The Pools Read online

  ‘I know what it is,’ I say, half-closing my eyelids in a Bet Lynch style. I don’t read magazines like that. They’re for boys who’ve got no girlfriends.

  Rob says nothing. There’s something about his mouth, the way his upper lip bows, that I like. So I open my eyes wider. ‘Is it good, then? Melody Maker?’

  He looks over my shoulder at the cigarettes on the shelf and considers, then licks his curving upper lip. ‘Yes.’ He starts a little smile. ‘You’d like it.’

  Outside it’s raining. Water’s streaking down the shop windows, leaking onto the lino whenever anyone comes in. Pools of mud begin to creep around the doormat. It won’t be long before Buggery’s handing me the mop.

  Then Shane comes in the door.

  It’s the first time he’s been in since I started working here. The first time I’ve seen him for months.

  He stands by the magazines, staring at me. His parka’s dripping wet. He looks like a big shining bulk of green. I think of the Green Cross Code Man. The Jolly Green Giant. The Incredible Hulk.

  Rob leans on the counter. ‘I think you’d really like it,’ he says.

  But all I can do is look at Shane. He’s had his hair cut but it still hangs in his eyes. His face is framed by patches of new half-fluffy, half-spiky stubble. It makes his lips seem fuller, his eyes darker.

  He gives Rob a quick glance, then turns towards the chiller cabinet.

  I take a breath. ‘Do you want me to order it in for you, this Melody Maker?’ I brush Rob’s elbow aside to make room for the order pad. I chew on the end of one of those chubby pens. It’s got glitter inside, and I imagine chewing a hole in it so the glitter falls out all over my mouth and down my chest.

  By now Rob’s noticed the presence of Shane and we’re both looking over at his back. Water dribbles down his parka and onto the floor. He sniffs a huge sniff, runs the back of his hand under his nose.

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ Rob is speaking to me but his voice is loud enough for Shane to hear.

  Shane doesn’t turn around. Instead he picks up a Wall’s sausage roll and flips it over a few times. Then he wipes his nose again with the same hand.

  Rob says, ‘Should he be doing that?’

  ‘Do you want to order this Melody whatsit?’

  ‘Shouldn’t he buy that first?’

  Shane is unwrapping the sausage roll. He holds it in both hands as he rips a corner of the cellophane wrapping with his teeth. Then he pokes his tongue inside the wrapper and dabs it against the pastry before taking a big bite. His black curly hair is still wet from the rain, and a droplet of water hangs on the edge of his fringe.

  ‘Shouldn’t you do something?’

  I reach out and grab Rob’s collar. It feels cold and rubbery, not what I expected. I expected soft cowhide, smooth beneath my fingers. I lean over the counter and whisper in his ear, inhaling the sweet smell of his hair gel. ‘Do you want to see me tonight?’

  I let go of his collar and he blinks. I smile and nod at him. ‘Tonight,’ I say in a loud voice, ‘eight o’clock.’

  I dart a quick look over at Shane, who stops eating the sausage roll.

  ‘Down the pools. OK?’

  Rob’s mouth goes slack.

  ‘OK? Eight o’clock. The pools.’ I say again.

  Rob steals another peek at Shane.

  ‘OK, Rob?’

  When Rob’s closed his mouth and finished looking first at me, then at Shane, he nods once, says nothing, and walks out. He walks quickly, his hands jammed in his pockets. And I let Shane follow him, sausage roll unpaid for.

  A dousing of hairspray, a flick of lipstick, and I’m done. I decide on a pastel green mini-skirt and matching cap-sleeved T-shirt for my date with Rob. It’ll be cold, so he’ll get the odd glimpse of nipple if I leave my denim jacket undone.

  Walkman on. I should find a new tape to play, but Frankie will do. Walking through Calcot is the same every time, even to the beat of ‘Relax’. Wherever you are, you can see the outline of the power station above the trees. Great big things, those towers. So wide I can’t imagine how many people you could fit in one of them. More than there are in this village, or our school. Much more than that. I went there once, for the Open Day. Me and Mum had hot dog after hot dog while Dad drank beer on the grass. There were rides and games, but what I remember most is the smell. Thick and metallic. I won a cuddly banana, bright yellow. ‘I ask you,’ Dad said. ‘What would anyone want with a cuddly banana?’

  But I shouldn’t think of Dad, because he said he’d phone and he hasn’t.

  I can only just see the outline of the power station tonight. It’s dark already. Orangey plumes of steam wind up into the sky.

  Passing Buggery’s window, I catch my reflection. My face looks strange, superimposed on all the advertising postcards people have stuck up there. Rabbits for Sale. Earn extra cash for Christmas (big writing across my forehead), come turkey plucking (small writing across my nose).

  I stop to practise. Eyes wide, looking up from under, mouth just open, ready. I wet my lips and blink. He’ll like that.

  Then I remember standing with my hands on my naked hips for Shane, the way he just stared at my feet, and I close my mouth.

  I wonder if he’ll come.

  There are no lights down the lane that leads to the pools; the bushes hang right over. I turn the Walkman off and listen to the sound of my own footsteps.

  You can’t get close to the pits where they’re still digging. Massive fences are all around them. But the old ones are full up with water, which is why people call them the pools. Also, it sounds better, which attracts people who like walking around on Sundays. Not that they ever go anywhere. They just walk round and round, without a destination.

  I step off the gravel path, push through some skinny trees, and reach the biggest pool. It’s dark as death itself, as Mum would say. I get as close to the water as I can. There are bushes and weeds all along the edge. Big spiky branches stick up in the air like spears. But there are gaps where the plants thin out. Gaps where you could slide through, if you were to slip on a muddy patch. I lean over. The water smells slightly acidic. Cold.

  I can just see the outline of one of the warning signs. They’re everywhere down here. I know them off by heart.

  ‘DANGER – Deep Water!’

  ‘Keep Away From Edge!’

  ‘Deep Soft Mud Leading to Possible ENTRAPMENT!’

  And a skull and crossbones beneath each one.

  Deep Soft Mud. It sounds inviting. Like a mud bath in a beauty salon, or like drowning in a face pack. It would be cold at first, but then it would get warm, and its smoothness would creep over you. It would hold you there, suspended in the warm mass of mud. It would get in all your cracks. You’d suck it up your nose, like chocolate milkshake through a straw, until your lungs would be full of mud. Fit to burst.

  I back away from the pool and sit down on a bench to wait for Rob. The bench is there for people who like to watch birds. Twitchers.

  In the summer the pools look like big beautiful baths. When Dad was around we used to come here if it was really hot. He found a safe place where we could edge down to the water. He pushed through the weeds, holding them back for me, then stretched out his hand. Come on. Don’t be afraid. We walked sideways down the mud, inching our toes closer to the water. The murky pool gradually found its way up our feet, our ankles, knees. Dad lifted me, his hands gripping my upper arms. He bent his knees so he was submerged to his neck. Then he lowered me down.

  As the water took me in, my skin fizzed with cold. The sun was warm on my hair, but the rest of my body was freezing. We bobbed together in the icy water. I looked down and all I could see was black. I couldn’t even see my feet, wrapped around Dad’s waist as he held me in the water.

  And then Dad went under. Everything went quiet. I looked out over the unbroken surface of the pool, and although Dad’s hands were still around my waist, holding me up, I was sure he’d gone. I was ready to scream out, when he came to t
he surface, whooping and flicking his hair away from his eyes. Laughing.

  I’m thinking about him again.

  I wait for Rob. There’s a faint whirr from the power station. I look towards the church. The branches move in the breeze. There’s a sliver of light from the one streetlamp at the end of the lane, but there’s no silhouette, no Rob.

  There’s nobody at all.

  The seat’s damp. A shiver makes my skin bump and I wrap my arms across my chest, clutch my own flesh.

  Then there’s a rattle and rustle from the lane and Rob swerves his bike out of the trees and towards me. He doesn’t sit on his saddle as he pedals; it’s up, down, up, down, little arse bobbing away.

  He stops and stands in front of me, bike between his legs, breathing hard. There’s a gleam on his jacket from the moon. His hair’s gelled, I can smell it. L’Oreal, I’ll bet.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, loudly, like he’s in some American soap. He glances all round as if he’s missing somebody. ‘Look. Can we go somewhere else?’

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘It’s bloody weird.’

  I stand up and wipe my hands on my skirt. Then I grab his handlebars in my fist. I get a lungful of L’Oreal as I lean forward. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s just weird.’

  I put my hand on his shoulder and give that cold rubbery stuff a squeeze. It’s definitely not the real thing, whatever it is.

  ‘Let’s just go, OK?’ he says, a bit louder.

  ‘I want to stay here.’ I stretch my fingers out and stroke them up his neck. I catch his gold chain, flick it up and let it fall back against his skin. He pulls away a bit, but I keep my hand on his neck. It feels as smooth as my own. ‘We can go anywhere you like,’ I say, ‘in a minute.’ I take a look down the lane, but there’s no sign of movement.

  Rob smells very clean. He must wash every day. There’s probably a shower cubicle in his bathroom. Maybe even a power shower. He’ll have L’Oreal shower stuff to go with his hair gel.

  We stand there together, watching the lane.

  Then he tries again. ‘We could go to Luke’s. His parents are never in.’

  I look up at his Smash Hits profile. Dropping my hand from his neck, I ask, ‘Why does he follow you everywhere?’ ‘What?’

  ‘He’s always with you.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Is he why you don’t want to be here, with me?’

  He perches back on the saddle. ‘Look. I’m going,’ he says. ‘You can come if you want.’ He pushes off.

  I don’t move until he stops and looks back. ‘Come on then,’ he calls.

  We head towards the lane. Rob’s staring ahead, balancing on his saddle and using his feet to push his bike along, not speaking. I keep one hand on his handlebars as I walk beside him.

  Then I hear the hiss of a Walkman.

  I thought he’d never come.

  I see the bulk of him walking towards us, his long legs taking big strides through the grass. His hands are in his pockets. He’s stepping in time to the music. As he comes closer I recognise the hiss: Frankie’s ‘Two Tribes’.

  Rob stops and grabs my hand. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispers.

  But I can’t look at him now. I can’t take my eyes off the figure coming towards us.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Rob says again, his fingers sweating over mine.

  The hissing gets louder. Rob keeps a tight hold of my hand, making my rings dig into my skin. But I don’t say anything. I stand there, not saying anything, until Shane notices us. He stops, but he lets Frankie play on.

  Even though it’s dark, dark as death itself, I can tell he’s not quite looking at us. His eyes will be on the ground, moving across the grass, maybe flicking up my legs occasionally. But he won’t be looking at my face.

  Rob’s not-real leather jacket creaks as he takes a big breath in.

  Shane goes to move, to step past Rob’s bike, but Rob twists the handlebars so his wheel catches Shane’s shin.

  Shane looks up at me. His dark eyes are soft.

  Then he pushes past, knocking Rob from his saddle.

  Rob yanks his fingers free from my hand and twists round. ‘Spacky,’ he shouts. But he doesn’t go after Shane. He just stands there, straddling the crossbar, coat creaking, feet planted in the wet grass. Repeating that word to Shane’s disappearing back.

  three

  Howard

  November, 1985

  In the end, it was Kathryn who announced the change. She took Robert to Mr Badger’s tearoom in Darvington and told him, gently, that we thought his school wasn’t providing the best guidance. There was another school, a better one, one that could nurture his artistic side. Wouldn’t he rather go there and develop his talent?

  No one mentioned the Paul issue.

  And, to give Robert his credit, there hadn’t been any nonsense. It had been a swift, seamless change to the new school. He hadn’t actually said much about it at all. He’d just gone very, very quiet. And Kathryn had trailed after him, trying to get a word, a smile.

  One Saturday evening, not long after the change, Kathryn suggested we make a blancmange, ready for Sunday lunch. ‘It might make him laugh,’ she said. We’d made a rabbit-shaped blancmange on green jelly grass for almost every birthday until he was eight. After that, I felt he was too old for such things.

  I remember the first time we made one. Kathryn had bought a silver mould in the shape of a rabbit in preparation for his third birthday party. That first time we tried, the custard wasn’t thick enough, and when Kathryn turned it out, the rabbit’s features were indistinct, its ears no more than bulges, its tail a mere ridge on its behind. ‘Whatever is it, Howard?’ Mum asked, as Robert pointed at the pink blob and laughed.

  ‘It’s a blancmange rabbit on jelly grass,’ I said, looking over at Kathryn.

  ‘Silly me,’ Mum smiled, enclosing Robert’s pointing finger in her hand. ‘What else could it be?’

  But over the years, together, we mastered it. It was my job to tear up cubes of green jelly, pour on boiling water, pop out to the kitchen every now and then to check on the state of the setting. It was difficult, at first, to get it just right – too soft and it would be watery, too hard and it would be rubbery. When Kathryn had turned the blancmange out onto our largest serving dish, the one with the blue rim and blue dots in the middle, I’d be there, waiting with the knife, ready to chop and shred the grass. My blade would cut through the shining green jelly, and I’d scatter the glassy fragments on the plate around the wobbling rabbit.

  So it was Saturday night, and we’d made the blancmange – even though he was too old, even though we knew that if he did laugh it would be only to indulge us – and we’d gone up to bed. Robert had been out all day. He’d said he was studying at a friend’s house, and there wasn’t much I could say to stop him; he was fifteen, after all, and since the change of school and the silence that had followed, I’d felt I shouldn’t question him too much. He knew, though, that he was to be in by eleven.

  I remember Kathryn wore pyjamas that night. Stripy pyjamas, with a tassled cord around the waist to keep the trousers up. They were exactly like a man’s pyjamas. She hadn’t announced the fact that she intended to make this switch; she just turned up in a pair that night, tassle dangling over one striped thigh, slipped between the sheets, and opened her novel.

  ‘Is that pyjamas you’re wearing?’

  She nodded, not looking up from her book.

  ‘They’re new, then.’

  ‘They’re warm, Howard. And they don’t ride up.’

  I switched off the light on my side of the bed, lay my head on the pillow, and watched her read for a few moments. She balanced her novel in one hand, her index finger tucked between the creased paperback cover and the first page.

  I wondered if the pyjamas had a slit in the front, like mine. ‘You could have worn mine, if you’d asked.’

  She turned a page. ‘I’ve got my own now.’

  When I woke, I was s
weating, and my hands ached. Kathryn was sleeping, so I knew that Robert must have come in. I flexed my fingers beneath the covers, feeling the tightness in the joints. Probably I had been clenching them in my sleep again. It started around that time, this waking up with my hands feeling stiff, my fingers aching and useless.

  I shifted on the mattress, brushing Kathryn’s foot with mine. I’d forgotten about the pyjamas, and was surprised by the feel of the thick hem around her ankle.

  Then I heard the tinkling sound that must have woken me.

  I raised my head a fraction off the pillow and looked towards the light coming through the crack in the door. There it was again, a faint scraping sound, like metal on metal. I waited, blinking into the darkness. There was a juddering noise. It sounded like a drawer closing.

  I swung my legs out of the bed and pushed my feet into the nests of my slippers. I looked back to check Kathryn was still sleeping. All I could see of her was a mess of thick hair on the pillow, unmoving. I pulled on my dressing gown and opened the bedroom door.

  As I made my way across the hallway, down the stairs and along the corridor to the kitchen, I flicked on every light switch I could, not wanting to step into any dark spaces, any unlit corners.

  I stood in front of the kitchen door for a few moments, listening. There was another scraping sound, then a giggle. Give me some more, someone said.

  A strange boy was in our kitchen.

  My hands ached again. I flexed them in my pockets before pushing the door open.

  They were standing close together, both leaning their hips on the counter by the draining board. The other boy was fair haired, and very slight. He wore a black cap on the back of his head. Even his head seemed slim, his cheeks bony, his nose thin and slightly hooked. His eyes were fixed on Robert, who held a spoon overflowing with pink blancmange up to the boy’s waiting lips.

  The boy took a mouthful and swallowed before they twisted round to face me. A pink blob of pudding shone on the blond boy’s chin. They were both smiling, puffing their cheeks out slightly to keep their laughter in. Through the gap between them, I could see the rabbit’s head had been sliced in half, and bits of green jelly lay scattered over the counter.