The Pools Page 15

  The girl in the frilly apron comes back over and drops the bill on his plate. While he’s looking at it, I take the opportunity to slip my wrist out of his fist.

  five

  Howard

  November, 1985

  I rested my forehead on the wood of Robert’s bedroom door and listened. Some music tape he’d bought recently was playing, its beat relentless, the singer’s voice high and beseeching, even though it was a man’s.

  Robert, I whispered into the gloss. A glass of coke, my pretext for knocking on his door, was cold and slippery in my fingers.

  There was a clunk as the tape finished.

  I pushed the handle down and stepped in to find him right there in front of me. We stood for a moment, face to face. He wore the same expression he’d been wearing ever since Kathryn had told him about the change of schools: an unblinking blankness, cheeks smooth, lips straight. It was as if he was utterly bored by everything he saw. Everything in this house, everything I said, everything his mother and I did.

  ‘I thought you might want a drink,’ I began.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Oh.’ I looked past his shoulder and into his room. It was a shock to realise that I hadn’t been in there for months.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I said, brushing by him, still holding the coke.

  He shrugged, as teenagers are supposed to, and closed the door behind us.

  There was a smell in there, a spicy, sweet smell; it was something like marigolds.

  I looked around the room. We’d painted it for him a few years ago; everything had to be blue and plain, he was very clear on that particular rule. No patterns. Plain curtains, plain duvet cover. It made his room look a little like the whole thing was underwater, as if he was sleeping in a sea of blue.

  Robert remained standing in the doorway, staring at me. His chin was lifted a little, and I recognised the gesture as his mother’s.

  I tried not to look at the ring in his ear, but found my eyes fixed on the glinting gold loop. The word gypsy came into my mind again. Whenever she saw a woman in the street with gold hoops through her ears, Mum would nudge me and say, ‘Where’s her crystal ball, then?’ and laugh. Mum never wore earrings. Kathryn has a few pairs, small coloured gems that screw on to her lobes; they’ve always appeared to me to be devices for torture.

  I looked away from the earring. In the corner, Robert’s old Midland Bank school bag lay in a crumpled heap.

  I pointed to the bag. ‘Is the strap broken?’

  He gave another shrug.

  ‘I could mend it, if you like.’

  ‘But it’s not broken.’

  I put the coke down and flexed my cold hands. On the table beneath his wall mirror (I’d put that table there, with a chair, for his homework), bottles and tubes were lined up, along with two hairbrushes. I wondered why anyone would need more than one hairbrush.

  ‘So how’s the new school?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You always get on well.’

  He twisted his gold chain around with one finger.

  ‘We’re very proud of you. It’s good we made that change. Now you can concentrate on your exams. And your art, of course.’ I went over to the window and looked out on the back garden. Condensation had gathered in a little pool on the corner of the sill. I tried to wipe it off, but ended up spreading it across the glossed wood. Outside, the garden was asleep, covered by a dusting of frost. A few browned chrysanthemum leaves were holding on, limp with chill.

  ‘Look at that,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it incredible? Everything’s still. But nothing’s dead. It’ll all come up next year.’

  Robert sighed.

  ‘Come and look,’ I said.

  He came over to the window and looked out in silence. ‘Do you remember your garden?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t a garden.’

  ‘It was a patch of garden. That’s much more than some people ever have.’

  He traced a line in the water on the windowsill.

  ‘Those sunflowers were good that year,’ I said. ‘In the end.’

  ‘They were OK.’

  ‘You did a good job.’

  He laughed then. ‘You did it, Dad.’

  ‘We did it together. It was our patch. Wasn’t it?’

  As I turned to him, I was slightly surprised, as I always was, that his green eyes were level with mine.

  ‘Where did you get that pullover?’

  He was wearing a white sweatshirt with a collar. Embroidered on his chest was the word ‘Champion’.

  He looked down.

  ‘It’s Luke’s.’

  ‘It’s too small for you.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he said, plucking at the front of it.

  ‘Doesn’t Luke want it back?’

  ‘He’s lent it to me.’

  ‘He’ll want it back, though.’

  ‘Eventually.’

  I stared out of the window at the frozen garden, and there was a long silence.

  ‘You see each other a lot,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His parents don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should they?’

  ‘Perhaps you should be studying more. You’ve got your exams in the summer.’

  ‘We study together.’

  I caught the reflection of his face in the window. For an awful moment I thought he looked like Jack, his hair high on his head, his shoulders broad, his chin straight.

  ‘Has he given you anything else, this Luke?’

  He laughed again and shook his head. ‘What are you trying to say, Dad?’

  ‘I think you should give it back to him.’

  ‘I will. When he asks for it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you stop staring at my earring?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I tried a smile. ‘Did it hurt?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. I suppose the girls like it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Earrings. On boys.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  On the wall above his bed there was a reproduction of a painting. It showed a naked woman standing on a shell, hair streaming out on both sides.

  ‘That’s a famous one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Botticelli.’

  ‘Right.’ I tried to think of something I could say about it. ‘It’s very – unusual.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘She’s very lovely, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s because she’s supposed to be Venus.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Goddess of love.’ He ran a hand through his thick hair.

  ‘Yes. So what have you been sketching lately?’

  He gave me a sideways look.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d show me something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  He shrugged and opened a drawer. It was stuffed full with paper and paints. He pulled out a big hard-backed black book which said ‘Rob Hall, 5b’ on the front. Then he leant back on the drawers and flicked through the pages.

  ‘Most of it’s rubbish…’

  As he flicked, I caught a glimpse of a watercolour of hills and sky, a line drawing of a girl with long hair sitting on a stool, a pastel study of the leaves of a rubber plant – all detailed, all precise.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d done so much.’

  ‘Here’s one,’ he said, and he held out a painting of my dahlias. I recognised them immediately: perfect ‘Holland Festivals’, deep orange petals tipped with white. He’d painted the wall of our house as background. He’d caught them at their peak; they looked like perfect orbs of flame.

  ‘When did you do this?’

  ‘Ages ago.’

  ‘Look at that. It’s very good.’ I reached out and ran a finger along the bumpy paint.

  He gave a small smile. ‘It’s OK.’

  He closed the book and put it back in the drawer. Then he looked at his watch. ‘
I’ve got to go, Dad. I’m meeting Luke.’

  ‘Oh.’ I took a breath. ‘So is Luke – courting any girl?’

  I saw his face flinch, just a tiny fraction of a flinch, but a flinch nevertheless.

  After a moment’s pause, he sat down heavily on the bed and put his chin in his hands. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  He was silent.

  I gazed out of the window and tried to make my voice sound unconcerned. ‘You must know, you’re his best friend.’ ‘Why is it important?’ his voice was too loud.

  ‘It isn’t – important. I’d just like to know.’

  ‘Is that what you really wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘Please don’t shout.’ I sat down on the other side of the bed.

  He gathered the edge of the duvet in his fist and stared at it.

  ‘Robert.’

  When he finally looked at me his eyes were bright with anger, but I ploughed on.

  ‘I don’t mean to interfere. It’s just that – ’

  ‘Please don’t interfere again.’ He almost whispered it, twisting the corner of the duvet around his hand like a mangled bandage.

  ‘I’m only saying this because I don’t want you to end up – ’

  ‘What?’ All colour had gone from his face now. Even the few freckles left on his nose were pale, like washed-out stains.

  ‘ – unhappy.’

  He released the duvet and let out a long breath.

  ‘Don’t do it again, Dad.’

  ‘Robert,’ I said. ‘I just want what’s best.’

  ‘What’s best,’ he repeated.

  ‘What’s best for you.’

  Then he stood up. ‘I’m going out now,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Luke hates it when I’m late.’

  six

  Joanna

  November, 1985

  On Saturday Simon drives Mum and me to Wootton. ‘You should see the palace,’ he says. ‘We can call it a history lesson.’ Big wink. His leather gloves make a swooshing noise as he feeds the steering wheel round.

  But when we get there, Mum wants to go round the shops. ‘I can’t stand all that history,’ she says. ‘Dead things in cases.’ She would never have admitted this a few months ago, when he first moved in with his leather-bound Reader’s Digest Complete History of the World collection.

  Simon opens his mouth, but before he can start, I say, ‘We can still go. I like palaces and stuff.’

  So he drops Mum off in the High Street, where I know she won’t buy anything because it’s all too expensive, and we roar off down the palace drive.

  The sky’s bright blue and the house is surrounded by hills that Simon tells me are man-made, put there especially to show off the building. ‘That’s the wrong way round,’ I point out.

  It’s so cold my lipstick goes hard and cracked within a minute of getting out of the car.

  ‘Are you going to buy me a souvenir?’

  ‘We haven’t even been round the grounds yet,’ says Simon. He’s wearing a new checked woolly scarf that Mum bought him. I can tell he doesn’t like it because he’s tucked it right inside his mac.

  ‘We could skip it. Go straight to the gift shop. You should at least buy me some chocolate, now we’re here.’

  He flicks his stiffened fringe, gives me a look. Every morning I hear the long squirt of his hairspray. The laundry-fresh stench is still in the bathroom when I go to flannel my face. When he moved in, he promised us a shower. Shiny taps. Blasts of hot on demand. I was looking forward to soaping myself all over in the steam, arse pressed up against the wet glass. But no shower has ever appeared.

  ‘What’s your favourite?’ he asks. ‘For future reference.’

  ‘Bourneville.’

  For some reason, he looks pleased. ‘The dark one. Good choice.’

  We walk on in silence. Sheep shit is everywhere; dry balls and wet clumps of it splattered over the path and the grass. Some of it’s shaped like it’s been piped on a cake.

  ‘Want to know what mine is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Favourite.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘Yorkie?’

  ‘No. Too big.’

  ‘Turkish Delight?’

  ‘Too soft.’

  In the distance, the big lake in front of the house reflects the white clouds and the sand-coloured house.

  ‘This place is like a chocolate box,’ I say. ‘I like it.’

  ‘I’m glad. But you haven’t guessed yet.’

  ‘Bounty.’

  He considers. ‘The taste of paradise. Nice. But not my favourite.’

  I look at him and laugh, and then I step in a rounded knob of sheep shit. ‘Look what you made me do.’

  ‘You should stop dreaming about chocolate and watch where you’re going.’

  I lift my foot and flick the shit at Simon’s trouser leg.

  ‘Oi!’ He hops to the side.

  I let out a yelp and start running towards the lake, but not so fast that he can’t chase me.

  ‘What are you doing with that boy?’ he asks when he’s caught up with me on the bridge. His face is flushed and shiny from running. I can see every pore on his chin. He pushes his specs back up his nose. Then he undoes his mac and rests his thumbs in his belt loops.

  ‘What boy?’ I lick the sweat from my upper lip and get the margarine taste of lipstick.

  ‘The one your mum says is backward.’

  I lean against the wall of the bridge and puff out into the frozen air. My breath hangs there.

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you going to answer me?’

  I turn away from him and look out over the lake. The clouds are going grey and stringy.

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘Do you think he’s backward?’

  ‘I was asking you a question, but since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you. I think he’s – different. Damaged, certainly. Remedial, maybe. In need of professional help.’

  I turn round. Behind Simon, the big house is glowing, its iron gates twisted, too high to climb over.

  ‘Everyone says that. But I don’t think they know what it means.’

  He gives a little ‘huh’, like a TV journalist who thinks the answer’s all too obvious. ‘You know what it means, Joanna.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘It means not all there. Not quite the ticket. Not the full quid. No one’s blaming him, but the boy’s not right, is he? Wasn’t he in some car accident? A bump on the head could have done it. Brain damage. They didn’t look into that sort of thing when he was young. Not properly.’

  ‘A bump on the head?’ I start to laugh. ‘It sounds like a cartoon.’

  He shakes his head and sighs. ‘To be honest, I think it’s a shame,’ he says, in a quieter voice.

  ‘What is?’

  The sun’s going down and his face is partly in shadow.

  ‘What is?’ I repeat.

  ‘I think it’s a shame that he’s like that. I think the whole thing’s a shame. It’s a shame for you.’

  Then he grabs me by the elbow and yanks me over to him. He clamps both his arms around me and holds me so close that I see all the fine lines on his cheeks. ‘Poor Joanna,’ he whispers. I don’t pull away but I hold my back stiff, keep my arms by my sides. ‘Have you heard anything from your dad?’ he asks.

  I pull away from him and walk to the other side of the bridge. If Dad was here, we’d be in the gift shop. If Dad was here, we wouldn’t be here at all.

  After a while Simon comes over and coughs in a fake way. ‘We’re supposed to be talking about history. Did you know that guy was just given this house? For winning a battle?’

  ‘Winning a battle’s a big thing.’

  ‘Not for his type. His type win battles by leading poorer men to their deaths. Stepping on people’s heads to get what they want. They’re bullies. Taking advantage of people like you, Joanna.’

  ‘And people like Shane
.’

  ‘Isn’t Shane the bully?’

  I laugh at that, but Simon looks serious. ‘You should be careful, Joanna. If your father was here, he’d tell you.’

  ‘What do you know about my dad?’

  He stares at me.

  ‘Dad likes Shane, anyway.’

  Before I can back away, he’s got an arm round my shoulder. The metal of my earring clicks against his watch. ‘Anyway,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. If you’ll let me.’ His cold fingers are on my neck.

  I snort. But I let his fingers work their way up into my hair.

  ‘What will I do if you’re not here?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to look after yourself.’

  ‘I can look after myself already.’

  ‘Can you?’ His breath is on my scalp.

  ‘Mum will be wondering where we are.’ I shrug his arm off my shoulder and walk back across the bridge. My legs are shaky, but each step I take is deliberate, and I don’t get any shit on my shoes.

  seven

  Howard

  November, 1985

  The sky was almost black, and from the way the wind whirled the remains of leaves around on the front lawn – first one way, then the other, each time a little more frantic – I knew there was a storm coming.

  I didn’t try to stop Robert going out, not that time. We’d had our chat and I told myself I should be willing to give him another chance.

  When he’d gone, I found Kathryn standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘He was out of here like a thunderbolt, whatever it was.’ She followed me down the hall. ‘What did you say to him, Howard?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you ask him about that new boy?’ She blew up into her fringe and waited for my answer.

  ‘Howard?’

  ‘All I wanted was to help him,’ I said, picking up my coat.

  ‘Kathryn not with you?’ Mum asked as she opened the door. She was still wearing her flowered tabard.

  I shook my head and stepped into the familiar smell of cooked meat and furniture polish. ‘That’ll need doing again soon,’ I said, tapping the hallway wallpaper she’d chosen a few years ago. It was brown and stripy, which we’d thought wouldn’t go out of fashion. There was a patch of beige where the sun had shone too fiercely through the glass in the front door.