by John Harvey
Never mind that most of that evening, Heather had scarcely danced at all, but raced around, shrill-voiced, with her friends; and when she had danced it had been as one of a circle of girls, lip-syncing the words, following the others in the swirling movements of their arms, the swing and dip of hip and shuffle of their feet—the only contact with boys to push them aside with scorn—the beginnings were there, unmistakable, the first glimmerings of the rest of her life.
Ruth, standing amongst the other mums and few reluctant dads, all there to chaperone, had felt an ache and looked away.
Now Heather was sitting at the centre of her bed, legs crossed, head down, arms folded across her chest. The bed itself, for a change, was made: duvet straightened, pillows puffed. An old doll leaned against one corner of the bedhead, discarded or placed there purposefully, Ruth couldn't be sure. Most of her daughter's clothes seemed to be in the drawers appointed for them; shoes and trainers were lined up along one wall. Books stood, somewhat haphazardly, on the shelves; comics with girly picture stories were piled on the floor. Homework lay unfinished on her desk.
'What are you doing?' Ruth asked.
'What's it look like?' Heather snapped.
Ruth caught her breath and refused to be drawn. 'I don't know,' she said calmly.
'There's nothing to do,' Heather said, throwing all the emphasis on the 'to'.
Ruth looked around. 'You've got loads of books, games—there's that jewellery kit your Aunt Vicky sent you ...'
'That's not what I mean.'
'Well, what do you mean?'
'You know.'
Ruth knew well enough. Heather's friend Kelly had her own television in her room; most of her friends, if she were to be believed, had televisions in their rooms. One or two even had computers, too.
'How'm I supposed to do my homework,' the refrain went, 'if I haven't got my own computer?'
'You don't need a computer to do your homework. There's reference books galore in the house and if that fails there's always the library.'
'Oh, yeah, I'm bound to go wandering off down there just to look something up, I don't think.'
'And besides, if it's really important there's your father's computer downstairs.'
'Which he's always using, whenever I want to go on it. Either that or you're looking up something about the Romans or the Egyptians or something boring for school.'
'That's not true.'
'No?'
'No.'
It was a dialogue that had been rehearsed and repeated too many times. But Ruth and Simon had talked it over and were clear: when Heather was older and having access to a computer would be genuinely helpful, they would buy one for family use and set it up in the corner of the living room so that she could get help with her homework in the early evenings and at weekends. What they didn't want was Heather squirrelled away in her room and going online without them knowing what she was doing—that would not only be irresponsible but would cost them a small fortune into the bargain.
'Why don't you come downstairs?' Ruth said.
'What for?'
'We want to talk to you.'
'What've I done now?'
'Nothing. We just want to talk to you, that's all.'
'You're talking to me now.'
'Your dad and I. Come on. Come down, there's a good girl.'
Heather loosed off an elaborate sigh and, levering herself off the bed, followed Ruth downstairs.
Simon looked up from the paper. A department store had collapsed in South Korea, killing over five hundred people and things were starting to look bad in Iraq.
'Hello, sweetheart.'
Heather scowled.
'What it is,' Ruth said. 'What we wanted to say ... ask, really, just to be sure ... this holiday in Cornwall, with Kelly, you do still want to go?'
'Er, ye-es.' Heather's eyes spread wide.
'Well, we thought ... maybe we'd been a bit ... I don't know ... a bit mean, overcautious, and ...'
'And I can go?'
'Yes. That is, probably. Almost certainly. We'll have to check with Kelly's parents, of course ...'
'Oh, Mum! Mum, that's brilliant! Fantastic!' And she flung her arms around Ruth and hugged her hard.
'It was your dad, you know,' Ruth said, when she stepped away. 'He's the one you should thank. It was his idea.'
'Really?' Heather looked across at her father doubtfully.
Simon sat up and smiled. 'I'm not an ogre all the time, you know.'
He held out his arms and Heather walked towards him, turning her face aside for his kiss.
'We'll have to talk to them, of course. Kelly's parents. Just to sort out the arrangements. Make sure it's still all right with them.'
'Of course it is.'
'I know, I know. But it's still a conversation we need to have.'
'Oh, Dad.'
'What?'
'Nothing, it's just ...' She swung her head. 'I'll go and phone Kelly, let her know.'
'You don't think I should talk to her mother first?' Ruth said, but she was gone.
Ruth sighed. 'I just hope we're doing the right thing.'
'Four days in Avignon. Food. Wine. Bit of culture thrown in. We might just catch the end of the festival.'
'That's not what I mean.'
'Ruthie, come on.' Holding out both of his hands. 'What's the worst that can happen? She'll stuff herself on too much ice cream and dodgy pasties and fish and chips and come back with a taste for EastEnders and saying "i'n it" at the end of every sentence.'
'God, you're such a snob!' Ruth said, laughing.
'And you're not?'
Smiling, she squeezed his hands.
'You'll go round, won't you?' Simon said. 'Talk to them. No point both of us going.'
'They're not contagious, you know.'
'You prepared to bet on that?'
'Bet on what?' Heather said from the doorway.
'Nothing.'
'I spoke to Kelly, she says it's cool. We can have midnight feasts and make fires on the beach for barbecues and that, and Kelly says there's this van that comes round every night to the campsite with these great pizzas, and her brother's got this surfboard he might lend us and I might even be able to borrow Kelly's wetsuit 'cause she's going to get a new one and ... and you're not listening, are you?'
'Yes, I am.'
'No, you're not. You're just standing there with that dopey expression on your face.'
'I'm happy, that's all.'
'What for?'
'For you.'
'You're weird,' Heather said and pulled a face.
Ruth went round after school two days later, taking Heather with her. Mrs Efford—Pauline, Ruth just called up her name in time—came to the door with her youngest clinging to her like a small bush baby, all hands and feet and staring eyes. It wasn't impossible, from the way her clothes hung around her, that she was pregnant again already.
'Ruth. Great, come on in. I'll get the kettle on for a cup of tea.'
'Oh, no. Not just for me.'
'No probs. I was gonna make one anyway.'
The hallway was booby-trapped with buggies and scooters and bicycles in various sizes and smelt of chip fat and cigarette smoke. 'What did you expect?' Simon asked when she told him later. 'Eau de Givenchy and walnut oil?'
A girl of five or six was sitting with her face up close to the television screen, watching a game show that seemed to involve Noel Edmonds, though Ruth was sure she'd read somewhere that he'd had a stroke and nearly died.
'Tina,' Pauline Efford called. 'Turn that thing down.'
Without taking her eyes from the screen, the girl manipulated the remote so that the voices were little more than excited whispers.
Heather had disappeared up to Kelly's room the moment she had arrived, slamming the door behind them.
Pauline came in with two mugs of tea, her own bearing the legend, Best Mum in the World. She settled the baby against one arm of the settee with a dummy into her mouth and reached for her cigarettes
.
'Terrible habit, I know,' she said when Ruth declined. 'Keep tellin' meself I should give up, but with Alan smoking I don't stand a chance.'
'Kelly doesn't ...' Ruth began.
'Smoke? No way. If she did, she'd catch the back of my hand.'
Ruth sipped her tea.
'She's fair made up, Kelly, 'bout your Heather coming with us. Someone her own age. There's other girls on the site she sometimes pals up with, but that's not the same. And Lee, he's near fifteen now and off on his own most of the time. Don't want his little sister hangin' round, gettin' in the way. No, they'll have a great time, the pair of 'em. Won't want to come home.'
'You wouldn't let them ...' Ruth began, then faltered.
'What's that?'
'Well, wander off on their own. Too far, I mean.'
Pauline waved smoke away from her face. 'Nowhere much they can go, 'cept down the beach. Camp's in a field, two fields, right away from the road. The main road. There's buses, of course, down to Land's End or over to Penzance. Not many. Couple of times a day if you're lucky. Otherwise it means using the van and Alan always says he's driven all that bloody way he don't want to drive no more'n he has to. That tea too strong?'
'No,' Ruth said, forcing herself to take another gulp. 'No, it's fine.'
In under half an hour it was settled. Heather would go round for a sleepover on the Friday school broke up, taking her case and all her things with her, so they could get off to an early start the following morning, Alan keen to beat the rest of the traffic. Ten days later, they would return. Nothing simpler.
Ruth was just negotiating her way back along the hall, having agreed that Heather could stay there for another hour and play, when the front door opened and a youth stepped inside wearing a grey sports top and wide jeans low on his hips. His hair was dark and, Ruth thought, surprisingly long, and his eyes, in the brief moment he looked at her, were a soft almondy brown.
'Hello,' Ruth said. 'You must be Lee. I'm Heather's mum.'
He grunted something that might have been 'Hi', and, head down, pushed his way past.
11
When Ruth walked her daughter round to the Effords' house on the final day of term, carrying her suitcase for her, Heather was in such a state of high excitement that she came close to walking into a lamppost and on several occasions tripped on the uneven paving stones.
Drained by her last day of teaching, Ruth herself stumbled on the path leading to the Effords' front door.
'Been at the gin already?' Alan Efford asked with a grin.
Broad-faced and shaven-headed, he stood in the doorway in his work clothes, arms bare, speckled with plaster and paint like a Pollock painting.
'Job like yours,' Efford said, 'looking after these little buggers all day, nobody'd blame you if you had.'
Heather ran past him and into the house.
'Don't know how you do it,' Efford continued. 'Not have the patience, me.'
Ruth realised she was staring at him stupidly, saying nothing.
'Here,' he said, moving towards her, 'let me take that.'
'No, it's all right, I...'
Reaching down for the suitcase, his arm brushed against the back of her hand and, involuntarily, she flinched.
'Come on in for a minute. Pauline's somewhere about.'
She could smell the sweat on him, barely dried, and the tobacco on his breath.
'Come on, don't be shy.'
She followed him inside.
Wearing an old-fashioned apron over sweatshirt and jeans, Pauline was pushing clothes into the dryer. Hunched up close to the high chair, Tina was looking at the Beano at the same time as feeding Alice from a jar.
'Take the weight off your feet,' Efford said. 'I'll make us some tea.'
'No, it's all right, really.'
'No bother,' Efford said. Reaching past Pauline for the kettle, he gave her behind a generous squeeze.
'Hey!' Pauline shouted, swatting at his hand. 'Leave my bloody arse alone!'
Efford winked at Ruth. 'Not what you usually say.'
Lee, wearing an Arsenal shirt, headphones clamped over his ears, wandered into the kitchen, barefoot.
'Wanna cup?' his father asked.
With a shake of his head and a glance towards Ruth, the boy turned and disappeared.
Ruth prised a piece of jammy crust from one of the chairs and sat down.
'Sugar?' Efford asked.
'No, thanks.'
'Sweet enough, eh?'
For no good reason, Ruth felt herself starting to blush. Taking the mug of tea from his hand, she spilt some before she could set it down.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, blushing all the more.
'No probs,' Pauline said. 'Blend in with the rest.'
'Biscuit?' Efford asked, holding out a packet of custard creams.
Ruth said no and then said yes.
'Tina,' Pauline said, 'will you leave that stupid comic be and concentrate on feeding Alice. Way you're goin', she'll die of bloody malnutrition.'
'So,' Efford said, taking a seat across from Ruth, 'bet you'll be pleased it's the holidays, yeah?'
'Yes. Simon and I, we thought we might go away for a few days while you're all in Cornwall. France, maybe.'
'Second honeymoon, eh?'
'Wouldn't say no to one of those meself,' Pauline said, 'long as it weren't with 'im.' She laughed and the laughter turned into a coughing fit that only gradually eased.
'Drop more tea?' Efford asked. Ruth shook her head. 'What time are you leaving tomorrow?'
'Five? Somewhere round there.'
'So early?'
'He was born early, weren't you?' Pauline said. "Fraid he'd miss something else.'
'Any later,' Efford said, 'an' you're stuck in traffic all the way from Bristol to sodding Truro.'
'I was just thinking I might come and wave her off,' Ruth said. 'Heather. Her first time, you know, away on her own.' She smiled, self-deprecatingly. 'Bit silly, really.'
'Up to you,' Efford said, 'but if Kelly's anything to go by we'll be lifting your Heather into the van with her eyes still glued shut.'
There was a scurrying of feet outside and Kelly came bursting into the room, Heather at her shoulder. 'Mum, Mum, can we have some hot chocolate? An' biscuits, yeah? Upstairs.'
'All right, but you can fetch 'em yourselves. I'm not cartin' 'em all the way up there.'
'Thanks, Mum.'
The door closed as quickly as it had opened and they raced away, Heather not seeming to have noticed that Ruth was there at all.
Ruth woke at four-thirty without having set the alarm. Turning on to her side, she struggled with the thought of getting up and getting dressed, but before she could decide Simon had rolled towards her, arm heavily across her shoulder, and she stayed where she was, eyes open, listening to his breathing and telling herself Alan was right, there was little point in going, and even if she did, Heather would certainly not thank her. By then it was gone five and too late anyway and Ruth continued to lie there, certain she would never now get back to sleep.
When she woke again, Simon was on his way back into the room, humming tunelessly, tea and toast on a tray.
'Happy holidays, Ruthie.'
'Whatever time is is?'
'Half-eight, a little after.'
'They've been gone for ages.'
Simon rested the tray near the foot of the bed. 'Be pulled over at motorway services somewhere by now, sampling the Great British Breakfast.'
Pushing herself up, Ruth nudged back the pillows and settled the duvet. 'We're going to miss her terribly, you know that, don't you?'
'Miss who?' Simon said, smiling.
When Heather phoned that evening, as Ruth had made her promise, she was so excited about everything, words tumbled over one another into near incoherence. But the jist of it was the campsite was great and looked out right over the sea, almost anyway, and the tent she was sharing with Kelly and Tina was cool. Dead cool. Kelly's dad was lots of fun, always making them laugh,
and the pizza they'd had for supper was brilliant.
'I hope you won't forget to clean your teeth properly,' Ruth said, wanting to bite back the words almost as soon as she'd said them.
The silence at the other end of the phone was her admonition.
'Do you want a word with your dad?' Ruth asked.
'Not now, Mum. We're off down to the beach. Kelly's waiting.'
'But surely it's already dark?' Ruth said.
Too late. Heather had gone.
'She sends her love,' Ruth said, going back into the room where Simon was sitting.
'Hope you gave her mine.'
'Of course.'
Ruth sat down and picked up the paper. Simon was leafing through Alastair Sawday's book of special places to stay in France, looking for interesting bed and breakfasts around Avignon.
'We could hire a car,' he said, 'Aix is only an hour or so away. And there's Arles, just down the road, more or less.' Simon made a mark in the book. 'Didn't Van Gogh do a lot of his stuff there? Him and Gauguin, just up your street.'
'Maybe,' Ruth said, unconvinced.
Neither of them were artists who appealed to her a great deal. Although the actual paintings in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, as opposed to a million reproductions, had impressed her more than she'd anticipated, Ruth found the work a little too self-dramatising; and as for Gauguin, his high-jinks with Polynesian fourteen-year-olds, she thought, would have placed him on the paedophile register nowadays rather than the fine art syllabus.
She was about to say something to that effect to Simon, but thought better of it, Simon having moved on from Arles to Aix-en-Provence.
They did go to Arles and also to Aix, Ruth almost relieved to find that, although the Musée de l'Arles had one of the best collections of Roman sarcophagi to be found anywhere in the world, neither it nor any of the other museums and galleries had any of Van Gogh's paintings on display. In Aix-en-Provence, however, she was delighted to discover a number of small exhibitions devoted to Cézanne—an artist she found herself far more in sympathy with—and especially excited to find it was possible to visit the studio where he had done some of his most famous work.
Ruth had once given over the best of her spare time, evenings and weekends, for a month, attempting to reproduce a Cézanne apple, only to have it looking, after all her efforts, like nothing more nor less than an apple. Whereas Cézanne's apples were that and something else. Something she could never come close to achieving.