Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

‘What you doing over the holidays? Got anything?’

‘Do you know, I’m dreading it myself.’

Two older women, one in a lime-green hoodie, the other in a brown-and-cream woollen jacket, are talking about the offers in Sainsbury’s.

Becky could weep. Shakespeare’s Sister on the radio. The smell of burnt toast is dying down.

‘Lord Almighty, will you SHUT THAT DOOR.’ A man with one high-soled shoe — medical correction rather than fashion statement — and lank ginger hair, bald at the top, small ponytail out the back, reads a council pamphlet about tax. His daughter is beautiful and has a red patent Alice band pushing her hair back, a pile of burnt toast beside her on the table top. The chef, a Turkish man with a beleaguered look, is being shouted at by everyone. He brings the girl with the Alice band a new plate of toast. She thanks him. Becky realises it’s not the high-shoe man’s daughter at all. She’s got to be twenty at least. He’s touching her legs. She looks just like the Ukrainian girl that used to massage with Becky a few years ago. Stunning in a troubling way. A packet of fruit pastilles sits open beside her fry-up, she eats a mouthful of beans and then a fruit pastille. The man she eats with reads the pamphlet. She smiles at him. She asks the waitress for a box, for the toast. She puts the burnt pieces away for later.

Becky watches the passing people and she could swear she sees herself, younger, arm in arm with Gloria and Charlotte, walking past, smoking fags, but it isn’t them. It’s some other teenagers, with too much confidence, singing along to X-rated American pop-rap blaring out their mobile phone speakers.

Becky finishes her tea, pays and smiles deeply at the woman. She feels her heart skip to be called ‘babes’ like that.

Becky approaches the Hanging Basket and stands outside it. She leans against the railings, smokes a cigarette and doesn’t look at anyone that walks past. Last time she was here was the night she left.

It’s three in the afternoon and there’s a gathering of good drinkers singing Van Morrison on the benches out the front. One guy has a guitar and he’s standing, strumming it, throwing his head back, one foot on the bench. The others sing with him, smiling. Shot through with life and pain, and lonely, lonely days, they hold hearts and glasses and sing their battered souls out. Their haggard faces are deeply lined. Becky glances at the shaven-headed woman, the pretty teenage boy, the square-faced strong-man, hard as nails, the peaceful quiet drunk whose grey dreadlocks brush his ankles, the pot bellies, skinny shoulders, bright eyes, closed eyes, red eyes, missing teeth, gold teeth, crooked teeth, the sharp suits and old clothes and battered shoes she’s always known. The pretty young drunks with their dogs and their hoods, tattoos and piercings, heavy old boots, sexy as new love, looking like an advert for a life you never had the guts to live. The curly-haired women with the swear words and the sharp tongues. Their hands on their hips, cleavage and perfume, and their lives stretch into the distance like railway tracks behind them. Always laughing. They blow kisses Becky’s way; she returns the gesture. Holds their arms at the elbows as she passes. They swing their bodies to the song. Today they will drink to the point of delirium, cheerful and drug-racked. This place is the jewel in south London’s shackles.

She pushes through the doors. Her bag gets caught on the handle and she has to twist awkwardly to free it. The doors hit her legs as they swing back. She steps inside, tucking her hair behind her ears. She pulls at her clothes, aware of herself, touches her hair again. Nothing’s changed but the flyers on the wall. She stares around wondering how it’s supposed to feel. And then, there she is.

Gloria is talking to a woman in her fifties who is leaning backwards against the bar. The woman shakes her head, throws her hands up. Gloria laughs and goes to pour the woman another glass of wine. As she does she sees Becky and almost drops the bottle, but she has been a barmaid too long for that.

‘Hi,’ Becky says, waving like a tourist posing for a picture.

‘You idiot. Just standing there,’ Gloria says, taking the money for the wine and coming out from behind the bar to embrace her.

‘Oh my God,’ Becky moans, collapsing into her arms.

‘Becky Becky Becky Becky.’ They hold each other at arm’s length and look at each other, then hug each other again. Becky’s face is pressed against Gloria’s hairclip or something and it hurts but it doesn’t matter because they need to hug like this. But it does hurt. Gloria squeezes her tighter and tighter saying, ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God,’ and Becky doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She holds them together in front of her belly while Gloria takes a step back.

‘Let me have a look at you then,’ she says. ‘Where’ve you fucking been for one thing?’

Becky shakes her head. ‘Not yet, G. Just give me a minute, yet, is that OK?’ Becky holds a hand to her head, Gloria wraps an arm around her shoulder and squeezes her close, kissing her head before moving back behind her bar.

Becky stands in front of the bar, Gloria stands behind it. They look at each other. Becky feels nervous suddenly, silly.

‘What you having then?’ Gloria asks her.

‘Dunno. Are we drinking?’

‘Probably should be, shouldn’t we?’

‘Vodka, lime and soda then,’ Becky says, tapping on the bar with her fingers while Gloria turns to fix the drinks. There’s a rail that runs round the bar a couple of inches off the floor. Becky stands with one foot on it, leaning her elbows on the bar, looking around. The cars go past outside, the TV is on and Gloria puts the drink down in front of Becky, standing opposite her with her arms crossed. One hand on her earlobe, spinning her hoop around.

‘What you been up to then?’ Becky asks Gloria.

Gloria takes her time to answer; it feels like gravity has tripled. ‘I’ve been here, doing this, haven’t I? Working. Same old.’ Gloria gets a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps out the box and throws them at Becky. ‘Still your favourite?’ Becky nods. Opens the crisps. Starts eating them. Two, three at a time. Drinking her drink in small, staccato sips. ‘What about you?’ Gloria asks. ‘What’ve you been up to?’

Becky shakes her head. Eats crisps. Gloria raises her eyebrows. ‘I worked a bit, we drove around. Then we had a little flat we lived in.’

‘You and Harry?’ Gloria spins her hoop.

‘Yeah.’ Becky nods again.

‘And you just got back?’ Gloria asks her.

‘Yeah.’ Gloria thinks that her friend looks thin and tired and far away.

Becky slumps a little over the bar. All these months have passed and she can’t work out where to start or whether she even needs to start. ‘You look really well,’ she says. ‘Healthy.’

‘I been going boxing,’ Gloria tells her.

‘Boxing?’ Becky says.

‘I had some trouble.’ Gloria breathes out loudly, blinks fast a couple of times.

‘What kind of trouble?’ Becky asks her.

‘Nothing really. Couple of guys one night.’ She shrugs.

‘In here?’ Becky looks around at the pub, the regulars.

‘Another pub, down the road.’

Becky watches Gloria. Her wide eyes sweep the room for drinkers getting to their last swigs. Her body, as sure as stone, all the edges neat and compact. Tall and strong and golden brown. Broad, open face, like an ancient goddess. Gloria . Becky feels her pulse pick up its speed and go hurtling through her at the thought of her friend in danger.

‘What happened?’ she asks her. ‘What did they do?’ Her voice is heavy and fast.

‘Nothing,’ Gloria says calmly. ‘I fought them off.’ She speaks matter-of-factly, no big deal. She spins her hoop, stands with her weight on her right hip.