At Hawthorn Time

by Melissa Harrison

  It didn’t matter, he could just enjoy it. Could do it more often, maybe. Maybe get more of the guys out next time, though. Shouldn’t have left it to Geoff, he thought, fumbling in his pockets for the playing card they’d given him for his tab. There it was. Don’t leave without getting the card back. Perhaps get Geoff to remind him.

  He picked up the beers and shots and jostled his way carefully through the crowd. It was so familiar, having to do that. People so close in the city, all around. But distant, too. You could just have a few drinks. That pub in Lodeshill, it was on its arse. Try going in there and minding your own. Not a chance. Community, according to Kitty; nosy, more like.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Geoff as he sat down. ‘Cheers.’

  They tipped back the shots, Geoff with a comedy shake of the head, Howard with a grimace. Geoff seemed drunker than he had a few moments before; he was leaning back in his chair with an unfocused expression and one of his shirt buttons had come undone, revealing a sliver of white, hairy stomach. Better make these the last, Howard thought, get some food inside him. Should’ve signed the card off.

  ‘Curry after this?’ he said. ‘On me. Might as well.’

  ‘Could do. Or we could head into town.’

  This was a surprise; as far as Howard was concerned they were already in town, though he guessed that Geoff was talking about the West End.

  ‘Yep,’ he replied, ‘though I’ve got a hotel in Brent Cross to get back to.’

  ‘Get a cab. It’s not like you can’t afford it.’

  Howard looked up, but Geoff’s expression was bland. ‘Can’t face Soho any more, not these days,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to that Japanese place round the corner. You can’t get a decent chicken katsu outside the M25.’

  ‘Lost your edge,’ said Geoff, taking a large swig of his pint. ‘Happens.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Retire. Move out of London. It’s all over.’

  Howard bridled, despite himself. Geoff was obviously joking, but all the same. ‘And you’re living the high life in Harlow, I suppose?’ he said.

  ‘Temporary, I told you. Anyway, I come into town, I go out. Saw a band last week.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Again, Howard was piqued; bands were somehow his thing. ‘Who’d you see?’

  ‘Oh . . . at the Palace. Or whatever it’s called now.’ It was clear Geoff couldn’t remember the band’s name, but there was no sense in pushing the point; Howard knew he’d only have to admit he hadn’t heard of them anyway. Still, he had a sudden fierce urge to go out, do something, anything. The fact was, he missed London. No point pretending. He fucking missed it.

  ‘Who’d you go with?’ he asked.

  ‘Steve and Nikki from work and this girl I met off the Internet. I say girl, I mean woman. Thirty-eight, two kids. Box of frogs, you know. But fit.’

  ‘Good night?’

  ‘Yeah. She brought some coke out with her, cocaine. Bit like the old days, you know?’

  Howard hadn’t realised that Geoff had ever had ‘old days’, not like that. He’d always known him with Anne; when on earth was this period he’d been seeing bands and taking drugs, this period he now felt able at last to return to?

  Perhaps it had only happened once, when Geoff was a teenager, or perhaps it had never happened at all. The image people had of themselves didn’t always have much basis in fact; it was something you came up with in your teens, Howard believed, and which you then spent your life trying to stay true to – or maybe leave behind. Although perhaps some people weren’t like that, perhaps they just were who they were without worrying about it. Or perhaps their real selves came out when they were older, in their marriages and with their kids – like with Kitty. Who could say?

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m going to pay off my card. Then we’ll eat. Then we’ll go into town. OK?’

  ‘Knew it,’ Geoff said, finishing his pint and standing up. ‘You can take the man out of London . . .’

  Howard grinned; Geoff was OK. His mate. He was glad he’d come out. ‘Be right back. Keep an eye on my jacket.’

  ‘Fucking tweed though. I ask you.’

  ‘Camouflage, Geoffrey. I’ve got to blend in somehow. They still lynch outsiders in the sticks, you know.’

  Halfway through the meal it was clear that Geoff wasn’t going to make it to the West End. His eyes slid dozily around the room; each time Howard spoke it took him a long moment to pull his focus back.

  ‘Not enough women here is the problem,’ he said, quite loudly. Howard realised he was going to have to try and put him in a cab; he just hoped Geoff knew his new address off by heart.

  Howard, by contrast, was feeling more and more sober. What had he been thinking, anyway? Soho was bad enough at the best of times; it would have been a disaster with Geoff. He’d have tried to chat up groups of twenty-somethings, or, worse, he’d have wanted go to some Godawful strip club, and Howard had a prudishness about such things that he knew was quite at odds with his rock-star past. Rock star! Jesus, who was he kidding? Third-rate roadie, more like. Anyway, he would have hated it.

  He asked for the bill and settled up. Geoff was becoming hard work now; mulish and unpredictable. He’d clearly worked out that Howard wasn’t going with him to Soho any more, and what’s more he could tell he was being managed.

  ‘Fucking . . . lightweight,’ he said. ‘Knew you weren’t up for it.’

  Howard stood up and shrugged his jacket on. ‘Sorry, Geoff. Another time.’

  ‘Give us a hug, then. From the old boss. The boss that is no more. Father to the new boss, plus ça change, is it? – but I still stay the fucking same.’ And he stood, knocking some cutlery from the table and holding out his arms.

  Howard looked at him for a long moment. ‘Come on. Home time.’

  ‘What? Home time? Not for me, I’m free as a bird. I’m going into town, mate. You should come.’

  Howard decided to make for the door and hope Geoff followed. There was a cab office nearby; he’d order two, and if Geoff wanted to tell his to go to the West End that was his affair.

  The night air was cool on his face as he stepped out onto the pavement and lit up a cigarette. It could’ve been such a good night, it could’ve been so much fun. Briefly the picture he’d had of it returned, but he closed his eyes for a second and it was gone. He just had to cope with this last bit with Geoff, and then he could cab it back to the hotel. And hopefully when he arrived at the depot to see Chris in the morning Geoff wouldn’t remember any of it. Or he wouldn’t be in.

  18

  Speedwell, ragged robin, meadow saxifrage (rare). One early foxglove.

  There was a starling in Lodeshill that could do a perfect imitation of a car alarm being set; Jamie often listened out for it as he worked on the Corsa in the drive. A hundred years ago they had mimicked the ringing note of the blacksmith’s hammer, and after the village smithy finally closed the sound had lived on for a little while, persisting like a ghost in the repertoires of one or two generations of birds. And then it had faded away.

  Now, as Jamie reattached the air filter to the Corsa, he thought he heard the starling call, but it was the woman from Manor Lodge letting herself into her Audi. He straightened up, easing his back, and watched as she drove off.

  For a long while he’d felt secretive about the Corsa; he hadn’t wanted to show it to anyone until it was completely finished. The tarp, in his mind, had been like a chrysalis, and what came out would be transformed: a shining, perfect ride. But now the weather was nice he found himself itching to get it on the road and see what it could do. It wasn’t finished yet, but he’d have to make the decision sometime; the fact was, he could keep improving it almost indefinitely. And in any case, the motorbike was on its last legs.

  He’d considered taking it out on Friday, but then he wouldn’t be able to have a drink, and he’d be left out while everyone was talking and laughing, and Megan might think he was always like that. No, it was better to wait a bit longer, get t
he sound system installed, too. Although not for too long; summer was the best time.

  Having a car wasn’t just about showing off. Ever since he could remember he’d needed to go away by himself sometimes, to be where nobody could find him: not his mum, or his dad; not even Alex. To not have to think about anyone else, or be answerable to anyone. When he was a kid he used to go up Babb Hill by himself for a bit, or climb the big oak in the Batch; now, having his own car was like always having that on tap.

  When he was little he’d sometimes dreamed of running away and becoming an outlaw or something; just camping out by himself, nobody giving him a hard time. One schoolday when he was eight or nine he’d just walked to the station and taken the first train he saw. On the train he’d found a ticket under one of the seats and put it in the pocket of his school shorts: it was dated the day before, but it was better than nothing.

  It was brilliant being on the train by himself. He could still remember looking out at the unfurling landscape and the rows of back gardens, and the moment when he spotted a boy with a school backpack, a boy who could have been him, emerging from an alleyway and looking up at the train. He’d found himself waving, and another boy sitting near him with his mother had laughed. He had turned from the window to smile back in delight, but when he looked he’d seen that the other boy’s expression was cruel.

  The town he got off at had until that day been a word he knew and nothing more. He didn’t really know why he got off there and not somewhere else. He just did.

  The barriers were open, which felt like a sign. The town straggled uphill along a shop-lined street: Superdrug, McDonald’s, JD Sports. He walked all the way up the hill to where the shops began to give out: there was a dentist’s there, a big, red-brick church with a square tower and the gates of a school. He could hear the children in the playground: it was morning break. Nobody in the world knew where he was; it was as though he had stepped outside of his life for a little while, like he was invisible, a ghost.

  The town was different from Connorville, but the same as well; it wasn’t another world, like he had pictured finding when he was on the train. He’d spent the morning just wandering around with his hands in his pockets, looking at the faces of the people going in and out of the shops: old people with shopping trollies, mums with prams. Did they have secrets? Were they happy, or worried, or afraid? Were they even real – as real as him, as Alex? It was impossible to know.

  He’d sat on a bench outside the library to eat his packed lunch, and a tramp had come and looked at him for a while. Jamie had looked back at him, guardedly, and after a while the man had laughed and gone away.

  At last Jamie slammed the bonnet shut and dragged the tarp back over the Corsa. He had been trying to fit the turbo all morning, and now his shoulders ached and he was in need of a shower before his shift started.

  Working on the car quietened his thoughts. It was about problem solving: doing one thing and then the next. It made him believe in things changing.

  Claire’s VW Beetle was parked slightly haphazardly by the kerb when Kitty arrived at the studio. Kitty let herself in, calling out a hello.

  When Claire and her second husband had divorced she’d used her half of the money from the sale of their house to buy a flat in Ardleton and take out a lease on a vacant shop nearby. Once a greengrocer’s, it had since then been a cab office, a florist’s and a nail bar; none had survived for more than a couple of years.

  Claire had painted the inside white, had a skylight installed and hung her own work on two of the walls; Kitty, who paid her a good amount each month in rent, had suggested they each put a painting on an easel by the window in case of passing trade, but Claire wanted to make the most of the light. ‘It’s a studio, Kitty dear, not a gallery,’ she’d said. ‘We’re here to work, not flog our wares.’ It was all right for her, though; you could buy her cows and dogs across half the county. Sometimes Kitty wondered if she was jealous of Claire; she didn’t want to paint the kinds of things Claire did, however popular they were, but she had to admit that while it was only a hobby, something she enjoyed doing for its own sake, she would love to sell a picture, to have a stranger want to look at it on their wall.

  ‘In here!’ Claire called out cheerily from the little galley kitchen. ‘Fancy a tea?’

  Kitty put her bags down and went to look at Claire’s easel. ‘Yes please. What are you working on?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just a sketch really. I’m doing a pack of Basset Vendéens, I met the breeder at the agricultural show last year. Lemon and ginger, or raspberry?’

  ‘Oh – normal tea please. There’s some there, I think. A pack of them – so they’re hunting dogs, are they?’

  ‘Yes, well, sort of. For hares, originally. Lovely little things. Most sell as pets now, I think.’ She came out of the kitchen with the tea and handed Kitty a mug. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I went to the doctor. They’re referring me.’ Kitty had already told Claire about the fall; she had responded with a story of a friend of hers – ‘a bit younger than you, Kitty’ – who had fallen in the street and later been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Kitty hadn’t been able to work out, from the story, if the friend was still alive.

  ‘Who are they referring you to?’

  ‘A neurologist. Queen Elizabeth’s.’

  ‘A neurologist? Really?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh – not to worry,’ Claire said, although she continued to frown. ‘I’m sure they’re just covering themselves. What did Howard say?’

  ‘I haven’t told him.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty. Whyever not?’

  ‘He’ll just – I just want to find out myself. I’ll tell him when I know.’

  Claire folded her arms. ‘Is that wise? Not to communicate like that?’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Oh, Claire – we don’t communicate anyway. We haven’t for years.’

  ‘Really? And you’re OK with that?’

  Suddenly Kitty wanted to reel the conversation back; she felt far too exposed. Claire’s views on relationships were very black and white, and there were things she didn’t think she could bear to hear her say; not now. Yes, in an ideal world she’d find a way to tell Howard that she was scared, and he would really hear her. But they weren’t in an ideal world.

  She sighed. ‘Anyway, the appointment’s next week. Perhaps – would you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I will, my dear. And afterwards we’ll go for a large glass of wine and a proper chat, shall we? Really get to the bottom of things.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Kitty said, wondering what she had just done. ‘But now I must get on and do some painting.’

  ‘And how is all that coming along?’

  ‘Oh – not brilliantly. I don’t know. I feel stuck.’

  ‘Still?’ Claire put her head on one side. ‘With all that countryside out there?’

  ‘I know.’ Kitty sighed.

  ‘I wonder what it is that you’re not seeing,’ Claire said, narrowing her eyes. She could be like that sometimes; Kitty often thought she fancied herself as a bit of an amateur psychologist. ‘You must be looking at things in the wrong way. Have you read The Way of the Artist? It’s very good on observation versus inspiration. I’ll bring you my copy tomorrow. You must promise to read it though, OK?’

  But Kitty’s mind was elsewhere. Who else had said that to her recently – about not looking properly? The image came to her of a silent pool in the woods, a plastic bottle bobbing slightly in the water. She set a sketch pad on her easel, found a pencil and, from memory, began to draw.

  ‘Kitty dear, are you drawing litter?’ Claire said a little later, coming to stand behind her easel. It was lunchtime; usually they walked up the road together and had a sandwich and a coffee or, sometimes, a glass of wine.

  Kitty laughed. ‘No. Well, yes, I suppose I am. Listen, I’m going to work through lunch – would you mind getting me some water? Any kind, just make sure it’s in a plastic bottle?’
/>   ‘Of course,’ Claire said doubtfully. ‘I can’t believe you’re really going to paint a plastic bottle, though. What next? Crisp packets and condoms?’

  ‘It’s the way the light catches it in the water. Think of it as an exercise,’ Kitty said.

  When Claire had gone she turned back to her sketch. It wasn’t exactly pretty, Claire was right, and it might well be that she didn’t take it any further. But she could feel an excitement building that she couldn’t quite identify and didn’t want to examine too closely in case it fled. Just something about focusing in. Something about detail, not vistas, and about it being real. A bottle floating over submerged grass. A scrap of dirty wool caught on barbed wire. A dank tangle of briars, the sunlight shafting in.

  The others had finished work at five thirty, so when Jamie and Lee caught up with them after the evening shift they were already fairly drunk.

  ‘Dicko! Dicko! Dicko!’ chanted Nick as they pushed their way in among the crowd. It was packed and hot, the music thumping.

  The Mytton Park lot were all standing at one end of the long steel bar. Jamie barely knew Nick; they’d chatted once or twice on a fag break, but they weren’t exactly mates. ‘All right, mate?’ Nick shouted now, draining the last of pint and reaching behind Megan to shake Jamie’s hand. Megan had a backless top on; she looked great – though she probably knew it. ‘Yeah, not so bad,’ replied Jamie. ‘What you drinking?’

  ‘You legend,’ said Lee, overhearing. ‘Mine’s a pint.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Same, mate.’

  ‘Andy? What are you drinking?’ He mimed a drinking motion at Andy, who was grasping Lee’s arm and shouting into his ear. ‘Megan?’ He touched her arm hesitantly, aware of how cold his hand would feel to someone who had been in a packed bar for a while. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  She stood on tiptoes to answer, her breath warm on the side of his face. ‘Can I have a Bacardi and Coke, please?’

  ‘Sure. Can I . . .?’