Alison Moore: The Pre-War House and Other Stories

‘We must say, Tina,’ said Uncle, ‘when we make a mistake.’

She put the baby to bed, lingering long after he fell asleep. She couldn’t bear to go back to the smoky, suffocating kitchen. Her top was wet under the armpits. Her back and her scalp were sweating. She went to the bathroom, ran the cold tap, and splashed lukewarm water on her face. She opened the tiny window wide, hoping for a little air, but instead she felt the day’s warmth slumping through like dead weight.

She nears the top of the iron staircase, and now she is climbing so slowly but still she is almost there.

She went from the bathroom to her bedroom and stopped outside the door. She looked back towards the kitchen, where they were all busy talking, and then stepped across the hallway and slowly opened Grandmother’s bedroom door. The baby was asleep in his cot, with his night-light on. She crossed the quiet room, hearing the noise of the carpet beneath her feet. She went first to Grandmother’s bedside table and opened the drawer, but inside there was just a Bible. She slid her hand under the mattress and ran it all the way down to the foot of the bed, feeling the bare slats. Under the bed, there were only slippers; in the chest of drawers there were only clothes.

Tina went to the cot. She slipped her fingers down between the bars and the baby’s mattress. The baby sighed and Tina froze, willing him not to wake, not to cry — she did not want Grandmother coming down the hallway. She wondered whether she dared to look in the room the men shared. She could still hear the debate going on in the kitchen.

Suddenly, she looked up. A figure stood in the doorway, looking at her with her hands in the baby’s cot. Her heart bucked inside her chest like a wild horse roped.

‘I was just checking on the baby,’ said Tina, and her voice sounded strange to her, disembodied in the dim room.

‘My mother does not like you,’ said Uncle, the diamond glinting on his tooth as he spoke. ‘She does not trust you.’

Tina wondered how long he had been standing there.

‘I want my things back,’ she said.

‘You do not need your passport now,’ he said. ‘But I will bring you money.’

Tina went to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. When there was a knock at her door, she went and opened it. Uncle held out a couple of notes in the local currency, just pocket money. She looked at him, and he said, ‘It is enough now. Why do you want more?’

She took the notes, and closed her door again.

It was so hot. It was unbearable. The window in her room did not open; the frame appeared to have been painted shut. But it seemed that there was no cool air anyway, anywhere. Her heart was beating fast and she felt nauseous. Her mouth was dry; she wanted a glass of water but she did not want to leave her room. She got into bed and lay awake, sweating into these strangers’ sheets, loathing the dragging summer, just wanting it to end.

In the morning, she took the baby out early, and quietly, leaving Grandmother sleeping. She walked him slowly through the market while it was setting up, and through the still-calm streets, delaying her return. He fell asleep, and she thought that she would have liked to just keep walking, walking with the dozing baby, never to go back.

She stopped at a payphone and thought of calling her parents. She had coins, or she could reverse the charges. She put the brake on the pram, lifted the receiver, and dialled the international number. It rang — she saw the phone at home ringing in the empty kitchen, ringing through the dark house, because, she realised, if it was early morning here then it was very early at home, still nighttime. She pictured her parents asleep in their bed, or half-woken, frowning into their pillows and turning over. She stood with the receiver pressed to her ear long after she knew that nobody was going to answer.

She heard the factory whistle blow, signalling the end of the night shift. Now Uncle would go drinking, and then he would return home for breakfast.

She replaced the receiver and collected her returned coins. She walked back through the market, and saw the glassware stall again. She had her pocket money from Uncle in her purse. She stopped and looked at the cut-glass tumblers which were not too different from the one she had damaged. She bought one, as a peace offering, and then she walked slowly back to the flats.

She parked the pram on the wet slabs underneath the iron staircase. Grandmother was up — she had done a wash already. Damp laundry hung in the morning sunshine. Tina lifted the sleepy baby out of the pram and began the climb up to the top. She felt queasy at the thought of sitting down to breakfast. She had no appetite. She had a twitch under her eye.

She was more than halfway up when she realised she had left the glass from the market in the bottom of the pram. Wanting to give it to Grandmother before breakfast, she started back down, down the slick steps with the baby in her arms, and perhaps it was because she had not slept or eaten; perhaps it was because she felt sick and was too hot; perhaps it was because she was hurrying, not wanting to meet Uncle on the stairs, smelling of alcohol and aniseed; but in any case, she tripped.

At the top of the staircase, she takes the weight in the crook of one arm and, with a deep breath, opens the door with her free hand. She steps into the bright hallway and pulls the door to behind her, and when the door closes, it is dark.

We are like my Nana and Grandpa, the way we are sitting there, just quietly sitting, saying not a word. They can sit and sit, with the clock chiming every quarter hour, and every now and again Nana will say, ‘Perhaps we’ll have a cup of tea,’ or, ‘I’ll think about supper soon,’ and Grandpa will say, ‘Right-o.’

Leanne’s my best friend, but today she hasn’t a thing to say to me. I say, ‘Shall we play something?’ but she shakes her head. She’s pretending to read a comic but she isn’t turning any pages and it doesn’t take that long to read a few speech bubbles and thought bubbles, a few Thump! s and Thwack! s and Kapow! s. I say, ‘Can I read that with you?’ and she shrugs her shoulders but that means no. I sit for a few minutes more, folding the boy band faces on her duvet so that they become one-eyed, no-nosed, pursed-mouthed.

I say, ‘Shall I go then?’ and she shrugs again, but this time she means yes. I say, ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow morning then.’ She doesn’t say or do anything for a moment, but then she nods. ‘OK then,’ I say, and then, ‘Right-o,’ to make her laugh. She’s sat with me at my Nana and Grandpa’s before, and when Nana says, ‘Shall we have some telly on?’ and Grandpa says, ‘Right-o,’ we say, ‘Right-o,’ and sit shaking with the giggles. But Leanne’s having none of it today. I put my shoes on and say, ‘Ta-ra,’ and she says, ‘Ta-ra,’ back to me, so we’re still friends.

It’s quiet downstairs too. In the kitchen I say, ‘Ta-ra,’ to Leanne’s mum. She says, ‘Goodbye, Carla, see you tomorrow.’ I run home, down the road, sixty houses, sixty even numbers, from 128 to 8. I can run all the way but I usually get a stitch by the time I reach the bend in the road where the weeping willow is.

Nana and Grandpa are still up. It’s only eight and they don’t go to bed until nine or sometimes ten. When I lived with my dad, he went to bed at midnight or after — I knew because I would hear the clock chime and then he would check the doors and switch off the lights and come upstairs. Now he lives in Australia and I live with my Nana and Grandpa and Ruth, my sister.