Layla blinks back at me. ‘I have no idea what you just said.’
‘It’s a way of making your brain break free from ordinary thinking. You know, tap into your subconscious.’
‘You really are a nerd,’ she says with a laugh, flicking the tea towel at my leg.
‘Friend of mine studied psychology,’ I say, trying to dodge away from another flick. ‘He also smoked a lot of weed.’
‘Is he single?’
‘Gay.’
‘All the best ones are.’ Layla drapes the towel over one shoulder and leans on the bar, using her thumbnail to try to pick out some of the paint from under all the others. ‘Do you live locally?’
I point out the window and across the street to where I know Alex will be at his desk with the radio on, marking papers and drinking endless cups of sweetened tea.
‘Cool. I’m on the other side of the park.’ She reaches back into her bag and takes out a packet of Marlboro Lights along with a Zippo. ‘We should hang out some time, you know, apart from in here. Want one?’
I do, but I’m out of practice, so I shake my head as Layla flicks open the lighter and clicks her fingers over the wheel in order to create a flame. It’s the same trick Duncan used to do, one that I never could master. I can picture his face so clearly, can hear the exact tone of his voice when he gets all animated about something – usually a boy, but also his beloved rats – and the intensity with which I miss him, all of them, is like being pierced by a very long, very sharp blade.
‘I’m trying to quit.’
‘Why?’ Layla squints back at me as she takes a long drag. If she heard the tremor in my voice, she’s decided not to say so.
‘I need a break from my old life.’ I pour out the contents of my glass, then refill it with full-fat Coke. I’m half tempted to add some vodka to the mix, but that would be pushing my luck too far.
‘Is that what the hair’s about?’ Layla waves her hand in the direction of my face and I turn to peer at my reflection in the mirrored splashback.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, tucking a few strands behind one ear and turning my head from side to side.
‘Babe, it’s a hack-job. Did you do it yourself?’
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s a guy at Rush in Camden who does my hair, and believe me that’s not an easy task. Mention my name and he’ll do you a discount.’
Both of us look up as the door opens and a couple of tourists come in, armed with backpacks and a crumpled map. One of them is pushing a buggy, the face of a toddler with bright-blonde hair peeping out from above a pale-blue blanket. They go over to sit by the fire, which is spitting at best, and shrug off their anoraks.
I notice something on the floor and go over to retrieve a small, grey duck that must have fallen out of the buggy. Such a simple thing, of no real value at all, yet I know that one day it will mean so much to that boy not yet grown. I take it over to the table, tap the mother on the shoulder and hold out the toy.
‘Hyvänen aika, thank you,’ she says in what I think might be Finnish, but I couldn’t say for sure. ‘Nikolas would be so upset if he lost little Terence.’
‘How old is he?’ I dutifully ask with a glance at the buggy, seeing two dots of high colour on Nikolas’s cheeks.
‘He’s just turned two.’ The mother smiles at her son with unabashed pride. ‘This is his first time to London.’
‘You should take him to Harrods,’ I say. Nikolas is watching me and I poke out my tongue, which makes him giggle. ‘It’s wonderful at Christmas time. If you need anything, just order at the bar.’
‘Where are you from?’ Layla asks as I go back to the bar. She’s not even pretending to look busy. ‘I can’t figure out your accent.’
‘My family are from Sweden,’ I say, looking back to see Nikolas has managed to half escape from his buggy and is now banging a plastic cup on the table. ‘But I’ve been in the UK so long that my accent’s all over the place.’
‘Not going home for the holidays?’ Layla heaves herself on to the bar, drumming against the wood with the heels of her boots.
I stop watching the happy family and turn to face her. ‘No.’
‘Can I ask why?’
The question, the blatant curiosity, surprises me. Even more surprising is that it doesn’t bother me, when usually it would.
‘I have no desire to be told, once again, that I should be finding a husband instead of studying for another degree.’
‘You already have one?’ Layla flicks her cigarette in the vague direction of an ashtray and I reach out to brush all the tiny grey particles on to the floor.
‘Sort of,’ I say, watching the ash slowly drift to the ground, disappearing the instant it meets the sticky layer of old beer and melted ice. ‘I was at Oxford before.’
‘Super, super nerd.’
‘I left.’ Without a trace. No note, no forwarding address, because at the time I had no idea where I would end up. Certainly not here, serving pints to London’s finest, whilst studying for a degree in economics. Just over a year ago I could barely force myself to get up in the morning, let alone believe that there was a way out for me. A chance to start again, to build something out of the wreckage that happened in Oxford.
‘Why?’
‘Lots of reasons.’ Except there was only ever one. I look across at Layla, who is watching me with her head cocked to the side, waiting for more of an explanation. ‘Including me waking up and realising that an arts degree was never going to land me a decent job.’
Which is true. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself all term because I’m learning that just because you’re good at something, doesn’t necessarily mean you should do it. I mean, distribution theory and macroeconomics aren’t exactly the most exciting subjects, especially when you compare them to Shakespeare, Alcott or even Dahl.
‘Define “decent”.’ Layla stubs out her cigarette, this time managing to find the ashtray.
‘Something that pays enough so I never have to be reliant on anyone else.’
‘Sounds kinda dull.’
Dull is safe. Dull means independence, which is about the best I can hope for, given what I did. It hurts to think about it. But is it even possible to miss something that wasn’t really yours, at least not for long enough to claim it as your own?
‘What about you?’ I ask, peering at a sticky mark on the bar and trying to figure out if it’s ketchup or glue.
Layla goes to the other end of the bar to serve the male tourist, offering up a smile and a laugh at something he says. Two pints of Guinness and a packet of crisps later and she turns her attention to the rather pathetic collection of CDs stacked next to a dusty machine at one end of the bar. She holds one up in my direction, but I shake my head at her choice and Layla raises her brow in surprise. I have no desire to listen to Pulp, not now. I had more than my fill of them when Different Class was first released and it seemed to play on repeat during my first stint at university, along with Oasis and Blur and all the other bands I can no longer bring myself to listen to.
‘The plan is,’ she calls across to me, ‘for Jude Law to walk in any second, fall madly in love with me and realise what a huge mistake it was to marry Sadie. Then we’ll run off into the sunset together and make sweet, beautiful music. And children. Lots and lots of children.’
‘Sounds kinda cheesy.’
‘Cheese runs in the family,’ she says, putting a CD into the player and turning the volume way up. ‘My grandfather fell in love with a local Bahamian girl – quite the scandal back in the day. He flew her back to England, but bought her a house on the islands that we sometimes visit at Christmas. You should come one year, because I can already tell we’re going to be friends. But stay away from my brother, he’s a total sleaze.’
‘You’re not going this year?’ I shout over the sound of Alanis Morissette singing about Mr Duplicity.
‘Grandma Nelle’s got the flu,’ Layla shouts back, her head bobbing along to the music
. ‘She’s holed up with us for the festive season.’
‘Must be nice having her at home.’ I look across as the tourists gather up their belongings and leave the pub, pointedly staring at Layla and shaking their heads.
Layla is completely oblivious to their disapproval, jumping about and singing at the top of her (not particularly tuneful) voice. At the end of the song she shimmies over to my end of the bar and rummages through her bag.
‘It is,’ she says, taking out a tatty paperback and easing the pages apart to where a corner is folded down. ‘Apart from the fact she insists on playing eighties power ballads at full volume and eats all the chocolate biscuits.’
I fetch my own book from next to the till, thinking that there isn’t much point even pretending to do any work now we’ve chased away our only customers.
‘The God of Small Things?’ Layla reads out the title as she peers over my shoulder.
‘It’s about a brother and sister whose lives are destroyed by the rules of love.’ I hand the book over and watch as she reads the blurb on the back cover. ‘It’s beautiful, but tragic.’
‘I prefer Stephen King,’ Layla says as she gives the book back. ‘Especially because he always writes whilst completely off his face and listening to heavy metal.’
‘You like horror? And heavy metal?’
‘So?’ Layla opens her sketchbook to a clean page and I watch as she begins to add long, careful strokes of ink to the paper.
‘But you’re reading an ancient Buddhist text.’ I point at the scruffy paperback she’s clearly read through more than once. Several sentences are underlined and there are even notes scribbled in the margins.
‘Don’t judge a book, and all that,’ Layla says without glancing up from her drawing. ‘You have not lived until you’ve played “Welcome to the Jungle” at full blast. Drowns out all the demons and makes you feel incredibly alive.’
There is no right way for me to respond, and only partly because I’m now thinking about how much I could do with drowning out my own demons. The bastards keep waking me up at three a.m., proceeding to do a little dance around my brain with all their memories and accusations. The only issue is, I don’t think Alex, or the rest of the street, would appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by the dulcet tones of Axl Rose.
‘Is that Blake?’ I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at the figure Layla is drawing.
‘He’s one of my favourites,’ Layla says, adding some detail to the face that I recognise as being that of Virgil. ‘I’m trying to figure out a way to use the Katha texts in a new way. Much like Blake did with The Divine Comedy.’
‘And you accuse me of being a nerd,’ I say with a chuckle and outstretched hand. ‘Can I see?’
Layla slides the sketchbook along the bar and I go back to the beginning, studying each picture in turn and recognising different parts of the story on every page. There’s more here than simply copying what Blake himself created. There are tiny fragments dotted all over that suggest another, hidden picture.
‘I like the idea of making people look twice,’ Layla says as I turn the sketchbook upside down. ‘Show them something they think they already know, but from a different angle.’
‘I guess we all have to face Death, at some point.’ I peer at a tiny, cloaked figure in the top corner of the page, seemingly watching over the scene below.
‘You’ve read the Katha?’
‘I live with my uncle,’ I say, handing the book back. ‘Who’s an ethics professor. Plus, I don’t have much of a social life.’ For months, all I have done is attend lectures, sit in the Shaw Library or go running with Michelle. My Friday nights mostly consist of listening to the sound of jazz filtering up through the floorboards from Alex’s study, whilst I diligently make my way through his vast collection of books.
‘A social life I can definitely help you with,’ Layla says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. She looks at me for a moment, almost as if she senses that I’m hiding something, and not just from her. ‘Come out with me sometime. There are lots of pathetically beautiful men on my course who would love a slice of you.’
‘I’m not really looking.’ I glance at my watch as the clock on the mantelpiece chimes out the end of my shift. Slipping my arms into the sleeves of a faux fur coat and covering up my terrible haircut with a knitted cap, I can feel her watching me. Perhaps she heard the sigh behind my words. Maybe she also understands what it feels like for a heart to break.
‘That coat makes you look like one of those seventies groupies.’ Her eye falls on the filigree brooch that I’ve pinned to the collar and I really hope she doesn’t ask where it’s from. ‘Or even Stevie Nicks,’ she says as I shoulder my bag and head for the door. ‘If you grew out your hair.’
NIAMH
Sisu (n.) – extraordinary determination, courage and resoluteness
London, 1997
Home for the past few months had been an end-of-terrace, four-storey house with a bright yellow door. Niamh’s room was up in the eaves, but she had her own bathroom and a view over the park. She was staying with Sister Ingrid’s cousin, a college professor who lived in Primrose Hill, which was like a mini village just outside the heart of the city. In exchange for some household duties (which seemed to mainly involve locating items her new landlord had lost), Niamh was living rent-free in one of the most expensive parts of town.
She had no need to venture more than a few streets away in order to find all she could possibly need. There was everything from a library, delicatessen, cafés and pubs aplenty, including one that was spitting distance from the house. Niamh had also befriended the neighbour, an elderly lady called Gladys who smoked like a chimney and swore like a trooper but sang opera as if it was what she had been born to do. Niamh would take Gladys’s dog for walks up and down the park hills each morning, in exchange for a token wage, thick slices of home-made ginger cake and stories about the ‘good old days’ of London society.
Niamh had settled into a quiet routine, rising around six a.m., setting a pot of coffee on the stove, before heading next door to retrieve Frank the beagle. When she returned, the study door would already be shut, with a thermos of sweetened coffee and a plate full of biscuits to keep the professor going until lunchtime.
Niamh was usually tasked with running some errands or fetching lunch from the local deli, which could be anything from quiche to oysters. She would leave it on a tray outside the study door and then have the rest of the day free. At six on the dot, he would head down to the basement kitchen and announce it was time to start thinking about supper, which they always prepared together.
It had been a simple enough existence, made easier by the summer sunshine, but every time she saw a pram, or heard a baby’s cry, Niamh would question all over again her decision to give up her child.
‘Big day tomorrow,’ the professor said whilst slicing some tomatoes for the pasta sauce. He handed the chopping board to Niamh, who slipped the vegetables into the pot on the stove and began to stir them through the spicy chilli oil.
‘I guess,’ she replied, reaching across to the salt pig and taking out a generous pinch.
‘Are all your papers in order?’ He wiped his hands on a tea towel, then sat at the back door and began to stuff his pipe with tobacco. The cat twirled through the legs of the chair, waiting for him to rub at its fur, then darted out to the small patio garden at the sight of a daredevil squirrel.
‘I double-checked them earlier,’ Niamh said as she put the kettle on to boil and added strands of spaghetti to another pan. She was so very grateful to him for taking her in and not asking too many questions. There had been several hushed telephone conversations back to Ireland over the summer, but not once did he pass judgement on the plan she and Sister Ingrid had concocted together whilst walking through the gardens where Niamh had liked to play as a child.
‘And you’re absolutely sure this is what you want?’ He tapped the end of his pipe on the windowsill before loo
king around for a light.
‘I’m sure.’ Niamh passed him a box of matches, watching as he took three long puffs before the kitchen was bathed in fragrant smoke. She had to be sure, because what other choice did she have? Moving forward was her only option, and if that meant leaving behind everything she had ever known, then where better to do it than hidden within a city of millions?
‘If you need anything, my office is in the adjacent building.’
‘Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ She looked out the window to where the cat was sitting, cleaning its paws in a circle of sunshine. There had been a ginger tomcat back at the convent who was liable to scratch unless you placated him with a tin of sardines. Shaking her mind free of the memory, she opened the fridge and took out a block of parmesan, ready for grating. ‘Do you still want me to make you coffee in the morning?’
‘Det vore underbart,’ he replied in Swedish as he took another puff of his pipe, watching Niamh move around the kitchen and trying to remember what life was like before she had arrived.
The first phone call from Ireland had come on a wet winter’s evening, when the nights were still too long and the cat barely ever moved from in front of the fire. His cousin’s explanation had been brief and to the point, as was Sister Ingrid’s way, without any embellishment or emotional guilt thrown in. It was such an unexpected request, one that filled him with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, and he had said yes on a whim, without thinking through the multitude of logistics.
But Niamh had proven herself to be both reliable and personable. She somehow understood his routine, his desire for normalcy, better than he did himself and had soon slotted into his life and his home with barely a foot out of place.
Together, they had figured out a way to coexist that complemented the other and he found himself looking forward to their evening conversations about everything from politics to film, accompanied by the sound of Radio Four in the background. But even after all those weeks spent in such close proximity, he still couldn’t understand the final piece of her plan, and why she felt it to be necessary.
The Love We Left Behind Page 25