Yeah, she said. I’m sure you’d rob my grave as quick.
Fair’s fair, my mother said, you pulled a right fucking smooth move there.
You think so? I said.
There was me waiting on a letter from the law place telling me what I got, she said, there was me waiting to hear what I’d been left. Waiting on a letter that never came. Anyway, fuck the cow.
You got a key, I said.
This room used to have an orange rug, she said. A big orange rug.
I remembered that rug and how I rolled it up to get it out the front door and into the skip.
I’d put my face down on that rug in front of the fire, she said, and it would be like I was lying in the centre of the sun. Right in the very centre of it.
When I was a kid, she added.
I said, Look, do you want me to go down to the offlicence for you? It’s only down the road.
She considered but said no, because was the Troubadour still there? Don’t tell me the Troubadour’s not even there now. I said that it was still there but it was called something different.
Yeah well, beggars can’t be choosers, she said. Although it’s probably going to be a shithole too.
She went upstairs and came down again wearing the new T-shirt with the sunset.
You coming? she said.
Where to? I asked.
The Troubadour. You’ve not seen me in, how long? Not even going to go for a drink, how’s that meant to make anybody feel? Own flesh and blood, she said.
The Troubadour was fairly empty. My mother had double vodka and Coke and I had an orange juice. Orange juice for fuck’s sake, she said.
Coke’s flat, she added.
One TV above the bar showed football with no sound and the other female wrestling.
Then my mother shouted out, Geordie!
A small, wiry man had come in. When he saw my mother he let out a yell and held his arms wide. Jesus but would you look who it is! he said. Look who’s back! Look at you! When you get out? Hey, son, you going to get this friend of mine a drink?
My mother didn’t notice me slip out. I sipped the last of the orange and off I went back home to my house. I read a book for a while, and then I lay upstairs with the light on, listening for the key in my door. I expected my mother, Geordie and various others to come bursting in. The digital display on my bedside clock counted through the hours. The Troubadour hadn’t turned out to be such a shithole after all, perhaps. No doubt there had been an after-hours session, a move to another bar, a party back at a house somewhere other than here. There had been other old friends to meet.
The next morning I was up very early. I lay listening but there was nothing. The bedroom, when I ventured to check it, was as was. The white quilt was untouched. There were just a couple of things lying on the floor: her jumper and a pair of knickers. There was no sign of the key so she must have taken it with her. In the bathroom there was her toothbrush in the mug along with mine. I took it out and put it in her blue holdall along with her other bits and pieces, zipped the holdall shut and took it downstairs. I sat on my sofa, which was not leather, and thought for a bit as the wan morning light showed my brushstrokes on the gloss. What I wished was this: that I had a cigarette and a whisky with the ice clinking and that my gran was still here. In the cupboard under the stairs I had my tool kit and I knew I was nothing like the Spanish guys who wouldn’t change the locks. The DIY superstore had that whole aisle of mortises and sashes and it opened in less than an hour’s time.
Sweet Home
The name usually given to this type of building— community centre—was rejected since it was thought to be pejorative in its suggestion of entrenched cultural and political ideologies. People’s centre, however, was considered more inclusive so people’s centre it was. The people’s centre was being built on waste ground that had previously been an area for carry-outs, bonfires and, on one occasion, a dog fight. Before work could start on the build, effort and resources were dedicated to the removal of knotweed from the area: the roots of the plants were injected with large syringes and the foliage was sprayed with herbicide. And then the steel skeleton of the new centre was able to rise from the scrub ground until it was three times taller than any other building in the vicinity. In the mornings the men working on the site sent the two youngest for breakfasts in polystyrene boxes from the nearby cafe. Pneumatic drilling and the clang of metal didn’t entirely drown out the swipes of traffic or the sometime sound of children at play in the nearby primary school. The London-based practice, Thanasis, had their senior architect responsible for the design on site every month. She stayed in a hotel room in the city centre which, although small, gave her a panoramic view of the place.
The architect who was called Susan Marsh had a husband, Gavin. Originally from Belfast he had left in the early nineteen-eighties to go to university on the mainland where he got a certain mileage out of the time back home when he had been on a bus that got hijacked. His version of events included a lyrical description of the flames. In more recent years, he had made trips to visit his very elderly mother who was in a nursing home in the leafy suburb where he had grown up. He saw a little of the province on these visits. It all seemed very changed from what he remembered, although much of what he remembered was generated by black and white press photography.
Gavin started to accompany Susan on her own trips to Belfast. When she was working he explored the old streets and the new streets, the reclaimed land down at the docks. He visited his mother. Gavin and Susan hired a car and drove the sixty miles to be buffeted raw by the wind coming off the Atlantic. In a harbour bar Gavin complained once again about the slow, clogged travel and predictability to which they had become accustomed at home. It’s not as if I need to work in London, he said. And neither, really, do you. Couldn’t you get away with only being there a day a week?
From the bar she could see the suck of the tide, its pull. Beaches like that shelved steeply. She could get away without being there at all. The coldness of the water would be a shock at first.
It’s a possibility, she said.
Gavin was keen. What was there to keep them, beyond work and their house? And work could be reconfigured and a house could be sold. Susan’s parents lived in Scotland but Gavin’s mother was in Belfast, or at least a fifteen-minute drive from it. The place had some claim on them, on Gavin at any rate, that London had not. So Susan took charge of selling their old house and buying the new one, and Gavin arranged the removals. Their new house on a grand tree-lined avenue they considered a little too dark, so Susan drew up plans for a glass extension, two storeys high, which added considerable extra space and light. Glass met 1890s brick. Once the extension was completed the garden was redesigned and the driveway repositioned. Susan and Gavin used a small gardening business that had put a leaflet through their door. Gavin felt happy to be giving the job to people from the local area.
See that? said Colin, indicating the glass extension, I wouldn’t have that if you paid me. It’s got no style. No style at all.
Does look quite shit, the youngest one, Bucky, said. Ernie looked at it for a while in cool judgment, tilting his head this way and that. Bloody stupid, he said.
The woman appeared with tea for them in funny-shaped mugs. They all watched her as she took the tray back into the house.
Bit of an oldie, but kinda classy, said Bucky.
I’d rather have sleazy, said Ernie.
Everybody’d rather have sleazy, said Colin.
When it got to lunch the woman’s husband brought them out various sandwiches. Was the woman a bit of a ballbreaker, they wondered, because there was the man making the sandwiches. We don’t know that for sure, Bucky said, because she might have made them and just said to him, bring those out would you?
Exactly, said the thin one. You said she just said to him, bring those out would you? But don’t be slagging the ballbreakers now. They can be alright. Miss Whiplash, those sort of ones.
In the house, Susan a
nd Gavin worked in separate rooms on different floors. Gavin found being overly concerned with productivity counterproductive: it was better to allow disparate ideas, drawn from what he had thought and observed, and augmented by various things he had read, to coalesce in their own good time and in their own way. Sure, he had work to keep him going, consultancy whatnot. But they all knew him, they knew the way he worked. You couldn’t force the kind of thing that he did. If sitting in the new house all the time had little to recommend it then it was fortunate that in the streets nearby Gavin could look in the windows of bakeries and second hand shops. He went to the same old cafe where he always left a generous tip. They always looked pleased to see him. Just the usual? they would ask and he liked that. Him, your man there and his funny wee leather bag. Back again. Funny wee jacket he wears too. Although she mostly didn’t recognise him, he sometimes took his mother out on a trip from the nursing home. He put her in the front seat with a rug over her knees and they would drive off for an ice cream. On some visits he had driven down to the seafront but it had been bleak, sitting there licking the ice creams in silence and watching the waves roll faithfully, so now they stayed in the shop car park where at least there was some activity. He always had tissues in the car for when the ice cream ran down her face.
At the grand opening, the people’s centre was gleaming and pristine. There were elaborate flower arrangements in the foyer and people flew over from London. It was said that the building was in line for several architectural awards, and certain to win at least one of them. A beautiful building that wouldn’t be out of place in Chicago or Berlin, its multiple functionality was praised. Health centre? office space? dance studio? exhibition space? It was all of these things. There was a huge automatic door, efficient and welcoming and light flooded in an affirming manner into the huge space of the ground floor. A few weeks after its opening, Gavin took himself down to the centre when he needed another break. It was only a fifteen minute stroll from the new house. In the grand atrium however there was now a huge black vending machine that dispensed cans of Coke, Sprite and Fanta, Snickers, Aero, Mars bars, roast chicken crisps and ready salted. Gavin got a Coke and a bag of ready salted. The man on the desk said hello and Gavin said that he was just having a quick look. Was that alright? Look away, said the man. In the health centre area there was a water dispenser which was dripping onto the floor. The enterprise area housed several new business start-ups and consisted of an open space segmented by Perspex sheeting. Gavin watched two girls listen earnestly to a young man in a green sweatshirt. In the new house there were days when on the threshold of Susan’s room he would loiter with intent. Want a coffee? he’d ask. What? No. Just in the middle of something here. Maybe later. Across from the enterprise area there was a schedule of events for the week—slimming club, Somme Society, two birthday parties—written on a grid on a whiteboard. On the first floor the smell of burnt bacon heralded the cafe. There was tea, coffee, bacon soda or sausage soda, and a couple of greasy newspapers on a table. Gavin got a coffee and read about the antics of some celebrities he didn’t know.
Gavin was taking a circuitous route home from his visit to the people’s centre, up and down the streets that ran off the main, when he came across Bucky Cash sitting with lordly composure on the wall outside his house. After their garden had been landscaped, Gavin and Susan needed someone to maintain it and Bucky seemed as good a person as any. He came round to do the garden for an hour or so every other Friday afternoon.
Bucky! Gavin said. Didn’t know you lived so close.
A young woman with a child on her hip came to the door.
Bucky, she said. I need you a minute.
Oh. She saw Gavin standing there. Sorry.
When she had gone back inside Bucky said, That’s Emma and Carl.
Right.
Emma shouted, Bucky would you come here a minute cos I need you to do something in the house.
Bucky made a face as though his work on earth was never done.
See you later on in the week then, Gavin said.
I’ll be round the usual time, Bucky said.
As he headed back to the house, Gavin thought about Bucky’s set-up. His girl was good looking enough with that top showing a good inch of dirty bra and those tight panty lines through the thin leggings. But that wasn’t it. He didn’t really care about that too much, even though with Susan it was all about those dreary and micro-managed handjobs. It was that Bucky had a child, Bucky was a father. From 1992 to 1998 Gavin had been too. But his daughter had died. He didn’t want to think about her hair or the way she ran or her voice or the things she said although he did sometimes think about her funeral. He had hated it, because, and he was getting angry again just thinking about it, thinking about it as he was going back to the new house, because, if there was ever a time for nuance and minimalism it was not at the funeral of a six year old, for fuck’s sake. What about pink feathers, the hair clips with plaited ribbons, plastic horses with multicoloured tails, those shops with the tat, their shelves emptied out over the seats, sprinkled down the aisles, thrown on top of the pavements? What about an exploding glitter bomb? Blasting out inane bubblegum pop, stupid shrill songs? But Susan had been in charge so it was all so unspeakably quiet and modest. I’m dealing with it. I’m getting it sorted. Please, Gavin, just let me do it.
Later that evening he told Susan that he had been to the centre.
Yes?
Yes, he replied.
All you could smell was burnt bacon, he said.
Well Gavin, I only designed it. I’m not responsible for what they cook in the cafe.
It’s starting to look a bit shabby around the edges already, he said. Scuffed.
Susan frowned slightly. Always going to happen. With that volume of users. Inevitable.
Weren’t that many people around when I was there.
Depends on what time. It’s going to vary, said Susan.
I’ll try going at another time then, said Gavin. Do a comparative analysis with the previous time I went. Yeah. Chart it in a graph.
But that would be the kind of activity anathema to Gavin. All those empty days, expanses of time when he did nothing, how could he bear them? She rarely turned down work, particularly if it was going to be taxing. She had hoped that she would have a breakdown; it would have been a relief. But it never happened. There was one time when she had stepped out in front of a car but it had missed her. Time wound down as it approached and she could see the dangling air freshener and the man’s brown hair and it was like the start of an orgasm, but then he swerved and there was nothing. Everything continued oblivious. Susan wasn’t a showboater: there was no hacking away at herself, no not quite overdoses.
Well, Gavin, that would give you something to do, wouldn’t it? she said. It would help you occupy your time.
I have a life.
Oh so that’s what it’s called, she said.
It was the end of another week so Bucky was there. From the vista of the sitting room Gavin stood watching him load the cuttings from the hedges into black bin bags and empty the grass from the lawnmower into the compost pile. He was putting everything back in the garage when Gavin brought him out a beer.
Just call it a day, he said. Just take a seat and leave it— that’s enough.
Place is looking pretty okay. Bucky surveyed the garden as if it were his own.
Yes, said Gavin, you’re certainly doing a good job. Very pleased with how it’s all shaping up.
Yeah not too bad at all. What’s your missus up to today? he asked.
Oh not too sure, said Gavin. What I mean is, I don’t know exactly what she’s up to but I do know that she’ll be back later. Flight gets in this evening. Can’t remember if I’m meant to pick her up or not. Don’t think I am. But I could be wrong.
What is it that you do yourself?
Oh I work from home.
Doing what?
Sort of advertising.
You make TV adverts?
No, sai
d Gavin. I just come up with some ideas.
Ideas? That’s it?
More or less.
That’s a good number you’ve got. Bucky took a swig of beer. I wouldn’t mind doing it, but I don’t know where I’d get any of these fuckin ideas.
I could probably do with finding a few more myself, Gavin said.
After another few beers, Bucky rolled a spliff and they smoked it. He was surprised when Gavin expertly got the next one together.
When the car dropped her off the house was dark, but it was unlike Gavin to have gone to bed so early. As she walked down the path she could hear slow, heavy reggae. Susan walked round to the back where Gavin was sitting with Bucky.
Hey you’re back, Gavin said, and Bucky noticed he went inside to turn down the music, as if his ma had turned up.
Bucky smiled and raised his bottle. Alright, Mrs Marsh? You just off the plane?
Susan said that yes, she was.
Hey come on and sit down and get yourself a drink sure, said Bucky companionably. Airports are always knackering.
All go well? Gavin said.
Yes, all fine. She put down her bag. I couldn’t remember. I thought maybe you were meant to pick me up?
Oh God was I? said Gavin. Well glad you were able to get a taxi.
Yes. There were plenty of taxis.
Bucky’s been working very hard on the garden, Gavin said. You’ll be able to see it better in the morning. Oh and by the way I’ve got us sorted with a cleaner. That’ll be good, won’t it? Having a cleaner? It’s Emma. He drained his bottle of beer.
Emma?
Bucky’s girlfriend. She’ll be starting, well do you think next week would actually suit, Bucky? That enough notice? If not, the week after maybe?
Bucky had said the people were fools. No harm to them, he said, because they are actually pretty dead on as people like that go but they are seriously, seriously stupid. They didn’t have a clue what to charge and they were running around giving out stuff. Bucky said that the woman was like something off The Apprentice, one of the quiet ones in the background that turn out to be planning something all along, the sort that gets to the final and you wouldn’t have hardly noticed them the whole series. The woman was jetting round the place, flying all over the globe, but then she didn’t even know how much to pay a gardener, didn’t know how much to pay a cleaner, probably didn’t know the price of a pint of milk. Bucky was getting more for that one job than five others put together. And what they were going to pay her for the cleaning job was brilliant. Gav had apparently said they didn’t want to rip people off, but everybody needed to rip everybody else off at least a bit. Was that not the point? Bucky called him Gav nowadays. Bucky had said to her not to even bother trying to get Carl minded when she was working there. No point. Just bring him along, he said. Your man won’t care. Might be a bit more of an issue if your woman’s there, but your man, no, it won’t be a problem. Seriously, he said, don’t worry about it.
Sweet Home Page 8