The Pools Read online

  No one’s talking to Shane. There’s more space around him and his bird than any of the other boys.

  He turns to look at me. His big bottom lip hangs as he watches me walk over to Rob. He opens his mouth wider, as if he might say something.

  Don’t look at him again, I think. Don’t look at him.

  ‘Hi.’ Rob flashes me a white grin and leads me to a man in a sheepskin coat. As I walk along the rest of the row, each boy stops plucking and looks. Their turkeys swing as I go by, claws groaning gently on the bar. The sanitary pad smell wafts over me.

  ‘This is the girl I said about,’ Rob announces. The man in the sheepskin nods, looks me over. ‘Next time, wear trousers. And boots. Don’t want you slipping on turkey gizzards.’ He huffs out a not-funny laugh.

  The birds are much bigger than they look under cellophane. Some of them hang down almost to my knees. Their feet are tied to a hook and their claws stick up like killer fingernails. Their heads are missing, and their necks are still bloody. I’m glad their heads are gone. I wouldn’t want to see their beady eyes.

  Sheepskin Coat hands me a turkey on a hook. ‘Secure your bird on the rail,’ he says, hanging it up. ‘Don’t want him flying away.’ He smiles. He’s missing a tooth. ‘Best way is to pluck quickly, but carefully. Don’t go grabbing great handfuls.’ He plucks the feathers out – one, two, three – and lets them drop to the floor. ‘See?’

  All the time, Shane’s staring at me and the bird.

  ‘Shouldn’t look too hard, son. You’ll wear her out.’ As he walks away, he taps Shane on the head with his clipboard.

  My turkey sways in front of me. Its wings are spread out like the bird in our school logo. Its white feathers are flecked with dirt. I tap it, lightly, and it swings some more. I dig my fingers into the greasy feathers and grab hold of a few. My fingertips meet warm flesh.

  I let go, leap back.

  ‘You get used to it,’ says Rob.

  ‘I thought it would be cold.’

  ‘They haven’t been dead long.’ Rob looks serious, as if he’s apologising.

  I try again. I wrap my fingers round a single feather. It’s hard and spiky. When I tug, there’s a tearing sound. It doesn’t come easy.

  Then Shane comes over. He doesn’t speak. He just grabs my bird in one hand and starts ripping feathers out with the other.

  Rob steps back and looks round to see if Sheepskin Coat’s noticed Shane’s doing something he shouldn’t.

  Shane’s arm is going in and out, in and out. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. He chucks feathers over me like confetti.

  ‘Is the spacky helping her?’ says Luke. ‘Why doesn’t he help me?’

  A glob of turkey blood hits Shane’s parka.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I say. I put a hand on his arm. He can’t notice, because his elbow keeps moving back and he catches me under the chin, hard. My teeth slam together.

  I cry out.

  Shane stops plucking. He blinks, slowly. His eyes are black. He puts out a hand to touch my chin.

  ‘Don’t, Shane,’ I say. I step backward.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  He lets go of the turkey.

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ I rub my chin and try not to look up.

  Then Shane smashes the turkey with his fist like it’s a punchbag. White feathers and claws and a bloody neck swing towards my face. I duck. Feathers skate across my hair.

  Sheepskin Coat comes over. ‘If you’re going to distract my workers, blondie, then you can forget it,’ he says. His voice is loud but he’s giving me a half-smirk. ‘Get on with it, now. All of you.’

  He walks Shane back to the other side of the shed, leaving my bird swaying on its hook.

  Rob leans over. ‘What’s with him?’

  I don’t have an answer.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You OK?’

  I nod, try a brave smile.

  On the other side of the shed, Shane’s craning his neck round his turkey, looking for me again.

  I plunge my hand into the feathers and start plucking. Soon I’m stripping birds clean in under fifteen minutes.

  fifteen

  Howard

  December, 1985

  That evening, I went to find him.

  I didn’t know what I was going to say. That he mustn’t think of leaving. That he couldn’t be what his mother said he was. That I loved him. That I couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. What was wrong with me.

  I had thought he might not go through with the turkey plucking plan, even though Luke was doing it. I’d told him he didn’t need to go there; I’d get him a job with me at the power station – cleaning the offices at weekends, perhaps. I couldn’t imagine Robert on that farm. He was like me, too neat for dirty work. It wasn’t uncommon, I’d heard, for a bird to be still half-conscious when it was plucked. Like the headless chickens you hear about, still running round the yard. That wasn’t the sort of thing I had the stomach for.

  I put on my wellingtons before I went down there, thinking the turkey shed might be mucky. I didn’t consider the fact that all the birds would be dead, and the sawdust would be covered with feathers, soft and light, not mucky at all.

  I walked past the church and down the lane towards the pools. There was no wind that night; the sky was clear and scattered with stars. I wore my woollen hat – a present from Mum one Christmas. The fibres scratched the tops of my ears. The ground was frozen, and several times I had to grasp hold of a branch to keep myself from slipping. I began to regret wearing the wellingtons, which didn’t have much of a tread.

  It had been years since I’d walked down here, and I remembered the day I’d come with Kathryn to photograph her in her yellow dress. I remembered how the yellow contrasted with the dense, dark green of the yew trees in the churchyard. The only dark thing about Kathryn that day was her eyelashes.

  Steam from the cooling towers still pumped high into the sky and over the village. The moon lit the whole scene, and I could see that the trees and bushes were much taller and denser than they had been the last time I was here. Without their leaves, all the branches seemed very straight and solid. They criss-crossed the sky and scored the pool.

  I didn’t look over towards the water, even though I could just see it glinting between the branches. I concentrated on my destination: the farm.

  As I got closer, a strange sound became more and more insistent. It was like a radio that hadn’t been tuned in properly and was turned up much too loud; there was no release, and no soothing note. There was just the squabbling, squawking noise of turkeys. It seemed to drift one way and then the other, making me feel a little dizzy. I realised that this must be the sound of the remaining birds, the ones who had so far escaped slaughter, as they swept from one side of their pen to the other.

  I approached a large shed that was lit up inside. The rusty corrugated iron door was slightly ajar and I could see feathers floating in the air.

  I opened the shed door and stepped inside. It was no warmer in there, despite the lights, whose brightness seemed to encourage the mealy smell – an overwhelming mixture of sawdust, blood and turkey flesh. Along each wall, dead, headless birds hung from hooks, in various stages of plucking. Some still had thick plumage on their breasts, others were almost bald, save the odd patch of greasy feathers. Feathers were everywhere, falling to the ground, nestling in the hair and on the coats of the boys who stood in front of the birds. Each boy had a basket for his finished work, and a man with a clipboard stood at the far end, handing out new birds, already attached to hooks so they could be hung from bars on the ceiling.

  The strange thing – the thing I hadn’t imagined – was that each turkey’s wings were spread out on either side. As they were plucked, the birds bobbed in the air, and their wings made a flapping motion, as if they might still fly away.

  Robert was standing next to Luke. Their hands worked to the same r
hythm as they tugged handfuls of feathers away from the turkeys. I noticed the girl from the shop was standing on the other side of Robert. Her bright hair was littered with feathers, and she was turned slightly towards my son, as if she was listening for his next words. Opposite her, on the other side of the shed, stood the large bulk of Derrick Pearce’s son, the boy everyone knew, even then, to be backward. While he ripped the plumage from the headless turkey before him, he stared at the girl.

  I took my hat off and felt my forehead prickle in the cold air.

  The girl looked over and saw me. She nudged Robert.

  Robert looked around. As soon as our eyes met, he flicked his away and turned back to his bird.

  The girl nudged Robert again and gestured in my direction, but Robert would not turn around.

  Derrick Pearce’s boy unhooked his bird. He had a feather stuck to his big bottom lip. The turkey’s bloody neck hung down by his thigh. He threw the limp naked bird into his basket and walked to the end of the shed to get another. As he did so, he trailed one hand along the edge of the girl’s short skirt. She stepped away from him.

  ‘Robert,’ I called. The sound of chattering turkeys outside was still loud, even with the shed door closed, and I tried to raise my voice. ‘Robert.’

  The girl smiled at me. Her lipstick was so light, her mouth looked like it was covered in frost.

  ‘Robert,’ I called his name again.

  The man with the clipboard approached.

  ‘Can I help?’ He raised his eyebrows, which were the same colour as his sheepskin coat.

  ‘I’m here to speak to my son, Robert Hall,’ I said, nodding in Robert’s direction.

  The man walked over to Robert and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Rob,’ he shouted, ‘Your dad’s here. Go and see what he wants.’

  The other boys near Robert laughed. Derrick Pearce’s boy laughed the loudest.

  Robert left his half-plucked turkey swinging from its hook and came over to where I stood in the doorway.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ I suggested.

  ‘No. What do you want?’

  ‘I think maybe we should talk outside.’

  ‘I’m fine here,’ he said, crossing his arms.

  I tried to push the word gypsy from my mind as I looked at his glinting earring.

  ‘What do you want, Dad? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you something.’

  He breathed out heavily through his nose, shook his head and gave a little laugh. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Sexy wellingtons, Mr Hall,’ the shop girl called over.

  Luke laughed first and Derrick Pearce’s boy followed. His laugh was so loud it drowned out the gobbling turkeys for a moment.

  Robert sniggered. Instinctively he covered his mouth with his hand, but then he changed his mind and took it away. His green eyes were clear when he looked at me and let out a loud hoot.

  When he’d finished laughing, he said, ‘What did you want to say, Dad?’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you. I wanted to say… ’ I stopped. I tried to look him in the face, but my eyes kept straying to his hair. It was stuck up on his head; his plumage was straight and strong now, I noticed. He no longer had that cockatoo touch at his crown.

  I began again. ‘I wanted to tell you that, that I’m sorry.’ I flexed my hands in my pockets. The ache in them was sharp and deep.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Robert blinked; he said nothing.

  ‘That’s all I came to say.’

  Robert looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded, just once.

  I walked out of the shed and back into the darkness.

  sixteen

  Joanna

  December, 1985

  ‘Lapsang Souchong,’ says Simon. ‘Not, in any circumstances, to be taken with milk. You have to take it black. You’ll understand that, Joanna.’

  He lifts the lid off the teapot and wafts the steam with his hand. It smells like a packet of bacon flavour Frazzles.

  We’re in Mr Badger’s tearoom again. Simon promises this will be the last tutorial before Christmas. He says we’re making ‘progress’. When he says this he rolls up the sleeves of his diamond-patterned jumper, like he’s going to do some dirty work. Like he’s getting his fists ready for something, or someone.

  ‘Try a cup?’ He holds the pot over my side of the table and raises his eyebrows. His hair’s a bit off today. The fringe isn’t as sculpted as usual. I can see the grooves where he’s tried to comb the hairspray through.

  In the background, classical music is playing at low volume. Violins and cellos chug along together. That sort of music always sounds like it’s straining for something.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘They do good soup here.’ He pours himself a cup of smoke-coloured tea, then gestures to the girl in the frill-on-frill apron. She gives it a minute before unpeeling herself from the kitchen doorway and walking over to our table with her greasy pad, chewing on a plait.

  ‘This young lady would like something to eat.’ Simon takes a good look at frill-on-frill. She’s got sharp cheekbones, little pig eyes lined with electric blue pencil, thin pink lips.

  ‘Sausage and chips,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t do chips.’ Her plait falls from her mouth. ‘We’ve got sausage in a roll.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ says Simon.

  When she’s gone, he leans across the table. His watch glints at me. ‘Good appetite. I’ve always liked that about you. Can’t ever imagine you being anorexic.’ He says this with a smirk and a gleam on his small teeth. As if it’s a filthy word. Like cocksucker.

  ‘Mind you,’ he continues, ‘I have been worried about you, Joanna. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.’

  He lets a silence grow. He spends a long time looking over my shoulder, squinting into the air, as if he’s considering the swag-tied chintz curtains. He even drums his fingers on the table. He’s waiting for me to spill it.

  All I can think of is money. How much I’ll need to get to London with Rob.

  Finally he picks up his copy of Frankenstein and fans through the pages. ‘I love the smell of books,’ he says, sucking a breath in.

  ‘We’ve finished that.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘We finished it ages ago.’

  He puts the book down and folds his fingers together in a tent shape. ‘What are you doing now, then?’

  ‘Poetry.’

  He waits for more. I look out the window. It’s greyer than my school uniform out there. The tea room’s lit by a couple of pink corner lamps, which means I can’t see Simon’s wrinkly cheeks in detail. But he looks grey, too. Grey and wilting.

  ‘What poetry are you doing?’

  ‘John Donne.’

  He takes off his glasses and places them on the tablecloth. Then he closes his eyes and starts. ‘Mark but this flea, and mark in this, how little that which thou deny’st me is…’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Yes! Isn’t it?’

  ‘Having someone who worries about me, I mean. It’s good. Nice.’

  He pinches his bottom lip between finger and thumb, fixes me with a stare.

  I tug on a strand of hair and wrap it round a finger. ‘I just wanted to say, you know, thanks.’

  ‘Well. I do worry about you. Your mother says you can look after yourself. But I’m not so sure.’

  The violins grind away, quietly. I gaze at the tablecloth, concentrating on a pink embroidered daisy, petals stained with grease. I let a moment pass, then look back at his grey crinkly cheek. ‘Tell me more about John Donne,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘Well. Donne is perfect for you, Joanna. Now I think of it, he’s absolutely perfect.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a bit bawdy. Bold. Like yourself. Colloquial – that means he uses everyday language. Likes playing
games. But doesn’t shy away from true feeling, real passion.’

  He’s gripping his teacup and he hasn’t blinked for ages. ‘My favourite’s always been – ’ he pauses, chuckles, ‘ – “To his mistress going to bed”.’ He winks, takes a breath, opens his eyes wide. Then starts again. ‘License my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below.’

  Simon slaps the table before stretching his arms out on either side like he’s won the 100 metres. Olympic Gold. ‘Fantastic. And all in the seventeenth century.’

  My sausage arrives. A ledge of margarine spills over the roll’s crust. I take a bite. Grease leaks out of the bread and onto the rose-patterned plate.

  When I’ve swallowed, I say, ‘There is something I’d like to talk to you about.’

  He nods and tries to stop himself smiling.

  ‘I need money.’

  He stops smiling.

  I blink a lot and gaze down at the grease-stained daisy. ‘I really need money, and I don’t know where to get it.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘What for, Joanna?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  He leans forward. ‘If you won’t tell me, I can’t help you.’ He waits. I can see my reflection in his specs. My cheeks with their little blusher-spots of flush. My lips wet and a bit quivery. I wrap another strand of hair around my finger and examine the splitting ends. I think about taking another bite of sausage; decide against it. Eventually, I say, ‘I’m in – trouble.’

  Simon puts his glasses back on and flicks his stiffened fringe. The violins chug to a stop.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  I make my voice very, very, very small. ‘The usual kind.’ I sweep my lashes up and look out from under.

  ‘Joanna – ’

  ‘The kind teenage girls get into.’

  He huffs out a breath.

  ‘Will you help me?’ Under the table, I put a hand on his knee and rub at his rough trouser leg. I even stroke a bit down his shin. ‘Please. I need your help.’