‘Will. He starts off there.’ He pointed to a small depression in the pile of teddies on the bottom bunk. ‘But he always ends up in Mum’s bed,’ he said in a scornful voice. ‘When my dad comes home for ever we’re going to get a bigger house and I’ll have my own room and Will and Yorrick can share.’
Yorrick, thought Jane. Good grief! What sort of person would name their baby after a skull?
‘They’re all here, I think,’ said Erica, reappearing with a pile of books. ‘Except the one that’s gone to Kuwait. I’ll have that one transferred to my ticket so the fines come to me.’ She turned to Gregory. ‘Get some clothes on. We’ve got to go and get Will. Put them over your pyjamas if it’s quicker.’
‘Would you like me to stay here with the children while you go?’ Jane suggested. ‘You don’t want to take him out if he’s ill.’ Privately she doubted there was anything much wrong with him. His appetite was certainly hearty enough.
‘Really?’ Erica brightened at the prospect. ‘I’ll do the library business on the way back. I’ll have to go like this. No time to change,’ she said, rolling up the trailing legs of the overalls and forcing her feet into a pair of laced-up trainers. She dropped the books into a rucksack and clumped down the stairs, swiping a bunch of keys from the window ledge at the bottom. ‘This is the second time you’ve minded my children for me,’ she said over her shoulder as she left. ‘And I don’t even know your name.’
‘I don’t recognize the name,’ said Guy, later that evening, as he stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing at a casserole dish. Jane was drying up. ‘Gregory Crowe. Well, if I haven’t run into him it means he must be an average sort of kid.’
‘I can assure you he isn’t,’ Jane laughed. ‘You’ve never seen such a set-up. Talk about chaos.’
‘Did she seem embarrassed when you told her I was your husband?’
‘No. Not in the least. I don’t think she’s capable of embarrassment. Oh, I’ve just remembered something else. There was a piece of light flex just hanging from the children’s bedroom ceiling. Nothing on the end of it – completely uninsulated.’ She reached past Guy to put away a glass and he seized her with warm soapy hands, making her squirm. ‘You smell beery,’ he said, when they’d kissed.
‘That’s because I had one today.’
‘But you don’t drink beer. You hate it.’
‘I used to,’ said Jane. ‘But it’s not too late to change.’
17
There was one occasion during his first year at university when Guy had taken a small bag of dirty clothes home for the weekend. His mother had thrown them in the machine with a very bad grace. ‘The dog doesn’t bring me his washing, you know,’ she’d said, frostily. Of course when it came to his brother’s turn a few years later, William would regularly bring back a vast trunk full of foul-smelling socks and begrimed sports kits, and return with them freshly laundered.
Today, though, Guy was doing his washing in the basement of the intercollegiate hall near his flat. The coin slot in one of the dryers had jammed in the On position, offering those in the know unlimited free rides. As so often, Guy had forgotten to bring a book with him and was forced to sit and stare at his clothes cartwheeling around behind the glass door, and listen to the drone of the machine and the clank of metal fastenings against the drum. The cycle only lasted fifteen minutes before it had to be restarted, and a full load took at least an hour to dry. Other people’s laundry hung suspended from rows of wooden poles above his head, or sat in damp piles on the benches. The air was heavy with water vapour and the pungent smell of wet clothes. Ghostly trails of steam floated just below the ceiling and condensation streamed down the windowless walls. Guy had read every word on all six sides of his box of Daz when he heard the metallic footsteps descending the stairs. The sound of Blakeys on stone always made him think of Hugo and his reinforced school shoes, but before that train of thought had had a chance to gather momentum, the door opened and there before him, ten years older, a few stone heavier, and carrying an empty suitcase, stood Hugo himself.
The moment of recognition hit Hugo slightly later, but he was the first to recover. ‘Guy! Hello!’ He dropped the suitcase and gave Guy the benefit of a joint-cracking handshake.
‘Hugo. I knew it was you before you even came through the door. You’re the only person I know who has metal heels.’
‘What are you doing in this stinking basement?’ Hugo asked. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Guy. ‘You don’t live in this building, do you?’
Guy shook his head. ‘Not that far away. I’m at the Institute.’
Hugo raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re going to teach?’
‘Supposedly. Where are you?’
‘UCL. Third year.’
Guy looked puzzled. ‘Third? Have you lost a couple of years somewhere?’
‘Yes. I wasted them at Cambridge. Anyway.’ He didn’t seem inclined to dwell on this.
‘I’m surprised I haven’t bumped into you before. We must haunt the same square mile.’
‘I don’t get out much,’ said Hugo, dragging various items of clothing from the wooden poles above his head and tossing them into his open suitcase.
‘Do you ever eat at SOAS? It’s got the best canteen in London. Dirt cheap.’
Hugo gave a condescending smile. ‘Well, maybe. Do you know that Free House in Bloomsbury Way? It’s got the best beer in London.’
Guy knew it, and was about to cite others of a similar calibre, when Hugo carried on. ‘I’m going there tonight. Do you want to come?’
‘Well.’ The thought of an evening with Hugo did not fill Guy with enthusiasm, but he’d hesitated too long now and no ready excuse had sprung to his lips. ‘Yeah, okay, why not?’
‘Great.’ Hugo forced the lid of his suitcase down and snapped the catches shut. ‘I’ll see you there about nine.’ And he was off up the stairs, sparks leaping from his metal heels.
‘Nine,’ said Guy to the diminishing gap in the doorway. He was regretting it already. He had nothing to say to Hugo. It was always interesting to re-meet old acquaintances, but an exchange of hellos and what-are-you-up-tos more than satisfied his curiosity. What would they talk about for two hours? They couldn’t reminisce about school indefinitely, and, besides, the memories weren’t especially flattering to Hugo. Well, it was only one evening; he wouldn’t be making a habit of it.
The drying machine switched itself off and Guy watched his clothes collapse against the bottom of the drum. He had let it run too long: the handle was hot to the touch and when he opened the door he could smell scorched lint.
Guy spotted him straight away. It was a weekday evening and the pub was nearly empty. There were a couple of squaddies getting drunk at the bar, and a group of office workers feeding the juke-box. Hugo was sitting at one of the round tables in the middle of the room with his back to the door. His watch lay on the table beside a row of foamy pint glasses, recently drained. Guy was ten minutes late; he’d been unable to find his wallet as he was leaving and had turned his room upside down to no avail. He had nothing but a handful of coins, and was tempted to stay at home, but decided it would be marginally worse to stand Hugo up with no explanation, than to arrive empty-handed and scrounge. In any case he would be bound to bump into him again – in Dillons, or the Union bar or somewhere – and then his excuse would sound all the lamer for not being fresh. Guy hated apologizing, which was a shame, as he so often found himself in situations for which it was the only remedy.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, dragging a stool up to the table. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘An hour and ten minutes,’ said Hugo, with more than a hint of reproach. He picked up his watch and strapped it back on to his wrist.
‘I thought you said nine. You did say nine.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said Hugo, refusing to acknowledge his mistake. He indicated the empty glasses. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’
‘I’m a bit stuck for cash,’ said Guy. ‘That’s why
I was late – ten minutes late, I mean. I’ve lost my wallet. I’ll pay you back.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Hugo, patting his trouser pocket. ‘You can pay next time.’
‘Okay,’ said Guy, wondering how he was going to wriggle out of a second meeting now that he was indebted. He watched Hugo lurch unsteadily towards the bar and position himself directly between the two squaddies, effectively halting their conversation. One of them made an obscene gesture behind Hugo’s back. ‘Faggot,’ Guy lip-read. Oh God, he thought. Trouble already.
Hugo returned, oblivious, slopping bitter from two glasses. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Yes. Cheers,’ Guy replied. There was a silence while they both took a long draught. ‘So how’s your family?’ he went on. He’d never met any of them – there were grandparents and a despised father, he remembered – but it was something to say.
‘All dead,’ said Hugo, cheerfully. ‘I’m an orphan at last.’
‘Oh,’ said Guy, who had not expected the death toll to be quite so high. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ said Hugo. ‘I didn’t even go to my father’s funeral. Apparently there wasn’t a wet eye in the house.’ He lit a cigarette and slung the packet across to Guy. The ashtray was already full of butts. Hugo leaned across to the next table and swapped it for an empty one.
‘You never made it up, then?’
Hugo shook his head. ‘No. There was no deathbed reconciliation, I’m afraid. Not for lack of opportunity, I have to say. He took an awfully long time to die.’
‘What from?’
‘Cirrhosis of the liver.’ He raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Guy smiled. ‘Did he leave you anything?’
‘His debts,’ said Hugo. ‘The farm had to be sold to pay them off. I got the change. And his car. Very useful, given that it’s in Johannesburg. And I don’t drive.’
‘So you’ve got no living relatives at all? How weird.’
‘There are some very distant ones I’ve never met. We don’t communicate. I don’t even know where they live. No, I’m a lone, lorn creature all right,’ he said, complacently. ‘Can you drive?’ he added, as an afterthought.
‘Yes,’ said Guy, wondering for an insane moment whether Hugo was going to offer him the use of the South African car. ‘But there’s no point in London, is there? There’s nowhere to park it.’
Having learned the answer, Hugo didn’t bother to pursue the subject. He finished his pint and stood up. ‘Same again?’
‘Okay. Or we could move on.’ He could see that Hugo was quite drunk already. The squaddies had cast unfriendly glances in their direction more than once.
‘No, let’s stay,’ said Hugo. ‘They know me here.’
‘All right. Suits me.’ Guy shrugged. Without money of his own he couldn’t very well insist.
The pub had started to fill up with new arrivals and Guy watched with a sense of unease as Hugo joined the scrum at the bar. In spite of his professed intimacy with the staff Hugo seemed to have trouble getting served, and it was a while before he returned with two pint glasses, one less full than the other, and a sopping wet sleeve.
‘Stupid tart jogged my elbow,’ he said belligerently. He started to pull packets of crisps and nuts from various pockets, like a magician producing doves.
‘Yes, well, never mind, eh?’ said Guy, who was beginning to find Hugo a less than soothing companion. ‘You’re in the third year now, then? Doing what? Maths, I bet. Or physics.’
‘Geography, actually. Please don’t say “that’s not a real subject”.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Being an economist myself.’
‘Ah.’
‘So what are you going to do next year?’
‘A PhD. If I get a first.’
‘Is that on the cards, then?’
Guy remembered that as an eleven-year-old Hugo had had no time for false, or any other sort of modesty.
Hugo nodded. ‘Unless I have a brainstorm. It’s a cushy life, academia, don’t you think?’
‘Not my branch of it,’ said Guy, through a mouthful of peanuts.
‘No, well. Teaching. What a horrible thought. You must have enjoyed your schooldays more than I did.’
‘I wasn’t unhappy,’ Guy admitted. ‘But then I wasn’t sad to leave either. You were going to burn the place down, I remember. You must have had a change of heart.’
‘Not at all,’ said Hugo. ‘Just a failure of nerve. My heart was quite committed.’
‘Anyway, I’m not going to be teaching teenage arsonists. I’ve opted for the little ones.’
Hugo rolled his eyes and shuddered. ‘Worse and worse. Don’t they all want to cling on to you and sit on your knee?’
Guy nodded. ‘And they twine themselves round your legs like cats,’ he said, laughing to see Hugo’s expression of revulsion.
‘What sort of teacher will you be, I wonder? Wackford Squeers or Mr Chips?’
‘I’ll be one of those long-haired inner-city progressives my parents are always ranting about. Abolishing uniforms and exams and corporal punishment.’
Hugo laughed, drunkenly, though Guy had only been half-joking. He had every intention of keeping his hair long. And he would certainly never use the cane on a child. The thought sickened him.
‘You’ll have to play the guitar in assembly,’ Hugo warned. ‘And wipe up lots of vomit.’
‘I know. I’ve been practising,’ said Guy. ‘The guitar, not the wiping.’
‘And you’ll be starting this September, will you?’ asked Hugo, tipping a crisp packet into his open mouth and gagging as the last few shards caught in the back of his throat.
‘If I get a job.’
‘Got anything planned for the summer?’ he went on, casually.
‘No, not really,’ said Guy. ‘Looking for work or preparing lessons, mostly, I suppose.’
‘You don’t fancy a free trip somewhere hot?’
‘Er . . . I’m not sure,’ said Guy warily. ‘Where?’
‘I’m running a field trip to Algeria in July,’ said Hugo. ‘Doing research on sand dunes for my PhD. I’m going with another chap and a girl I share a flat with. They’re geographers too. Only we need another driver,’ he wheedled. ‘Since I can’t.’
‘Ah.’ He’d done it again – allowed himself to hesitate when all that was required was an outright refusal. ‘I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know the others. It would be awkward.’
‘No – it would be good. People always behave better with strangers. They argue less. I was going to advertise for an outsider for that very reason.’
‘But I don’t know anything about sand dunes. I’d be no help at all.’
‘That’s all right. It’s only measuring, taking readings – elementary stuff. It’s the interpretation that’s difficult, and I’ll be doing that.’
‘How are you getting there?’
‘Land Rover. They’re very pleasant to drive, I’m told. I’m aiming for In Salah, on the Great Western Erg.’
Guy pulled a face. ‘Do you need visas and stuff? Isn’t Algeria at war with Morocco at the moment?’
‘Not officially. Anyway, it’s all been approved by the Algerian government. We’re doing them a favour. Basically it’s impossible to build efficient road and rail systems across the Sahara because they keep getting engulfed by sand dunes. No one’s done any really, prolonged research on dune initiation. If we can discover how they start, and their patterns of movement, we can predict their behaviour.’
Guy nodded. Four people in a Land Rover in the middle of the Sahara counting grains of sand, or whatever Hugo intended. It sounded like a vision of hell. ‘I think I’ll be pretty tied up over the summer, finding a job and somewhere to live. Otherwise . . .’
‘Well,’ said Hugo. ‘Think about it.’ He pushed a beer mat across to Guy. ‘Give me your address and number and I’ll let you have more details when I’ve got them. I’m still grubbing around for sponsorship at the moment. You’re no go
od at fund-raising, I suppose?’ he added, as if Guy was already part of the team.
‘No. Absolutely crap,’ said Guy decisively. He produced a chewed biro from his jacket pocket and wrote his details on the beer mat which was slightly damp and spongy, and watched Hugo tuck it into the pocket of his jeans. Guy didn’t invite Hugo to reciprocate, but he did, anyway.
‘Thanks,’ said Guy. He could now send Hugo the money he owed him for the beers rather than get drawn into another night out. Hugo pushed his wallet across the table. ‘Get another round in while I’m in the bog,’ he said, standing up abruptly and knocking the table into Guy so that his glass clashed against his teeth. Hugo’s unsteady progress did not pass unnoticed by the squaddies, who waited until Guy was at the bar ordering drinks before exchanging a nod and following Hugo into the Gents. Something about their purposeful stride filled Guy with dread. Oh shit, he thought, abandoning the drinks. It must be my destiny to rescue Hugo Etchells from toilets. He pushed open the door just in time to see Hugo hit the floor, his glasses flying off and skidding across the wet tiles. The look of astonishment on his face was rapidly replaced by one of intense pain as he registered the blow to his jaw that had sent him sprawling. He instinctively curled up and covered his head as one of the squaddies followed up with a hard kick. Guy never did find out whether they had intended robbery, rape or murder, or whether this was just a recreational beating, because at this point the outer door swung open to admit two of the office crowd, one of whom was about six foot six and built like a bouncer. The squaddies seemed to lose interest in performing in front of an audience and, turning abruptly away from Hugo, who was still wedged under the basin in a foetal position, they sauntered out again, giving Guy the benefit of a leering smile.
‘Is he all right?’ the bouncer-type asked, as Guy helped Hugo to his feet and rinsed his glasses under the tap.
‘They nearly broke my fucking jaw!’ said Hugo in a thick voice, full of outrage and incomprehension. He ran his fingers along the lower part of his face to check that it was all still there. One cheek bulged as if he’d just had a wisdom tooth removed, and the skin was fiery red. There would be a spectacular bruise there in the morning, thought Guy. On the back of Hugo’s head, where he’d fallen against the water-pipe, was a walnut-sized lump.
A Dry Spell Page 16