1
2009
There are 158 footsteps between the bus stop and home, but it can stretch to 180
if you aren’t in a hurry, like maybe if you’re wearing platform shoes. Or shoes
you bought from a charity shop that have butterflies on the toes but never quite
grip the heel at the back, thereby explaining why they were a knock-down £1.99.
I turned the corner into our street (68 steps), and could just see the house - a
four-bedroomed semi in a row of other three- and four-bedroomed semis. Dad’s
car was outside, which meant he had not yet left for work.
Behind me, the sun was setting behind Stortfold Castle, its dark shadow
sliding down the hill like melting wax to overtake me. When I was a child we
used to make our elongated shadows have gun battles, our street the O. K.
Corral. On a different sort of day, I could have told you all the things that had
happened to me on this route: where Dad taught me to ride a bike without
stabilizers; where Mrs Doherty with the lopsided wig used to make us Welsh
cakes; where Treena stuck her hand into a hedge when she was eleven and
disturbed a wasp’s nest and we ran screaming all the way back to the castle.
Thomas’s tricycle was upturned on the path and, closing the gate behind me, I
dragged it under the porch and opened the door. The warmth hit me with the
force of an air bag; Mum is a martyr to the cold and keeps the heating on all year
round. Dad is always opening windows, complaining that she’d bankrupt the lot
of us. He says our heating bills are larger than the GDP of a small African
country.
That you, love?’
‘Yup.’ I hung my jacket on the peg, where it fought for space amongst the
others.
‘Which you? Lou? Treena?’
‘Lou?
I peered round the living-room door. Dad was face down on the sofa, his arm
thrust deep between the cushions, as if they had swallowed his limb whole.
Thomas, my five-year-old nephew, was on his haunches, watching him intently.
‘Lego.’ Dad turned his face towards me, puce from exertion. ‘Why they have
to make the damned pieces so small I don’t know. Have you seen Obi-Wan
Kenobi’s left arm?’
‘It was on top of the DVD player. I think he swapped Obi’s arms with Indiana
Jones’s.’
‘Well, apparently now Obi can’t possibly have beige arms. We have to have
the black arms.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. Doesn’t Darth Vader chop his arm off in episode two?’ I
pointed at my cheek so that Thomas would kiss it. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Upstairs. How about that? A two-pound piece!’
I looked up, just able to hear the familiar creak of the ironing board. Josie
Clark, my mother, never sat down. It was a point of honour. She had been known
to stand on an outside ladder painting the windows, occasionally pausing to
wave, while the rest of us ate a roast dinner.
‘Will you have a go at finding this bloody arm for me? He’s had me looking
for half an hour and I’ve got to get ready for work.’
‘Are you on nights?’
‘Yeah. It’s half five.’
I glanced at the clock. ‘Actually, it’s half four.’
He extracted his arm from the cushions and squinted at his watch. ‘Then what
are you doing home so early?’
I shook my head vaguely, as if I might have misunderstood the question, and
walked into the kitchen.
Granddad was sitting in his chair by the kitchen window, studying a sudoku.
The health visitor had told us it would be good for his concentration, help his
focus after the strokes. I suspected I was the only one to notice he simply filled
out all the boxes with whatever number came to mind.
‘Hey, Granddad.’
He looked up and smiled.
‘You want a cup of tea?’
He shook his head, and partially opened his mouth.
‘Cold drink?’
He nodded.
I opened the fridge door. ‘There’s no apple juice.’ Apple juice, I remembered
now, was too expensive. ‘Ribena?’
He shook his head.
‘Water?’
He nodded, murmured something that could have been a thank you as I
handed him the glass.
My mother walked into the room, bearing a huge basket of neatly folded
laundry. ‘Are these yours?’ She brandished a pair of socks.
‘Treena’s, I think.’
‘I thought so. Odd colour. I think they must have got in with Daddy’s plum
pyjamas. You’re back early. Are you going somewhere?’
‘No.’ I filled a glass with tap water and drank it.
‘Is Patrick coming round later? He rang here earlier. Did you have your
mobile off?’
‘Mm.’
‘He said he’s after booking your holiday. Your father says he saw something
on the television about it. Where is it you liked? Ipsos? Kalypsos?’
‘Skiathos.’
‘That’s the one. You want to check your hotel very carefully. Do it on the
internet. He and Daddy watched something on the news at lunchtime.
Apparently they’re building sites, half of those budget deals, and you wouldn’t
know until you got there. Daddy, would you like a cup of tea? Did Lou not offer
you one?’ She put the kettle on then glanced up at me. It’s possible she had
finally noticed I wasn’t saying anything. ‘Are you all right, love? You look
awfully pale.’
She reached out a hand and felt my forehead, as if I were much younger than
twenty-six.
‘I don’t think we’re going on holiday.’
My mother’s hand stilled. Her gaze had that X-ray thing that it had held since
I was a kid. ‘Are you and Pat having some problems?’
‘Mum, I -’
‘I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just, you’ve been together an awful long time.
It’s only natural if things get a bit sticky every now and then. I mean, me and
your father we -’
‘I lost my job.’
My voice cut into the silence. The words hung there, searing themselves on
the little room long after the sound had died away.
‘You what?’
‘Frank’s shutting down the cafe. From tomorrow.’ I held out a hand with the
slightly damp envelope I had gripped in shock the entire journey home. All 180
steps from the bus stop. ‘He’s given me my three months’ money.’
The day had started like any other day. Everyone I knew hated Monday
mornings, but I never minded them. I liked arriving early at The Buttered Bun,
firing up the huge tea urn in the corner, bringing in the crates of milk and bread
from the backyard and chatting to Frank as we prepared to open.
I liked the fuggy bacon-scented warmth of the cafe, the little bursts of cool air
as the door opened and closed, the low murmur of conversation and, when quiet,
Frank’s radio singing tinnily to itself in the corner. It wasn’t a fashionable place
- its walls were covered in scenes from the castle up on the hill, the tables still
sported Formica tops, and the menu hadn’t altered since I started, apart from a
few changes to the chocolate bar selection and the addition of chocolate
brownies and muffins to the iced bun tray.
But most of all I liked the customers. I liked Kev and Angelo, the plumbers,
who came in most mornings and teased Frank about where his meat might have
come from. I liked the Dandelion Lady, nicknamed for her shock of white hair,
who ate one egg and chips from Monday to Thursday and sat reading the
complimentary newspapers and drinking her way through two cups of tea. I
always made an effort to chat with her. I suspected it might be the only
conversation the old woman got all day.
I liked the tourists, who stopped on their walk up and down from the castle,
the shrieking schoolchildren, who stopped by after school, the regulars from the
offices across the road, and Nina and Cherie, the hairdressers, who knew the
calorie count of every single item The Buttered Bun had to offer. Even the
annoying customers, like the red-haired woman who ran the toyshop and
disputed her change at least once a week, didn’t trouble me.
I watched relationships begin and end across those tables, children transferred
between divorcees, the guilty relief of those parents who couldn’t face cooking,
and the secret pleasure of pensioners at a fried breakfast. All human life came
through, and most of them shared a few words with me, trading jokes or
comments over the mugs of steaming tea. Dad always said he never knew what
was going to come out of my mouth next, but in the cafe it didn’t matter.
Frank liked me. He was quiet by nature, and said having me there kept the
place lively. It was a bit like being a barmaid, but without the hassle of drunks.
And then that afternoon, after the lunchtime rush had ended, and with the
place briefly empty, Frank, wiping his hands on his apron, had come out from
behind the hotplate and turned the little Closed sign to face the street.
‘Now now, Frank, I’ve told you before. Extras are not included in the
minimum wage.’ Frank was, as Dad put it, as queer as a blue gnu. I looked up.
He wasn’t smiling.
‘Uh-oh. I didn’t put salt in the sugar cellars again, did I?’
He was twisting a tea towel between his two hands and looked more
uncomfortable than I had ever seen him. I wondered, briefly, whether someone
had complained about me. And then he motioned to me to sit down.
‘Sorry, Fouisa,’ he said, after he had told me. ‘But I’m going back to
Australia. My Dad’s not too good, and it looks like the castle is definitely going
to start doing its own refreshments. The writing’s on the wall.’
I think I sat there with my mouth actually hanging open. And then Frank had
handed me the envelope, and answered my next question before it left my lips. ‘I
know we never had, you know, a formal contract or anything, but I wanted to
look after you. There’s three months’ money in there. We close tomorrow.’
‘Three months!’ Dad exploded, as my mother thrust a cup of sweet tea into my
hands. ‘Well, that’s big of him, given she’s worked like a ruddy Trojan in that
place for the last six years.’
‘Bernard.’ Mum shot him a warning look, nodding towards Thomas. My
parents minded him after school every day until Treena finished work.
‘What the hell is she supposed to do now? He could have given her more than
a day’s bloody notice.’
‘Well ... she’ll just have to get another job.’
‘There are no bloody jobs, Josie. You know that as well as I do. We’re in the
middle of a bloody recession.’
Mum shut her eyes for a moment, as if composing herself before she spoke.
‘She’s a bright girl. She’ll find herself something. She’s got a solid employment
record, hasn’t she? Frank will give her a good reference.’
‘Oh, fecking marvellous ... “Louisa Clark is very good at buttering toast, and
a dab hand with the old teapot.’”
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’
‘I’m just saying.’
I knew the real reason for Dad’s anxiety. They relied on my wages. Treena
earned next to nothing at the flower shop. Mum couldn’t work, as she had to
look after Granddad, and Granddad’s pension amounted to almost nothing. Dad
lived in a constant state of anxiety about his job at the furniture factory. His boss
had been muttering about possible redundancies for months. There were
murmurings at home about debts and the juggling of credit cards. Dad had had
his car written off by an uninsured driver two years previously, and somehow
this had been enough for the whole teetering edifice that was my parents’
finances to finally collapse. My modest wages had been a little bedrock of
housekeeping money, enough to help see the family through from week to week.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She can head down to the Job Centre
tomorrow and see what’s on offer. She’s got enough to get by for now.’ They
spoke as if I weren’t there. ‘And she’s smart. You’re smart, aren’t you, love?
Perhaps she could do a typing course. Go into office work.’
I sat there, as my parents discussed what other jobs my limited qualifications
might entitle me to. Factory work, machinist, roll butterer. For the first time that
afternoon I wanted to cry. Thomas watched me with big, round eyes, and silently
handed me half a soggy biscuit.
‘Thanks, Tommo,’ I mouthed silently, and ate it.
He was down at the athletics club, as I had known he would be. Mondays to
Thursdays, regular as a station timetable, Patrick was there in the gym or
running in circles around the floodlit track. I made my way down the steps,
hugging myself against the cold, and walked slowly out on to the track, waving
as he came close enough to see who it was.
‘Run with me/ he puffed, as he got closer. His breath came in pale clouds.
Tve got four laps to go/
I hesitated just a moment, and then began to run alongside him. It was the
only way I was going to get any kind of conversation out of him. I was wearing
my pink trainers with the turquoise laces, the only shoes I could possibly run in.
I had spent the day at home, trying to be useful. I’m guessing it was about an
hour before I started to get under my mother’s feet. Mum and Granddad had
their routines, and having me there interrupted them. Dad was asleep, as he was
on nights this month, and not to be disturbed. I tidied my room, then sat and
watched television with the sound down and when I remembered, periodically,
why I was at home in the middle of the day I had felt an actual brief pain in my
chest.
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