Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Her eyes flew open again, ‘Sorry?’

(She hadn’t realised that she’d closed them. That was half the shock.)

‘The librarian told me what he took out. But he’s not a great reader, Shoes.’ Wesley grabbed the discarded tissue paper and gently wound it around her arm again. When he’d finished, he carefully pulled her sleeve down over the top.

‘So which book was it?’

Josephine pushed her hand down the side of her chair. She retrieved the book. He took it from her. She stared at his face –

Looking for clues

Can’t…

Can’t help myself

— but he gave nothing away.

‘There’s this ridiculously prevalent myth about Louis L’Amour…’ he said, flicking idly through it, ‘that his whole existence as a writer-hero of the American West has been fabricated. That he isn’t American at all. That he’s English. That he lives in Stansted or Woking or somewhere. All complete bullshit, by the way. Because he was the real thing; hobo, writer, marine, cattle rancher, explorer. Entirely self-educated. Bare-knuckle boxer. I love all that stuff.’

He slapped it shut and passed it back to her.

‘Good choice,’ he said.

She took the book and pushed it back down the side of her seat. ‘I don’t know much about Westerns,’ she said, ‘but apparently the Estuary is meant to bear a strong resemblance to the American…’

‘It’s the English psyche,’ Wesley interrupted, ‘we love to devitalise — suck out the sap — it’s our most fundamental instinct. We mistrust passion. We think it’s a sign of weakness or deviance. And we loathe sincerity. It makes us uneasy…’

He shrugged, ‘It’s an automatic gut reaction, a knee-jerk thing. And it’s only because we don’t actually know who we are, because we’re all spent as a nation. Even a cow understands its own essence better than we can — understands its cowness — but we don’t have a clue. We don’t know what it is to be human. And we sorely resent all those creatures, those nationalities, those non-conformists who do.’

‘D’you reckon L’Amour would be less of a hero if he did write all his stuff in a bedsit in Woking?’ she asked, idly touching her arm where he’d touched it before.

‘That’s a bullshit question,’ he yawned, ‘you obviously haven’t been paying attention.’ He scratched his head then collapsed back on his seat. ‘I’m going to sleep,’ he said, ‘turn off the heater, put my jumper and coat back on, unzip the sleeping bag, we’ll need to share it.’

Then he switched the light off, shifted onto his right hip and turned slightly to the left. ‘I’ll take on the doorhandle,’ he told her, grudgingly, ‘if you don’t mind the gearstick.’

‘It’s so damn Catholic, ’ Katherine told him, ‘the way you always clean your plate off like that.’

Ted put down his fork, looked up. ‘I don’t always,’ he said, a hint of childish rebellion entering his voice, ‘and it has nothing to do with being…’

‘Yes you do,’ she interrupted.

‘Not if it’s cabbage or broad beans,’ he said.

‘You really need to cast off those shackles, Ted. The permanent stain of the armed bloody forces, the infernal, strangulating noose of the papacy. Cast them off! Stop being so ridiculously compliant. It’s so boring for everybody.’

‘Navy,’ he murmured obdurately, glancing over towards the door.

‘Same thing,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said.

She gazed down at him, opened her mouth and covered it with her hand in a demonstration of faux-shock.

He shrugged

‘Let’s face it, Teddy, once the church and the army have had their portion,’ she continued, like a puppy worrying a discarded sock, ‘there’s only a very tiny little piece of the original Ted left. And this significant part is defined entirely by its absolute rejection of the broad bean.’

Ted shook his head. She was always like this. Would never leave things where they were. He glanced over towards the door for a second time.

‘Why’s the door suddenly so fascinating?’

‘If you must know,’ he said (as if seeing the door had somehow given him confidence — the certain confirmation of a quick exit, maybe), ‘I didn’t entirely like the way that you…’

Entirely

Such a compromise word

Wesley wouldn’t use it

Wesley wouldn’t compromise with his words like that

‘I didn’t at all like…’

Nope

That’s just not me

He tried to push himself away from the table (eating at such an acute angle had given him indigestion. His neck was aching. He was slightly worried about Arthur — and Wesley, too, for that matter, however gratuitously).

Katherine put out a restraining hand, grabbed a firm hold of his arm, stopped him. ‘ Hates broad beans, loves the door,’ she announced. ‘That’s almost a manifesto, Ted. You could run for political office on it. It’s a fucking platform. ’

‘True,’ he said.

‘And that’s a good one;’ Katherine smiled, ‘ agrees with anything to avoid conflict. It’s just got to be a central plank in your electoral strategy.’

Ted shrugged.

‘So what…’ she tightened her grip on his arm, ‘ what was it that you didn’t like before?’

Ted cleared his throat. Now he was in for it.

‘And where did Wesley get to, anyway,’ she continued, picking up her plate, stacking it on top of his and then leaving it there. ‘Nobody’s filled me in yet.’

Ted half-smiled to himself –

Off the hook

He straightened his head.

‘Your cryptic smile,’ Katherine informed him, ‘is pissing me off.’

‘I’m worried about Arthur,’ he said, wiping his smile away, jiggling his stiff shoulder, ‘I’m worried Dewi might be…’ he paused.

‘Might be what?’

‘Dewi thinks he’s one of the Behindlings. He thinks it’s a question of taking sides. Or that’s what he told me.’

‘I can see why,’ Katherine concurred (somewhat unexpectedly, Ted thought, considering), ‘and I thought he was, too, to begin with, but not any more,’ she put her finger to her nose, ‘he doesn’t smell like someone who’d Follow. He smells of boot polish and resin. Like repression. He smells like a leader of men, but all kind of… kind of stunted… misdirected… ’

Ted was frowning –

Resin?

‘All the charity stuff,’ Katherine continued, ‘was absolutely inspired. And he fucks like a wolf. He’s fantastically sinewy.’

Ted winced at this.

‘God. You and your damn wincing, ’ Katherine muttered, pulling her hair away from her face, ‘let’s see…’ she counted each thing off, on her fingers, individually, ‘so we’ve got wincing, broad beans, love of the door…’

‘Talking of… uh … I saw…’ Ted put his own hand to his neck, his tie.

‘Pardon?’ Katherine didn’t like being interrupted, especially by him.

‘I saw the Bean girl, earlier. She was in the bar. And I’ve seen her outside here, twice, with the Followers…’

No reaction from Katherine.

‘You still haven’t clarified what you meant,’ she said, screwing up her eyes, ‘when you said I didn’t like the way that you… ’

Ted pulled himself up from his deck chair, grabbed their two plates and walked over to the sink.

‘It tasted like pheasant,’ he said, tipping them in and turning on the tap (no hot water, dammit), ‘don’t you think?’