Lisa Owens - Not Working

The evening’s wine has left my bladder full, my mouth dry, a thump in my temples. There is a pain, like something turning, in what might be my liver — possibly it’s paranoia, or it could be my appendix. My heart is going a little too fast, and I am suddenly beyond certain that I have carbon-monoxide poisoning. My father was right: we should have bought a detector. I didn’t listen all these years, and now it’s too late.

This week — if I survive the night — will be different. No wine, except maybe a glass, or two, absolute tops, at the weekend. Cut back on the coffee. Start taking some care, I think, gripping the covers. Really, properly start looking for a job. Get past this thing with my mother once and for all.

I turn onto my side and make out Luke’s dark shape beside me. I love him, and one day he’ll be dead. He starts to snore.

“Stop. Snoring,” I say firmly, and he does, without waking.

A family of Orthodox Jews gets on: improbably young parents with seven — seven! — children. In the dingy, yellow-lit crush their clothes are a fabulous anachronism amid all the hoodies and jeans. In the middle of the carriage, the father stands, hands clasped behind his back, keeping himself upright with core strength alone, while beneath the wide felt brim of his hat his ringlets bounce and drift. His wife, boosting a child on her hip, in glossy wig, thick tights, dark skirt, white shirt, makes me almost nostalgic for school uniform: the tribal day-in-day-out safety of it. When after a few stops the family file off, the space left behind is quickly absorbed; but their presence lingers, like incense.

“Which bits of this do you want?” Luke asks of the paper.

“Crossword,” I say, pen already poised.

“Never any interest in the main section. Don’t you want to know what’s going on in the world?” He holds up the front page, which looks full of blood and flames.

“I know what’s going on: terrorist threats, terrorist attacks, shootings, food shortages, drought, floods, women being raped and killed. No, thank you.” I shake my head. “Don’t you know the expression? No news is good news.”

“Not what that means.”

“And yet true,” I say.

Ever since someone told me milk is technically a food, I’ve all but abandoned my latte habit.

The doorbell sounds while I’m still in my pajamas; retiree-style, I peer out of the window to see if I need to answer it. There are two children standing there, floppy-haired boys, maybe eleven years old.

“Yes?” I say when I open the door.

“I was hoping to speak with your mum if she’s in?” says the freckle-faced redhead, with such supreme confidence I wonder for a second how he knows my mother.

“She doesn’t live here.”

“Oh,” he says. “Then may I speak with the person in charge?”

“That would be me. How can I help you?” I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe. “Young man,” I add, fooling no one.

“We’re raising money for charity. I’m doing sponsored stand-up, and Liam’s doing a sponsored swim.” He’s well spoken, a nice-seeming kid, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for funny.

“Good for you,” I say. “Tell me a joke.”

He shakes his head firmly. “I’m still working on my material.”

Liam is hanging off the railings, suspended forward like a diver ready to jump.

“And how far are you swimming?” I call over to him.

He shrugs.

“So will you sponsor us, then?” the redhead asks. “It’s for a good cause.” From his pocket he hands me a wad of slightly damp, grubby paper.

I unfold it. Tom and Liam are raising money for the Humane Society is written across the top. There’s quite a good sketch of a dog in one corner. Underneath are a series of names, and to my mind, staggeringly generous donations: someone named Pippa Jackson has promised thirty pounds; the de Courcy-Pitt family fifty pounds. In my day, fifty pence was considered generous.

“You know, I don’t generally give money to animal charities,” I say. “I’d rather the money went to scientific research—”

“Animal testing?” interrupts Liam, disgusted.

“You didn’t let me finish. Scientific research into cancer and other illnesses.”

“My dog had cancer,” says Liam. “That’s him in the picture.”

“ Human illnesses,” I say.

“Are you sick?” asks the redhead, who must be Tom.

“No. Why?” I say, slightly alarmed that he’s sensed something, in that eerie way children in films have of seeing right to the quick of things.

“Pajamas,” he says, pointing, and fair enough — it’s four in the afternoon. “Are you not going to sponsor us, then?” he demands. Liam, meanwhile, has hopped off the railing ledge, preparing to move on to more munificent households.

“Listen, I’ll make an exception this time because you guys are doing a good thing. I admire your get-up-and-go. Wait here.”

Because you can’t be too careful, I shut the door on them while I find my purse. I used to think being a grown-up meant having an abundance of loose change lying around — in pockets and bags, on the kitchen counter. Not small fry like coppers, but the big fellas: fifty pences, one-pound and two-pound coins. But all I can scratch together is about a quid, not even. When I open the door again, Liam is kicking the bin with moderate force.

“Stop that,” I say, and to my surprise he does. “I’m afraid this is all I have.” I offer my handful to Tom. He looks at it with undisguised disdain.

“We could go to an ATM?” he suggests, brightening for a moment.

“I don’t think so,” I say, and his face falls again. He picks his way through the coins, counting out loud. It’s painful.

“…forty, fifty, fifty-five, sixty, seventy, seventy-five, eighty, eighty-two.” He looks up as if to confirm that this is my final offer. “Eighty-two p,” he repeats. I nod, a little sheepish. He pockets the cash and carefully writes, £00.82, on his creased piece of paper. “What name shall I put?”

“Oh, don’t bother with that,” I say, stepping backward and starting to close the door.

“You have to. Our teacher said. Oh yeah, and do you pay tax?” He hands me the pen and paper.

“Excuse me?” I scribble something illegible, too embarrassed to put my real name.

“If you’re a British taxpayer, we can get extra money. Uh…” He looks at Liam.

“Twenty percent,” says Liam. He gets out an iPhone and prods the screen a few times, calculating. “That would bring you up to…ninety-eight point four p.”

“No, I’m sorry, I’m not. I was, and I will be again, but you’ve caught me between jobs, I’m afraid.” I wonder how it has come to pass that I’m apologizing for my life choices to strange youths on my doorstep. “By choice. I wasn’t fired or anything.”

“Never mind,” says Liam.

“Yeah, not to worry,” says Tom. The coins in his pocket crunch musically as they saunter off up the street.

“What about teaching?” I ask.

Luke is shaving at the sink; I’m perched on the edge of the bath, imagining myself — long skirts, low bun — reading from a huge storybook to spellbound children gathered on a sun-flooded carpet.

“What about it?”

“As a job. For me.”

He lifts his chin to scrape underneath. “What would you teach?”

“I don’t know. Primary?”

“You need to know math.”