I looked away, p.22
I Looked Away, page 22
Before I know it, the sun’s going down and the woman from the bakery brings over a couple of warm pies. ‘Leftovers,’ she says, talking just to Steve.
Then she eyes me like I’m scum.
‘Saw you the other day, didn’t I? You bought a pasty off me. Together now, are you?’
‘None of your bloody business,’ I want to say.
‘She’s learning the craft,’ says Steve. ‘Jo’s doing very nicely.’
It’s not often I get praised.
‘How are you getting on in that cave of yours?’ she asks.
‘We’re OK.’
We. The word gives me an excited shiver as I tuck into my pie. Cheese and onion. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything this good.
The bakery woman shoots me another filthy look.
‘It’s getting colder,’ she says, still ignoring me. ‘You don’t want to stay in that cave for too long. And like I’ve said before, you need to be careful. The sea could cut you off.’ She shakes her head. ‘We lost a man that way last year. Local, he was. Thought he knew what he was doing.’
I think back to that couple who died and Tim nicking their phones. Even Steve is looking less certain now. Maybe he’s not as streetwise as he makes out.
‘I’ve got a spare room if you want it,’ continues the woman. ‘My son has just gone off to uni and, well, you’re welcome to it for a bit.’
Again, she’s speaking to him. Not me.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ says Steve. He finishes his mouthful first before speaking again – so polite. ‘But I can’t leave my friend in the lurch here.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I want to say. ‘We’ve only just met.’ But I keep quiet. What the hell is happening to me? The last thing I need is another man to mess up my life.
‘I suppose she can come too.’
Steve looks at me. ‘Want to?’
‘OK,’ says my big gob.
We climb the narrow winding stairs at the back of the shop. I wouldn’t even mind sleeping on one of the steps.
The woman throws open a door. There’s a double bed with a chest of drawers and a proper wardrobe. On the wall is this poster of some kids playing the guitar with a pretty girl yelling down a mike. The name Honey Joy is at the bottom. Must belong to her son.
‘There’s a shower through there,’ she says, pointing to a doorway at the back of the room. ‘It’s a bit tight, but it will do.’
Steve throws his arms out in a ‘thank you’ gesture. ‘What can I do to pay you back?’
‘Are you stupid?’ I want to yell. ‘She wants you, that’s what.’
‘Maybe you could do a bit of decorating for me,’ she says. ‘Since my husband went, it’s been a bit difficult.’
I bet it has.
‘It would be a pleasure,’ he says.
‘I’ll leave you to get some sleep, then.’ She shoots me daggers. ‘Try not to hum too loud, will you? The soundproofing isn’t great.’
She shuts the door. ‘That woman fancies you,’ I say.
He laughs like I’ve said something funny. ‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘Does!’
‘She’s just being kind. I told you before, Jo. If you give pleasure to people and are kind to them, they are good to you back. By the way, don’t pay any attention to her comment about your humming. I rather like it.’
Half the time I don’t even know I’m doing it so I say nothing in case it makes me seem more stupid.
Then he looks at the bed. ‘You have that. I’ll sleep on the floor.’
‘That’s not fair. I’ll go on the floor.’
‘We could,’ he says slowly, ‘sleep with pillows between us.’
I shrug, trying to look like I don’t care. ‘OK.’
That night, I toss and turn, conscious of Steve’s breathing. Once more, I remember the last time I slept with a man. I try to push it out of my head but it keeps coming back.
I wake to the sound of screaming. Then I realize it’s me.
‘Shhh.’ Steve’s bending over me in the dark. ‘It’s all right. You had a nightmare.’
‘What did I say?’
‘You kept calling for help.’
I freeze with fear. What else might I have come out with? But I keep quiet, and just allow him to remove the pillows and rock me to and fro like a baby. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispers. ‘You’re all right now.’
In the morning, he is still next to me. I look down on his face as the sun streams in through the window. You can judge someone better when they’re sleeping. His eyelashes are long. He looks as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Something inside me goes soft. Who are you kidding? I ask myself.
No man in his right mind is ever going to want me.
1.45 p.m., 17 August 1984
We are in a little side part of the garden where there are masses and masses of orange and pink roses. ‘So beautiful,’ I say, thinking how my mother had cared for hers so much.
‘Not as lovely as you.’
No one has ever called me that before.
Peter pulls me to him. My heart begins to pound. His arms are around me. He smells nice – like soap. His face is close to mine. Could he? Yes. He’s going to kiss me!
‘Ellie?’ says a voice behind me. ‘Peter? What are you doing?’
I break away just in time.
Michael is beside us, his face screwed up in horror and consternation.
‘I was helping your sister get a fly out of her eye,’ says Peter, cool as a cucumber.
Part of me is shocked by his lie but another part is impressed. I try not to giggle.
‘You’re meant to be playing with me,’ says Michael.
‘We were,’ says Peter, ‘but you ran off.’
‘I climbed into that hammock but then I fell out.’ Michael’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I got a bruise. Look!’
There is indeed a big blue mark but it’s not bleeding. ‘You’ll be all right,’ I say.
Peter nods. ‘I get bruises like that all the time when I play sport. It’s part of being a man.’
Michael stares at him, awestruck.
‘Can you throw that ball for me?’ asks my little brother, handing it over.
‘Sure.’ Then Peter raises his arm and throws it high into the air. It soars out of the rose garden and onto the Daniels’ huge lawn. ‘Quick,’ he says. ‘Go and find it.’
Then Michael runs out of the rose garden. And out of sight.
43
Ellie
The labour pains came a month early. It was the phone call that did it. When Roger had been safely out of the house, I had rung Cornelius at Highbridge to tell him the news of my marriage and pregnancy. I think I’d wanted to prove that I’d got ‘better’. But it had been a mistake.
‘Have you told your husband about your history?’ he’d responded. ‘If not, I strongly suggest you do so. Marriages should have no secrets.’
I could feel his disapproving tone as if he was standing right by me, saying it to my face. Swiftly, I’d ended the conversation.
But it was too late. Cornelius’s questions had gone right to the heart of all my fears. The midwife was going to have my medical notes. What if she said something in front of Roger?
A trickle of water ran down my leg. Seconds later I felt a twinge, like my stomach had cramp. Then another one.
I stumbled to the phone. ‘Sorry,’ said the secretary in Roger’s department. ‘He was meant to have been running a tutorial today but he cancelled it. I’m not sure where he is.’
The pains were coming faster. This couldn’t be right! They should be slow at the beginning, according to the lady at the Tuesday-evening antenatal group Roger and I had been attending. Maybe something was wrong. I needed to get hold of someone.
Staggering to the front door, I saw my elderly neighbour, Jean, weeding her garden. At least, I considered her elderly in those days but she was probably no more than early sixties. We were on ‘How are you?’ terms but no more. Roger liked us to ‘keep to ourselves’.
But now wasn’t the time for qualms. ‘I think I’m having the baby!’ I cried. ‘I’m a month early.’ Instantly, she threw down her trowel and was at my side.
‘Let’s get you to hospital,’ she said. ‘No point hanging around for an ambulance.’
Jean drove me in her little blue Ford Fiesta, weaving her way in from the Forest Hill direction towards the Radcliffe. ‘Do you have a mother I can ring?’ she asked.
I shook my head. If only.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Just my husband. I’ve already left him a message.’ Then I let out a cry as another pain seized my body in an agonizing vice.
‘I’m sure he’ll get here soon.’
I can barely remember arriving at the hospital or the exact order of events. But I do recall lying on my back on a bed with Jean holding my hand and the midwife telling me not to push.
‘But I have to!’ I screamed. It was as though my body was in charge and I had no control over the things it was doing.
The antenatal teacher had stressed the importance of a ‘drug-free birth’. Instead, we should breathe our way through it and ‘distract the mind’ by mentally recalling all the baby items we had bought. I’d refused to go shopping for carrycots or prams, telling Roger that there was still plenty of time. The truth was that it felt unlucky to do so in case it jinxed everything.
‘Give me something for the pain,’ I somehow managed to gasp.
‘It’s too late for an epidural, dear, but we can get you some gas and air.’
A mask was being placed over my mouth. For a minute, I felt as if I was being suffocated. Then I began to relax. I started to half-dream things, just like you do before falling asleep. A beach. Sand. A child running along the water’s edge. He was going in. The waves were over his head. I couldn’t see him any more.
‘NO!’ I screamed. ‘Come back!’
‘You can push now,’ said the midwife. ‘Well done. Good girl.’
‘Save him!’ I screamed. ‘He’s going to drown.’
‘It’s all right, Ellie.’ The nurse’s voice was calm and confident but I knew it was just an act. ‘The gas and air is making you hallucinate.’
The boy was coming out of the sea now. But his face was white. I knew he was dead. He was staring at me with a ‘How could you?’ look on his face.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I wept.
Then I felt Roger’s hand on my brow. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, darling. I only just got your message. But it’s all right. I’m here.’
My husband had arrived?
‘Where’s Jean?’ I gasp.
‘She’s gone now.’
‘Has something happened to her too?’
‘Of course not. Just concentrate on our baby. One more push …’
‘If you don’t mind, Mr Halls, I’d rather you left the instructions to me. One big push, Ellie, and then …’
I could feel something sliding out of me with a whoosh. It was all so fast that I wasn’t even aware of it hurting – not like the previous bit.
‘It’s a girl!’ called out Roger. ‘We’ve got a daughter.’
Thank God it wasn’t a boy. But the room was silent. ‘Nurse?’ said my husband in a strange voice I’d never heard before. ‘Why isn’t she crying?’
But I knew why. It’s because people like me deserve to be punished.
44
Jo
Steve wakes. I pretend that I haven’t been watching him but I can tell he isn’t fooled. ‘You had a nightmare,’ he says, shifting quickly towards his own side of the bed. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage, but you were so upset …’
‘I know. I remember.’
His face is all worried. ‘Do you often have them?’
I think back to how I used to wake Tim, and Paul’s crowd, with my rantings and ravings. ‘No,’ I say, crossing my fingers to stop him asking more questions.
‘I have dreams,’ says Steve thoughtfully. ‘They usually involve changing trains, which, according to this book I read once, is a sign that something is going to happen. Occasionally there’s a baby in it. That means I’m going to embark on some new project.’
He laughs. ‘It’s funny really, especially as I’ve never had a child. What about you?’
I shake my head firmly. ‘No children in my dreams.’
‘But have you ever wanted one – a child, I mean?’
My breath feels like it’s trapped in my chest.
‘It’s hard enough looking after myself.’ I try to laugh it off.
‘You’re right. Mind you, I do sometimes wonder if I’ve missed out on something.’
Steve turns abruptly and gets out of bed. He’s wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms that he’d put on last night in the shower room. His chest has got brown curly hairs on it. It should feel weird, sharing a room with a bloke I don’t really know. But it doesn’t.
He flings back the curtains and opens the window. It’s cold but nice. Outside, the trees are gold and yellow and brown. Little flecks of sunlight dance on the walls. I hear a seagull screaming.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he says softly.
I get out of bed. Something makes me walk towards him. We stand side by side, looking out. It’s like he’s burning me even though we’re not actually touching.
‘Better get going,’ he says, moving away to pick up his rucksack. ‘We need to get to work.’
I feel all cold again. ‘Isn’t it too soon?’
When you don’t have a watch, you learn to tell the time without one. I reckon it’s about 6 a.m. or maybe 6.30.
‘No. It’s perfect. Tourists rise early to cram it all in. And the locals are up and about, getting their morning milk and bread.’
‘Aren’t they too busy to stop and watch?’
‘Wait and see!’ He grabs my arm. Suddenly his face is covered with a huge grin. ‘Come on.’
I follow him down the stairs but the bakery woman is coming up. ‘Thought you’d like to take this,’ she says, pressing a white paper bag into his hand. ‘It’s a croissant. Still warm.’
I can smell it from here.
‘Sorry,’ she says coolly to me. ‘I need the rest for my regular customers.’
Cow.
Steve insists on sharing it with me as we walk down the high street. There’s a pitch, he tells me, which he wants to get to first before anyone else.
‘So there are other street artists?’
‘One or two. But none are like me.’
He doesn’t say this boastfully. It’s more of a fact.
‘There’s a Big Issue chap too,’ he adds. ‘Nice fellow.’
I almost tell him then that I used to be a seller myself but I manage to stop just in time. The less he knows about me, the better.
The day might be bright but hell it’s nippy. ‘The trick is to keep your hands moving,’ Steve tells me, crouching down. He hands me a pink piece of chalk. ‘Shade in that corner of the paving slab, can you?’
‘All on my own?’
‘You’ll be fine.’
Steve’s picture starts out like a few lines that don’t mean anything. Then they grow into a row of cottages with little pointed windows in the roof. A church spire and then a pub.
‘Cool, mate,’ says a voice above us. ‘How do you do it?’
It’s a young man with a guitar slung over his shoulder. I give Steve a ‘Don’t bother with him – he looks skint’ look. But Steve spends ages answering the youth’s questions and telling him how he started. Then the kid begins talking about his life too and how he’s in a band touring from the States. When he goes, he places a twenty-pound note on the ground.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ I say.
‘I know.’ Steve’s eyes are shining. ‘Amazing to meet him, wasn’t it? He comes all the way from a place called Chattanooga in the Deep South. I’d love to go there one day.’
I don’t like to tell him that my ‘bloody brilliant’ remark was aimed at the twenty.
Then a mother gets her toddler to drop in a pound coin. ‘Clever boy!’ She claps like he’s done something really neat. Someone else buys us a cup of coffee each. One fat old bloke stands and gases about the ‘painting’ for ages but doesn’t give anything. ‘It’s not fair,’ I complain.
‘I don’t mind.’ Steve sits back on his heels, surveying the proportions of a new row of cottages in blue and yellow. ‘It gives my hands a break.’ He passes me a piece of violet chalk. ‘How about doing the sea now?’
I make a squiggle. The stick snaps in half. Now what have I done? Automatically, I say ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ and flinch, shielding my face with my arm.
‘Are you OK?’ Steve’s voice is shocked. ‘Has someone hurt you in the past, Jo?’
I don’t know what to tell him, so I just look down at the broken chalk in my hands.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I shake my head.
‘I’m sorry. Life can be very cruel.’ He hands me one half of the broken chalk stick. ‘You’re all right now.’
1.47 p.m., 17 August 1984
‘Come here,’ says Peter, taking my hand. His voice is thick. ‘I saw a woodshed when we arrived. Let’s go.’
But before we can move, Michael comes racing back into the rose garden.
‘You throw really well,’ he says.
‘Thanks,’ Peter says grimly. He catches the ball which Michael clumsily chucks at him. ‘See if you can do one like this.’
Once more, he hurls it into the sky.
Again, Michael goes running after it. ‘See you in the woodshed,’ I call out.
‘Why did you tell him where we were going?’ snaps Peter.
‘I thought it might put him off,’ I say. ‘We could really go somewhere else.’
‘Good idea,’ says Peter, looking around.
I feel a twinge of guilt and then push it away. I’m always looking after Michael. I deserve some time off.
45
Ellie
‘Why isn’t our baby breathing?’ shouted my husband again.
Someone answered but I didn’t hear the reply. I lay on the bed, rigid with shock, conscious of people scuttling around me. There was a quiet, taut air of emergency.
