Lucy English - Selfish People

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 …