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It rained all day. Not heavy but it was colder. I’d forgotten the forecast and come to work in sandals. With the sound of the rain and the chill near the windows, and smelling the glue as the shoes came out of the dryer, and looking at the pictures of mountains that Chris has stuck on the side – he likes climbing, he and his wife go on walking holidays – I forgot to wonder what was going to happen.
At four thirty there was still weather. I had to walk home in it, and listen to my feet squelch, feel them slide. I smoked a sad cigarette in the rain, dirty fumes and chilled fingers. It makes my kidneys cold, this weather, Nan used to say. I got in. The kitchen needed cleaning. The house was cold. I put on the lights it was that dark. The bin needed taking out. Everything smelled damp. Nothing would happen, it was obvious. Everything was just the way it was, the only way it ever would be.
11 (#ulink_a3aba5e6-426d-5f40-b90b-5fe194f52d31)
The smell of the ink (#ulink_a3aba5e6-426d-5f40-b90b-5fe194f52d31)
I knocked on his door. Hip hop coming out but quietly. Knocked again.
I SAID YEAH!
I pushed open the door, went in, smiled. He was lying on the floor drawing, a cigarette next to him in an Indian metal ashtray someone from school gave him. I clocked some King Size Rizlas on the shelf above the bed, the end of the packet torn.
Your clothes, I said.
Thanks, he said. He didn’t look up. I heard the scratch of a Rotring. For a minute I stood looking at the back of his head, his biceps in his blue t-shirt, the looseness of his jeans under the waist, the instep of one foot in a stripy sock.
He cocked his head, wondered silently why I was still there. All right? he offered.
I bent down and kissed the warm whorl at the crown of his head. An absent-minded big hand came out, patted my calf, carried on drawing a line of buildings – some tall, some with spires, pointed roofs.
Do you want me to close the door, I asked like an idiot.
He nodded, didn’t look up. Thanks, Mum.
When I gave birth and saw Jason was a boy, I cried. I knew if I had a girl she’d hate me.
I remember when he was about three there was something I wouldn’t let him do. I forget what. He stood in the middle of the room and screamed,
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
You’d think I’d have been upset, but I wasn’t. I felt like swinging him into the air and spanking him and shouting, I hate you more! A thrill went through me. I saw myself doing it.
I should have hugged him, but I left the room and had a fag and thought about what a horrible little world it is. When I came back he’d fallen over, or hit his head. He was crying, and I cuddled him. I felt sorry for him, for both of us.
He stopped crying. He was holding on to my top with one fist and he leaned away and stared at me, all weary, like an old person. As though he was saying, Oh, I get it, this is what it’s like? This is it? We looked at each other.
One of the worst things I did was when he was old enough to have a key and come home from school on his own. I was back to doing full days. He must have been ten or eleven. We’d had an argument all weekend, about these football boots he wanted, which Ronaldo wore. They were gold and cost a fortune. I told him he already had perfectly functional boots and he became furious and said he needed them.
I got back and he was sitting in the middle of the lounge tearing something. It looked like there was grey water all over the floor. The ripped-up sports sections. He must have been at it for an hour.
He looked up at me, distracted, like he’d gone into another place, though he must have been angry when he started.
I said, Jason, what have you done?
I imagined screaming, What have you done? What the fuck have you done? You stupid boy! I’m going to kill you!
I stood on the edge of the sea of newsprint. Then I said very quietly, One of these days I’m going to leave. I’ll just go. You’ll get back and I won’t be here. And I won’t ever come back.
He looked at me with his mouth open. As though he’d suspected I was mad but couldn’t believe it.
I sat down, closed my eyes and said I was sorry, and I’d never do that. He said, It’s all right, Mum, but I think he meant, Don’t cry, you’re only crying for yourself. I remember that with my mother, her hitting me and then crying.
I sat down in the paper.
What are you doing? he said.
I’m tired, I said. And I was, I realised. I lay down.
Mum!
Close the door, I said.
I lay there while it got dark, maybe for an hour. I thought about my grandpa and how he’d say I was having a reaction. I remembered sleeping between them, him and Nan, in their bed. In the night if I tried to get close to Grandpa he’d turn away. But I’d cuddle up to Nan’s back and a big arm would come over me and pat my bum. I’d be warm. I’d hear next door’s dog or a dog in the street howl and I’d think that’s the sound of loneliness. I’ll always remember that sound I’d think. After a while of lying there and crying I thought about how old I was now – thirty years old. I’m thirty years old, I thought, with my cheek in newsprint. It smelled cheap, the ink. I wondered if I’d have black smears on my face, or half a word. From an ad. SALE, but backwards. I was cold, and hungry, and it was dark. I needed a wee. I got up, turned on the light, picked up the paper, made us fish fingers and chips, and went to the corner shop for ice cream. I gave Jason a hug before and told him I did love him. He let me hug him and said he knew.
While I was on my way to the shop I had a smoke. I felt done in, like I’d been crying for days. I thought to myself something I often thought at that time when anything went wrong, whatever it was, and then when it stopped, at least for a bit: Well, that passed the time. And then I’d laugh, really laugh, because no one else would have understood.
12 (#ulink_cac902f8-1211-50a1-bff0-ca40d131eebc)
Sunny delight (#ulink_cac902f8-1211-50a1-bff0-ca40d131eebc)
An arm out of the window, sleeve rolled up, sun shining on the golden hair. Dark glasses, a face: Claire, he said. Give you a lift?
Oh, hiya, I said.
Hop in.
I hopped in. We were off.
He gave me a big smile. Hello, sunny delight, he said.
I laughed. What did you just call me?
He smiled and pushed his sunglasses up his nose. In a hurry? he asked.
No, I said. I felt wonderful, like everything had opened up.
Let’s go for a little drive, he said.
I saw familiar things: the shop, the pub, the hill, and houses I see every day – one at the corner with an apple tree and a hedge, and a white one with a conservatory and a sharp-leaved plant near the door. But they passed by fast, and then they were gone.
In the end he parked not too far from the house, and we went for a walk in Lion Wood. Lots of couples here and there on seats. We walked through the clearing, where the sun hung in slow soft bars, and up into one of the bits with more trees, then we were alone.
Well, Claire, he said. He looked at me and smiled, waiting.
I had questions I wanted to ask, things I wanted to say, like, I didn’t think I’d see you again, how did you know when I’d be walking past, where have you been for the last month – but instead he kissed me. It was too fast. I was still thinking. His tongue was in my mouth, his hands were on my arse, then touching my breasts, in my hair, pulling it. I opened my eyes. His face looked different, blind. He put my hand on his trousers and I felt his hard-on. He sighed. Voices, and three kids came up the path. They giggled as they passed.
Casey! one said, and shoved a skinny boy.
Oh, I love you, I love you, he whined and pushed her back.
Damian moved away from me. He took out his tobacco, papers, filters, sat down and began to roll.
I sat near him and did the same. He didn’t speak, he seemed further away than he was. The sunlight fell through the trees, and got lost before it could reach the ground.
Well, he said, best be getting back, I suppose. You probably need to get back, don’t you. He seemed to have lost energy.
Not really, I said. But I did. I hadn’t said anything to Jason.
Let’s get you home, he said. We didn’t talk on the way.
When he dropped me at the corner he said, So when am I going to see you again? He said he often went to the Star, nearer town, on a Friday night. Will I see you there? he asked.
What time?
Oh, later, he said. About eight. Eight or so. So long then.
He drove off and I went towards the house, doing things to my hair.
Jason was home, with Steve. They were making tea – potato waffles, baked beans, fish fingers. He put more on. I sat at the table with a cup of tea. The kitchen was light, a good smell in the air, the back door open, summer coming in. Something white and grey flitted across the edge of my eye. I turned. The cat from up the road – it likes our garden.
Steve smiled at me. How are you, Claire? he asked. He’s a nice lad. There’s something damp about his eyes, but he has a sweet smile.
I’m all right, I said. How’s it going? How’s your mum?
I was going to ask about his plans for next year, college or what, but then I thought better. A good day, why not just let it be a good day.
13 (#ulink_3a8ea494-4f5b-558c-b9f1-e59e6bc4781f)
He doesn’t look like his dad (#ulink_3a8ea494-4f5b-558c-b9f1-e59e6bc4781f)
Jason and I needed to talk about next year. I didn’t remember when we’d had a conversation that lasted longer than a few minutes and didn’t end with him walking off. I watched him eating his tea tonight, but he didn’t look at me. He knew I wanted to talk; I knew he didn’t.
He doesn’t look that much like his dad, thank God. Except his colouring. There was an age – when he was eleven, twelve – when he looked just like Pete. It was strange – the first man I’d been with appearing from time to time in my son. Pete wasn’t even a man when we started up. We were kids, but we thought we were grown up. He looked older, more like a man, around the time he left. It hurt for so long. Now I can’t believe how young we were – almost Jason’s age.
Jason’s the same build as Pete now – tall, broad in the shoulder, not like me. The same dark hair and blue eyes. But he reminds me more of Jim, Jim who isn’t there any more. I used to tell him when he looked like someone. Now I don’t bother. He doesn’t like it. He’s good at shaking things off, Jason. He doesn’t have to say anything. He just looks across, like a little bull, eyes big and direct, and gets ready to refuse.
But he did say something, just before he took his plate to the sink. Mum, some of the lads are going to Newquay in August.
Oh right? I said.
For a week or ten days. Staying in a hostel. I want to go.
Do you, I said. I find myself saying stupid things, like my mum, when I don’t want to say yes but I don’t know how not to.
Can I? For my birthday? He stopped and looked at me straight. He was properly asking.
When are they leaving?
The fifth or so.
Can’t you come back for your birthday? I was thinking of having a party. You could have your friends round.
He didn’t quite roll his eyes.
Why am I always trying to stop him, I thought.
We could have it when I get back, he said. Couple of days later.
Like the nineteenth or twentieth? All right, I said. Have you got enough money?
Yeah yeah, he said. He had his back to me. He was even washing the plate. Nearly, he said.
How much do you need?
Maybe a hundred and fifty quid.
Early birthday present, eh? I said.
He turned round and grinned at me. His grin can floor you, that boy. Thanks, Mum, he said.
I went to the bedroom and tried not to think about Jason battered out of his mind in Newquay and the stories you read in the paper. I’d make him text me every day. Because that’d help. It always went like this. I said no no no no oh okay then. I didn’t want to be that parent, the one who says no and doesn’t know what happens. Not that anyone knows.
And this wasn’t why I’d said yes, I swear, but I also thought: the house empty for ten days.
14 (#ulink_31533721-0f68-59b4-9989-70fa877b1b90)
A spotlight (#ulink_31533721-0f68-59b4-9989-70fa877b1b90)
He turned me over. Here, he said. He put a pillow next to me.
What? I said. I looked at him over my shoulder. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see his face. He was kneeling over me.
Put it under you. Here. He helped me shift it, then got into me. There you go, he murmured as he started moving. He said things to himself. Yeah … Mmm … and got turned on quickly. Do you want me to come? he asked.
I thought it was a general question. Course, I said. He moved faster and did, with a shout. When he’d finished, he breathed in and moved in me a few times, just I guess because it felt good.
I waited for him to say something about the fact that I hadn’t come, offer to do something. He leaned back, took the pillow from me, put his head on it, got me in the crook of his arm. I liked that, the warmth. He’d be here for a while; he was in no hurry. And it was still early. I looked up at him, but he was different. Before, he was concentrated on me, like a spotlight. Now, he was here, my head was on his chest, but I’d disappeared.
He looked up at the ceiling. So, Claire, he said, how do you like doing it?
How do you mean? I said. I like it, I added.
He chuckled. His chest moved under my face.
What?
You’re funny, he said. He squeezed me with his arm. No, I meant, which way? Which other way do you like?
