The Pools Page 14

  I wished I’d put some proper clothes on, so I wouldn’t be facing them like this, in my dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Hello Dad,’ said Robert. ‘This is Luke.’

  ‘What on earth are you boys doing?’

  Neither boy replied. Robert dug his spoon back into the flesh-like surface of the blancmange. There was a sucking, squelching noise as he scooped out a dollop of pink pudding and held the spoon up to Luke.

  I looked over at the clock. A quarter past one.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  Silence.

  ‘Robert? What’s your mother going to say when she sees this mess?’

  But he wouldn’t look at me. His eyes were on Luke’s, and they remained there as he moved the spoon towards the boy’s lips.

  ‘Put that spoon down, please,’ I said.

  Neither boy moved. Robert had stopped smiling now. His mouth was fixed in a straight line.

  ‘Robert. Please put the spoon down.’

  Luke took a step back, but Robert’s hand kept moving towards him.

  ‘Put the spoon down, Robert.’ I tried not to shout; I didn’t want to wake Kathryn.

  Robert tipped the spoon against Luke’s tight lips. ‘Open up,’ he said, in a stagy whisper. ‘You said you wanted more.’

  Luke glanced over at me. My hands were clenched, aching inside my pockets. I tried to say my son’s name again, but found no sound would come out.

  Then Luke put his hand over the spoon. ‘I’ve had enough, Rob,’ he said, ‘thanks.’ He guided Robert’s hand down to the counter before turning to me. ‘I think I should be going.’ He wiped the pink blob from his chin.

  ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ Robert called after him.

  After Luke had closed the back door, we stood in silence for a long time. Robert gazed at the floor. Then he started to pat the top of the destroyed blancmange with his spoon, sending droplets of quivering pudding over the worktop.

  I walked across the room, meaning to take the spoon from his hand. But before I could, I saw the ring in his ear. A bright gold loop, right through.

  ‘Whatever is that?’

  ‘What?’

  I thought I might pull him towards me by his ear, but I stopped just short and flexed my hands. ‘You look like a damn gypsy,’ I said. I knew my voice was too loud.

  He touched the gold ring and smiled.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘In the library,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Now is not the time to be clever, Robert.’

  He looked straight at me and continued to stroke the bright hoop.

  I swallowed. ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘Mum gave it to me.’

  ‘What?’

  He let his spoon drop into the blancmange. ‘Mum gave me the money and I went and had it done today. We both had one. Luke and me.’

  I picked up the plate of pink pudding and stood with it in my aching hands, staring at him. This time he did not look back at me. Instead, he ducked as I raised the plate to my shoulder and heaved it at the back door.

  We both stood and watched as the blancmange crawled down the paintwork, leaving a long trail of pink slime.

  four

  Joanna

  November, 1985

  I stand behind Rob in the dinner queue. The dinner hall’s damp and greasy; oily smells lurk in corners even in the afternoons, when the serving hatches are locked up. Rob stands with his weight on one leg, arse cheek jutting out towards me. Luke McNeill stands next to him. But his arse cheek doesn’t jut out. Luke’s so skinny he hasn’t got an arse. They’ve both had their ears pierced. Their matching gold rings shine in the food counter lights.

  Rob looks over the steaming steel counter to where today’s choices are chalked up. Pizza. Sausage Roll. Chips. Beans. Curry. I can’t stand curry. At primary school a boy called Patrick bent his dark head over his plate of curry trimmed with rice and puked. Since then, the two smells are the same for me.

  The dinner lady with square hair and coral lipstick looks at Rob. ‘What’s it to be, handsome?’

  He hesitates. He’s still scanning the list.

  I pray it won’t be curry.

  ‘Just a sausage roll.’

  ‘Just a sausage roll?’

  Rob nods and Luke watches. He’s tried to comb his blond wisp up, like Rob’s. He’s dolloped a load of gel on the top of his head and stuck up a few tufts.

  ‘No chips?’

  ‘No chips.’

  The dinner lady holds up her trowel of grease. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He flashes her his smile, cheeks dimpling. Then he moves towards the till.

  The dinner lady waves her trowel at Luke. ‘What about you, love?’

  ‘Just a sausage roll. No chips.’

  I take my plate of pizza and chips and follow them to the corner table. I ease into the seat next to Luke, so I can look at Rob opposite. They both have an apple and a carton of blackcurrant juice lined up by their plates.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’ I say.

  Luke looks at Rob and Rob says, ‘I don’t mind.’

  Rob takes a bite of his sausage roll. A flake of pastry sticks to his bottom lip. He wipes it off with his sleeve and sucks his carton of blackcurrant. His Adam’s apple bobs. Next to me, Luke drinks noisily from his carton of juice.

  ‘God, you’re a slurper.’

  Luke’s cheeks go pink. Rob fixes me with his green eyes and continues to suck up his juice.

  I push my plate over to Rob. ‘Chip?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ His lips are stained black on the inside.

  I bite at my pizza. A string of greasy cheese lands on my chin. I stick out my tongue to lick it off.

  When I’m done, I hold out a fat, shiny chip. The end bends towards Rob’s nose. ‘You should have one. In return for the pen.’

  ‘Rob doesn’t eat chips.’

  I swivel in my seat to face Luke. Rob’s eyes are still on me. ‘Do you want it, then?’

  Luke shakes his head.

  ‘Sure?’ I dangle the chip by his mouth.

  ‘He doesn’t want it, Joanna,’ says Rob. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  I tip my chair onto its back legs and throw my head back. My hair trails down so it almost touches the floor. I look at the cracked ceiling tiles. ‘I’ve never heard of boys on diets,’ I say in a loud voice.

  I think of Shane and me, eating cake. The way the icing sugar nearly chokes me if I breathe in too hard. The vanilla softness of the buttercream in our mouths.

  I let my chair fall back to the floor and sit upright with a jolt. My hair swings around my shoulders.

  Rob picks up his juice carton and sucks it dry, cheeks hollowing with the effort. Then he smiles at me. It’s a big, glamorous smile. ‘See you,’ he says.

  They leave together, taking their identical empty trays with them.

  Mum puts her hand on my shoulder as we’re watching TV. ‘Simon’s got something to ask you.’

  The last time he had something to ask me it was whether I smoked. Mum had to leave the room when I said ‘no’, because she knows different. I used to go down Buggery’s for her Silk Cut. She never said anything when I came back with two packets, one opened and already half-smoked. She’s been trying to give up since she met Simon. ‘Like kissing an ashtray, Jan. A very beautiful ashtray, but an ashtray nevertheless,’ he says whenever she sneaks out the back for a fag. Then she’ll shout that he doesn’t understand, maybe throw something at him (nothing hard, a cushion, a tea towel), and in the end he’ll say, ‘It’s the craving, my love, for the evil nicotine,’ which only makes her worse, so he’ll go out and buy her some chocolate, and they’ll disappear upstairs to make up. At that point, I’ll go outside for a fag.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ says Mum.

  Finally Simon finds the button on the remote and Coronation Street fades to black.

  ‘I was watching that.’

  He raises his eyebrow
s and touches the edge of his red-rimmed glasses. These are new. I wonder if he even needs glasses.

  ‘It was getting to a good bit.’

  ‘Joanna,’ he begins. ‘I could help you understand what a “good bit” – a crucial point in the plot – might really be. At your age you should be reading something that will stretch your mind more than TV soap.’

  ‘I read.’

  ‘What do you read?’

  I try to remember what we’re doing in English. ‘Shelley,’ I say.

  He touches his specs. ‘Percy Shelley?’

  ‘Frankenstein. We’re doing it at school.’

  A smile flickers across his lips. ‘Interesting. That’s good. Anything else?’

  ‘Can I have Coronation Street back on?’

  ‘Do you like Frankenstein?’

  I think about the monster bounding over the crevices at superhuman speed. For some reason, that bit stays in my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s crap.’

  ‘You could try something else. Another classic.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He breaks into a smile. Rubs his thigh. ‘Like Wuthering Heights.’

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Oh, it’s more than good.’

  ‘Any sex in it?’

  ‘Plenty. Of a sort.’ He touches his specs again. ‘But that’s not the point.’

  ‘Can I put the TV back on?’

  ‘The point is,’ he says, ignoring me, ‘the point is that… you’re a bright girl, and yet your mother tells me you don’t apply yourself at school.’

  ‘I do all right.’

  ‘I know what it’s like. All those old schoolteacher types droning on from on high. School’s bloody dull for a girl of your spirit.’ He flashes his little teeth at me.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Joanna,’ he says, ‘I’m giving you a chance.’

  I look him in the eye and I’m surprised when he looks right back at me.

  ‘You can get out of – all this,’ he says, gesturing towards the television. ‘You can escape, like I did.’

  ‘If you escaped, how come you’re here with me and – ’ I gesture towards the television, ‘all this?’

  He takes his glasses off and leans towards me. ‘Look. I’m offering you tuition.’ He rubs his specs on his burgundy trouser leg. ‘I have got a degree. I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but it does count for something.’

  I can smell the Nescafé on his breath.

  ‘Just an hour every week. Just us. Just going through your homework.’ He pats me on the knee. ‘And anything else that happens to crop up.’

  There’s a pause before he slips his specs back on and attempts to look over the top of those red rims. But his glasses are so big he can’t quite pull it off. ‘It will be fun, you’ll see.’

  I notice that the skin above his top lip is moist.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ I ask, reaching for the remote.

  He closes his hand over the remote before I can get to it. ‘If your marks improve, some suitable reward.’

  ‘I get to choose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I tug the remote from him. ‘Maybe.’

  All Saturday I wonder where Shane is.

  Old Buggery reaches across from the till and touches my wrist. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he says.

  ‘You’ll have to cough up more than that.’

  I lean on the counter and look out the window. I wonder if Dad will call tonight. It’s been two months since he left.

  But I’m not thinking about him.

  Outside, cars drag through the rain.

  In the back room, Buggery shouts at a match on Grandstand.

  I stamp my feet on the floor. You can’t wear socks with slip-on flats, and Buggery’s so tight he won’t let me put the Calor gas on until December. In consequence, as Simon would say, in consequence, I can’t feel my feet.

  My body is so frozen with cold and boredom that when Shane shoves open the shop door, it takes a minute for me to blink.

  I keep turning the pages of Just Seventeen. Shane moves over to the magazines, picks up a copy of Classic Bike. He spends a few seconds flicking through before slamming it back on the shelf. Then he moves towards me. His black curls dance. Without looking up, he digs in his parka pocket and places a can of Elnett on the counter, nods, then pushes it in my direction.

  We both stand there, staring at the can. ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘For you,’ says Shane.

  I take a good look at him. His parka’s straining over his shoulders. He’d be tall enough to reach the porn mags on the top shelf.

  ‘Are you my girlfriend?’ he asks.

  I smile.

  Buggery roars in the back room. Goal.

  Shane grins back, a half smile that shows his uneven teeth.

  ‘I’ll see you, then,’ he says.

  And before I can think of a reply (where? when?), he turns and walks out the door, leaving the bell clanging.

  I wrap my fingers round the can; it’s still warm from Shane’s pocket.

  I meet Simon in Mr Badger’s tearoom, a café that does tea in a china pot and has lace everywhere: all over the tables, on the walls, in the loo.

  When I come in he’s sitting there, wiping his glasses on the tablecloth and peering at the menu. A pot of tea steams in front of him.

  He jumps up. ‘You’re late, young lady.’

  ‘I was discussing crucial plot moments with a teacher.’

  He touches his specs and grins. ‘Touché. I’ve ordered you a coke.’

  ‘No ice?’

  ‘No ice, exactly as you like it.’

  I take off my denim jacket and sit down.

  I see him give my pink scoop-neck T-shirt a good once-over.

  ‘Where’s your school blouse?’

  ‘I changed in the toilets before I left.’

  A girl wearing an apron covered in toilet-roll-dolly frills puts down my coke. It’s in a half-pint glass, resting on a doily, resting on a china saucer.

  Simon stops looking at my T-shirt and rummages in his rucksack. ‘Here we are. You’re doing Frankenstein at school, aren’t you?’ He slaps a paperback down on the tablecloth.

  I take a sip of coke and nod.

  ‘What can you tell me about Mary Shelley?’

  ‘She wrote a book that was made into a lot of films,’ I say.

  ‘That’s true. Have you seen any?’

  ‘I’ve seen that cartoon with Frankenstein in it. And The Munsters.’

  Simon raises a finger. ‘Can you tell me the mistake you made there?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think about identity. Who precisely is the monster – and who isn’t?’ He puts both elbows on the table and leans across with his gob open in a half-smile. This is one of the first things we covered in class, but I don’t mention that. Instead, I stretch my legs out under the table and feel for his ankle with the point of my shoe. ‘What are you on about?’

  Looking triumphant, he shifts his ankle out of my shoe-line. ‘Doctor Frankenstein is the scientist; the quote-unquote monster is not, in fact, Frankenstein at all. But you could say that what the doctor does is quote-unquote monstrous.’ He beams.

  ‘Quote-unquote monstrous? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m placing monster within quotation marks, denoting a certain… so-called-ness about the term. Like, you might say, people think that Joanna is a quote-unquote monster, but in fact she’s just a mixed-up girl.’

  ‘Who says I’m a quote-unquote monster?’

  He laughs. ‘No one. No one.’ He pours himself some more tea, lifting the teapot so high that the stream of water sounds like a stream of piss.

  He takes a slurp, looks out the window and starts again. ‘It’s so good that you’re reading a book by a woman. When I was at school it was strictly for the boys – you know, Trollope, Dickens, Sir Walter Scott… God, he was terrible,’ he smiles. ‘Anyway. I’m sure you can identify more easily with Mary
Shelley. As a – young woman.’

  ‘Why?’

  He swallows. ‘Well.’ He looks round the room, flicks his fringe. ‘Well. For example. Shelley could be said to be writing about her own miscarriages when she calls the monster my hideous progeny. Quote-unquote.’

  ‘I haven’t had a miscarriage.’

  He takes off his glasses and pinches the top of his nose as if his eyes hurt. ‘Do you want another coke?’

  ‘I’m not even pregnant.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were, Joanna.’

  I try to find his ankle again with my foot. ‘Mind you, I could be.’

  He clears his throat. ‘What do you mean?’

  I hook his trouser leg round the point of my shoe. ‘I’m old enough. Mum had me when she was seventeen.’

  ‘You’re fifteen.’

  ‘What’s two years?’

  He reaches down to disconnect his trouser from the end of my shoe. After waiting a bit, he asks, ‘Did your mother really have you when she was – seventeen?’

  ‘Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘Was she married to your dad then?’

  ‘No. But she was soon after.’

  Simon puts his glasses back on. His lenses are smeared. He nods slowly. Then he tries to pour more tea, but there’s only a dribble.

  ‘Are you and Mum getting married?’ I ask.

  He puts the pot down. ‘I honestly don’t know, Joanna.’

  I can’t see his eyes properly behind the smears.

  ‘Then why are you living in our house?’

  ‘This is supposed to be a tutorial, not an interrogation,’ he says, his hand pressing down on the teapot lid.

  I finish my coke and crash the glass back on the saucer. ‘Isn’t it time we went home? I’m starving.’

  As I get up to go, he clasps a clammy hand round my wrist and nearly pulls me back into my seat. ‘Joanna, it means a lot to me, that you’ve agreed to these… sessions.’

  His top lip is sweating again.

  ‘I mean, I want to help your mother – although sometimes I wish she would help herself a bit more – and I want to help you, and I really think that, you know, together we can do something… something good.’