Lucy English - Selfish People

‘Item five, compost bins,’ said the chairperson. This was Phil. He had been chair for the last three years because nobody else wanted to do it. He was tall and thin with a trim beard. He was a history teacher at the local comprehensive. ‘Clive, I think this is your area.’

Clive was the community gardener. He was about forty with a bald head and an enormous bushy beard. He was square set and rather rounded. While working he wore a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He had tanned skin from working outdoors and red cheeks, probably from too much beer.

‘Ho, the problem, as I see it, is that basically, the residents of Brewery Lane have been complaining about the present siting of the compost bins, basically because of the smell.’

‘Smelly bins,’ said Phil. ‘Well, what to do?’ A map of the whole site was produced and every alternative discussed at great length. Leah looked at the clock: it was gone nine. Doris and Betty kept knitting and started reminiscing about who used to live at 21 Brewery Lane, which was the house opposite the offensive bins. ‘That Madge Parkins, ooh, she were a compost bin ’erself.’

‘Um ladies,’ said Phil. ‘I think we have to wind this up soon. Let me make a suggestion. How about over here at the back of the sports hall?’

‘We’ll have to consult that sports hall chappy,’ said Vic, the treasurer, who could always think of a reason why something wouldn’t work.

‘Leah, that’s your department,’ said Phil.

‘I think it might be better to inform him rather than consult him,’ she said, going pink. Doris and Betty started whispering: ‘… and he wears earrings.’

‘Clive, what do you think?’

‘Well, basically …’ said Clive and the matter went on for another ten minutes.

The meeting finished. Clive was rubbing his hands: ‘Ho, ho, time for a drink. Up the Swan.’ Vic lit up his pipe and blew it near Phil, who had banned smoking at meetings two years ago.

‘I have to go,’ said Leah, gathering up her things and rushing out before anybody could ask her any more questions.

Bailey was at the far end of the bar, a pint of Guinness in front of him and several empty glasses on the table. He looked glum. He was not wearing his usual wacky clothes but a grey jumper and ragged-look jeans. He didn’t see Leah until she sat down opposite him.

‘Yo!’ he said and managed a smile. ‘Well, you got rid of the liquorice allsort.’

‘I can’t wear that to meetings.’ She was also in jeans, decent ones. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, it was one of those last agenda items that go on and on.’

‘I don’t know why you bother.’ His hair was tied back in a ponytail and he had taken off his earrings. ‘What was it about this time?’

She hesitated. Compost bins to be moved near sports hall. Leah to inform Bailey. She didn’t want to talk about that now. ‘A load of rubbish,’ she said and shook her hair as if she were shaking out all the day’s worries.

‘Do that again,’ said Bailey, ‘I liked that.’ And she did, self-consciously, as Bailey watched her. He took a great gulp of his Guinness and handed her a cigarette.

‘Is Declan coming out tonight?’ she said and dropped Bailey’s lighter on the floor. Flustered trying to pick it up she nearly fell off her chair and had to steady herself. She put her hand on Bailey’s knee. There was a huge hole in his jeans, she was touching his knee. He didn’t react. ‘Fuck knows about Declan,’ he said.

They sat there awkwardly. Bailey finished his drink and bought another. Leah smoked a cigarette; so did Bailey. Two lads and a plump girl in a white miniskirt were laughing loudly at the bar. ‘I’m not into this,’ said Bailey. ‘I’m off.’ He stood up. ‘Come and have a spliff at my place.’

It was uphill all the way to Bailey’s. Leah told silly tales about the members of the committee so by the time they reached Steep Street it felt as if they were old friends. The house was the same as she remembered, tiny and blue. Bailey made tea and they smoked joints. He undid his ponytail and rearranged his hair. He hadn’t put on any music so there was just the hissing gas fire to listen to.

‘I was mega naffed off before I met you tonight,’ said Bailey.

‘Because of Declan?’

‘Sod Declan. No, I got a letter from London.’

‘Oh? And that was bad?’

‘From me mum, with photies.’

Leah didn’t understand any of this. ‘You don’t like your mum?’

‘You’re fucking right I don’t.’ He smoked his joint furiously.

‘You don’t like her sending you photographs?’

‘No! I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, she’s growing up and I don’t see her.’

‘Your little girl.’ She understood now. ‘Does your wife write to your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘And not to you?’

‘You got it.’ He picked at the hole in his jeans.

‘Do you write to her?’

‘Sometimes …’

‘And she never writes back?’

He shrugged and pulled out a thread. He had long fingers. They were not graceful. After a while Leah said, ‘Why did you leave? Was it that bad?’

He said nothing and then he said, ‘I couldn’t hack it, that’s why.’

‘And you walked out: that’s a weird thing to do.’

‘I was going fucking mental, I had to.’

How odd it must be to just leave, to leave behind a child, with no explanations, or apologies, or anything . ‘Things change all the time, you think something’s bad, you can’t stand it, and then it changes.’ She knew she was saying that for her own benefit as well as Bailey’s.

‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘they were nice photies. I stuck one on me wall.’ And he smiled. Leah smiled too. They sat there for a while until Leah said, ‘I have to go home,’ and Bailey said, ‘That’s OK.’

As she walked home the roads were frosty and slippery and the air was sharp. She felt peaceful and light-headed. She crossed the park and she was unafraid: so much so she stopped at the top to look at the view. All the lights of Bristol. Bailey, I want to know you better . She walked down to Garden Hill skidding on the frosty roads as if her feet didn’t belong on the earth, as if they had no place there.

When Leah arrived home the house was dark and quiet. She unlocked the door and crept up the stairs. She was halfway up when Al said from the darkness, ‘So, you’re back then?’ She was startled. She didn’t want to converse but he had different ideas.

‘Good meeting was it?’

‘Not too bad, a bit boring.’

‘Nice drink? At the Swan?’

‘Oh you know, same old stuff …’

They were, both of them, still in darkness. ‘Who was there?’

‘Phil, Clive, Vic Rodgers, Doris and Betty, for a bit, then they went home.’ She leaned on the banisters and peered into the front room: she could just see Al standing in the doorway.

‘So you had a good time?’

‘Yes … well … I’d better get to bed, it’s getting late.’

‘You lying bitch,’ hissed Al.

Leah froze. Al ran up the stairs and grabbed her. He dragged her into the front room. He pushed her on to the sofa and turned on the light. She blinked.

‘You’re lying!’ He was furious and pale.

‘I’m not.’ She was confused and beginning to shake.

‘You were never in the Swan.’ And before she could speak he threw a notepad at her. It hit her on the cheek. She picked it up off the floor. It was hers.

‘Nice Mr Chairperson Phil brought it round after the meeting because you left it behind, because you were in such a hurry. You didn’t go to the Swan, did you?’

‘No,’ said Leah, thinking as hard as she could of a way to stop this getting worse.