The narrow woman didn’t talk back. Sheila wasn’t even sure if she was listening.
‘You know, I’m not that kind of girl,’ Sheila said, as it began.
She’d said the same words to the man a few weeks before.
Then stop dressing like one, he’d said.
Sheila looked up at the narrow woman. ‘Sometimes it’s easier, isn’t it, to not fight back? Sometimes, people don’t really have any choices, do they?’
It was her last chance for absolution. Her last chance to rescue the rest of her life.
The narrow woman let her fall.
She had never replied.
Sheila had to tell her father that she’d lost her pay packet.
When he’d finished growling and criticizing, she went into the front room and drank mouthfuls of his brandy. It was hot and bitter, and she heaved it into the bathroom sink a few minutes later. But she went back. And this time the brandy stayed where it was. It wrapped itself around her thoughts and stopped them from moving around the inside of her head, and it sent her misery to sleep, even if it was only for a few hours.
A coping strategy, Margaret Creasy had called it. The only problem was, when your whole existence is something you have to cope with, you look back one day and find that your strategy has become a way of life.
*
‘Mam?’
It was Lisa. Sheila could hear her moving around the kitchen, shouting into the sitting room. Sheila heaved herself from the pantry floor, but she must have got up too quickly, because everything seemed to slide sideways and she had to hold on to one of the shelves to steady herself.
‘I’m in here,’ she shouted. ‘I’m just finding something for our tea.’
Her hands grabbed at the first tin she could find, and she felt her way around the walls, looking for the door handle.
The kitchen seemed bright and unfriendly after the darkness of the pantry.
‘Peach slices?’ Lisa was standing right in front of her.
Sheila looked down at the tin. ‘For afterwards,’ she said.
Lisa frowned at her and turned away. For the rest of the conversation, Sheila only saw Lisa’s back, and the curtain of hair which fell over her face as she bent down and took off her boots.
‘I heard about the little girls.’ Lisa pulled at the buckles. ‘You saved them, Mam. You’re a real hero. Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Daft little buggers to go over there in the first place,’ Sheila said.
She could still taste the brandy. There was some chewing gum in one of the drawers, but she couldn’t find it and nothing seemed to be in the right place.
‘He needs sorting out. The lads at school think so too. Evil bastard.’
‘Lisa, don’t say bastard. Or at least, don’t say it so much.’
‘He is, though,’ Lisa said. ‘He’s a pervert, that’s what he is. A bloody pervert.’
Sheila turned to the room, but she still held on to the edge of the sink. The walls sloped and shifted around her, and the light pulled the headache to the corners of her skull.
‘I mean,’ Lisa kicked her boots into the corner of the room, ‘what kind of monster would ever harm a child?’
‘I don’t know, Lisa.’
Sheila watched her daughter. She was older now, capable. Not really a little girl to be told not to swear.
‘Sometimes, though,’ Sheila said, ‘sometimes, things aren’t always so clear cut, are they? Sometimes people don’t really have any choices?’
‘Of course they do.’ Lisa turned around for the first time and stared at her. ‘People always have bloody choices.’
Sheila looked down at her hands. They were white and shaking, and liver-spotted from a lifetime of falling.
Number Four, The Avenue
18 July 1976
The removal van sat on the avenue, its diesel engine turning over, and black smoke coughed into a watchful silence. I could hear blurred music coming from the cab, and a spire of cigarette smoke trailed from the open window.
Whilst we were sleeping, the airless July night had tipped into a perfect morning, seamless and still. Tiny clouds danced at the edges of the sky and, above our heads, a blackbird sang with such a beautiful heart I couldn’t understand why the whole world hadn’t stopped to listen to him.
Tilly and I sat on the wall outside my house, like a cinema audience, with sherbet dips and a sense of anticipation. The sun made slices into our bare legs and we stretched them out into the day.
‘Can you see anything?’ she said.
‘No.’ I dipped my liquorice, and the sherbet fizzed on my tongue. ‘Can’t be much longer, though.’
The removal van had sat outside number fourteen for forty-five minutes, and for the whole of that time my mother had been at the kitchen window, pretending to wash up.
I asked her if she wanted to sit with us on the wall outside, but she said, ‘I’m far too busy for that,’ and went back to pretending.
‘Do you think there’ll be children?’ said Tilly.
I had told her I didn’t know four times already, so I just sucked on my liquorice and kicked my heels against the bricks. Mrs Dakin was sunbathing with her eyes open and Mr Forbes had been to his dustbin six times in the last half an hour. The avenue was delirious with expectation.
The car arrived at either 11.08 or 11.09 (my watch had one of the lines missing, so I couldn’t be sure). It was a large, metallic saloon, so large it had to have two goes at getting on to number fourteen’s drive. The passenger door opened, and then the driver’s door, and then one of the doors in the back. I was concentrating so hard I forgot I had a piece of liquorice in my mouth.
At first, I thought something was being lifted out, something gold and green and sapphire-blue. Then I realized it was material, and not only was it material, it was someone’s clothes. And they were folded and wrapped and decorated around the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. She smiled at us and waved, and the man who had got out of the driver’s door (and who was dressed in a white shirt and ordinary trousers), smiled and waved too, and a little boy shot from the back seat like a bullet, and began running around the front lawn.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Tilly, ‘they’re Indian!’
I took the liquorice from my mouth, ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’
Across the fence, Mr Forbes’ dustbin toppled over on his driveway and behind my shoulder, I heard the sound of falling crockery.
*
‘It’s not that,’ said my mother (I would tell you how many times she’d said it, but I had lost count).
‘Well, what is it, then?’ I said.
‘They might not want us calling round. They might have their own ways.’
‘Because they’re Indian?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘But you’ve baked a cake,’ I said.
‘Oh that. That’s for anybody.’
‘It says “Welcome” on the top in blue icing.’
My mother became very interested in the TV Times.
‘Well, I’ll go round on my own,’ I said.
‘You can’t do that!’ My mother put the TV Times back down the side of the chair. ‘Tell her, Derek.’
My father had so far escaped the conversation by reading his book on the outskirts of the settee and being ignored. He said well and perhaps and if, and then his voice petered out into nothing.
My mother looked at him and did loud staring.
Thankfully, the sound of her loud staring was interrupted by the front doorbell. We never used our front door, it was ornamental. No one was even sure if it worked any more, and, for a moment, we all just looked at each other.
My father jumped up, and we all jumped up with him. He pulled and argued with the front door, and told us to step back, and we waited until it finally shuddered open. The beautiful lady and her husband in ordinary clothes, and the boy who ran like a bullet, all stood on our doorstep.
‘Hello,’ I said.
My mother smoothed do
wn her hair and her trousers. My father just grinned.
‘Hello, back,’ said the beautiful lady.
‘I’m really glad you’re Indian,’ I said (I meant to say, would you like to come in, but the words changed their mind on the way up). The beautiful lady and her husband just laughed and within five minutes, they were all sitting in a row on our settee.
The beautiful lady was called Aneesha Kapoor, her husband was Amit Kapoor, and the little boy was called Shahid. Their names were exotic and precious, like jewellery, and I said them over and over in my head.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ said my mother. She had been given a tin of sweets. Aneesha Kapoor called them sweets, but they looked more like biscuits, interesting biscuits.
‘I baked you a cake,’ my mother added.
‘But it’s for anyone,’ I said.
My mother cornered her eyes.
‘It’s so nice of you to drop by, we were going to pop round and see you anyway.’
I cornered my eyes back.
‘We wanted to get to know everyone,’ said Amit. ‘It’s important, isn’t it, to have a sense of community?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said my parents.
‘And to feel part of the neighbourhood, to have an identity?’ said Amit.
‘Definitely, yes, definitely,’ said my parents.
I wondered where this sense of community was. If it was waiting at the back of Sheila Dakin’s pantry, or hidden in the loneliness of Eric Lamb’s shed. I wondered if it sat with May Roper on her crocheted settee, or scratched itself into the paintwork of Walter Bishop’s rotten windows. Perhaps it was in all of those places, but I had yet to find it.
‘Well, it’s lovely that you’re now part of our neighbourhood,’ said my mother. ‘It will bring a bit of colour to the place.’
My father choked on his biscuit.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ my mother said, ‘I mean it will be more colourful now you’re here. I mean—’
Aneesha laughed. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said.
I could hear my father still coughing up crumbs in the kitchen as he made a pot of tea.
He brought it in on a tray. The milk was in a milk jug. I didn’t even know we owned a milk jug. People shuffled cups and side plates and elbows, and my mother cut into the ‘W’ of ‘Welcome’.
‘So, where are you from?’ my mother said.
Amit was moulded into the end of the settee, his arms pressed to his sides, like a soldier.
‘Birmingham,’ he said. He sliced into the cake and his fork cracked against the plate.
My mother leaned forward, in a conspiracy. ‘Yes, but where are you really from?’ she said.
Amit leaned forward as well. ‘Edgbaston,’ he said, and everyone laughed.
My mother’s laugh was a few seconds behind.
‘Why don’t you have some of these?’ Aneesha said. She passed the sweets over. ‘They’re called mithai.’
‘Pardon?’ said my mother.
‘Mitheyes, Sylvia,’ said my father. He nudged Amit with his elbow and winked. ‘Have you never heard of them?’
My mother frowned into the box. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I can’t say as I have.’
‘Of course, I almost went to India,’ said my father.
We all stared at him. Especially my mother. My father didn’t even like taking the 107 bus to Nottingham. He said it made him feel queasy.
‘You did?’ said Amit.
‘Oh yes,’ my father said. ‘I had to give up on the idea in the end, though. Couldn’t face the sewerage system.’ He patted his insides. ‘And the poverty, of course.’
‘Ah yes,’ Amit said. ‘The poverty.’
‘We still enjoy a good curry, though, and we always listen to your music.’ My father opened another pale ale. ‘Love a bit of Demis Roussos, don’t we, Sylve?’
We all stared.
‘I think he might be Greek, Derek,’ said my mother.
‘Greek, Indian, what’s the difference? The world’s a big place these days.’
Aneesha Kapoor looked over at me and smiled. Then she gave a little wink that only she and I could see. I think she probably knew that a very large part of me wanted to die.
My father reached over for another biscuit. ‘Help yourself to a beer, Amit,’ he said. ‘Don’t be shy, lad, there’s plenty to go round.’
*
After they had left, I sat in the kitchen and watched my parents rattle around against each other and tidy up the plates.
‘Well, that went well,’ said my father.
‘Did it?’ My mother stared at the biscuits. ‘I’m still not sure how they’ll fit in.’
‘You’ve got to learn to move with the times,’ my father said. ‘There’s another Indian family moved into Pine Crescent. You might have to start asking yourself whether you’re the one who needs to fit in.’
My mother examined one of the sweets, then changed her mind and put it back again.
On his way into the hall, my father picked up a newspaper. His voice carried back into the kitchen. ‘As Elvis Presley once said, Sylvia, all the world’s a stage and each must play his part.’
And he closed the living-room door and switched on the evening news.
‘I think I’ve forgotten what my part’s supposed to be,’ said my mother.
She put the sweets right at the bottom of the biscuit tin – underneath a packet of fig rolls, and half a Jamaica Ginger Cake.
Number Six, The Avenue
18 July 1976
‘What are they up to now?’ Harold was calling out instructions from the settee. ‘If you pull the curtain back properly, you might see a bit better.’
‘They’ve just gone next door with a tin of some sort. Grace let them in. It doesn’t matter how far back I pull the curtain, Harold. They’ve gone inside now.’
‘Beggars belief,’ he said. ‘You think they might have issued us with some kind of warning.’
‘Who?’ Dorothy let the curtain fall back.
‘The council. To let us know these people had prepared themselves.’
‘How exactly should they have prepared themselves?’
‘Got used to our customs.’ Harold pulled at hisshoelace. ‘Learned a bit of our language, you know.’
‘I’m fairly sure they speak English, Harold.’
‘Well, if they do, it’s only thanks to the Raj. You can’t just go marching into somebody else’s country and expect them to follow all your rules, you know.’
‘India?’ said Dorothy.
‘No, Britain.’ Harold tutted and began on his other shoe. ‘It isn’t cricket.’
Harold stood up. Dorothy couldn’t prove it, but she could have sworn he was shrinking.
‘I’ll take a closer look on my way past. I’m just nipping to the Legion.’
‘Again?’ said Dorothy. ‘You were only there last night.’
‘I promised Clive I’d pop my head in. See if he needs a hand.’
She stared him out, and he returned to laces which had already been laced.
*
Dorothy watched from the living-room window. Harold narrowed his eyes at number four and glanced over at number eleven, and then he disappeared round the corner with his hands in the pockets of his shorts.
The house always felt more relaxed without Harold inside it. It was almost as if the walls breathed out, and the floors and the ceilings stretched and yawned, and everybody made themselves more comfortable. This was when she missed Whiskey the most – when they would sit together, feeding on the silence.
She sat back in Harold’s chair. She had finished today’s list hours ago, and it lay folded in the pocket of her apron, crossed and ticked and satisfied. If Harold had realized, he would have added to it. A woman’s work is never done, he would have said. Especially a woman who dawdles and daydreams, and gets herself confused over everything. But she needed the afternoon to herself. She needed to think.
The box was where it had always been, secreted away in
the back of Harold’s cupboard, behind the folders of paperwork and sheaves of bank statements, and all the other very important documents Dorothy wasn’t considered responsible enough to be involved with.
She had discovered it only by accident.
It was after the fire. Dorothy had begun whittling about their home insurance and what would happen if number six mysteriously burned to the ground. It was keeping her awake at night. She couldn’t talk to Harold about it because he found her worrying disagreeable. It shortened his temper and made the whites of his eyes even whiter, and so she had decided to check through the policy herself. To use the initiative that Harold said she was never in possession of.
And that’s how she’d found it.
Over the years, every so often, she would wait for Harold to leave the house, and then she would remove the little box and take out all the contents, and sit very quietly and worry to herself.
Today was a day when she felt like worrying. She blamed Margaret Creasy and the endless heat, and watching Sheila Dakin march across the avenue yesterday with those two little girls in tow.
She sat in the kitchen and spread the contents of the box out on to the table. The windows and the door were all open, but there wasn’t even a touch of breeze in the air. It felt as though everything had stopped, even the weather, and the whole world was vanishing in a gasping, final pause.
She ran her fingers over the cardboard, looking for scorch marks, a trace of smoke, an answer to a worry which had stretched itself out over the years. She was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear the footsteps, or notice the shadow in the doorway. She didn’t realize anything at all, until she heard his voice.
‘Dorothy, what in God’s name are you doing?’
Eric Lamb.
He walked over to the table and stared. ‘What on earth are you doing with Walter Bishop’s camera?’ he said.
*
Dorothy filled the kettle and lit a gas ring.
The Trouble with Goats and Sheep Page 20