Lucy English - Selfish People

SELFISH PEOPLE

Lucy English

Fourth Estate

An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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

Cover

Title Page SELFISH PEOPLE Lucy English

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

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.