In a Good Light

by Clare Chambers

  As she unswaddled herself from her scarf and coat, she began to lay out her case against Christian.

  ‘It started with this idea that we’d go to the States this summer,’ she said, removing her woolly hat to reveal hair ravaged by static. ‘We both applied to go and work in one of these summer camps. I got all the forms and did all the research, tarted up my CV a bit, you know. We thought we’d do two months at one of the camps and then go travelling for a month. Well, last week the letters came: I’ve got an interview; Christian hasn’t. I don’t know what to do. It’s causing so much bad feeling between us.’

  ‘Why didn’t they want him?’ It was the first time Christian had failed at anything: it was inexplicable.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought they’d snap him up, with all his sporting achievements. He’d make a great athletics coach, or whatever. I’ve got a feeling he didn’t do a very good application. You see, he’s a bit lazy about some things. I spent ages on my personal statement.’ She gave a guilty laugh. ‘I had to embroider a little, but they allow for that. I think Christian wanted me to do his application for him, and when I wouldn’t, he just dashed it off in a hurry. I refuse to mother him. I can’t stand men when they go all helpless.’

  There was a pause as a waitress brought over the two bowls of treacle sponge and custard that Penny had ordered as an antidote to despondency and foul weather. ‘Pudding’s so comforting isn’t it?’ she said, taking up her spoon. ‘I can face almost anything on a full stomach.’

  ‘Christian can’t really blame you for being selected,’ I said, when we’d fortified ourselves with a few mouthfuls of the elixir. ‘I mean, it’s not really your fault.’ Here I was, taking sides already.

  ‘Exactly,’ Penny agreed. ‘But Christian’s now hinting that he doesn’t want me to go. He says if it had been the other way round he wouldn’t go without me.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever discuss the possibility that only one of you might be chosen?’ I asked.

  Penny shook her head. ‘I’m such an eternal optimist. I never even considered failure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss him if you were apart for two months?’ This, after all, had been the basis of their decision to forgo their first choices of university.

  ‘Yes, of course. But I’m in an impossible situation. If I go, he’ll probably take up with someone else, and if I don’t, I’ll feel all bitter and resentful. And come the summer, I’ll say let’s go to France or something, and Christian will say he can’t because he hasn’t got any money – he’s permanently broke – so he’ll spend all summer working to pay off his overdraft and I’ll hardly see him anyway.’ She threw down her spoon. ‘I can’t eat this, it’s too sickly.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. If even pudding had failed to console then the outlook was bleak indeed. I started to eat faster: I had a feeling Penny might suddenly decide it was time to leave. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of a solution,’ I said, encouragingly.

  ‘There is no solution,’ the eternal optimist replied. ‘It’s one of those situations where a compromise doesn’t exist. One of us will have to back down.’

  As I disposed of my last mouthful of custard, she stood up. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the igloo. Don’t look so scared. We won’t start shouting and throwing things at each other. Not in front of a visitor.’

  Twenty minutes later we pulled up on the paved forecourt of a large Edwardian house, which stood by itself at the edge of a village. The ground floor was disfigured by a glass and aluminium porch, topped by an illuminated sign saying: VETERINARY PRACTICE. Apart from a dull glow from the curtained dormer windows the house was in darkness. The top flat was reached by a wobbly wooden fire escape at the back of the building.

  ‘Mind the turds,’ Penny instructed, as we picked our way across the wet grass. The rain had stopped while we were in the pub and all but a few shreds of cloud had blown away. Above us the sky was a velvety black, undimmed by the pollution of street lamps, and a hail of brilliant stars hung as if just out of reach.

  The fire door at the top of the steps led directly into a shabby kitchen, semi-lit by a bare pendant bulb. There was unwashed crockery on the table and in the sink, and the lino was tacky underfoot. I instantly felt at home. A tall, skinny girl in jeans and leg-warmers and a long, hairy pullover stood at the gas stove, stirring something in a saucepan. She turned as we came in. She had long feathery hair and dark shadows under her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said neutrally. Although her voice and movements were languid I could detect tension.

  ‘Yes, we went to the Wheatsheaf. It’s quite nice. Have you ever been there?’ said Penny, taking off her coat and throwing it over a chair.

  ‘No, I haven’t got a car,’ the girl said pointedly.

  ‘This is Esther,’ said Penny, refusing to acknowledge the last remark. ‘This is Martina.’

  ‘Oh hullo,’ said Martina, dismissing me with a glance. ‘What happened to Tom Robinson?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

  ‘I would have gone,’ said Martina, turning back to the stove.

  ‘Well, go then,’ said Penny, dropping her keys on the worktop. ‘Take the car.’

  ‘It’s too late now,’ Martina replied. She stopped stirring and inverted the saucepan over a plate. A clod of scrambled egg flopped out. She cleared a space on the table amidst the debris of former meals and began to eat, slowly and without relish.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Penny persisted, looking at her watch. ‘Bands never start on time.’

  Martina shrugged. ‘By the time I’ve got ready.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Penny, and recognising that she was not to be persuaded, changed the subject. ‘Is Christian in?’

  ‘Yes.’ This through a mouthful of egg. ‘Wart’s here again.’

  ‘Oh? Well he can’t stay. The sofa’s taken.’ Penny propelled me towards the doorway through which I could see a narrow hall, obstructed by a wooden drying frame hung with clothes. ‘She’d no intention of going out,’ Penny whispered, when we were through the door. ‘She just wanted to make a point.’ As we passed the washing, she gave one of the socks a squeeze. ‘I think it’s wetter than when I put it there,’ she said.

  She certainly hadn’t exaggerated about the gnawing coldness in the flat. Eddies of icy air swirled up through gaps in the floorboards to add an extra dimension to the frigid atmosphere; the wallpaper was clammy to the touch. I couldn’t envisage getting undressed for bed: I still didn’t feel tempted to take my coat off.

  Penny took my bag and deposited it in one of the rooms off the hallway beside a double bed, which appeared to have been only recently vacated: the duvet and blankets were flung back to reveal a body-shaped depression in the sheet. I couldn’t help noticing that without the ministrations of Maria, the Portuguese home help, Penny’s living conditions were considerably less civilised, and took some comfort from the fact.

  In the sitting room, which was no less seedy than the rest of the flat, Christian and (presumably) Wart were sitting cross-legged on the world’s baldest carpet, playing cards. In the corner a paraffin heater was pumping out its nauseous perfume along with a welcome measure of warmth. The room’s furnishings consisted of sofa, one hardbacked chair, a wicker armchair, hi-fi, tile-topped coffee table, and a few sickly pot plants. A collection of books and records sat on an arrangement of brick and plank shelving.

  When he saw me Christian leapt up and gave me a kiss. Wart stayed put. ‘We’re here,’ Penny said superfluously.

  They both stood awkwardly: two people in the middle of a quarrel that has lost its momentum but not yet been resolved. After what seemed, to an embarrassed observer like me, a long time, Christian put out one arm and Penny went to him for a hug. A truce.

  ‘Hello, Wart, what are you doing here?’ said Penny, when they had disengaged.

  ‘Hello, Princess. Just being sociable. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ He nodded in my direction. Even though he was on the floor I could see that he was tall, with big shoulde
rs and arms, like a rugby player. He had a slight gut, which hung over the top of his jeans and rested against his shirt. His hair was short – aggressively so in my view. There was nothing attractive about him. And yet.

  ‘This is my little sister, Esther,’ Christian obliged. ‘So just watch your filthy mouth when she’s around.’

  Wart held out a hand which turned out to be surprisingly soft when I reluctantly shook it. ‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he said, baring his teeth at me.

  ‘This isn’t your humble abode,’ Penny reminded him. ‘How are you getting back?’

  ‘I thought I’d just crash here on the sofa. I can’t cycle home because I haven’t got any lights on my bike.’

  ‘Well you can’t,’ said Penny. ‘We need the sofa tonight. We’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘Esther can have Lynn’s room. She’s gone home for the weekend,’ said Christian.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Wart beamed.

  ‘Hmph,’ said Penny, outmanoeuvred.

  Christian turned to me. ‘How are you anyway, Pest? Look, make yourself at home.’

  I took my coat off and sat down with a jolt. What I had taken to be a sofa was in fact a park bench with a carpet thrown over it. Christian sat beside me. ‘What have you been doing since I last saw you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. How are Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Mum’s going frantic looking after Grandpa. He keeps escaping. Dad’s doing loads of extra stuff at church because of the interregnum. He’s been doing a lot of funerals.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Christian.

  ‘I didn’t know your dad was a vicar,’ said Wart.

  ‘He’s not. He’s a chaplain at one of Her Majesty’s prisons,’ Christian replied. ‘You’ll probably get to meet him in his professional capacity one day.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Wart.

  I suddenly remembered the tenner. ‘A present from Dad,’ I said, handing it over. Christian took it from me and gave it a wistful look before passing it solemnly to Wart, who put it in his back pocket.

  Penny raised her eyes to heaven. ‘I think I’ll go to bed if that’s all right,’ she said. ‘Today is the one hundred and twentieth day of my cold, if anybody’s interested.’ No one was. ‘Shall I show you where you’re sleeping, Esther?’

  I was reluctant to leave the warmth of the sitting room for the more bracing climate of the bedrooms, but the heady fumes of the paraffin heater were making me feel queasy so I followed her out.

  ‘Goodnight,’ called Christian.

  ‘Goodnight Bruv,’ I replied. I don’t know why. I never called him Bruv at home. I suppose I was trying to claim some rights of kinship in these alien surroundings.

  In the enduring chaos of the kitchen, Penny made me a hot waterbottle, which she wrapped in a pillowcase. This maternal gesture gave me the courage to ask her to leave the bathroom light on overnight. I knew the darkness here would be absolute.

  Lynn’s bedroom, a wedge-shaped nook under the eaves, had an uncurtained skylight and a narrow bed, which let out twangs of protest whenever I made the minutest adjustment to my position. Someone, presumably the landlord, had attempted to redecorate the room without bothering to move the furniture: the gloss on the skirting board stopped where the bed began.

  I had lagged myself for sleep in pants, socks, pyjamas, sweatshirt, and Lynn’s dressing gown, and burrowed down into Christian’s Snowdon survivor’s sleeping-bag, clutching the hot waterbottle to my chest like a life jacket. Through the wall I could hear the murmur of Martina’s radio. I lay there for what seemed like hours, afraid to go to sleep in case someone switched the bathroom light off, gazing at the cold stars through the skylight, and thinking, If this is university, thank God I’m thick. In truth I felt a little homesick, though at home I only wanted to be with Christian. At some point I remember realising that apart from my face I was actually warm, and then it was morning, and Penny was standing over me with tea and toast.

  ‘I’ve said I won’t go to America,’ Penny said, as we crunched across the shingle on Sidmouth beach. It only struck me later that this didn’t have quite the same force as, ‘I won’t go to America’. Down on the red sand, beyond which a rusty sea boiled and churned, Christian and Wart, who had somehow managed to inveigle his way into the outing, were playing Frisbee. Every so often Christian would skim it in our direction, and Penny would deflect it with a gloved hand, sending it clattering across the stones.

  ‘So is everything back to normal with you and Christian?’ I asked. There had certainly been no repeat of the strained atmosphere on my arrival.

  ‘I suppose so. We’ve kissed and made up, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Good. I knew you would.’ As if Christian had heard us, he came charging up the beach, floundering over the stones, and hoisted Penny over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. He went running back towards the water’s edge, ignoring her shrieks, and pretended to throw her in, urged on by Wart, before depositing her back on the sand. She rejoined me, brushing herself down and removing and pocketing one of the brass buttons from her Cossack’s coat, which had come loose in the affray. She didn’t enjoy horseplay of any kind. It wasn’t civilised.

  ‘I don’t like Wart,’ I said, when I’d allowed her a moment or two to convalesce. I had bumped into him coming out of the bathroom that morning. He was wearing nothing but a pair of briefs – a piece of wilful exhibitionism, given the temperature – and was, in my view, unnecessarily hairy.

  ‘He’s an acquired taste,’ said Penny. ‘He grows on you.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he’s called Wart.’

  Penny tittered at this. ‘No, it’s short for John Wharton-Smith. It just happens to suit.’

  ‘Christian seems to like him.’ The two of them were still larking about on the sand, chucking the Frisbee nearer and nearer to the incoming waves. Presently, Christian executed a fiendish throw, which curved gently out to sea at shoulder height, just out of Wart’s reach. He lunged for the catch, missed, and landed ankle deep in water, swearing lavishly.

  ‘Oh, Christian’s so easy going, he likes everybody,’ said Penny, as though this was a serious flaw. ‘Mind you, he owes Wart so much money, he has to be nice to him.’

  This sort of information about Christian, so casually delivered, always made me uncomfortable. It was like yesterday’s allusion to hangovers. There was so much I didn’t know about him. I immediately began to worry. Why did he borrow so much? In Mum and Dad’s moral universe, poverty was a virtue, but debt was definitely a vice.

  ‘What does he spend it all on?’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘Food, drink, me, going out,’ said Penny, unaware of the anxiety she’d caused. ‘The pool table in the Union must account for a fair few quid.’

  ‘Mum and Dad will be horrified.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell them. It’s not their problem; it’s his. He’s a big boy now. He’ll have to sort it out.’

  In the afternoon Penny had a craving for something sweet, so she drove us to Newton Poppleford, where there was reputed to be a tea shop serving unlimited clotted cream. We sat at a table by the window and ate warm scones and home-made jam with our bottomless crock of cream. We drank Earl Grey out of bone china, like a vicarage tea party, and Penny and I laughed at the sight of Wart holding the dainty cup and saucer in his huge hands.

  When it was time to leave I whipped out my purse to stop Christian paying, but Wart insisted it was his treat, and no one offered any resistance. He’s not so bad after all, I thought, though I had to revise my opinion on the way home, when he fell asleep next to me in the back and kept keeling over onto my lap. When I had pushed him off for the third time I began to suspect him of shamming, so I gave him a sharp prod in the side, and he sat up, grunting and twitching in a pantomime of rude awakening. I glared at him to let him know I wasn’t fooled, and he replied with a wink.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Penny demanded, as we neared Plymtree. We all sniffed experimentally. She was right: the
re was a certain pungency in the air. It was soon traced to Wart’s wet socks and shoes, now beginning to steam in the heat of the car.

  ‘I’ll drop you home shall I, Wart?’ Penny offered.

  ‘It’s a bit out of your way.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ said Penny, taking the Exeter turning.

  ‘Only I’ve left my bike at your place,’ Wart remembered. ‘I’d better come back with you and pick it up.’

  Penny swung the car round without comment. I couldn’t work out whether she liked or loathed him.

  Of course when we arrived at the flat Wart made no move to depart, but trooped up the fire exit behind us. Once indoors, he took off his shoes and socks and balanced them on top of the paraffin heater, then settled down in the wicker armchair with a can of Guinness and was soon asleep.

  It was left to the rest of us – me, Penny, Martina and Christian – to make the place presentable for the party planned for the evening. Even the rattle of grit going up the Hoover failed to rouse Wart from his slumbers. It was only when Christian, who was trying to shift furniture from the sitting room into the bedrooms, bellowed in his ear that he got up, complaining about his cold feet, and shambled off to the bathroom.

  His popularity took a further dive an hour later when Penny discovered that he had hogged all the hot water. She and Martina, tired and filthy from their recent skirmish with the kitchen, were incoherent with rage. It was decided that they would drive all the way into Exeter and use the showers on campus rather than endure the torture of cold baths, so they collected towels and washbags and flounced out of the flat, taking me with them.