by Lucy English
The summer holidays started with two weeks of fine weather. Leah planned little trips for the children, boat rides and bus rides, anything that was cheap. She made picnics: they seemed to visit every single park in Bristol. For the first ten days in August Al was taking the boys camping in Cornwall so Leah felt at least they would have a proper holiday. What she was going to do in this time was unclear.
A woman called Patsy had started helping in the gardens. Like Clive she loved plants, dogs and beer. She was from Leeds, she was largish and very strong, with a scrubbed clean look, short dark hair and rosy cheeks. She wore jeans and T-shirts with pictures of parrots on them. She lived with a friend in Totterdown. Clive was besotted; he had a shower every day and started doing unusual things like washing his clothes and changing his socks.
The children left for Cornwall and the sun shone. Al was happy, the children were happy. Leah waved goodbye; the first thing to do was to go shopping.
‘Sandwiches for lunch? Salad for lunch?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Clive. ‘I might go out.’
‘And something for dinner. I could cook tonight.’
‘I’m not sure.’ He didn’t move from the sofa. He had been cagey since Thursday.
‘I’ll get you some beer,’ said Leah.
On the way back from the shops with three bags full she saw Patsy and her friend getting out of a car. They waved to her.
‘We’re getting stuff for the party,’ said Patsy. ‘We did this yesterday, but I’m sure we’ll need more. You are coming?’
‘Am I?’ She knew nothing about a party.
‘Didn’t Clive tell you? It’s my birthday. This is Lorna.’ Lorna smiled, she was a smaller, thinner version of Patsy; her T-shirt had a tiger on it.
Leah put the shopping on the sitting room floor and kicked Tatty away so she wouldn’t sniff it.
‘Patsy’s invited me to her party. I just met her.’
‘Oh … oh …’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Oh … hum … oh …’
‘She’s invited all the Project people. Don’t you know?’
‘She invited me first.’ He was quite huffy.
‘Don’t you want me to go?’
‘I thought, you know … ho, ho, me and a girl …’
‘You didn’t want to take me because it might give Patsy the wrong idea. Clive, you are dense.’
‘I was going to tell you,’ he mumbled.
By nine o’clock Leah felt spectacular: black spotty leggings, a vest top and a see-through black shirt. They strolled across the park. Clive had taken his straw hat. It did perfect the look: garden gnome meets Hawaii beach boy.
‘Ho, I think we need a drink, mustn’t be too early.’ The Cambridge was on the road below them. He was nervous, he was treating the whole thing like a personal invitation to dinner.
The one drink became several. By the time they left it was gone eleven and they were both drunk. The six-pack and the bottle of wine got heavier as they trudged up the Wells Road.
Patsy’s house was about two streets away from Bailey’s. The door was open, and music was blaring out. The front room was full of dancing people; the hallway full of talking ones. They squashed their way to the kitchen. There were Patsy and Lorna, Lesley and Debbie from the Project. Patsy sprang over to Clive and gave him a huge hug; she pulled him into the garden.
‘Is it fun?’ said Leah, helping herself to a bottle of wine.
‘Barbara was here earlier, but she had to go,’ said Lesley, ‘and I’m going soon.’
‘I’m not,’ said Debbie, ‘I’m going to dance.’ She was drunk.
‘I’ve got a headache, I’ll have to go,’ said Lesley. The music was deafening. Leah pushed back to the front room. By the windows two large speakers blared out house music. A woman in a leather jacket was handling the business: she looked sullen and fierce, nobody was going to ask her to put on Abba. There were lights as well. In their flashes Leah could just make out Debbie like the dancing queen.
At the far end of the room were glass doors into a conservatory. There, in unmistakable silhouette, was Clive dancing with Patsy.
She squeezed past them. There was a large ropy sofa, she sat on the arm of this and swigged her drink. The garden was lit with candles and a UV light which made white flowers and clothes shine eerily. People were dancing outside too, the music was that loud.
In the courtyard she began to dance in a dreamy way.
‘Get down and do it.’ Somebody tapped her on the shoulder: it was Bill dancing like a maniac.
‘It’s brilliant, it’s brilliant, everything is brilliant.’
‘Is it?’ But I’m pleased to see you.
‘I’m on E, do you want some? I’ve got one left.’
‘No thanks, I’m too drunk.’
‘That’s just as good.’
‘… and a bloody sight cheaper.’ And there was Bailey out of the shadows: ‘Here give us some of that,’ and he took Leah’s drink from her and gulped it down. But I don’t want to see you … The colour washed from her face, but Bailey wouldn’t have noticed: in the UV light the only thing that showed up were the white spots on her leggings.
‘Mega,’ said Bailey and handed back the bottle with little in it. He was dressed in baggy black trousers, no shirt and lots of beads.
‘So, who do you know then?’ said Leah. We have met, was it that bad? I can talk to you at least.
‘We all know everybody round here.’ Bailey was dancing with Bill, who was still jerking about like a wind-up toy.
‘I fix her bike,’ said Bill.
‘The dyke with the bike,’ said Bailey.
‘The what? Oh my God, poor Clive.’ She looked back into the party: Clive, Patsy and Lorna were all dancing together.
‘Love, love, I want love.’ Bill’s grin showed up luminous and disembodied.
‘Where’s Carol?’ said Leah.
‘I said love, not marriage. She’s having dinner with Ange. Girls’ night in, they’re not on it.’
‘Are you fucking off your head or what?’ said Bailey.
‘I better have the other one then,’ said Bill. ‘Love, love, love and sex, that’s what I need.’ In the conservatory a couple threw themselves on to the sofa and started kissing passionately.
‘Look at that,’ said Bill, pressing himself up to the glass. ‘Look at that. I want to be her, I want to be him, I want to be both of them.’
Leah and Bailey looked as well; it was hard not to.
‘Love and sex, love and sex,’ said Bill.
‘I’ll have the other one,’ said Bailey gloomily.
Clive came into the garden clutching his hat.
‘I think I’m going home,’ he said.
‘Oh dear,’ said Leah.
‘Something has cropped up,’ said Clive.
‘Love yer shirt,’ said Bailey, pulling Bill away from the window.
‘I love your shirt and I love you,’ said Bill, ‘and who are you?’
‘Basically, there’s a problem,’ said Clive, ignoring them.
‘Oh dear,’ said Leah again. Wondering if Patsy had said anything, she looked back into the party and beyond the writhing couple were Patsy and Lorna dancing in a way that made it obvious Patsy would never be interested in Clive.
‘Well, ho hum, sometimes you can’t tell … a fine woman … strong arms …’
‘Give me love.’ Bill was dancing again and so was Bailey just as madly.
Debbie burst into the garden: ‘Where’s Lesley? I can’t find her.’
‘I think she’s gone home,’ said Leah.
‘She’s young, she’ll do,’ said Bailey.
‘Love me, love me,’ said Bill.
‘She was going to give me a lift home, and I haven’t got enough money for a taxi, oh what shall I do?’
‘Give me sex,’ said Bill. Debbie was young and fun loving but she wasn’t prepared for two drug-crazed men in a garden.
‘I shall walk you home,’ said
Clive, always gallant. ‘We can’t have ladies in distress,’ and he offered her his arm.
‘Clive, are you sure? How kind, I live right the other side of Bedminster.’
‘No distance is too far,’ and he put on his hat.
Leah leaned against the conservatory window. The couple on the sofa were still kissing, as were Patsy and Lorna. Bailey is here, he pushed me out and now he’s here, I feel him slide in.
‘Come and dance,’ said Bill.
I shall dance with my eyes closed and forget this party. In the music, moving with it and against it, like a person pressing up to me. Now this place has slipped away, Bailey, Patsy and Clive have slipped away, there’s only me and the music.
She opened her eyes and there was Bailey handing her a joint.
‘I like the way you dance.’
Leah took the joint from him. ‘I don’t know, when I last saw you I was the worst thing on earth, or don’t you remember?’
‘I was out of order.’
‘Is that all you can say? I was miserable for weeks. I took it all on board, but I see it now: it’s not just me – don’t you take responsibility for anything?’
Bailey looked round to see if Bill was listening, but he was too far gone to notice. ‘This ain’t the right place,’ he said.
‘But where is?’ The couple were still on the sofa, not being wild now. ‘Where is the right place, and what are we supposed to be anyway? Mates, enemies, lovers …’
‘We is mates,’ said Bailey instantly and took the joint.
‘You’re an odd sort of friend,’ she said. Bailey was close to her and they were just touching. ‘I don’t know what we are, but what we are is dark, we’re not like them, we’re not sweet and cuddly, it’s like … like going through a door into a dark room and you don’t know what’s in there.’
Bailey stamped out the joint and they looked at each other, their faces made eerie by the light. I look and I can see all of you, your passions, your secrets. Can you see all of me?
They were interrupted by Bill: ‘Where is everybody? They were all here and they’ve gone, there were hundreds of women and they’ve all gone.’
‘They’re inside,’ said Bailey, stretching himself. ‘It’s party time.’
‘Go for the party,’ said Leah and they led Bill back into the house.
‘It’s here, it’s all here!’ Bill hit the last dancing people. ‘Everything is here.’ Off he went, right up to the speakers and deafening happiness.
Leah and Bailey danced too, not together but where they could see each other. The leather jacket woman had gone, Patsy and Lorna had gone. Everyone who was left was as loved-up as Bill.
Everything’s in pieces, in fragments, only dancing is holding it together, making sense of it. Keep moving or it will fall apart.
Then she saw through the conservatory the light creeping in. ‘Look,’ she said to Bailey, ‘the sun’s up.’ They went outside: through the sky the sun was soft and red. They stood at the bottom of the garden by the cold barbecue. She climbed on to the wall so she could see better. Beyond the wall was a graveyard, with the sun rising over it.
‘It’s Arnos Grove,’ said Bailey. He was on the wall as well. The party music was far away now. The grass round the graves was long and scorched by the good weather; big clumps of St John’s wort, brambles and willowherb. It was a wilderness. ‘I never knew,’ said Leah.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Bailey as if it were his own place, and they jumped off the wall. As they walked in silence through the grass, the sun became more orange and warmer. At the far end was a large white cross looking towards the hills outside Bristol. Past the cross the cemetery fell away steeply. They stopped and sat down on the grass. It was a sheltered place and the sun felt hot. They were sitting by the grave of Arthur Henry Heep and his beloved wife Mabel. No flowers on it; they had been forgotten long ago. The sky was now pink and blue and golden. Leah lay back on the grass. Bailey turned to her. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘everything is just perfect.’ He ran his hands down her body. Leah realised how much she wanted this. ‘Are we lovers?’ Bailey kept stroking her. ‘I’m on E,’ he said, absolving himself.
The sun shines through your ears, makes them look red, your beads dangle in my face, you’re not that hard, perhaps it’s all the chemicals, but you’re in me and that’s what I want.
He became more urgent, and she felt it, not just physical, but emotional, rushing through him and right into her. ‘Fuck, I love you,’ he said and he meant it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
This is not a dream. Mobiles turn on the ceiling. That one makes rainbows in the light; the other, fishes swimming through each other, me and Bailey through each other.
Leah in Bailey’s bed with the sun trying to poke through the curtains. It was late in the afternoon.
He is asleep, and nowhere that I can follow. But she wanted to, she wanted to leap into his dream, it felt too lonely to be awake, his back facing her. She wanted merging, she wanted losing; awake was being separate.
Bailey turned and yawned. Leah, tense, waited for him to say, oi you, hop it, but he didn’t, he looked at her contemplating it all. He was bleary faced and drained. The drugs had sapped him, but he wasn’t aggressive.
‘I’m not ashamed,’ said Leah.
‘Too right,’ said Bailey. They lay like that under the flowery sheets, Bailey’s foot touching her. Breathing alcohol breath, sweet and mouldy at the same time. The moment felt like the skin of a bubble and whoever spoke first would pop it. It was Leah.
‘My children are in Cornwall for the week, I’m on holiday.’
‘The caff’s having a facelift; so am I.’
‘Oh!’ said Leah, suddenly feeling the week to be very long.
‘Well, that’s sorted then,’ said Bailey.
That week was odd. Bailey didn’t ask her to leave, not once, so Leah didn’t, and there was nothing to do. They got up late. Bailey cooked peculiar over-spiced food. They watched television, they sat in the garden, they drank beer. When Leah thought about it, it felt like freedom. With Al everything had grated, pinched, she had to ask, is this all right, is this OK? but there was none of that here.
Bailey wasn’t talkative, he was watching her, oh yes, even half asleep in the garden on deckchairs, if she turned her head or moved her toe, it was registered. I love this, this silent watching, this recognition. She thought this on the deckchair in the sun. That week had stayed fine. Bailey in shorts and nothing else but sunglasses; he looked asleep but wasn’t, she knew. She could think of his body until it burned her mind completely white, and burned through to his. Thinking, hot skin, your hot skin, freckles on your shoulders I want to bite, you back is long, the bones push through, I want to feel them. These thoughts pushing to him, burning to him on the red and green deckchair in the yard in Steep Street. The grass wasn’t cut, it was long and burnt. Clumps pushing through the concrete. Her thoughts splitting his mind, roots under the concrete in wet earth. You will not pull me out, thought Leah, and Bailey took off his sunglasses and said, ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Pink skin and gold skin on a flowery bed, Leah still pushing under the concrete to find the earth. ‘Do you like this, Bailey, do you like this?’ Bailey silent as he would be pushing her too: he kissed her fingers, two fingers, sucked them. She thought she understood but hesitated; he said, ‘Go on.’ Her hand then, down his back, between his legs, and Bailey said, ‘Go on,’ again, wanting it, wanting it, and she did, amazed. Inside he felt soft like velvet. She said, ‘Is this what you want?’ but his face answered complete bliss, she said, ‘What, like this, hard like this?’ but he was gone. Where do I end, what will I find in there? You? She felt distant from this writhing man. She leaned closer to his face: ‘Open your eyes now’ and he did, but this made him uneasy. He took her hand away and held it, not tenderly, and sucked her fingers, like, this is what I do, this is how I finish it.
It was Friday and her last day in Steep Street. Tomorrow Al and the children were re
turning. This time she was going to say, there is another man. She thought this on the deckchairs for the last time, the last breakfast, the last lunch, the last bit of her and Bailey in silence, not talking. She had to tell Al, she couldn’t keep it hidden. Where had she been all week? Even Clive would ask that. It’s not a big thing, Al, it’s a pally thing, it’s just company, he’s not … important. But my God, he is, you are – looking at you, I know every piece of you, inside and out. Inside, that makes me feel shivery, I know you inside. Bailey yawned; a big mouth and plenty of fillings, he didn’t have good teeth. He lit a fag.
‘Bailey,’ she said, trying to hide her agitation but it was impossible to with him, ‘Al’s back tomorrow, I have to tell him.’
‘You want him to clonk you?’
‘No, I don’t, of course I don’t.’
‘He’ll fucking mash you up.’
Leah had thought about that. It was Ben’s birthday tomorrow, a picnic had been planned, she would tell him there, he wasn’t likely to hit her on a picnic.
‘And what about me?’ said Bailey. ‘I don’t want yer old man rearranging me face. No thanks.’
‘You’re bigger than him,’ said Leah quickly.
‘And you’re not my girlfriend,’ said Bailey quicker back.
Then she knew: he wouldn’t defend her. ‘What, after this?’ said Leah.
He spread some sun cream on his chest as if defining what was his body and what was hers.
‘How close do I have to get, how far do I have to go?’
‘Until what?’ said Bailey, starting on his legs, in between picking his fag off the ground and smoking it: it was a clumsy action.
‘Until you say, this is real.’
‘OK this is real, you stay here, we bonk, I like it, so do you. A girlfriend is somebody you take out. I don’t take you nowhere.’
‘You take me further than I’ve ever been,’ said Leah, and Bailey squirted too much cream on his hand.
‘You push me and I push you – don’t you think so, Mr Big, Mr Cool?’
He rubbed his leg vigorously. ‘Don’t make me angry, I don’t like folks who make me angry.’
