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I frown. ‘Question?’
‘I was saying, you must come here a lot?’
‘Oh. No, I never come to these parties if I can help it.’
‘You don’t like the company?’
‘No. Not much.’
I’m looking at my mother, now given up dancing and talking to one of my father’s colleagues, standing close, too close, with her head tilted fetchingly to one side, laughing too much. Ed’s gaze follows mine.
‘Pretty obvious, isn’t she?’
It’s startling to hear someone say it out loud. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’
‘I wonder if it’s all show. Or if she really lives up to her reputation.’
My stomach churns a little. Somehow I thought that I was the only one who would find my mother embarrassing; I never thought that she might have a reputation.
‘Don’t you know, then?’
‘Me? I’m a newcomer. Just moved to town. I’m here with my mate, Steve, he works for Vince.’ He nods at a man talking to my father, across the room, but I don’t recognise him. Then Ed’s gaze travels back to my mother. ‘Word is …’ He stops. ‘Look, I might be speaking out of turn. I hope she’s not your best friend, or your sister, or something like that.’
I’m watching my mother, as she puts her hand on the man’s arm and says something in his ear. He laughs heartily. ‘I suppose you mean she sleeps around.’
Ed turns to me, squinting slightly as someone’s cigarette smoke drifts across our field of vision. ‘Look, I’m not saying …’ He’s backtracking now, probably wondering if he’s dropped himself in it. ‘Steve says he thinks she’s not very happy, a bit desperate.’
I look back at my mother. I’ve never thought of it in those terms, that my mother might be desperate. I’ve always seen her as being totally in control.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’
Ed peers at me through another wreath of smoke. ‘So, do you know them well – Kathleen and Vince?’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘sort of, yes.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s me all over, putting my size nines in it.’
‘It’s okay. I know how things are.’
He waits for me to elaborate, and when I don’t we fall silent; in the long pause I wonder if he wants to extricate himself now, but is too polite. My head feels a bit swimmy after all the red wine and the couple of Stellas I was bought at work, and I start to think I should go to bed and save myself the embarrassment of Ed sidling off at the first opportunity. Then I catch my mother looking our way again, and change my mind. For want of something to say I begin to interrogate Ed. I find out that he comes from Leeds, hence the accent; that he’s been living and working in Cambridge, but moved here for a job on the local paper; that he’s the youngest of four boys; and that he’s staying with Steve, an old school-friend of his older brother, while he looks for a flat to rent. I begin to wonder how old he might be, as it’s hard to tell.
‘Is this your first job?’ I ask, and he shakes his head.
‘No. I’ve served my time as junior reporter, not to mention office gofer. This is a promotion.’
‘Gofer?’
He laughs. ‘If someone wants something, you go fer it.’
‘Ah.’ I’m still calculating. Twenty-four, five? But before I can glean any more information my father appears in front of us.
‘Eva, can I borrow Ed for a minute? Someone wants to meet him.’
I shrug. ‘Okay.’
‘Hope you don’t mind?’ he says to Ed.
‘Of course not.’ Ed turns to me. ‘Excuse me.’
I watch him go, and tell myself he must be relieved. Of course not. I would have liked to carry on talking, but I doubt he’ll be back, and as a loud burst of laughter comes from the group he joins I decide there’s no point hanging around like a lemon. I should just go to bed.
Upstairs, though, I realise I’ve left my bag; when I go back down I see my mother has now commandeered Ed and is talking to him at the far side of the room. Talking is a loose term; there’s a lot of flirting going on, she’s laughing and standing close, the way she does, with her eyes hooked on his. It’s so naked it’s embarrassing, and I hate to think of what Ed might say about my mother now, with firsthand experience of how ‘desperate’ she is. I shouldn’t care, I really shouldn’t care what others think, but somehow I still do – I can’t bear to see my mother making a fool of herself. I wonder if I should go and interrupt her, somehow prise her away from him, but that will piss her off even more and I’m not prepared to get the sharp end of my mother’s tongue in front of Ed.
Back in my room, I stand listening to the babble downstairs. Someone has just changed the music, and ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ drifts up the stairs. She’ll take a tumble on you, roll you like you’re a dice. Would she? Does she actually do that? I can hear her laughter now, above the rise and fall of voices, and to shut it out I put my hands over my ears. I stand there, frozen, with my heart hammering and my eyes squeezed tightly shut. When at last I open them I stride to the door and run smoothly, quickly, downstairs. In the lounge my mother still has Ed cornered and I watch them for a moment, trying to read Ed’s body language, to decide if he’s lapping it up or attempting escape, then I whirl round and go in search of my father. He’s in the kitchen, stashing empty bottles into a box.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Do you? What, right now?’
‘Yes. Right now.’
He picks up a box of empties and turns towards the side door. ‘Just open the door, will you?’
I follow him out, and I’m wondering what to say, because when I came back down I hadn’t got as far as that. ‘Dad, don’t you think you should wind the party up now? It’s late.’
He gives me a puzzled look. ‘Don’t be daft, Eva. It’s just getting going.’
‘Dad, listen, please. It’s Mum.’
‘What?’
‘She … she drinks too much.’
He laughs. ‘No more than anyone else. Don’t be daft.’
‘No, it is more, way more. And … Dad, you need to sort this out.’
‘Eva …’ He’s shaking his head, smiling. ‘You funny girl.’
My father puts the box down by the bin, the bottles chinking together. Then he makes to move round me, to go back inside. I put my hand on his arm. ‘Dad, please, just tell them all to go home. Make them go home.’
He pauses for a moment, caught by the threat of tears in my voice. He reaches up and smoothes my hair on one side. ‘What’s wrong, Eva? It’s only a little party.’
‘It’s a party every week, Dad, and she drinks as much on all the other nights. It’s out of control.’
He frowns. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Nothing’s out of control.’
‘Vince?’ My mother appears, framed in the doorway. ‘Steve and Amy are going. They want to say goodbye.’ She looks at me. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’
I tighten my lips and glare at her. She sighs, brushing back long wisps of hair that have come loose from one of her combs.
‘Eva thinks we should tell everyone to go home,’ my father says, and I flinch at the amusement in his voice. ‘You’re out of control, she says.’
‘Me? Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be stupid, Eva. It’s a party, not Sodom and Gomorrah. Come on, Vince, you’re the host, you can’t stand out here all night.’ She goes back in to the party.
I stand looking at my father. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Have it your way. But I know you know what I’m talking about.’
Turning, I push my way rudely through some people coming into the kitchen, just in time to see Ed following Steve and his wife out onto the porch. My eyes meet Ed’s for a moment, and he raises a hand in a single wave, before the door slams shut behind them, and then I run up to my room and close that door too, leaning against it as if the whole houseful is behind me.
Pretty obvious, isn’t she?
So why haven’t I seen it?
***
At ten-thirty the pub is still filling up, and myself and the other two bar staff are working at full tilt. Occasionally the landlord pitches in, rounding up the empties, but mostly he chats to the locals and gets on with what he calls ‘keeping things sweet’. We should have had Jon on as well tonight, but no one predicted it would be this busy on a Wednesday night. There’s no reason we can think of – just one of those things. Maybe because it’s been such a warm day, the last day of September, making people feel nostalgic for their Spanish holiday and sending them in droves to the next-best thing, the great British pub.
My feet ache, and I’m so hot I can smell the sweat on myself. I’ve been pulling pints for four hours solid, and if I have to listen to Rick Astley singing ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ one more time I think I’ll throw up. As if that isn’t enough, I’ve just started my period and the heavy, dragging feeling between my legs is yet one more drain on my energy.
All in all, I’ll be glad when eleven o’clock comes round and the bell is rung, and that lovely phrase called out in the landlord’s husky, forty-a-day voice: Time per-lease!
As I look up from pulling a pint the door opens, and a large group of men crowd through. It’s obvious from the suits and ties that they started drinking straight from work; now, at the end of the night, they’re loud and full of drunken banter, although harmless enough. As I serve them I find myself laughing along at their stupid jokes, a bit of light relief. I know the landlord is keeping an eye on things, so I don’t have to think too much about it. Then the door opens again and three more squeeze through and struggle to the bar. When I glance up again I see who the last one is, before he sees me. And then he does, and quickly I look back down to the Snakebite I’m pouring – which is hard enough to do at the best of times. The man who ordered it is grinning at his mates, in a ‘watch her make a mess of this’ way, so I take extra care to dribble the Guinness slowly and thinly down the side of the glass, into the waiting cider, so that it doesn’t froth up and over. I’m glad to have something to distract me, and that I can blame the flush in my cheeks on the heat in the bar. When I’ve finished, and the pint stands there with its gold and dark layers, there’s a loud cheer. Despite myself I laugh, and give them a mock bow.
They drift away from the bar, finding seats when the group who have been sitting in the corner for hours decide it’s home time. I look around for Ed. He’s been served by someone else, and is now at the end of the bar talking to his friends. He doesn’t look my way, and I get on with serving, cleaning, washing up, collecting empties. I’m surprised to see him in here. The Prince Albert is on the main road out of town, about a mile or so from the centre. It serves office and shop workers at lunchtimes and locals in the evenings; with its fading seventies décor and keg beer it isn’t the kind of place you’d go out of your way for. I glance at him again out of the corner of my eye, not wanting him to see me looking. Anyway, he probably doesn’t remember me, as it’s a few weeks since that party, or if he does he isn’t interested in picking up where we left off. Maybe Steve will have told him who I am, and when I think of that, and how my mother was so ‘obvious’ that night, I wonder if I even want him to recognise me.
When the bell is rung and eventually the punters begin drifting off, I look despairingly at the mess that remains; far more than the usual half hour’s close will see to. The landlord sees my face.
‘Go on. You get off,’ he says. ‘You look dead on your feet.’
I started an hour earlier than everyone else, and the only time I’ve stopped was for toilet breaks, so I don’t think anyone can accuse me of skiving. My coat and bag are in the room at the back, and while I fetch them I decide that I will go and say hello to Ed, because why the hell not? I’ve got nothing to lose but pride. But when I come back through he’s gone, and I’m disappointed, kicking myself for not going over before.
Outside the air is still balmy; it’s hard to think that soon all the leaves will fall and winter will set in. Maybe that’s why there are still people hanging around, chatting and laughing; no one wants to go home to bed; they want to make the most of this Indian summer. I have to squeeze past a large group standing right by the door, but as I start the walk home I feel a hand catch my arm.
‘Hi, wait, I thought it was you.’
Ed’s there with his two mates, who immediately stop talking to look me up and down, but Ed says goodbye to them and thanks for something or other, and with more glances at me and big grins pasted on their faces they saunter off together.
‘I was going to come and say hello, but then you disappeared,’ Ed says.
‘You were with your friends, I didn’t want to interrupt.’
‘Nice work,’ he says, ‘with the Snakebite.’
I grin. ‘Yeah. I made sure of it.’
There’s a slight pause, when neither of us seems to know what to say next. A bus rumbles by. I could have caught that one, as far as the park. Although generally I like to walk, tonight my feet hurt. I’m about to say I should go when Ed asks if there are any fish and chip shops nearby.
‘There is one, yes, not far.’
‘Don’t suppose you fancy some as well?’
I can just picture them now, fat, greasy chips and white, flaky fish, and a hollow feeling drops into my stomach. I always feel hungry when I’m on my period.
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Right. Lead the way then.’
I point in the opposite direction from home, towards town. ‘There’s a place along here.’ I giggle. ‘Sorry, no pun intended. They do the best chips.’
Ed is tall and his stride is long, and I find myself quickening my normal pace. ‘What were you doing in the Albert?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a bit of a dive.’
‘I don’t mind dives,’ he says. ‘But only if they have good beer. Pity that’s my local.’
‘Your local? Does Steve live round here?’
‘No, I’m not staying with him now, I moved into a flat, at the weekend. The two lads I was with, they’re from work, they helped me move a few things in this evening. I bought some second-hand stuff and hired a van to shift it all in one go.’
He tells me what he bought, and what a job they had getting some of it up the narrow stairs to his flat, and I like listening to him, to his northern voice with its abrupt endings and the t just a sound in the back of the throat. When we reach the chip shop we get served quickly because it’s empty, about to close, then we turn back the way we came, picking chips and bits of fish out of polystyrene trays, licking the grease off our fingers.
‘You were right,’ Ed says. ‘About the chips.’
My feet are really hurting now, and I say there are some benches a bit further along, where we could sit down and eat, and Ed says, yes, sure.
The benches are in some gardens, planted on the site of the old Co-op, which burnt down a few years ago; I remember seeing the orange glow in the sky from my bedroom window, the fire was that fierce. Behind the benches is a flower bed, whose leggy plants are still flowering. I recognise them, chrysanthemums, my father’s favourite and one of the few plants I know the name of. Their dank and earthy scent is in the air, and makes me think of a story by D.H. Lawrence, about the accidental death of a miner: Odour of Chrysanthemums. We read it in English, and I liked it so much I went on to read all his novels.
That’s the one thing I really regret, that C in English. It should have been an A. Then I would have already escaped.
We sit down, under a lamp post that casts a circle of brightness around us, and eat hungrily at first, not saying much. I start to wonder if my parents will worry that I’m not home, but then think that my mother is just as likely to be out of it, having drunk herself into one of her deep sleeps, and my father will probably assume I’ve gone off somewhere with a friend, forgetting that most of my friends have gone away to university. Except for Louise, who works in a bank and is all loved up with Tom, about to move into a flat with him. I don’t see much of her these days.
Every now and then my father says he ought to come and pick me up after work, but I tell him I’m all right and that Jon the barman walks me home. Which he does – some nights. I never say to my father that I don’t like climbing into a car with him when he smells of whisky, and when I think he might be over the limit. There’s no way of telling when that might be; if my mother is in one of her drinking moods my father usually has a few too, keeping her company. I think that way he can pretend my mother has it under control.
‘How’s your new job going?’ I ask Ed.
‘Okay. Hard work. I’d forgotten what it’s like, being new boy.’
‘What kind of stories do you cover? I mean, I suppose you don’t just do any old thing.’
‘In Cambridge I was a court reporter,’ he says. ‘But now I’m doing more investigative stuff, stories that are in the public interest, that kind of thing. At the moment I’m following the row about the new bypass they’re planning. Have you heard about that?’
‘A bit, yes. My dad goes on about it. He’s all in favour of it because it would bring traffic right by his salesrooms.’
‘You might have read one of my articles, without knowing it’s me.’
I shake my head. ‘My parents don’t buy the Echo. My mother says it’s too provincial. But then she reads the Daily Mail so her opinion doesn’t really count for much.’
‘Provincial is a dirty word to some,’ he says. ‘But a local paper needs to carry local news. De facto. Anyway, if you buy it yourself you’ll see my name there, most days.’
‘Ah – well, you’ll have to tell me your proper name then.’ I lick grease off my fingers. ‘I guess they don’t just put, by Ed?’
