‘We only do that sometimes‚’ Majid murmured.
Her mother said, ‘I can’t believe you gave up such a job! I can’t even get work in a shop. They said I wasn’t experienced enough. I said, what experience do you need to sell bread rolls?’
In a low voice Nicole talked of what she’d been promising herself — to draw, dance, study philosophy, get healthy. She would follow what interested her. Then she caught his eye, having been reminded of one of the strange theories that puzzled and alarmed her. He maintained that it wasn’t teaching she craved, but a teacher, someone to help and guide her; perhaps a kind of husband. She found herself smiling at how he brought everything back to them.
‘Must be lovely‚’ her mother said. ‘Just doing what you want.’
‘I’ll be all right‚’ Nicole said.
After lunch, in the lounge, Nicole pulled the brass bolt and he accompanied her down a dark flight of stairs. This was the basement where she and her brother and sister used to sleep, Nicole wearing a knitted hat and scarf, as her mother would heat only the front room. The damp room opened on to a small garden where the children had to urinate if the bolt was across. Beyond there were fields.
Late at night they would listen to the yells and crashes upstairs. If one of her mother’s boyfriends — whichever man it was who had taken her father’s place — had neglected to bolt the door, Nicole would put on her overcoat and Wellington boots, and creep upstairs. The boots were required because of overturned ashtrays and broken glass. She would ensure her mother hadn’t been cut or beaten, and try to persuade everyone to go to bed. One morning there had been indentations in the wall, along with the remains of hair and blood, where her mother’s head had been banged against it. A few times the police came.
Majid watched as Nicole went through files containing old school books, magazines, photographs. She opened several sacks and hunted through them for some clothes she wanted to take back to London. This would take some time. He decided to go upstairs and wait for her. As he went, he passed the mother.
He walked about, wondering where in the house, when Nicole was ten, her father had hanged himself. He hadn’t been able to ask. He thought of what it would be like to be living an ordinary life, and the next day your husband is self-murdered, leaving you with three children.
On returning he paused at the top of the stairs. They were talking; no — arguing. The mother’s voice, soft and contained earlier, had gained a furious edge. The house seemed transparent. He could hear them, just as her mother must have heard him.
‘If he’s asked you‚’ she was saying. ‘And if he means it, you should say yes. And if you’re jealous of his bloody kids, have some with him. That’ll keep him to you. He’s well off and brainy, he can have anyone. D’you know what he sees in you, apart from sex?’
‘He says he loves me.’
‘You’re not having me on? Does he support you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Quietly Majid sat down on the top step. Nicole was struggling to maintain the dignity and sense she’d determined on that morning.
The mother said, ‘If you stop working you might end up with nothing. Like I did. Better make sure he don’t run off with someone younger and prettier.’
‘Why should he do that?’ Nicole said sullenly.
‘He’s done it already.’
‘When?’
‘Idiot, with you.’
‘Yes, yes, he has.’
‘Men are terrible beasts.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Her mother said, ‘If it’s getting you down, you can always stay here … for a while.’ She hesitated. ‘It won’t be like before. I won’t bother you.’
‘I might do that. Can I?’
‘You’ll always be my baby.’
Nicole must have been pulling boxes around; her breathing became heavier.
‘Nicole don’t make a mess in my house. It’ll be me who’ll have to clear everything up. What are you looking for?’
‘I had a picture of Father.’
‘I didn’t know you had one.’
‘Yes.’ Shortly after, Nicole said, ‘Here it is.’
He imagined them standing together, examining it.
‘Before he did it‚’ said the mother, ‘he said he’d show us, teach us a lesson. And he did.’
She sounded as if she were proud of her husband.
Upstairs Nicole packed her clothes in a bag, then went back to find something in a cupboard; after this, there were other things she wanted.
‘I must do this‚’ she said, hurrying around.
He realised that she might want to stay, that she might make him go back alone. He put on his coat. In the hall he waited restlessly.
The mother said to him, ‘You’re in a hurry.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there something you have to get home for?’
He nodded. ‘Lots of things.’
‘You don’t like it here, I can tell.’
He said nothing.
To his relief he saw Nicola emerge and put her scarf on. They kissed her mother and walked quickly back where they’d come. The bus arrived; and then they waited for the train, stamping their feet. As it pulled away, she took out her book. He looked at her; there were some things he wanted to ask, but she had put herself beyond his reach.
Near their house they stopped off to buy newspapers and magazines. Then they bought bread, pasta, hummus, yoghurt, wine, water, juice, florentines. They unpacked it on the kitchen table, on which were piled books and CDs, invitations and birthday cards, with his children’s toys scattered underneath. It was only then they realised she’d left the bag of clothes somewhere, probably on the train. Tears came to her eyes before she realised the clothes didn’t matter; she didn’t even want them, and he said she could buy more.
He sat at the table with the papers and asked her what music she was in the mood for, or if she.didn’t care. She shook her head and went to shower. Then she walked about naked, before spreading a towel on the floor and sitting on it to massage cream into her legs, sighing and humming as she did so. He started to prepare their supper, all the while watching her, which was one of his preferred occupations. Soon they would eat. After, they would take tea and wine to bed; lying there for hours, they would go over everything, knowing they would wake up with one another.
Sucking Stones
Something to look forward to, that was what she wanted, however meagre. Every evening, when Marcia drove back from school through the suburban traffic, angry and listless, with a talking book on the cassette player and her son sitting in the back, she hoped she might have received a letter from a publisher or literary agent. Or there might be one from a theatre, if she had been attempting a play. She did, sometimes — quite often — receive ‘encouragement’. It cost nothing to give, but she cherished it.
As she opened the door, and her son Alec ran into the house to put the TV on, she found on the mat, handwritten in black ink on impressively formal grey card, a note from the famous writer, Aurelia Broughton. Marcia read it twice.
‘This is exciting‚’ she said to Alec. ‘You can look at it but don’t touch it.’ He was a pupil at the school where she taught seven-year-olds. She read it again. ‘Those swine in the writers’ group will be very interested. We’d better get going.’
Three years ago Marcia had had a story published in a small magazine of new writing. Last year an hour-long play of hers had been given a rehearsed performance in a local arts centre. It had been directed by an earnest, forceful young man who worked in advertising but loved the theatre.
Marcia had been dismayed by how little the actors resembled the people they were based on. One of the men even had a moustache. How carelessly the actors carried the play in a direction she hadn’t considered! After, there had been a debate in the bar. Several members of the writers’ group had come to support her. The young histrionic faces, handwaving, and passionate interruptions began to exhilarate her. It was her work they were arguing about!