Pat Barker - Life Class

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I don’t know. My ribs hurt.’

She stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’

It took a long time getting up the stairs, hips jostling hard against each other. Her arm was round his waist. At last they reached her room and he collapsed on to the sofa. All he wanted to do now was sleep. Sleep or, preferably, die.

‘Where does it hurt?’

No sympathy. She could smell the beer on his breath.

‘Ribs. Mainly.’

‘Take your shirt off.’

That was a struggle. When it was done, he fell back, hearing her make little tetching sounds of dismay or disapproval. She fetched hot water and soap from the kitchen and set to work to clean him up. ‘I daren’t run a bath,’ she said. ‘It’s too late. The boiler makes a terrible racket.’

Ten painful minutes later: ‘You’ll have to go to hospital, Paul. I can’t cope with this.’

‘In the morning.’

‘Did he kick you?’

‘Ouch!’

‘It’s got to be washed, Paul. It’s filthy.’ She gently wiped the flannel across his side. ‘You should really have that stitched.’

He was aware of her slim waist as she bent over him. The lace front of her blous tickled his face.

‘There,’ she said, at last, sitting back. ‘That’s the best I can do. We’ll get you to a doctor in the morning.’

‘I can’t stay here.’

‘It’ll be all right. You can’t go home.’

She made him toast and cocoa, fetched a pillow and bedspread and settled him down for the night.

‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘I need to warn Teresa.’

‘Tomorrow. I’ll go and see her, if you like?’

‘He might be there now.’

‘There’s nothing you can do. Try to get some sleep.’

He lay down, dreading the long, sleepless night ahead, only to surprise himself by drifting off almost at once. His sleep was full of confused, dark dreams. More than once he jerked awake to the sound of wheels clattering over cobbles, and hardly knew whether the cab was in the road outside or in his dream: the black, windowless vehicle that had taken his mother away. Glancing up at the curtains, he saw that dawn was mercifully close, and lay as still as he could, trying not to move his head.

Every breath hurt. Every thought hurt. Teresa had been telling the truth all along and he hadn’t believed her, and now she too must be at risk. He ought to get up. He swung his legs on to the floor, and groaned. Enough of that. He had to get moving before people were about.

At the third attempt he got his right arm into his shirtsleeve and then had to stop, wiping sweat away from his upper lip. All the while, in some separate corner of his brain, the fight with Halliday went on and on, every blow and kick constantly replayed. But it was merely background noise and still left him free to think about his future. There was no confusion now, only a dreadful clarity. The whole of the past year had been a complete waste of time. Hanging round the Café Royal with a beautiful model on his arm, spending too much, drinking too much, turning in work that would have disgraced a schoolboy. What did he think he was doing? His time at the Slade was ending in failure — and he deserved to fail.

It was time to go home, have one last try at painting something good — no, not good; honest. Honest would be a start. And if that didn’t work, he’d look for a job — almost any job. Stop squandering his nan’s legacy.

But meanwhile there was Teresa. That had to be finished properly. He had to make sure she was all right.

He was trying to get the left arm into his sleeve, but his muscles seemed to have stiffened overnight and he could hardly move. Bracing himself for another attempt, he looked up and saw Elinor, wearing a long white nightdress, watching him from her bedroom door.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Oh, God, that was a squeak. He took a deep, searing breath. ‘Not bad at all.’

‘You look terrible.’

‘Ah, but you should see the other chap.’

It hurt to laugh. Elinor came across and helped him into his shirt, then his socks and shoes.

‘I’m sorry to be so useless.’

He looked down at the burnished golden bell of her hair, and imagined stroking it. Get a hold of yourself, he told himself. You’re no use to any woman in this state.

Once his laces were securely tied he stood up. The floor shelved away beneath him, the air turned black, but when the rush of blood subsided, he was still on his feet. She was brushing his jacket. Some of the dirt had dried and came off easily, but it was still a mess. Cautiously, with a lot of help from her, he managed to get into it and stood while she gave him a final brush down.

‘You’ll have to buy a new one. You can’t go anywhere in this.’

‘No, I know.’

‘I’ll make some tea. Have to be black, I’m afraid. I’m out of milk.’

‘No, I won’t have any, thanks. I’d better be off.’

‘You need a doctor.’

‘I’ll go to the hospital. Soon as I can. Promise.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, better not.’

He looked out of the window. The street was deserted. With any luck he might slip out unobserved.

‘You’re welcome to stay, you know.’

‘No. I shouldn’t be here at all, really. It was selfish.’ He raised his hand and laid it against her cheek. ‘Dear Elinor. Thanks for putting up with me.’

She blushed. ‘When shall I see you?’

‘I don’t know. Will you go to see Teresa?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll be over there as soon as I can. And then I think I might go home for a few days. I need to think.’

‘Good idea, let things calm down a bit. But don’t think too long, will you? I’ll miss you.’

He bent and rested his cheek against hers. She let him out of the room and watched through a crack in the door as he tiptoed downstairs. The house was heavy with the breaths of sleepers. Opening the door, he peered out, and slipped out into the street like a burglar.

The buildings he knew so well looked unfamiliar in the pre-dawn light. Crossing the road, he limped along, stumbling once or twice where a tree root had raised the paving stones. At times he went dizzy, but steadied himself and went on again. Straight to the hospital to get his ribs bound up, then he’d go to see Teresa, to make sure she was all right. He owed her that at least.

Opening the door to let him in, Teresa kept her face averted, took him along to the living room, and left him there. He stood in the doorway and stared, struggling to take in the changes. She’d stripped the red and blue shawls from the furniture and taken all the paintings down. A beige three-piece sofa, so lumpy and ancient the springs bulged out of the seats, took up a huge amount of space. Cigarettes had burnt black holes in the arms. A greasy patch on the back showed where a previous tenant had rested his head. The pictures had left ghost squares on the wall. The rugs, rolled up, revealed the full horror of the carpet with its interminable, meaningless pattern.

The shock of this dismantling was very great. He went into the bedroom and found Teresa putting a folded skirt into the suitcase that lay open on the bed.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m going away for a few days.’ Her voice was tight to bursting.

‘Where? How long for?’

More than a few days. Two more suitcases, already packed, stood at the foot of the bed.

‘My auntie’s.’

Her face was in shadow. He caught her arm and pulled her across to the lamp. She had a bruise on one cheekbone and a cut on her lower lip. ‘Jack?’

‘Who else?’ She laughed. It would have distressed him less if she’d screamed. ‘I might as well go home. I certainly can’t model looking like this.’