Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

‘And are you any closer to working out what you want to do, in the, erm, long run?’ David wipes his face with his serviette. The spinach comes out of his mouth. Sticks to his chin.

‘Erm. No,’ Pete says. ‘Nope.’ His family watch him, waiting. He looks at them. ‘There is nothing for me out there.’ He raises his palms, lifts them, speaking in an Italian — American accent. ‘But heyyyyy, wa ya gonna do?’ The family eat. Pete finishes his wine. Pours another glass. ‘You have some spinach on your face, David,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ says David. Miriam looks at him.

‘So you do,’ she says and wipes it off with her serviette.

Harry finishes the last mouthful on her plate and sets her knife and fork down.

‘Been to the pictures lately anyone?’ David pipes up. No one responds. David looks at each of them, waiting patiently.

‘No. I haven’t.’ Harry says. ‘Have you, guys?’ She points the question at Pete and Becky.

Becky looks at Pete. ‘No. We haven’t,’ Becky says. ‘What about you, David, have you?’

‘No,’ David says thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t either.’

Becky finishes eating and rests her knife and fork on her plate. Wipes her mouth with her serviette. Notices that it matches the frieze around the walls. Miriam puts her knife and fork down too.

‘Just wondered if any of you young people had seen anything good recently,’ David says. ‘That was all.’

Pete puts his cutlery down. ‘Is there any more wine, Mum?’

David stands and walks to the side. ‘Yes, there’s another one here. Have we finished two bottles already? How naughty.’ Pete winces at the expression. David opens the wine and pours everyone another glass. Everyone drinks. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘That. Was. Delicious.’ Everyone agrees.

‘All finished?’ Miriam asks. Everyone nods. She stands to clear the plates.

Becky jumps up. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘Let me.’

‘Oh don’t be silly, love, you’re our guest, you don’t have to do that.’

Becky shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.’

Miriam, touched, sits down again. ‘But you don’t know where anything goes,’ she says.

‘I’m sure I can work it out,’ Becky says, piling up the plates and heading for the kitchen.

Miriam looks sternly from David to Pete to Harry. Pete takes a leisurely swill of his wine. Knocks it back. Leaves barely a sip in the bowl of the glass.

Harry springs up to help. ‘I’ll give her a hand,’ she says.

‘Cheers, Harriet!’ David smiles.

‘More wine, darling?’ Miriam tops up Pete’s glass. Gazing at him softly.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he says. Nearly pissed.

‘How’s your dad doing?’ she asks him, in the careful tone she uses every time she asks that question.

‘He’s OK. He’s volunteering at the hospice.’ It’s a lie but Pete believes it as he says it.

‘Good for him.’ Miriam seems almost hurt with surprise. ‘What a kind thing for him to be doing.’

Becky moves towards the kitchen, letting her face relax at last, hyper-aware of herself, her beginnings. The kitchen is new and everything’s shining, eager. This room , Becky thinks, looks quite a lot like David . She puts the dishes down beside the sink, and runs some water. Two rectangular windows along the wall behind the sink give out to a small, neat back garden, fruit trees in pots, a gnome fishing by the back fence.

Harry walks in and puts a load more dirties down on the side and takes a tea towel from its hook, slings it over her shoulder. ‘You wash, I’ll dry?’ she asks her. The air between them prickles and roars with dense pressure.

‘Yeah. Great,’ Becky says. Squeezing some washing-up liquid into the sink that’s still filling up.

Harry takes the plates and scrapes them into the bin. Everything is slow and edged with static. She puts them back on the side. Turns to head out of the room.

‘Nice to see you again,’ she says quietly before going to the dining room to get the big pot and the serving dishes. Becky smiles to herself and turns off the taps. Harry comes back, puts the dirties down and moves past her to stand beside her. ‘I’ll do the pots though.’

‘Sadist,’ Becky says, without looking up from the sink.

Harry can’t help sneaking stills out of the corner of her eye. Becky’s body washed gold in the late-afternoon sun, her open mouth, smiling, the light across her lips, the occasional glimpse of her dimples. Her nose-piercing. Harry’s heart is cooked.

‘I did wonder if I was ever going to bump into you again,’ Becky tells her and the pressure wails between them and pushes down on them.

‘Mental, eh?’ They both laugh. ‘Fucking mental.’ Becky looks around the sink for a sponge or a cloth. Finds what she needs.

‘So, how’ve you been?’ Harry asks. Speaking quietly.

‘I don’t know. Pretty good. I think.’

‘How’s the dancing?’

Harry seems more confident than before. Lighter. ‘Yeah, it’s good. How’s yours?’

‘My dancing?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘Well, I’m still excellent at the bogle.’ Becky lets a snort of laughter out, surprised. Harry concentrates on the plate in her hands. The tea towel. The stoic gnome outside. ‘Can’t believe it’s you, here,’ she says.

Becky shakes her head, smiling.

Harry points out the window. Her face disappears in a mask of confusion. ‘The gnome, though,’ she whispers. ‘The gnome!’ And the absurdity of the whole afternoon strikes them like a mallet and they begin to ring like gongs; the two of them break into unbearable laughter that winds upwards through them, unfurling new depths as each wave dies away. Weakened, clutching the worktop until the laughter ebbs. They sigh like old women after a good joke.

Harry wipes her eyes, and turns to Becky, suddenly grave. ‘Look, look, Becky,’ she says quietly.

Becky laughs again, the severity of her expression striking her as part of the joke. But Harry’s face doesn’t change, and Becky’s laughter stutters to a stop. ‘Sorry, yes. Serious talk.’ Becky puts down the sponge she’s holding and concentrates.

‘Them things I told you? When we met?’

‘Uh huh?’

‘About what I do .’ Harry knots her eyebrows desperately, panic in her eyes. ‘For a living ?’ she whispers.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ Becky fishes for the cutlery in the soapy water. ‘What about it?’

Pete keeps glancing at the doorway, trying to see down the hall into the kitchen. He hears a peal of laughter build and break and ebb away. It pulls him down.

‘You OK, son?’ David asks him. Pete looks at him. Stares at his face thinking cruel thoughts. David pushes his glasses up his doughy nose.

Pete stands up without speaking or showing any kind of emotion and walks slowly out of the room.

David looks at Miriam, shrugs his shoulders. ‘Beats me,’ he says.

Miriam folds her hands in her lap, drops her head and breathes deeply.

‘He’s a complicated sort of young man,’ he tells her. ‘Too many books probably.’

She looks into his eyes despairingly. ‘“Son”?’ she hisses.

David throws his hands up and covers his face. ‘Oh my God, I didn’t even think. Oh my God. I hope I haven’t upset him?’

Pete creeps along the hallway, not thinking about why he’s doing it, just doing it. He tiptoes, back against the wall, until he arrives at the kitchen door and peeks through the crack to see Harry close to Becky, her lips leaning down towards her ears, her eyes glistening.

‘Have you told Pete?’ Harry’s voice is too familiar.

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course not.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Harry is urgent, pleading. ‘Don’t say a word. No one can know. Please, Becky. This is really important.’