Selfish People

SELFISH PEOPLE

Lucy English

Copyright

Fourth Estate

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1998 by

Copyright © 1998 by Lucy English

The right of Lucy English to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Lines from Mrs Robinson

Copyright © 1968 by Paul Simon

Used by permission of the Publisher

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Source ISBN: 9781857027631

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780007484935

Version: 2016-02-29

TO MY FAMILY

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

This is a dream. I’m in the middle of a field making a daisy chain. The chain is long and curled round and round in my lap. Rachel, next to me, is knitting a picture jumper. Trees, long grass, buttercups, she is knitting the countryside around us. Knitting fast and the picture pours out of her hands. Now a piece of sky, now an elder bush. We don’t speak. The needles clack. I can smell the hot sun on the grass. The field is so full of daisies it’s bursting. The chain is longer. Then the jumper changes and the blue sky becomes grey and more grey. ‘Because I’m sad,’ says Rachel …

She woke up and she knew she had to see Rachel. Across her room the geraniums cast grey shadows on the rug and this confirmed it; Rachel always wore grey. It was eight o’clock, too early for a Sunday morning, but Al was shouting at the children. Her dream snapped shut and she ran downstairs.

‘What’s going on?’ There was milk on the floor and Shreddies everywhere.

‘We were hungry,’ they wept.

‘It’s too much. They woke me at six.’ Al, in his stripy dressing gown, stood in the middle of the room picking damp Shreddies off his foot.

‘I was asleep,’ apologised Leah. She had done the wrong thing, again. He began to clean up, ineffectively. He had fair curly hair which he hadn’t brushed for days and it was now matted at the back. It irritated Leah.

‘Let me do it. You go back to bed.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got two essays to write and a project and I’ve got to hand them in tomorrow.’ He plonked himself on a chair and rolled a cigarette. He had established himself as martyr of the day.

‘I’ll take them,’ said Leah, a bigger martyr. ‘Did you eat any of this?’ Two pink faces watched her tipping squashed Shreddies into the bin.

‘It was Tom’s fault, he did it,’ said Ben.

‘I didn’t!’ And Tom began to cry.

‘Shut up and sit down.’ Leah made toast. She was glad Jo was staying with a friend. Al was sneaking away. ‘I’ll take them to Rachel’s, I haven’t seen her for ages and I had this dream about her …’ She spread the marmalade, but Al was halfway up the stairs.

There was silence in the terraced house kitchen which never seemed to get any light even when it was sunny. It was sunny now. She stood by the sink, her hands in the washing-up water, staring out of the window. The window looked out on to the wall separating them from next door. The children watched her nervously.

‘Yes. We can see Rachel and her boyfriend and Oliver and play with all his toys.’

‘And his battery car?’ asked Ben with a third piece of toast.

‘And his battery car.’

‘Has he got a torch?’ asked Tom.

She ran a bath. She had a bath every morning. Despite the rush getting the children to school and Al’s protests she spent half her life in there. The bathroom was tacked on to the back of the kitchen. It was damp and full of black mould and slugs who slipped in at night to disgust those foolish enough to step on them in bare feet. She poured in rose oil and stepped into the sweet water.

This is my only quiet space. Here I can float. Here I can be queen.

Al rattled the door handle. ‘How long are you going to be? I thought you were going out?’

‘I am going out.’

‘When? When? I can’t possibly concentrate with those two.’

She splashed the water over her. In the summer her skin went golden but now she felt pale and dull and flabby like a huge white slug. ‘When? When?’ She heaved herself out of the bath and opened the door to Al. She found it difficult to talk to him when he was angry.

Why are you so angry? What have I done? But she said none of this.

‘I suppose you’ve used up all the hot water, then?’ said Al, sounding very like Jo.

‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ And she squeezed past him and ran up to her room.

They had separate rooms. When they first moved to Bristol this was something to do with Tom being a tiny baby and Al saying he didn’t want to be disturbed any more. But that was four years ago. Leah’s room was neat and rather prim, with geraniums by the window and an Indian rug. China on a big chest of drawers, a carved mirror and watercolours on the walls. She had a dolls’ cot with six old dolls in it, dressed in gowns. In an alcove cupboard were all her clothes. Leah had plenty of clothes. Years ago she stopped buying china and paintings because they didn’t have the money, but she still bought clothes from jumble sales and charity shops. Al saw it as reckless extravagance. What shall I wear? She had to get it right, she had to feel right. Today, she chose blue and white striped leggings and a sea blue jumper: she wanted to feel strong and clear. Al was coming up the stairs. The children were squabbling in the front room.

‘When are you going out?’ He was standing outside her door, waiting, as if he wanted to catch her naked. He opened the door quickly, but Leah was dressed, in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Her hair was long and gold blonde. Al watched. Leah didn’t look at him, but at herself in the mirror.

I am small. I have slanting blue eyes and a pointed nose. Sometimes I feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel like an old witch.

He went to his own room and kicked something in the doorway. Al’s room was a muddle. Clothes on the floor, newspapers, cups of coffee, college projects, children’s drawings and half-eaten biscuits. If things from the house landed up in his room they were never seen again. It might have been his idea in the first place but Al hated having separate rooms. To other people he would say, ‘That’s my study,’ but it was obvious nothing could be studied in there. If questioned further he would get angry and admit it, with a postscript, ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t sleep together.’

She phone Rachel twice but she was engaged.

‘So, when are you going?’ Al was still in his dressing gown. Ben and Tom were now playing a wild whooping game on the stairs.

‘Sod it, we’ll go now.’ She stuffed wriggling children into their coats and bundled them out of the door. ‘Good luck with your essay.’

It was a long walk to Rachel’s, right over the park and up the hill to Totterdown. It was November. Leaves had fallen off long ago. The park looked wintry, but it was sunny. The city below was shades of pink and gold. The wind pushed against them, stinging ears and blowing hair all over the place.

‘Can I play with Oliver’s torch all day?’ said Tom.

‘We might not be able to stay long …’ They were at the highest point in the park and they stopped to look at the view. ‘Look, there’s St Mary Redcliffe, and there’s the suspension bridge … We might not be able to stay long because her boyfriend isn’t very well.’

‘Has he got measles?’ said Ben.

‘No, he’s got cancer, it’s a bit different.’ My dream, the picture world turning sad grey, and now I feel bad. He’s been ill since June and I haven’t been round there once. Rachel’s having a bad time with it. She watched two seagulls flying towards the city. Her children next to her were waiting for an explanation. Why am I always answering questions? ‘He has to lie down a lot. He gets very tired. We’ll have to be good and quiet.’

The Wells Road was steep as they walked into the wind.

‘Can we have a snack soon?’ said Ben.

‘You’ve just had breakfast.’ He put on his grumpy look. He was the sturdiest of her children and tall for his age. Tom was flimsy and fine boned. He had golden curls. He was often mistaken for a girl. At that moment he was sucking his thumb, but Ben was frowning like a tank commander. ‘Don’t,’ said Leah. They turned into Rachel’s street and for a second were protected from the wind. Up here the houses were larger and grander than the terraced boxes of Garden Hill. Leah hesitated. She wondered if she were doing the right thing.

Rachel opened the door. She was all in grey. Her face was grey too. She wasn’t surprised or shocked to see them. ‘Come in,’ she said.

‘If it’s not convenient, we’ll go away.’

‘No, come in.’ She moved into the darkness of the hall and Leah followed her. Oliver bounced down the stairs and when Ben and Tom saw him they all ran squealing into the sitting room, which was full of people. Upstairs were more people. Leah was confused: she had expected a hushed hospital-like atmosphere. In the kitchen was Rachel looking lost and weary. On the table were vases and vases of flowers.

‘Where’s Ian?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Rachel.

‘It was last week.’ Rachel wiped her eyes with a large man’s handkerchief. She was so thin her jumper was slipping off her shoulders.

‘Was it here?’

‘No, he was in hospital. I couldn’t cope with it here any more. They were decent. He had all his friends there.’

Leah had only met Ian once. He was from Liverpool. He was down to earth, likeable and had friends everywhere. It seemed insane somebody so full of life should die like that.

‘He was unconscious. He kept slipping in and out … it went on for days … I’m glad it’s over.’

Leah knew Rachel wasn’t hard hearted. Ian had rotted away for months. Rachel blew her nose loudly; she was not delicate sometimes. She looked delicate, though. She was pale and her hair was fine and very dark, cut straight across. Now she was thin but her face was usually rounder. She had exceptional dark grey eyes. She could look quite ethereal.

‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said. She filled the kettle, turned on the gas, got the cups. Each movement slow and deliberate as if she had to concentrate.

The kitchen was quiet but the rest of the house was not. The children were now running up and down the hall. The people were leaving and Rachel went to see them off. Upstairs somebody was banging radiator pipes. The noise reverberated right through the house.

Rachel came back. ‘Family,’ she said.

‘Rachel? Rachel?’ called a voice. ‘Where did you put the doodah?’

Down the stairs came Bee, Rachel’s mother, in bright green slacks, a gin and tonic in one hand, a cigarette in the other. ‘Do introduce me to your friend.’

‘It’s Leah. You’ve met before.’

‘How sweet of you to call.’

‘It seems like a most inconvenient moment,’ said Leah, acutely aware of her rampaging children who now burst into the kitchen making all sorts of unreasonable requests. She attempted order.

‘They’re adorable,’ said Bee, backing away. She put her glass by the sink and began opening cupboards. ‘What shall we have for lunch?’

‘Anything you like. You’re cooking it,’ said Rachel.

Leah made the children a drink. ‘We won’t stay long.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel. Bee had found some courgettes and potatoes and was looking at them as if they were aliens.

‘What about baked potatoes?’ said Rachel.

‘Of course.’ Rachel never wore make-up but Bee wore orangy foundation and today her lips were crimson. Upstairs the banging was becoming deafening.

‘Daddy’s mending the radiators.’

‘I’ll see how it’s going,’ said Bee.

‘They’ve been here since Thursday. Mummy’s doing all the cooking. We usually have lunch around six.’ Leah had to smile, but Rachel wasn’t smiling. She had dark circles under her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s OK. They look after Oliver as well.’

Oliver, Ben and Tom were blowing bubbles into their mugs and giggling. Oliver was fair haired, he had a chubby face and a turned-up nose. Only in certain lights did he look like Rachel.

‘Ian died,’ he said suddenly to Ben, who looked blank: he had forgotten who Ian was. Rachel listened with her hand on her face.

‘Did he get shot?’ asked Ben.

‘He just got sick and died. Mummy was crying. Weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Rachel, still watching them.

‘When next door’s cat died they buried it in the garden,’ said Ben, blowing bubbles. Leah could have kicked him. ‘It’s not the same,’ she said.

‘Why?’ said Tom who probably hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

‘There’s some chocolates in the front room,’ said Rachel. ‘You can have one each.’ The children disappeared instantly.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Leah.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rachel.

‘How’s Oliver?’

‘He asks questions. He’s funny about going to sleep …’ She didn’t say any more. Ian was not Oliver’s father.

I remember sitting on Brandon Hill and you told me about this person you’d just met. You were hesitant. You liked him, but … you described him and what he wore, dreadful trainers, and his friends who got drunk all the time … and the stars above Brandon Hill were bright and clear. It was back in the spring …

Hugh came into the kitchen carrying a radiator. ‘That’s the one in the spare room done. This is from Oliver’s room. Got any enamel paint and I’ll fix the rust stains?’

‘In the cupboard,’ said Rachel. Hugh was smallish, like Rachel. He had gold-rimmed glasses which made him look like a bank manager.

‘This is Leah. She didn’t know Ian had died.’

‘Well … yes …’ He stopped for a moment by the cupboard. ‘I’d better find this paint, then. What’s for lunch?’

‘Ask Mum.’

Bee appeared. ‘Hugh’s made such a mess up there, I don’t know. Where’s your dustpan, darling?’

‘Under the sink.’ Rachel was looking more weary every minute.

‘Doesn’t seem to be there, darling.’

‘Can’t find this paint.’

Rachel sighed. She found the dustpan and the paint and followed her father upstairs.

‘It was very good of you to come,’ said Bee.

‘I hadn’t seen her for ages.’

‘He was a nice boy.’ And she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘It’s very upsetting. We did have our hopes.’ She meant marriage. Rachel had often complained about this. Bee turned on the oven and fiddled with the timer. ‘Oh dear, I much prefer microwaves.’

Rachel and Leah sat together again in the kitchen. The rest of the house had become quiet.

‘You’re exhausted. When it’s all over perhaps you can have a holiday.’

‘I was on holiday. Then the hospital rang and I had to come back. I was fucking angry about it …’

Leah laughed. Rachel was always fucking angry about something. They used to see more of each other, but recently with her working and not getting on with Al …

Rachel gazed beyond the flowers. She had a habit of drifting into a private space and in these moments there was little point in talking to her. Leah waited. Rachel picked a petal off a white chrysanthemum.

‘How do you get on with his friends?’ asked Leah.

Rachel considered this. ‘At first I thought they were right wasters. It’s so competitive. They brag about who gets the most wrecked. But when he was ill … they came to see him. The more sick he became he didn’t want to see them. I suppose it reminded him of what he used to be. He wanted to see me. He thought I could save him. He thought if I loved him more I would save him …’ She stopped and Leah thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t, she slipped back to her private world as if she would find answers and comfort there. ‘He had no belief. He thought death was the end. He was so fucking scared … he didn’t want to talk about death. He wanted to get better. His friends are the same. They’re so thrown but they don’t want to talk about it.’ She smiled. ‘They wrote poems to read at his funeral.’

‘Poems?’ And Leah remembered. ‘Do you know Declan and Bailey? They live on the other side of the Wells Road.’

‘They’re Ian’s friends.’

‘I didn’t know you knew them.’ And they both laughed.

‘Declan’s a terrible drunk but I like him, but I don’t know Bailey all that well.’

‘Oh I do,’ said Leah, feeling all excited now.

‘Oh do you?’ said Rachel with all her old sarcasm.

‘I was round there the other week. I had such a weird time. Declan said his friend was dying and later Bailey told me about the poems.’

‘The funeral was yesterday.’ Rachel was not laughing now. Leah understood all she had said about competitive wrecking.

‘Bailey teaches basketball at the Project. That’s how I know him. What do you think of him?’

Rachel frowned. She was very critical of men. ‘He’s scattered. He’s all over the place.’

‘There’s a lot of him,’ said Leah, thinking.

Rachel was becoming more dreamy. It was time to go. They went to find the boys. As they opened the sitting-room door three guilty faces stared at them.

‘They’ve eaten the lot!’

‘Ben and Tom made me,’ wailed Oliver, and Leah quite believed that.

‘A whole box of chocolates! Boys, you’ll be sick.’

Rachel could do without this. Leah got their coats. On the doorstep she hugged Rachel, who seemed to be fading away. Upstairs Bee and Hugh were arguing.

At the top of the street she caught up with the boys. ‘You are very, very naughty, you ate all her chocolates.’ But going round my head is, Ian is dead, Declan and Bailey, and Rachel knows them. She wiped the boys’ faces with a spat-on handkerchief. They grimaced and wriggled.

‘Oliver didn’t have a torch,’ said Tom.

‘Does it matter?’ She wished they weren’t with her.

‘Is it lunch soon?’ said Ben.

‘How can you be hungry? How can you?’ They were on the Wells Road being knocked about by the wind.

‘Are we going home?’

‘No we’re not. We’re going to see Bailey.’

Bailey and Declan lived in Steep Street. It was aptly named. The end of it fell off the edge of Totterdown into a flight of steps. The wind blew up it like a gale.

‘Can we run?’

‘Yes, run. Go on, run.’ And she ran too. It seemed she would jump off the end of the street and fly right across Bristol, the wind underneath her. They skidded to a halt in front of the door. The boys knocked loudly, all giggly from running, and she was light-headed too. Bailey opened the door. The first thing she noticed were his odd clothes. A pink and black spotty shirt and baggy turquoise trousers. Then his face, pale and unshaven and evidently not pleased to see them. But Leah was too excited to stop now.

‘It’s remarkable. I know Ian. I know Rachel. I’ve just been round there. I didn’t know he had died. I didn’t know he was Declan’s friend. I had this dream I had to see her, so I did and we’ve just been running. Isn’t it windy, can we come in?’

‘Well, if yer must.’ He had a sarf London accent.

Bailey’s and Declan’s house was tiny. Even smaller than Leah’s. The front room was all blue. The walls, the sofa and the curtains. There were art books, large plants and an even larger television. A Cézanne print hung over the fireplace. It was pretty tasteful really. On a low table were three ashtrays stuffed full of fag-ends. The children immediately started fiddling with everything. Bailey spread himself on the sofa. He was six foot four. When he sat on a sofa he took up all of it.

‘How are you then?’

He didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette. Leah sat on the other sofa.

‘Are there any toys?’ asked Ben, half at Leah and half at Bailey.

‘Nope,’ said Bailey.

‘Why?’ said Tom, knocking something off the mantelpiece. Luckily it didn’t break.

Bailey blew out smoke noisily.

‘Can they watch the telly?’ said Leah, desperately.

He handed Ben the remote control, which was a bad move since they now started flicking through the channels and arguing. Leah felt her insides gurgle. Ian’s dead. Rachel’s in grey. The wind’s racing up Steep Street and Bailey’s big bare foot is dangling over the arm of the sofa.

‘Where’s Declan?’

‘Asleep.’ Another whoosh of smoke.

‘Boys. Declan’s still asleep. You must be quiet!’

‘Who’s Declan?’ said Ben.

‘He lives here. He’s Ian’s friend.’

‘Who’s Ian?’ said Tom.

‘He’s dead,’ said Ben. Fortunately they found some American football and started watching this. Leah watched too.

‘Is Declan all right?’

‘No.’ Bailey stubbed out his fag.

‘Poor Declan. Rachel looked terrible. I hadn’t seen her for months.’

Bailey yawned and stretched himself. Leah was embarrassed. He hadn’t even offered to make a cup of tea, which was odd, he drank gallons of the stuff. He lit up again. She half watched the telly and half watched Bailey.

Bailey was not handsome. His face was too long and his ears too big. But he was impressive. For a start he had dark red hair, not ginger, but chestnut red, shoulder length and wavy. He was vain about his hair and was always patting or flicking it. When he played basketball he tied it up with scarves and headbands. The first time Leah met him he said, ‘Yer hair’s almost as thick as mine,’ which she understood later was a compliment. Secondly, Bailey wore odd clothes. Plaid trousers, red shirts, a lime green tracksuit and fluorescent pink cycling shorts. What with his scarves, dangling earrings and all-revealing shorts, the old biddies at the Project stared at him. So did everybody else.