Homecoming

by Susie Steiner

  ‘Missed you at work,’ Claire says and then says quickly, ‘I don’t mean that in a naggy way – we’re managing alright. Well, Tracy moans like anything, of course. But I mean it’s dead boring without you.’

  Primrose smiles up into the air with a cricked neck.

  ‘I was just saying to Primrose,’ Karen says, ‘that Max has been in the Fox a lot. You must be worried about him.’ And she crinkles her nose as if she’s adorable, with her head to one side.

  Claire doesn’t say anything but Primrose can feel her hand moving on her shoulder, as if something might be taking place on Claire’s face, in the direction of Karen.

  Claire stoops and says, ‘D’you want to come to mine for tea tomorrow Prim? I’ll be home about six. I’m just off the high street. Literally, round the corner.’

  As Primrose looks up to reply, Karen says, ‘Yes, Jake said he’s there most nights, like it’s a second home.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Karen,’ Claire says sharply.

  ‘Do you know Sheryl?’ says Karen. ‘You must know Sheryl.’

  ‘Yes, I know her,’ Primrose says.

  ‘Max and Sheryl. Funny friends!’ Karen is saying. ‘I wouldn’t like it myself – if it were my fella. But you’re very much your own person, aren’t you Primrose? With your wiring an’ everything. I’ve always admired that about you.’

  ‘What’s going on in your house?’ asks the heading in bold type. Beneath it is a diagram showing a simple ring circuit with double and single sockets leading to a central fuse box.

  Primrose reads under a cone of light, which shines down on the kitchen table. It is 4 a.m. She’s back in her dressing gown, which carries the beddy smell of illness in it, and her furry heart slippers. A cold snap has shoved the warm spell away and laced the night with frost. Such a change from the last two days in Lauren’s spongy, overheated home. Back here, the draughts blow under the back door and a chill sits resolutely in the stairwell and the floors are hard. She is reading Chapter Three of Home Electrics by Julian Bridgewater.

  ‘In the average house there are usually three basic electrical systems.’ Primrose knows all this of course. It is elementary. But she is looking for comfort and she reads it like a child returning to a familiar bedtime story. ‘The power circuit, the lighting circuit and the dedicated circuit.’

  Lauren had pressed her to stay – had been waiting for her in her car outside the chemist. ‘Stop another night with us, love. You still look awful pale.’ But Primrose asked her to drive her home. She told her she needed to get back to her own bed, her own things. She wanted to spread out again into privacy. Dismantle things.

  On the table in front of her is a fragmented lamp – a small blue ceramic base and next to it a dented shade. She has cut a length of new flex from the cardboard wheel at the far end of the table; undone the screws in the terminal inside the lamp and eased the old flex out. She has stripped back the lengths of insulation from both the plug end and the appliance end of her new flex and fitted the rubber grommet. Now she’s ready to jimmy the new flex into the lamp’s terminal but her fingers are so cold. She puts the lamp to one side. She thought it would warm her, like a soothing bath, but it’s not doing its job.

  Max had not been in the house when she’d put her key in the door, ever so quietly, and found the kitchen strewn with breakfast bowls and egg-smeared plates. The milk left out. And he wasn’t there when she’d woken just now, alert and with a pounding heart. She doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing, only that her existence from now on depends upon their paths not crossing. She pulls the book nearer again, turning away from the lamp.

  ‘Repairing appliances requires working through a process of elimination to pinpoint the exact nature of the problem. After all, most devices are extremely complicated and have hundreds of working parts.’ She bites her lip and pulls the flex towards her again, trying to jimmy the wires while reading at the same time. She is pushing and pulling at the three cores, yellow-green, blue and brown, but her fingers are too thick and too cold and too tired.

  ‘Look carefully at the cost of replacement and consider whether the appliance is economic to repair.’ She drops the flex as an inaudible growl spreads through her temples, heating up behind her eyes, and she sets her teeth, taking the lamp, the flex, and shade and hurling the lot against the wall where it clatters rather inconsequentially to the ground and lies beside the grubby skirting. The gentle hum of the house resumes.

  Primrose sees a hammer lying on the counter on the other side of the kitchen table. She walks over to it, lifts it and bounces its weight a few times in her hand. Then Primrose raises the hammer above her head, bringing it down on all that’s littering the table top – on the fuses, the twisting wires, on Julian Bridgewater and his stupid diagrams, where it only creases the page, on the side plate from which she’d eaten some toast, on her mug of tea. Primrose lets them have it: tea splatters the floor and chairs, shards of crockery fly towards the cooker; the table top begins to splinter. She growls and hisses. When there is nothing more to smash, Primrose stands, her mind feeling its way like hands in a dark hallway, over all the things she might destroy.

  The following evening, she walks into Claire’s bright living room, where there is a neat sofa and coffee table. There is a hatch through to the kitchen where Claire is making them tea. Primrose can hardly believe it. All this space to yourself and no one coming in unannounced and all your things, just where you left them. She thinks of the things left out in her kitchen – the shards and splatters from her hammer attack. But that kind of not putting things away, between her and Max, is different to this. Theirs was something like leaving dereliction out on the kitchen table for the other to see. This, this was being yourself, free and spread out.

  Underneath Claire’s kitchen hatch is a dining table and on it a half-finished puzzle. It shows a fragmented picture of an old steam train. The black metal of the train itself, from skirt to blast pipe, is all filled in but there are gaps where the steam billows up and meets with a white sky. Beside the puzzle is a jumble of pieces and to the other side, the lid of the box showing the finished photograph – a 1940s scene in 1970s colour.

  ‘I’m addicted to puzzles,’ says Claire through the hatch. ‘Take your coat off, just throw it on the settee.’

  She comes through, carrying their tea. ‘That steam is a devil to fill in.’

  Primrose takes a sip and looks around the room. ‘This is a right nice place,’ she says. ‘What happened to your flatmate?’

  ‘Moved out. Blessed relief actually. She was always humping her boyfriend really loudly, morning, noon and night. Was like living in a knocking shop. It’s lovely being here by myself. Bit expensive though. Here, I’ve never been to your place. Is it big? Lots of animals?’

  ‘No, not big. It’s all smashed up, actually.’

  Claire looks surprised.

  ‘Well, not all smashed up. I got a bit angry. Got a hammer out. Made a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ says Claire.

  ‘What Karen said . . .’

  ‘Oh flaming Karen Marshall. Someone wants to gaffer-tape that woman’s gob.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but what she said.’

  ‘Do you want the truth of it?’ Claire says.

  ‘I know what the rumours are. I want to know if they’re true.’

  ‘That Max ’as been knocking off Sheryl after closing? Yes Prim, I’d say they’re true. Tal told me – not in a gossipy way, mind. More out of worry for ’im drinking so much.’

  Claire says this without stumbling or looking away. Primrose shuts her eyes and leans back in her chair.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Primrose doesn’t reply.

  ‘I’m so sorry Prim.’

  ‘It’s better to know. I’m just tired. Tired of all of it.’

  They sit together for a time, their hands cupped around warm mugs of tea.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Primrose says eventually. ‘Sheryl – she w
on’t be having a good time. Take my word for it.’

  Claire makes them dinner: chops with Co-op cauliflower cheese that’s a day past its sell-by and frozen peas. They eat it at the dining table, absently working on the puzzle between mouthfuls and with the telly on, burbling out Coronation Street. When they have cleared away the plates (Claire washing, Primrose drying), Claire wipes her hands on the end of Primrose’s tea towel and says, ‘Why don’t we go for a quick drink at the Crown? It’s only round the corner.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Primrose. She is loving Claire’s flat, warm and cosy with the curtains drawn and the telly on.

  ‘Oh go on,’ says Claire and she goes through to the living room and switches the television off.

  ‘I’m not looking my best,’ says Primrose.

  ‘When has that ever bothered you?’ asked Claire.

  ‘I just feel a bit . . .’

  ‘Not up to it?’

  Primrose nods.

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Claire.

  *

  ‘Right, so, the George’s team is incomplete – they’ve lost two of their key players to the barn dance over at Kirkby Lonsdale,’ says Elaine Henderson. She’s filled out into her role of Mrs Iron-Knickers-in-Chief, thinks Ann. ‘So we’ll just play between ourselves shall we? Lauren, would you like to captain one side and I’ll take the other?’

  Ann looks over to where Lauren is standing – a couple of feet from her, with several ladies in between, including Fat Mo Dorkin and Smiling Pat Branning. Lauren has not met Ann’s eye since they arrived in their separate cars at the George for darts night.

  ‘I’ll take Mo Dorkin,’ says Lauren, and Mo gives a little dance, jabbing her elbow downwards with a ‘Yessss’.

  ‘I’ll take Ann Hartle,’ Elaine says.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ mutters Lauren. ‘And Pat Branning,’ she says louder, nodding to Pat. Pat shuffles towards Lauren.

  The rest of the teams are selected, eight on each side, and during the process, Elaine places a hand around Ann’s shoulder, and Ann has the impression this is all for Lauren’s benefit but she submits to it. Then, once Lauren, Mo and Pat have taken their drinks to their usual banquette – the captain’s work all but done – Elaine stoops to whisper in Ann’s ear.

  ‘I’ll keep you in reserve if it’s alright,’ she says, and nods towards the door. ‘Brenda Farley’s just walked in.’

  Ann stands at the bar, ordering a cider and black and thinking how little she’s enjoying herself – you could cut the air with a knife – and whether it’d be bad form to leave before the game’s even begun. But they’d become so isolated this past fortnight, her and Joe. That’s why she’d made herself turn up, against her better judgement.

  ‘Can I join you?’ Ann says, standing before Lauren. She has bolstered herself to say this, in part because there’s no one else she wants to sit with: she was always Lauren’s wingman and now she’s no one’s.

  ‘If you must,’ says Lauren. The open fire has flushed Lauren’s cheeks but her eyes are piercing cold.

  Mo and Pat shuffle up nearer to Lauren, making space for Ann at the end of the line. Pat taps the banquette and recruits her entire face into a grin, saying, ‘Here you go, love.’

  Ann sits, casting a nervous glance along the row, past Pat and Mo’s profiles to Lauren, who is watching the game. And a wave of anger comes over Ann, that she’s being punished – ostracised – when she’s not done anything to be ashamed of. She leans forward.

  ‘Is it warm up there on the moral high ground?’ she says to Lauren. Mo and Pat shoot a glance at each other.

  ‘It’s nice enough, thanks,’ says Lauren.

  All four sip their drinks in silence. She doesn’t want to sully herself with an argument, thinks Ann. Stuck-up cow. But then Lauren leans forward and looks down the row at her for the first time. Her expression is hard.

  ‘I took Primrose in, day before yesterday,’ she says. ‘Gave her a bed for the night. Right mess she was. It’s a wonder no one’d been looking after that poor girl. She needed a D&C at Malton General.’

  ‘You had no business taking her in,’ says Ann. ‘You should’a brought her over to me.’

  ‘She didn’t want you. And I don’t blame her,’ says Lauren.

  Mo and Pat have their heads pinned to the banquette’s padded backrest. Pat is smiling vainly, Mo’s eyes are shining. A ringside seat – Mo can’t believe her luck, thinks Ann, but she can’t be bothered to rein it in. They are in the mud now, sleeves rolled up, her and Lauren.

  ‘Getting back at me were you?’ Ann says to Lauren.

  ‘Getting back at you for what?’ Lauren says. ‘For throwing yourself at my husband? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Now ladies,’ says Pat. ‘Let’s just calm it down, shall we?’

  They all take sips of their drinks. Ann’s is not deep enough, nor long enough, to cover her shame. She longs to walk out but that, somehow, would be to admit guilt. Or defeat.

  ‘Poor Primrose,’ says Mo and Ann can see a ghastly relish in the woman’s eyes. She hates her for even mentioning Primrose’s name. ‘And with that business between Max and Sheryl, too.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Ann.

  ‘Well, Max and Sheryl. You know . . .’

  Ann is dissolving. Max and Sheryl? Well, why should that be such a surprise? Sheryl was a trap waiting for any man weak enough to fall in. But oh, the stupid, stupid, stupid boy. To risk all, to throw it away on that.

  She is brought round by Lauren’s voice, boiling with fury. ‘Oh why don’t you just button it, Mo? Not enough going on in your life is there, that you need to go meddling about in others? Pilfering the donations from the church bowl not giving you sufficient thrill any more? Oh yes, don’t think we don’t know about all the money that’s gone missing. Father John knows about it an’ all.’

  Mo has blanched as if she’s been slapped. Lauren has stood up and is gathering her cream coat off the banquette. She’s so clever, my friend, thinks Ann and she stands and begins gathering her coat at the same time.

  Lauren is standing over Mo. ‘It’s alright to dole it out, isn’t it Mo, but not quite the same taking it, is it? Right ladies,’ Lauren says, ‘I’m off. Give my apologies to Elaine will ye?’

  And Lauren marches out of the bar, proud and purposeful, with Ann stumbling on rapid steps after her and nearly getting clocked in the face by the pub door swinging shut in Lauren’s wake, hard and fast.

  Their feet crunch on the gravel in the black night, Lauren a few steps ahead of Ann and her cream coat glowing. She’s standing at her car when Ann calls out.

  ‘Lauren! Wait!’

  Lauren stops, her car keys in her hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ann says.

  Lauren nods.

  ‘There’s no truth in it, you know,’ Ann says.

  ‘What, Max and Sheryl? I wouldn’t care if there was. What goes on between folks is private.’

  ‘No, not that. About me . . . and Eric.’ Even saying it is sullying, makes it exist, when there never was any truth in it. Not a shred. ‘I’d never do owt like that. Not to you, especially not to you. Not to anyone. You know me. You’re my best friend, Lauren.’

  Lauren nods, but not warmly. More like she’s tired.

  Ann can see a bruised and damaged thing and she feels the tears prick behind her eyes and then the dam breaks and she starts to cry.

  ‘Everything’s falling apart,’ she sobs. And it feels rotten to be standing alone in the middle of a car park crying and this makes her cry more, giving way to it, her sight now completely blurred. Then she feels Lauren’s arms around her, gathering her up, and hears Lauren say, ‘Come here,’ and Lauren is resting her chin on Ann’s forehead as she holds her close and tight.

  *

  Ruby is having a relapse, scrolling through the texts on her phone. Not the Inbox but the Sent box. The stupid torrent of texts she’d sent on Christmas Day.

  Even the dog has had too much to eat

 
Mum and dad asleep in front of Midsomer Murders

  Might as well go to bed

  Happy Christmas B. Love you.

  The next one was a picture of a curved mass in a jumper with two feet poking out and the words ‘my stomach’ underneath.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid cow. Ruby is bashing her forehead with the heel of her hand which also holds a wet tissue. She is in this shabby, unfamiliar house, surrounded by boxes and bin liners. Nowhere is home, except when she’s smoking. Smoking is her passion now. When she finishes a cigarette she immediately wants to light another one. Smoking makes a home of anywhere, even a derelict place. Especially a derelict place.

  She had stood in front of the house with Dave Garside and looked up. It was absurdly grand. Double-fronted with wide steps and two pillars on either side of the front door. But it was decaying and on a thundering main road – a wide ribbon of cars and lorries – on the outskirts of town. The paintwork was peeling and grey with exhaust fumes. Weeds were springing up around the edges of the steps. The windows were boarded up with ply.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Dave had said, and he’d jogged up the steps and opened the front door.

  She’d walked in and the damp had hit her, hanging in the hallway like a wet web. The house was freezing. Dave switched on the lights and she saw a black and white Victorian tiled floor.

  ‘This is massive,’ she said gazing up the stairwell. ‘Why’s he not selling it?’

  ‘Shit location,’ said Dave. ‘Even in a bull market, no one wants to be on a three-lane motorway out of town. He’ll make more from it as a student rental. We’re not that far from the university campus here. Needs a lot of work, though.’

  They walked down the corridor to the kitchen. Ruby’s shoes stuck to the linoleum. She heard their crackling peel in the gloom. A light from the yard shone across the sink and she could make out the jagged silhouette of a pile of unwashed plates and pans. While Dave felt for a light switch, Ruby stepped forward in the dark and her foot crunched into a tray of cat litter which gave off a blast of ammonia. Dave found the light and Ruby saw the darting of black flies above the sink and around the bulb.