Miss MacDonald was working through a box of paper hankies, squidging them into soggy pastel balls. ‘Some kids can surprise you – you know, sweet as pie at home, but little Hitlers in the classroom; others just the opposite. I’m afraid Luke is quite a trouble-maker here.’ She checked her watch a moment, got up from her desk. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ll just have to start this lesson, and I’d better go and fetch Luke in, or he’ll be carving his initials in the floorboards or gouging lumps out of the walls.’ Her laugh changed to a strangled choke of fury as she opened the door and revealed not Luke, but a stretch of empty corridor. ‘You see? That’s typical. Downright disobedience! If he hasn’t run away again, he’s probably hiding somewhere. We’ll just have to smoke him out.’
A whole hour later, Hilary was sitting on a bus again, but not alone, and not the Cranleigh Gardens bus. Luke was still beside her, and they were heading for his home. In the course of her short talk with Miss MacDonald, Luke had slipped off to the kitchen, tried to steal some chips, sworn at all the dinner ladies, punched one in his way, and finally sicked up half his breakfast in the toilet. What had followed had been a nightmare – Hilary, suddenly responsible, in loco parentis, as she and Luke were summoned to the Head, who declared that Luke must go straight home and stay there. The Head had phoned his parents to ask if they could fetch him, but Mr Craddock was out all day, and Mrs Craddock stuck at home with a grandchild of four months and her own retarded daughter. Hilary, torn between worry over Robert, and horror at this new delinquent Luke, felt her duty was with Luke. She, too, had used the phone, rung both the shop and Cranleigh Gardens, to see if Liz could help. No answer from the latter, but Di informed her that Liz had left the shop and was probably buying half of Wimbledon before she drove back home. She had no alternative but to take Luke back herself. He had limped beside her, chastened, as they walked out along the corridors, the smell of vomit on his jeans now mingling with the odours of the dinner hour: curry, punished cabbage.
She had meant to spend her dinner hour with Robert, perhaps in some chic restaurant, where the only smells were sizzling steak or garlic butter; or maybe at a picnic, with a bottle of champagne tucked between them on the grass. She had been tempted to go first to Cranleigh Gardens, so she could warn Robert what had happened, ask him to hang on, but Luke had seemed too sick and miserable to make that tortuous detour, catch two separate buses. All she could do was deliver the wretched child, then rush straight back to Robert, hope to God he’d waited.
‘Can’t you walk a wee bit faster, Luke?’ They had alighted from the bus now, but Luke was only dawdling, kicking out at empty cans, or just stopping for no reason, staring into space. The streets got narrower and dirtier, as they turned a corner, following the railway line, then crossed into an alley which opened into four high arches, their stained and sallow brick standing guard over a stretch of barren wasteground. It was Hilary who stopped now, stopped in shock. She was prepared, theoretically, for the scrapyard, the junked cars, but had never ever pictured it as large as this, as desolate. And could those piles of crippled metal ever have been cars – cars like Robert’s, once cosseted and cherished? They were heaped one atop the other, as if of no more worth or interest than empty Pepsi cans, each one maimed in some way; some flattened, others twisted into grotesque distorted shapes. And around them spilled a tide of separate parts: engines ripped from bodies; orphaned wheels helpless on their backs; gouged-out headlamps staring like blind eyes. An abattoir for cars. And what of their poor drivers? Were they, too, lying shattered, either in hospital or grave, bones crushed, limbs dismembered?
She forced herself to walk between the dead and silent wrecks, stepping over abandoned tools, dodging a black pool of oil. A score of wrenched-off bumpers had been stacked against a row of sheds, which themselves spilled piles of junk – broken bits of motor-bike, old guttering, old pipes, collapsing cardboard boxes piled with cracked wing mirrors. A mangy dog slunk between two sheds, its hind legs caked with mud, a piece of string as collar. It nosed towards the shambles of a hen-run, cobbled out of posts and chicken wire, a gaping hole patched with rusting bed springs. She had hardly noticed the Craddocks’ house itself, which seemed dwarfed by the lumber all around it. It was constructed, like the arches, of sooty yellow brick – two old workmen’s cottages now knocked into one, its garden just a fringe of dandelions.
Hilary tried to change the expression on her face as she turned to speak to Luke, beg him to hurry, go and call his mother, but her voice was drowned by a sudden thundering roar. The whole place seemed to tremble as a goods-train rattled past, its noise and judder shaking through her body, whistling through her skull. Luke appeared not even to hear it, just slouched up to the house, pushed the front door open, disappeared. She followed nervously, stepped into a cluttered sitting room. A high old-fashioned pram took up all the space between a sagging three-piece suite, patterned with blue flowers, which had faded into indeterminate splodges. She peered in at the baby which was grizzling to itself – just a bald pink head beneath a pile of fancy coverlets. The satin-edged blue blanket and rose-sprigged eiderdown seemed too luxurious for this shabby room, where nothing else was new. The furniture was battered and mismatched, the ‘fitted’ carpet made from three quite separate offcuts, all green, but different shades.
Hilary stood by the window, feeling like a trespasser, wishing she could simply creep away. She could hear sounds upstairs, wails and shouts, then footsteps tramping down. A large and lumpy woman clumped in through the door, wearing red Scholls sandals and a grubby nightie, with two bows in her hair. Hilary came forward, tried to find her voice.
‘Hallo,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’ve brought Luke back. I’m afraid he’s been quite sick and …’ Her words trailed off, hand dropped back to her side. It had not been shaken, just totally ignored. The woman was staring at her, staring like a cow stares, or a child; her face impassive, vacant; mouth hanging dumbly open, as if its hinge had broken. Hilary tried again. ‘He may have a temperature. He seems a bit feverish to me. He was quite all right this morning, but …’
She cut the sentence short, suddenly realising her mistake. This wasn’t Mrs Craddock, but her retarded daughter. She had heard about the daughter, knew how big she was, yet still she’d been expecting someone childlike, not this gross and bloated woman who looked as if she’d never been a child; seemed somehow old already; no colour in her pasty skin, no life in her small eyes. Those eyes were staring still, the silence growing more and more uncomfortable, as Hilary felt the smile freeze on her face. She must find Mrs Craddock, say goodbye and leave. Robert would be frantic, either with worry or with anger, or maybe both at once; pacing up and down the pavement outside an empty house, or sitting in his car fuming at her apparent lack of manners.
She started up the stairs, almost colliding with Luke, who chose that moment to come skidding down; followed more slowly by a thin and grey-faced woman in a baggy skirt and sweater, untidy hair straggling to her shoulders.
‘Hallo, I’m Mrs Craddock – Rita. Come in and sit down, dear. You look smart! Going to a wedding? There’s nothing smart round here, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive the mess. The Hoover’s just conked out, and if I wait for Joe to mend it, it’ll be Christmas or New Year. I see you’ve met my Sylvie. Say “hallo”, Sylvie, to the lady.’
Sylvie gave a grunt.
‘Pull that chair up, dear. The sofa’s got no springs. What did you say your name was? Hilary? I thought that was a man’s name. Joe had an Uncle Hilary, or was it a great-uncle? He’s dead now, anyway. Want a cup of tea?’
‘No, really, thanks. I must get back. I’m …’
‘What, straight away? I was hoping you might stay a bit. It’s nice to see a new face, isn’t it? I don’t get to see that many. And I’d like a little chat about the school, dear, before you just rush off. I mean, what the heck’s he meant to have done this time? I don’t believe half of it, do you? I never liked his teacher anyway. If you ask me, she’s just a fanc
y stuck-up bitch. Where d’ you get those earrings? Pretty, aren’t they? Luke, go and put the kettle on and don’t slop water on the floor.’
‘No, I must go, Mrs Craddock, honestly. I haven’t time for tea. I’m expecting someone and I’m very late already.’ Hilary checked her watch, horrified. Robert would never wait that long, would assume she had forgotten or cried off. Unless Liz herself were back now and had found him on the doorstep. She ought to phone and check. ‘In fact, if I could use your phone …’
‘Help yourself. It’s in the hall. Luke! Leave Sylvie’s toys alone. You’ll only make her cry.’
Hilary almost wept herself, with sheer relief, to hear Liz’s friendly voice.
‘Where are you, love? What’s happened?’
She tried to cut the tortured explanations, ask the one important question – was Robert there?
‘Here? Why should he be? I thought the whole point of today was that you were going out together.’
‘How long have you been back, though?’
‘Oh, an hour, at least, I’d say. No, longer. I was back at half past twelve. I remember that distinctly because I switched on the radio and “Brain of Britain” was just starting.’
‘I must have missed you by two minutes, then.’
‘What, you phoned before, you mean?’
‘Yes. And the shop. Di said you were buying half of Wimbledon.’
‘Bloody cheek! I bought a melon and a pair of tights which took approximately three minutes. But what’s up, for heaven’s sake? I still don’t understand.’
As soon as Liz had grasped the problem, she was offering instant help. ‘Don’t worry, Hil, I’ll come and fetch you right away. And I’ll leave a note for Robert.’
‘I shouldn’t bother. He won’t come now. Or he’s already gone back home.’ She felt absurdly disappointed. Each of Robert’s phone calls in the last two weeks or so had increased her anticipation, her eagerness to see him – though she had done her best to control it. Robert wasn’t Ivan, and she had no wish to get obsessed again, but all the same, it hurt that he should have apparently forgotten her.
‘Don’t be silly, love. He wouldn’t have gone home after less than half an hour. Knowing Bob, he’s far more likely to be late himself. I’ll leave the key for him.’
‘But what about the burglars?’
‘Damn the burglars! You’re more important. Look, give me twenty minutes. You caught me in the buff, and by the time I’ve dressed and …’
Hilary trailed back to the sitting room, feeling totally deflated. All that fretting over Robert and he hadn’t even thought to phone to explain why he was late, or apologise for messing up her lunch. She was starving hungry now, could at least accept that cup of tea, hope there’d be a biscuit with it. She sank down in the chair again, explained to Mrs Craddock that Liz was coming to fetch her.
‘Funny girl, that Liz. I can never make her out. Kind, though, isn’t she? I can always phone her when I’m ill and she’ll take the boy – no bother. I’m ill a lot, you know. Did she tell you? No? I get these dizzy turns. Everything goes black and … I like Luke going there. They got books at the Kingsleys and books is good for him. It’s stupid, that damn school saying he should stay put in his own home. Any book that walked in here Joe would use for wedging a loose door, or propping up a table. Mind you, I’m not that hot at reading myself.’ Mrs Craddock fumbled in her bag, brought out a small squashed pack of cigarettes. ‘D’you smoke?’ she asked, lighting up herself and settling back. She appeared to have forgotten all about the tea. ‘What, not at all? You’re lucky. I can’t stop. I must get through forty a day now. Joe moans about the cost, but he smokes more than I do. Do call me Rita, by the way. Mrs Craddock’s such a mouthful. Luke, stop it, will you! You’ll only break that doll.’
Hilary glanced across at Luke who was taunting Sylvie, pulling at her doll – a pert and pretty creature whose rosebud mouth and doe-soft eyes only pointed up the contrast with her owner’s ugly features. Luke himself looked ill, his face peaky, drained of colour. He ought to be in bed with a glucose drink, an aspirin. Perhaps she should offer to take him up herself, then once she and his mother were on their own downstairs, they could have that chat about his school which Rita had suggested. She could try to make her see how serious Luke’s problems were, not just the inventions of some ‘fancy stuck-up bitch’. She still felt shocked herself by the new and violent Luke, who had somehow taken over from the quiet shy boy she’d known – or thought she’d known.
She waited till a train had passed. Rita shouted over them, but Rita was in practice, and she herself still found it quite an effort to raise her voice at all. She opened her mouth as the last boom and rattle faded, but Sylvie got in first; let out a wail of fury as she pointed to her doll. Luke had snapped its head off, flung the pink corpse on the floor.
‘Now look what you’ve done, Luke.’ Rita sounded only mildly disapproving, as if she had long since tired of bawling out her children, and had no more strength or spirit to enforce real discipline. Though Luke seemed almost contrite now, and was trying to mend the doll, dry his sister’s eyes, offer her his engine as a substitute. ‘Blow your nose,’ he ordered, dredging up a dirty scrap of Kleenex from the pocket of his jeans, then wiping her face deftly on his sleeve. He was obviously quite used to looking after her, yet it couldn’t be that easy to have to share his home and mother with this retarded ‘baby’, have his rightful place as youngest child supplanted. The other baby was crying now, as well, woken by the noise; began to howl more and more hysterically, until Rita scooped him up, rocked him in her arms. ‘Damn! He’s poohed his nappy and I haven’t got a clean one. Here, hold him, will you, dear, and I’ll see what I can find.’
Hilary tensed in horror as the writhing choking creature suddenly plumped into her lap. In all her adult life she had never held a baby; had imagined them as passive pretty things, cooing in one’s arms. This one seemed infuriated, was threshing with its arms and legs, as if to get away from her; its scarlet face contorted. She tried to copy Rita, rock the child, soothe it, make silly gaga noises, but the screams went on and on. She feared that she was holding it all wrong, or that her own tension had affected it; her own repugnance at its foul and fetid smell. Could a dirty nappy really smell that strong, and what if it were leaking? Its romper-suit felt soggy-damp already. Had it stained her best blue dress – Robert’s dress?
Robert’s baby. She could suddenly see that photograph – Robert with his child. That, too, had been a boy. She tried to imagine Robert with a squalling son, a smelly son, instead of that silent perfect specimen on celluloid. Had he been good with it, deft at changing nappies, handy with the bottles? She had no idea, only knew that she herself was quite inadequate, had no natural gift with babies. Yet this was what she’d longed for all those empty barren years – an infant in her arms.
Sylvie had come up to her, holding out her own truncated baby, talking to the headless china body, stroking the small feet. Hilary forced her features into the fiction of a smile. If this retarded woman had such deep maternal feelings, why did she herself feel only deep distaste? Sylvie touched her arm, let out a few noises which were completely unintelligible, yet sounded friendly in their tone, as if the girl were making some real effort to communicate. She knew she should reply, yet had no idea what to say, or even how to say it. Should she use baby-talk, or treat Sylvie as an adult?
‘Yes, we’re both mothers, aren’t we, Sylvie? Is your baby good?’
More eager jabbering sounds, then Sylvie pulled her nightie up, displaying white and shapeless legs, kept pointing to her knee, repeating just one word, which sounded like ‘Belay’; seemed frustrated when she wasn’t understood. ‘Belay,’ she said again, began whimpering, screwing up her face.
‘Nice knee,’ said Hilary, desperately, praying that Sylvie wouldn’t cry as well. ‘Have you hurt it?’ she enquired. ‘I can’t see anything.’ She peered a little closer, though inwardly recoiling from the slack and bloated thighs, the white ca
lves streaked with coarse dark hairs, the smell of unwashed flesh.
‘Belay,’ insisted Sylvie.
Hilary glanced towards the door, as if willing Rita to return – or even Luke, who might understand his sister, offer some translation. But he had rushed out with his mother, and she could only hear his footsteps overhead. The walls seemed thin, the ceiling insubstantial, the whole house far too frail, as if it had been weakened by a hundred years of trains, wearing down its structure and its will. A diesel train was passing now, which seemed even more intrusive as it shook the walls and furniture. She longed to get away, couldn’t keep her thoughts from Robert, even with a baby wailing on her lap. Suppose he’d had an accident, was lying in the road, or …?
‘Sylvie, no! You mustn’t eat your doll. That’s very dangerous.’ The girl had stuffed a china foot halfway down her throat. Hilary was terrified she’d choke, tried to ease it out, clutching at the baby with her one free hand. What on earth was Rita doing? Had she gone to buy some nappies, slipped out the back way without saying? She struggled with a rising tide of panic, as she imagined trying to cope all on her own. Yet Rita coped herself – all day and every day – had coped with seven children, seven writhing smelly infants, not to mention one who’d never outgrown babyhood. She wiped dribble off her dress, rearranged the infant on her lap. At least it had stopped crying, but still seemed fractious and uncomfortable, its tiny hands sawing at the air, its face puckered up and quivering, as if at any moment it might start again. This is what she’d risked with Simon – not a wooden Christ-child, who neither screamed nor soiled its nappies, but a complex human being who might be stubborn, sullen, violent; might even grow up handicapped, delinquent.
She banged back in her chair, jerking the baby almost callously, as if trying to get at Simon, trying to shake his whole smug and rigid Church – that patriarchal Church which had refused Rita an abortion, when she knew the child she carried would be handicapped; refused her contraception all her married life. Luke had been unwanted, a mistake; conceived when his mother was in fact a grandmother, already tired of babies, and worn down by the problems of the other six. She must be only fifty, but looked distinctly older; her hair a brittle dingy-grey, her dull skin lined and faded; seemed a different generation from herself and Liz.
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