. I lived there for a while. Things started to go wrong and I left.’
‘What, just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ said Bailey. He took a picture out of a drawer and showed it to her. A little girl of about four with Bailey’s long face and big ears. Leah almost felt like saying, poor little thing.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘She’s called Ghislaine.’
They were now sitting quite close together on the sofa and she was looking into his eyes. What a strange colour they are, a greeny greeny blue, and you smell sweet as if you rub yourself all over with aromatic oil. ‘Bailey, have you got a girlfriend?’
‘No. Have you got a boyfriend?’
‘Don’t be silly, you know I’m married.’
‘Why should that stop you –’ Then the front door crashed open. It was Declan tripping over his bike in the hall. He was completely drunk. Bailey hauled him into the sitting room. ‘Where’s Mike?’
‘God … who? I think he’s lost.’
‘I’d better make some tea then,’ said Bailey.
‘Was it a good party?’ asked Leah. Declan had collapsed on the sofa. ‘Awful.’ He grinned at the ceiling. ‘And you … enjoying yourself?’
‘I’m having the time of my life.’
‘Oh good … and what music is this?’
‘An unknown band of Bailey’s.’
‘It’s … terrible.’ He eased himself to the deck, stopped the music abruptly and began looking through the tapes. ‘This –’ he held up an Andy Sheppard tape – ‘is better … my friend gave it to me … and now –’ he was saying each word slowly as if in an elocution lesson – ‘he is dying, he might be dead now and he gave it to me, my best friend.’
‘Are you sure you want to listen to it?’
‘Absolutely.’ He put it on. It took him ages. He sat next to Leah and the music began.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your friend,’ said Leah.
‘It happens … we all die … one day … everything dies …’
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Bailey brought in the tea tray. He looked critically at Declan and slammed the tray on the table. ‘I’m not listening to this jazzy crap!’
‘Everything dies, Bailey.’
‘Not right now it bloody doesn’t. Drink yer tea!’
Declan sipped his grumpily. ‘I think there’s wine in the fridge.’ They started arguing about the tape and eventually settled for reggae. Bailey danced at one end of the room. Leah and Declan watched him. He danced awkwardly, but it was fascinating, he was so serious.
‘He practises in front of the mirror,’ whispered Declan.
Someone was knocking on the door. It was Mike with a taxi and no money.
‘Where’s your bike?’ shouted Bailey. ‘Where’s your scooter?’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Mike. Declan found a fiver for the taxi man.
‘Where’s your bike, Mike?’ yelled Bailey.
‘I need a drink.’ Mike held his head. Bailey got the wine and glasses, which were like brandy glasses.
‘I have to go soon,’ said Leah.
‘No, not yet,’ said Bailey. She drank the wine. It was thick and red. Mike began rolling joints. Bailey turned the music up. Declan started rolling joints and soon the room was a Turkish bath of dope smoke.
‘I really ought to go,’ said Leah but she couldn’t move.
‘Have you noticed …’ began Declan, ‘about filo pastry … sometimes it’s much more … Greek than other times?’
‘What?’ said Mike.
‘It’s important … the Greekness of it … the essential Greekness.’
‘It’s mega important,’ said Bailey.
‘What is?’ said Mike.
‘All of it, right through to the last crumb, the last flake.’
