Marian Dillon - The Lies Between Us

I point in the opposite direction from home, towards town. ‘There’s a place along here.’ I giggle. ‘Sorry, no pun intended. They do the best chips.’

Ed is tall and his stride is long, and I find myself quickening my normal pace. ‘What were you doing in the Albert?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a bit of a dive.’

‘I don’t mind dives,’ he says. ‘But only if they have good beer. Pity that’s my local.’

‘Your local? Does Steve live round here?’

‘No, I’m not staying with him now, I moved into a flat, at the weekend. The two lads I was with, they’re from work, they helped me move a few things in this evening. I bought some second-hand stuff and hired a van to shift it all in one go.’

He tells me what he bought, and what a job they had getting some of it up the narrow stairs to his flat, and I like listening to him, to his northern voice with its abrupt endings and the t just a sound in the back of the throat. When we reach the chip shop we get served quickly because it’s empty, about to close, then we turn back the way we came, picking chips and bits of fish out of polystyrene trays, licking the grease off our fingers.

‘You were right,’ Ed says. ‘About the chips.’

My feet are really hurting now, and I say there are some benches a bit further along, where we could sit down and eat, and Ed says, yes, sure.

The benches are in some gardens, planted on the site of the old Co-op, which burnt down a few years ago; I remember seeing the orange glow in the sky from my bedroom window, the fire was that fierce. Behind the benches is a flower bed, whose leggy plants are still flowering. I recognise them, chrysanthemums, my father’s favourite and one of the few plants I know the name of. Their dank and earthy scent is in the air, and makes me think of a story by D.H. Lawrence, about the accidental death of a miner: Odour of Chrysanthemums . We read it in English, and I liked it so much I went on to read all his novels.

That’s the one thing I really regret, that C in English. It should have been an A. Then I would have already escaped.

We sit down, under a lamp post that casts a circle of brightness around us, and eat hungrily at first, not saying much. I start to wonder if my parents will worry that I’m not home, but then think that my mother is just as likely to be out of it, having drunk herself into one of her deep sleeps, and my father will probably assume I’ve gone off somewhere with a friend, forgetting that most of my friends have gone away to university. Except for Louise, who works in a bank and is all loved up with Tom, about to move into a flat with him. I don’t see much of her these days.

Every now and then my father says he ought to come and pick me up after work, but I tell him I’m all right and that Jon the barman walks me home. Which he does – some nights. I never say to my father that I don’t like climbing into a car with him when he smells of whisky, and when I think he might be over the limit. There’s no way of telling when that might be; if my mother is in one of her drinking moods my father usually has a few too, keeping her company. I think that way he can pretend my mother has it under control.

‘How’s your new job going?’ I ask Ed.

‘Okay. Hard work. I’d forgotten what it’s like, being new boy.’

‘What kind of stories do you cover? I mean, I suppose you don’t just do any old thing.’

‘In Cambridge I was a court reporter,’ he says. ‘But now I’m doing more investigative stuff, stories that are in the public interest, that kind of thing. At the moment I’m following the row about the new bypass they’re planning. Have you heard about that?’

‘A bit, yes. My dad goes on about it. He’s all in favour of it because it would bring traffic right by his salesrooms.’

‘You might have read one of my articles, without knowing it’s me.’

I shake my head. ‘My parents don’t buy the Echo . My mother says it’s too provincial. But then she reads the Daily Mail so her opinion doesn’t really count for much.’

‘Provincial is a dirty word to some,’ he says. ‘But a local paper needs to carry local news. De facto. Anyway, if you buy it yourself you’ll see my name there, most days.’

‘Ah – well, you’ll have to tell me your proper name then.’ I lick grease off my fingers. ‘I guess they don’t just put, by Ed ?’

He winces. ‘Shot myself in the foot there, didn’t I? All right. But first an explanation.’ He gulps down a piece of fish. ‘My parents are called Rhona and Ralph. They decided we boys should all have a name beginning with R. So, there’s Robert, Richard, Raymond and … then they ran out of decent names. I’m Rupert.’

‘Rupert?’ Apart from anything else the name doesn’t go with the flat, northern vowels.

‘Yeah. Like the bear. Rupert Edwards – hence, Ed. Or Eddie the Teddy as my “friends” at school used to shout.’ I snort with laughter. ‘And no, you don’t have permission to call me that.’

He eats the last few chips and screws up the wrapper. ‘Your name’s unusual. I don’t know any other Evas.’

‘My mother named me after one of her favourite film stars. Eva Marie Saint.’

‘Never heard of her, but I like the name.’ He pauses. ‘So you still live at home? You said your parents don’t buy the Echo .’

I stare at him; I’ve almost forgotten that he doesn’t really know who I am.

‘I can’t afford to move out. I don’t earn enough.’

‘That’s your only job, at the pub?’

‘Yes, part-time.’

‘Right.’

I’m going to have to tell him. ‘I only just left school. I failed my A-levels – well, didn’t get the grades I needed for university. So I’m doing resits and hope to go next year.’ I see by his eyes that he’s registering my age, looking surprised; I know I look older than nineteen. ‘I’ll have to find something that pays more, soon. I want to move out, find a flat, if I can.’

‘It’s expensive,’ he says. ‘It costs more than you think.’

‘What’s yours like?’

‘Okay. Monochrome. Everything’s black and white. Apart from the bedroom, which for some weird reason has got shiny wallpaper and looks like the inside of a spaceship. But it’ll do. It’s not for long.’

When I’ve finished my fish and chips we look round for a bin, then leave the gardens.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ Ed says. I tell him there’s no need, but he insists, and to be truthful the streets seem lonely now, at nearly midnight. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realise what he’s about to find out, but I don’t know how to tell him so decide to just let it happen. As we walk along Park Vale I wonder if he will recognise the house. After all, he’s only been there once, as far as I know. But when we get near, when we come to a slow halt outside my house – unlit, a dark block of shadow against the inky-black sky – his mouth drops open.

‘This is your house? Your parents’ house?’

I nod, hoping he won’t think I’ve deliberately done this. I picture the little film show going on in his head: my mother drunkenly dancing; my mother close up to him, practically pinning him against the wall; the things he said to me right at the start. Word is… Steve thinks she must be a bit desperate .

Ed groans, and plunges his head into his hands. He stands very still, staring down at the pavement, then breathes in, breathes out, and looks back at me.

‘Sorry doesn’t go anywhere near, does it? That must have been … what I said, it was so offensive.’ He shakes his head. ‘How come you’re here? I’d have thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.’

I fiddle with a loose thread on the cuff of my jacket. ‘Listen, Ed, it’s what everyone thinks, that’s what you said. Including me. Although I guess, up to now, I’ve only ever thought of it as flirting – embarrassing, drunken flirting. Now …’ I shrug. ‘I’m not sure what I think. Maybe she does have affairs, sleep around, whatever you want to call it. She’s never worked, always been home, she’d have the opportunity, wouldn’t she?’