‘That’s the National Gallery,’ he was busy explaining now, as the bus panted its slow way around Trafalgar Square. ‘It was founded in 1824 and it may interest you to know that, at first, it was just a private house in Pall Mall, with only fifty-odd paintings on show. Then, in 1838, this larger, grander gallery was built, and the collection was moved here. The original frontage was extremely narrow, but it’s been enlarged since then, of course, and now holds over two thousand works of art.’
About a thousand of which we were forced to look at yesterday, Hayley refrained from saying. She didn’t really get art; couldn’t understand why people wasted time dawdling from painting to painting, and from room to endless room, when all the pictures looked much the same, give or take a few haloes, wigs and whiskers. After half a tedious hour of Madonnas, saints and pompous old gents, she had actually sneaked off and taken herself to Top Shop; rejoining her family later, in the gallery. The respite was short-lived. Under orders from her father, they had caught another 24 and got off again at Warren Street, for a detour to the British Library. Old books were just as boring as old paintings, although her dad could have an orgasm over some tatty, yellowed document, or so-called priceless manuscript.
Best not to think of orgasms, which only reminded her of Luke and the hideous way he’d dropped her: just texted to say sorry, it was off. Now she was the only one of her group without a boyfriend – and hardly likely to meet one on a bus. Lisa was in Alicante, and Melissa – lucky thing – had gone abroad for the whole of the summer, and was staying with her Italian uncle, who ran a restaurant in Rome. At this very moment, she was probably being chatted up by dishy foreign waiters, or even dating some gorgeous hunk. Whereas she was sharing a seat with a gross American called Sydney-Sue, of all things. Yes, prompted by her mother, they had all introduced themselves, and even Tim – who had also found a seat nearby and joined the little circle – didn’t seem to mind being described as ‘cute’ by the Yank.
‘So, Kenneth, you teach school.’ Sydney-Sue mopped her sweaty forehead in a flurry of pink tissues. ‘And what subject might that be?’
‘Maths. In fact, that’s why we decided to relocate to London. They had a vacancy for a Maths teacher in a really up-and-coming school, with an inspired headmaster and brilliant Ofsted results, and I felt it was just too good a chance to miss.’
Except you didn’t bother consulting me, Hayley accused him silently. She much preferred the North – what she could remember of it. It seemed more like a dream now: their peaceful cottage, the sweep of lonely hills beyond, the small, safe school she had left behind, along with all her friends. OK, she’d made new friends, but they weren’t special like the old ones and, in any case, she loathed the fact that London was so overcrowded; everyone fighting for their tiny inch of space. Even here on the bus, they were all jam-packed together, and the constant noise was driving her mental: sirens screaming past, police helicopters stuttering overhead and the maddening whine of the automatic doors. Couldn’t they design a bus with ten decks instead of two, so there would be seats for everyone and she could get away from irritating tourists and read her magazine in peace? Or why not one with an air-balloon on the top, so it would float free of the traffic and pick up speed, for once? Or perhaps a special model with built-in guns along one side, to shoot down any yobs, before they could get on.
‘Of course, we were worried sick about the financial side,’ Maureen was confiding, as if Sydney-Sue was already a close friend. What would it be next? The state of her bowels? The stuff she did in bed with Dad?
‘I mean, living in London costs an arm and a leg – everyone knows that! But teachers are classed as key workers, which gave us a head-start. It means we qualified for affordable housing, well below the market rent. And, once my husband had registered, the agency went out of its way to find us a decent flat.’
Hayley cleared her throat impatiently. Her mother made it sound as if they were living in a palace as flash as Buckingham, instead of in a cramped and noisy basement. Her bedroom was so small, they could hardly fit the bed in, despite it being a child’s bed and thus shorter than the average. If she grew an inch or two taller, they’d have to chop her feet off, or else drill a hole in the wall. And, anyway, the flat wasn’t all that cheap. In fact, if they didn’t spend so much on rent, they might be able to afford to go on proper holidays abroad. Her parents pretended they actually preferred settling for seven day-trips every year, but that was just a matter of pride. They were always delivering dreary lectures about how much there was to do in London, and how people came in droves from every country in the world to see the sights and soak up all the history, so she and Tim were exceptionally lucky to be living here full-time. Tim was such a nerd, he swallowed all such guff and invariably took their side, not hers. Her insufferable brother even claimed to like history; he also liked dragging round museums, so it would never even occur to him that sunbathing in Zanté, or clubbing in Ibiza might be marginally more exciting than yet another visit to the Abbey.
‘Oh, look!’ he cried, peering through the window at someone’s balcony. ‘There’s a real live parrot perching on that woman’s shoulder.’
‘Yes, an African Grey. Well spotted, Tim!’ Kenneth turned to Sydney-Sue, who was trying to doze – fat chance. ‘That’s the advantage of being on the upper deck. You see lots of things you’d simply miss at street-level – the details of a pub-sign or a statue, a carved stone balustrade, maybe, or just a stretch of fancy brickwork or unusual Victorian tiling….’
Brickwork, tiling – the excitement was unbearable! But Tim, of course, was trying to earn triple Brownie points by reeling off more ‘upper-level’ sights. It was depressing, really, the way her father favoured him – not just for being a boy, but for being such a boffin. He’d obviously inherited the maths gene, because he was already a whiz at algebra and, although he’d only just turned twelve, he could beat everyone at chess. He was also what her parents called ‘sweet-natured’, whereas she had a reputation for being moody, prickly and prone to sulks. Genes were totally unfair. It was just a matter of blind chance whether you inherited the good ones or the bad, so no credit to the lucky few who happened to be sweet and placid, as well as budding Einsteins.
‘We’re coming up to Camden now,’ her father was explaining to his pupil. She was beginning to look distinctly bored, but since she could hardly move away, he was making the most of his captive audience.
‘It was a peaceful rural area until 1820, when the Regent’s Canal was extended eastwards and brought quite a bit of industry here – coal-wharves and the like. Camden Town itself is full of history. Charles Dickens used to live here, when he was a boy, and the last fatal duel was fought near the Brecknock Arms in 1843.’
Who cared? Not Sydney-Sue, for one, judging by the glazed look in her eyes. She probably didn’t even know who Dickens was. The best thing about Camden wasn’t duels or coal-wharves, but the market and the shops, which sold everything from herbal skunk and Jimi Hendrix T-shirts to eyebrow studs and belly-button rings. In fact, once the bus had nosed into the High Street, she was tempted to get off and browse the stalls. Except it would only lead to arguments and, anyway, she could just about endure one more lousy picnic on the Heath, because she had secretly decided that this was her last bus-holiday – last ever, in point of fact. Next year she would be eighteen, which meant officially an adult, so she had every right to go off on her own, for once, to some exotic foreign hot-spot. Apart from anything else, she would need an escape from the gloom and disappointment bound to follow in the wake of her A-level results. It was actually quite pointless to be doing them at all, when she knew she would fail the lot, but her father had laid down the law – couldn’t bear the thought of any child of his not getting four straight A’s. And he kept arguing the toss about her refusal even to try for university, despite the fact she hadn’t the slightest wish to study any longer, let alone sit any more exams. Let Tim be the star, win an Oxbridge scholarship, fulfil her parents’ dreams.
She had other plans. In fact, she might stay abroad for good; find a job in Italy or Spain; fall in love with some tall, dark, hunky guy and refuse to come home even for the wedding. If her father wanted to lead her up the aisle, then he and Mum would have to take a plane, stretch themselves, for once. Even the amazing, brilliant, culture-brimming number 24 didn’t go quite as far as Italy and Spain.
‘Goodbye, darling.’
‘Bye, Mum.’ She’d said goodbye three times already, but her mother seemed unable to tear herself away. Her parents had insisted on seeing her off, which really was a pain. With them in tow, she couldn’t explore the concourse – all those shops and cafés just begging her to step inside: order a drink, buy a top, try on trendy shoes. In any case, she needed time and space to relish the sheer excitement of being in an airport for the first time in her life. Seeing all the destinations flashing on the departure-boards not only gave her a buzz; it was a valuable reminder that the world stretched slightly further than from Pimlico to Hampstead Heath. Besides, her mum was spoiling everything by continually fussing and fretting, and had been issuing dire warnings about every sort of danger, the entire way to Heathrow.
‘Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t help worrying.’
‘Mum, I’m only going to Rome, not Iraq or Afghanistan. Europe’s pretty tame, you know. Lisa’s backpacking in India, and Christie’s trekking right across the Australian outback.’
‘It doesn’t matter. There’s danger everywhere. And don’t forget to phone us the minute you arrive.’
‘I’ve said I will, OK?’
Her mother peered at her hand-luggage, as if convinced a terrorist had already slipped a bomb inside. ‘Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?’
‘Well, if I haven’t, it’s too late now.’
Her father had been uncharacteristically quiet, refraining from any lectures on the history of aviation, or the design of the terminal, although he had taken charge, of course: carried her cases, breathed down her neck at check-in, warned her (twice) not to lose her boarding pass. All at once, he unpeeled a £20-note from his wallet and pushed it into her hand. ‘Here’s a little extra, to buy yourself a drink.’
‘I don’t want her going to bars, Kenneth. Not with all those scares about people spiking drinks.’
‘I’ll buy an ice-cream, OK, Mum? They’re not laced with drugs. And thanks a lot for the cash.’
‘I just wish it could be more.’ Her father dodged a bruiser of a bloke, who, loaded down with baggage, had all but cannoned into him. ‘Now listen, Hayley, dear, make sure you see those churches I mentioned – St Balbina, and Saints Neruus and Achilleus. They may be off the beaten track, but you’ll find they’re well worth the effort.’
‘Yes, Dad.’ If her father really thought she intended wandering round fusty old churches, with her nose glued to a guide-book, he was seriously deluded. Still, wiser to say nothing about her actual plans: to find some hot Italian footballer and spend her free time groin to groin with him, flashing about in his sports car. She was getting sick of Jason. OK, he was faithful, unlike Luke, last year, but he sometimes seemed like a soppy spaniel puppy, racing off to retrieve the sticks she threw and dropping them adoringly at her feet. A macho type would be much more up her street – some feisty, hardcore sort of guy, who wouldn’t fawn or slobber, or crawl submissively to heel if she so much as raised her voice.
‘Oh, Lord! They’re calling your flight.’ Her mother sounded close to tears. ‘You’d better hurry, darling. Give me one last hug.’
The hug was horribly embarrassing, especially in a public place. All those people watching must imagine she was about to start a life-sentence in some sleazy foreign gaol, rather than simply going on a jaunt. Even her father clung to her for ages, like he believed he’d never see her again. Her parents meant well, of course. They were just fussed about her going off on her own, as if they thought she was five, instead of eighteen-and-a-half. Anyway, once she got to Rome, she wouldn’t be on her own, but surrounded by the buzzy crowd at Melissa’s uncle’s restaurant. It was a real stroke of luck, in fact, that things had panned out so well. Federico wanted extra help for the summer, and she wanted a job and somewhere to stay. The only disappointment was that Melissa had already left for her gap-year in Bangkok, so wouldn’t be there herself. But at least her friend had provided her with a respectable Italian family, who would help her learn the language – indeed, who had made the trip possible at all. Her parents would have gone berserk if she’d just buzzed off on spec, with no proper base or forwarding address.
‘Ciao, Mamma, ciao, Papa,’ she carolled, showing off the Italian she had learned from phrase-books and CDs. ‘Non ti preoccupare. Ti chiamo sta sera.’
And, with a last determined wave, she strode ahead through security, refusing to turn round; refusing to listen to any more warnings about food poisoning, contaminated water, dangerous drivers, handbag-snatchers, or mad Italian bottom-pinchers. In just an hour, she would be flying at 30,000 feet, above France, above the clouds; free, at last; unchaperoned, at last, and never – repeat never – having to clamber up the stairs of another 24 bus.
‘I thought you said you weren’t coming with us again.’
‘People are entitled to change their minds, Tim.’
‘Sorry – I don’t get it. I mean, you still haven’t told us why you came back from Rome so soon, when you’d planned to stay a year.’
Hayley didn’t answer. Since she’d arrived in England, two days ago, everyone had asked her the same question, and she’d been forced to resort to lies: Federico already had too many staff and couldn’t really use her, and it was impossible to live in Rome without a proper wage. And she’d been unwell, with a nasty case of sunburn, after a seaside trip to Anzio. Oh, and she’d had cystitis, too, and an infected mosquito-bite.
Thank God she was sitting next to Tim. Being grilled by her brother was marginally better than being grilled by her parents, who were a good six rows in front on this more-than-usually-crowded number 24. Yet, despite the crowds, despite the constant cross-questioning, she had to admit she felt overwhelming relief – yes, even with a bunch of kids squalling right behind her and aiming vicious kicks at the back of her seat. In fact, more than just relief – she felt very nearly happy, without a trace of her normal grouchiness. The weather was fantastic: breezy, bright and not too hot for August – nothing like the blistering heat of Rome – and they were heading for Camden Lock, for a walk along the canal, followed by a guided tour of Lords. Nothing wrong with that. OK, she wasn’t a wild cricket fan, but her father said you could see the players’ dressing-rooms and even the urn that held the Ashes.
Tim was jogging her arm. ‘Why can’t you tell me more about the trip? Or is it top-secret or something?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, that Italian geezer – what was he like?’
‘Which Italian geezer?’ she asked, warily. There had been a few too many, and she was still reeling from the experience.
‘The one you stayed with, of course – Frederico, or whatever he’s called.’
‘Frederico. He’s big and fat and and hairy, and angry all the time.’
‘And what about his wife?’
‘Big and fat and hairy, too! Better-natured, but talks non-stop.’
‘Did she teach you much Italian, then?’
‘A bit.’ She fished Grazia from her bag and pretended to be reading it, but, undeterred, Tim returned to the fray.
‘Know what I think?’
‘No.’
‘That Federico fired you, but you’re too scared to tell Mum and Dad, which is why you’re being so edgy.’
‘Shut up, Tim! I wasn’t fired – no way. I just decided to come back because …’ Her voice tailed off. There were so many different reasons, most of which she would never admit to anyone. She’d been homesick, for God’s sake – she, the intrepid traveller, pining for her mum and dad; even missing her usual goodnight kiss. How pathetic was that? And s
he’d hated flying, which wasn’t fun at all, just terrifying at the start, then boring and uncomfortable – and even more cramped than the bus. And she’d proved hopeless as a waitress; muddled all the orders because her Italian was so sketchy and, once Federico twigged, he had demoted her to skivvy, after just three days. Even then, she couldn’t seem to please him. He was always going mental and yelling the place down in great scary sort of rages. In fact, it made her realize how good-tempered her own father was. He never swore or shouted, or broke cups and plates on purpose, just to vent his temper on everybody else.
And the younger guys she’d met had all been nasty. One had all but raped her, and another thrust his tongue so far down her throat, she very nearly threw up. And, although most of them spoke English, they liked to pretend they didn’t, so that when she said, ‘Look, I barely even know you. Can we take this a bit slower?’, they translated it as ‘Go full steam ahead’. Jason was an angel in comparison; a decent sort of bloke who never forced the pace and understood if she was feeling a bit off. She’d text him again this evening; tell him she loved him, again. She did love him – madly – even loved her geeky brother; loved everyone in London, just because she was home and safe and no longer exiled in an alien land. She wouldn’t say a word, of course, about such shameful feelings, for fear of being thought a total wimp. Yet, mixed in with the shame was a sense of celebration, because the experience was over now and she was back where she belonged.
As the bus swerved round a corner, her father came swaying down the aisle towards them, clutching at the rail, to keep his balance. ‘Two seats have just come free, kids, so do join us at the front. I want to point out a couple of things in Whitehall.’
Having grabbed the empty seats just across from their parents, she and Tim – along with the Indian couple in front – listened to him explaining how King Charles I was executed on the exact spot they were passing. And she actually felt proud of him for being so clued-up on history (and art and books and architecture), and not an uncultured yob like Federico, who wouldn’t know King Charles from Charlie Brown. In fact, she had come back just in time. There were five more bus-trips left and, for the first time ever, she was really looking forward to them. Tomorrow they were getting off at the stop for Kentish Town, for a visit to St Martin’s church – famous for some reason – then to three old staging inns and a flat where George Orwell had lived. Also, her dad was going to show them the course of the River Fleet, when it used to flow freely from Hampstead down to Blackfriars Bridge, before being caged up underground. And the day after that, they were going to the National Gallery, to see an exhibition, chosen in her honour, because it was all Italian artists – people called Divisionists, whatever that might mean. Perhaps she’d listen, for a change; learn a bit about them, and, even if she didn’t, every painting would give her a real kick just because she was here in England, and not in Italy.
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