by Lucy English
Al was helping himself to more so it couldn’t have been that bad. She took a small portion and sat down.
‘… Catholic repression turning out fucked-up individuals who are too repressed to think for themselves and too fucked up to feel anything …’ Leah’s family were Catholic. ‘Stupid ignorant nuns forcing children to believe in hell and fat complacent eunuch priests, and repressed Catholic Mafia families with their insidious network of do-goodism.’
‘I’ve got a meeting tonight,’ said Leah, ‘at half-past seven, so could you –’
‘Put the children to bed. Yes, dear wife. I like to spend time with my children.’
‘We’ll probably go for a drink afterwards, at the Swan, we usually do.’
‘I like to spend time with my wife, but unfortunately she doesn’t like to spend time with me.’
‘It isn’t that,’ she said as casually as she could. ‘It’s good to socialise with people you work with. Clive has invited us all for a drink.’
‘Good old Clive. Do you fancy him as well?’
Leah sat through the meeting not taking much of it in. She doodled on her notepad. She drew a path going over a hill into a sunset, and a funny little house with a chimney and smoke coming out, but she scribbled that out and drew boxes like cages and more boxes and more boxes.
‘Item five, compost bins,’ said the chairperson. This was Phil. He had been chair for the last three years because nobody else wanted to do it. He was tall and thin with a trim beard. He was a history teacher at the local comprehensive. ‘Clive, I think this is your area.’
Clive was the community gardener. He was about forty with a bald head and an enormous bushy beard. He was square set and rather rounded. While working he wore a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He had tanned skin from working outdoors and red cheeks, probably from too much beer.
‘Ho, the problem, as I see it, is that basically, the residents of Brewery Lane have been complaining about the present siting of the compost bins, basically because of the smell.’
‘Smelly bins,’ said Phil. ‘Well, what to do?’ A map of the whole site was produced and every alternative discussed at great length. Leah looked at the clock: it was gone nine. Doris and Betty kept knitting and started reminiscing about who used to live at 21 Brewery Lane, which was the house opposite the offensive bins. ‘That Madge Parkins, ooh, she were a compost bin ’erself.’
‘Um ladies,’ said Phil. ‘I think we have to wind this up soon. Let me make a suggestion. How about over here at the back of the sports hall?’
‘We’ll have to consult that sports hall chappy,’ said Vic, the treasurer, who could always think of a reason why something wouldn’t work.
‘Leah, that’s your department,’ said Phil.
‘I think it might be better to inform him rather than consult him,’ she said, going pink. Doris and Betty started whispering: ‘… and he wears earrings.’
‘Clive, what do you think?’
‘Well, basically …’ said Clive and the matter went on for another ten minutes.
The meeting finished. Clive was rubbing his hands: ‘Ho, ho, time for a drink. Up the Swan.’ Vic lit up his pipe and blew it near Phil, who had banned smoking at meetings two years ago.
‘I have to go,’ said Leah, gathering up her things and rushing out before anybody could ask her any more questions.
Bailey was at the far end of the bar, a pint of Guinness in front of him and several empty glasses on the table. He looked glum. He was not wearing his usual wacky clothes but a grey jumper and ragged-look jeans. He didn’t see Leah until she sat down opposite him.
‘Yo!’ he said and managed a smile. ‘Well, you got rid of the liquorice allsort.’
‘I can’t wear that to meetings.’ She was also in jeans, decent ones. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, it was one of those last agenda items that go on and on.’
‘I don’t know why you bother.’ His hair was tied back in a ponytail and he had taken off his earrings. ‘What was it about this time?’
She hesitated. Compost bins to be moved near sports hall. Leah to inform Bailey. She didn’t want to talk about that now. ‘A load of rubbish,’ she said and shook her hair as if she were shaking out all the day’s worries.
‘Do that again,’ said Bailey, ‘I liked that.’ And she did, self-consciously, as Bailey watched her. He took a great gulp of his Guinness and handed her a cigarette.
‘Is Declan coming out tonight?’ she said and dropped Bailey’s lighter on the floor. Flustered trying to pick it up she nearly fell off her chair and had to steady herself. She put her hand on Bailey’s knee. There was a huge hole in his jeans, she was touching his knee. He didn’t react. ‘Fuck knows about Declan,’ he said.
They sat there awkwardly. Bailey finished his drink and bought another. Leah smoked a cigarette; so did Bailey. Two lads and a plump girl in a white miniskirt were laughing loudly at the bar. ‘I’m not into this,’ said Bailey. ‘I’m off.’ He stood up. ‘Come and have a spliff at my place.’
It was uphill all the way to Bailey’s. Leah told silly tales about the members of the committee so by the time they reached Steep Street it felt as if they were old friends. The house was the same as she remembered, tiny and blue. Bailey made tea and they smoked joints. He undid his ponytail and rearranged his hair. He hadn’t put on any music so there was just the hissing gas fire to listen to.
‘I was mega naffed off before I met you tonight,’ said Bailey.
‘Because of Declan?’
‘Sod Declan. No, I got a letter from London.’
‘Oh? And that was bad?’
‘From me mum, with photies.’
Leah didn’t understand any of this. ‘You don’t like your mum?’
‘You’re fucking right I don’t.’ He smoked his joint furiously.
‘You don’t like her sending you photographs?’
‘No! I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, she’s growing up and I don’t see her.’
‘Your little girl.’ She understood now. ‘Does your wife write to your mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘And not to you?’
‘You got it.’ He picked at the hole in his jeans.
‘Do you write to her?’
‘Sometimes …’
‘And she never writes back?’
He shrugged and pulled out a thread. He had long fingers. They were not graceful. After a while Leah said, ‘Why did you leave? Was it that bad?’
He said nothing and then he said, ‘I couldn’t hack it, that’s why.’
‘And you walked out: that’s a weird thing to do.’
‘I was going fucking mental, I had to.’
How odd it must be to just leave, to leave behind a child, with no explanations, or apologies, or anything. ‘Things change all the time, you think something’s bad, you can’t stand it, and then it changes.’ She knew she was saying that for her own benefit as well as Bailey’s.
‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘they were nice photies. I stuck one on me wall.’ And he smiled. Leah smiled too. They sat there for a while until Leah said, ‘I have to go home,’ and Bailey said, ‘That’s OK.’
As she walked home the roads were frosty and slippery and the air was sharp. She felt peaceful and light-headed. She crossed the park and she was unafraid: so much so she stopped at the top to look at the view. All the lights of Bristol. Bailey, I want to know you better. She walked down to Garden Hill skidding on the frosty roads as if her feet didn’t belong on the earth, as if they had no place there.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Leah arrived home the house was dark and quiet. She unlocked the door and crept up the stairs. She was halfway up when Al said from the darkness, ‘So, you’re back then?’ She was startled. She didn’t want to converse but he had different ideas.
‘Good meeting was it?’
‘Not too bad, a bit boring.’
‘Nice drink? At the Swan?’
‘Oh you know, same old stuff …’
They were, both of them, still in darkness. ‘Who was there?’
‘Phil, Clive, Vic Rodgers, Doris and Betty, for a bit, then they went home.’ She leaned on the banisters and peered into the front room: she could just see Al standing in the doorway.
‘So you had a good time?’
‘Yes … well … I’d better get to bed, it’s getting late.’
‘You lying bitch,’ hissed Al.
Leah froze. Al ran up the stairs and grabbed her. He dragged her into the front room. He pushed her on to the sofa and turned on the light. She blinked.
‘You’re lying!’ He was furious and pale.
‘I’m not.’ She was confused and beginning to shake.
‘You were never in the Swan.’ And before she could speak he threw a notepad at her. It hit her on the cheek. She picked it up off the floor. It was hers.
‘Nice Mr Chairperson Phil brought it round after the meeting because you left it behind, because you were in such a hurry. You didn’t go to the Swan, did you?’
‘No,’ said Leah, thinking as hard as she could of a way to stop this getting worse.
‘You’re a fucking liar.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘What I think? What do I think? I think you were down the dogs’ home.’
‘I had a drink with Bailey.’
‘Ah ha, well, well. Mr Sexy Shorts. So how did this come about?’
‘I arranged it.’
‘A nice secret little liaison. I would never have known, would I?’
‘I didn’t want you to get upset,’ she said pathetically.
‘How nice of you. How sweet and kind.’
She felt foolish and wretched. ‘We can’t talk sensibly now. Let’s discuss it in the morning.’ But this was the wrong thing to say. Al exploded and pounced on her, shaking and hitting her.
‘You’re sneaking off under my nose and you won’t discuss it. You bitch, I knew you were with him …’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you? You went back to his place.’
‘I did … but I didn’t … I mean I didn’t …’
‘I can tell, you know, if you’ve just bonked. I can tell, you know.’ He began to pull at her clothes. Leah screamed but Al had lost control.
‘You let him do it, but you won’t let me, he’s all over you … he fucks you, and you lie and pretend. What do you take me for, a complete idiot?’ He had got her on the floor and was trying to pull off her clothes. She struggled and wept. The more she struggled, the more he hit her. Then from upstairs came a loud bump and a wail. Someone had fallen out of bed. Al stopped and Leah scrambled back on to the sofa. They both listened, then looked at each other like frightened children. Leah was crying and tucking in her clothes. Her arm hurt and her leg and her face.
‘Oh get out!’ said Al. She didn’t move. She thought he was telling her to leave the house. ‘Get out!’ he said more desperately. ‘Go to bed, that’s what you want.’ And she ran. Upstairs and into her room. But even her room didn’t feel safe. She was too scared to get undressed and got into bed with her clothes on. Under the duvet she trembled. This wasn’t the first time he had hit her. This is going to go on and on and what can I do? What can I do? Downstairs she could hear thumps and bangs: it sounded like he was smashing up the whole house, but she wasn’t going to move, even if the children woke up and cried she wasn’t going to move.
I was stupid, stupid to meet Bailey and lie about it. I will never be able to go out like other people and chat and laugh. I will have to stay at home always because he will always be angry and one day he will get something completely wrong and lose his rag and kill me, and that will be the end. He will get a knife and kill me and I don’t mind because it will be over … I will be in a coffin surrounded by flowers and he will cry … but he will go to prison and what about the children? Not his parents, that would be awful, but my mum, she could have them and make cakes and pies and they could play in the garden like me and Jimbo … My friends will all cry and send flowers … and Bailey? But I mustn’t think about Bailey … He will be upset, we could have been friends … I’m thinking of you in your jeans, smiling like you did when I left. Perhaps you’re in bed, perhaps you’re asleep and if I think hard enough perhaps you can hear me. I’m thinking of your room and the pictures of dragons and you’re in bed. Wake up Bailey, please wake up. Al is going to kill me …
Al suddenly burst into her room. She rolled over with a jolt. He went over to her bed and with a huge cry pulled one end of it from under her and tipped the whole thing over. She fell down and hit her head on the wall and the blankets and duvets fell with her. ‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted and left, slamming the door and breaking the handle. She lay there, her head ringing. She was wedged on the floor between the upended mattress and the wall. Strangely, it felt safe and protected. She was very tired now, too tired to move. Wrapped up in bedlinen she felt like a chrysalis. It was better not to move. It was better to be still.
She was a girl at her parents’ house in Ruislip. The sun was shining on her bed. It was summer. Her brother was in the garden mowing the lawn. She could hear him up and down with the old mower. He was the boy, it was his privilege to mow the lawn. She was never allowed to do it. Up and down. She could smell the cut grass through the open window, the curtains were flapping. She could smell that sweet sickly summery smell. Up and down the lawn. The twin tub gurgled water down the drain. Mama was in the kitchen feeding the washing into the spinner. The baby was in the pram outside hitting the string of rattle bunnies and wafting upstairs was Daddy’s tobacco pipe smoke. She crept downstairs in bare feet. The hallway floor was tiled with yellow, black and brick-red tiles in a pattern. They were cold to walk on. She tiptoed into the study. Daddy Claremont was marking papers at his desk. He was an English teacher at the monastery. The boys called him Daddy Claremont. Jimbo told her when he started there. Now they both called him that.
‘Are you very busy, Daddy Claremont?’ she said.
‘So-so my fairy. Nothing to occupy you?’
‘I finished my game.’
‘Well, I’m still playing mine.’ He was puffing his pipe. He was in his weekend clothes: khaki trousers and a beige cardigan with leather patches on the elbows. She looked over his shoulder. He was circling words on somebody’s essay in red pen. ‘Cooper cannot spell, nor can he write English, nor can he understand the beauty of Hopkins.’
‘Is he in Jimbo’s class?’
‘No my petal, he’s in the upper fifth. Could do better, Cooper.’ He stopped writing and puffed his pipe. She wanted to ask if she could help with the lawn but she knew he would say no. She wished she was a boy. They had much more fun.
‘How about helping Mama?’
She grimaced. ‘I think she’s nearly finished.’
‘Play with the baby?’
‘She’s not crying.’ This was the worst option. All babies did was sleep and poo and cry. Outside, Jimbo was still struggling up and down the lawn. He was a year older than her but she was the same size and she was much stronger. She looked around the study. On either side of the fireplace were shelves of books, rows and rows up to the ceiling. There was a large map of the world on the wall and framed photographs of India. On the desk were several fossils, a sheep’s skull and a horseshoe. Her father went back to his marking. ‘Ah, Eldon the elder, let’s see what you have to offer …’
‘Can I read?’ said Leah. ‘Can I read an art book? I’ll be very quiet.’
‘Any noise …’ warned her father.
She was delighted. She chose a large book called The Renaissance. She took it to the sofa at the far end of the room. She opened it. It smelt of clean paper with only the faintest whiff of pipe. This was her favourite book. She didn’t read it, although she could have. She looked at each picture over and over again. A lady coming out of the sea on a shell, a wind god blowing her hair. Another lady in a flowery wood. Little cherubs in the sky and a
man with not much on and three ladies dancing. That was called Primavera which meant ‘Spring’. In the paintings the women had hair to their waists and the men looked like angels with wistful sad faces. This painting was called St Sebastian and he was the most beautiful of them all. Strapped up a tree in a strange stony landscape and being shot at with arrows. He was staring up to heaven in a resigned sort of way. His wavy hair was down to his shoulders. He looked like no man she had ever seen. He didn’t have a moustache or a hairy chest or go pink in the sun. He was tall and smooth and beautiful and so sad she wanted to cry …
She was woken by Jo peering over the edge of the mattress. ‘Mum, what have you done to your bed?’
‘Daddy did it,’ said Leah.
‘Wow!’ And Ben and Tom came in to look as well.
‘Were you making a house?’ said Tom.
‘We were having an argument,’ said Leah, trying to sit up in the tangle of sheets.
‘I heard you shouting,’ said Ben. ‘I fell out of bed.’
‘Oh dear …’ said Leah. ‘Oh dear … what time is it?’
‘It’s eight.’
‘You better have your breakfast, boys.’
‘Daddy’s making porridge,’ said Jo. ‘He said he’s going to get us ready today and you’re to stay in bed, he said you’re not very well today.’ They all looked at her for a visible sign of illness. ‘You’ve got a black eye,’ said Ben.
‘Oh, I haven’t!’ She felt her head where she had hit the wall. Downstairs, Al was calling. The boys scampered away. She crawled back under the duvet. She felt like lead, a piece of grey flat lead. She listened to the voices coming up from the kitchen. Al was laughing, he sounded quite cheerful. A car honked and the children left for school scolding each other about who had forgotten what. Then the house was quiet. Leah felt herself go tense but Al didn’t come to see her. She could hear hoovering noises from the front room. Then silence. Then the front door slammed. Al had gone to college.
