by Unknown
‘It depends what happened to me,’ said Bea.
A door slammed from upstairs.
Adrian said, ‘I think I’d rather be cremated.’
‘But then you wouldn’t really be anywhere. You know, for people to visit.’
Frank appeared at the end of the road. He loitered just out of sight, waiting for Katharine to be gone.
‘And then I’d like to be sent up in a firework,’ said Adrian.
‘Really?’
‘Some of them reach five hundred feet.’
‘What happens when you start to come down again?’
He jumped down off the wall. ‘I’d be all over the place.’
She wanted to hold his body tight to hers. ‘Sounds like a good way to go.’
Katharine marched past them. Laura followed, pouting, a slow swagger of disdain. Adrian said, ‘Bye, Bea. Don’t forget to release the leech back into the river. I’ve put it in one of your egg cups,’ and climbed into the car.
Katharine started the engine, switched on the lights and wound down her window. The Jeep lurched and rocked, eager to be off.
‘Thanks so much, Bea. We must catch up properly soon. Before we move. Come to dinner. I’ll call you.’
Bea nodded and waved them away, watching the car until it vanished from sight. Nesrine was sweeping the crazy paving in furious movements, turning this way and that as though plagued by ants. Bea thought of the chores that waited for her indoors. She could feel them behind her back – dishes to clean, rubbish to sort, plants to water, Wanda to pay, her marriage to mend. She sat with her knees up to her chin and examined the river grime between her toes.
Frank appeared at the gate and shook open the paper.
‘Labour Admits: We Made Mistakes on Afghanistan.’ He nodded at the paper and tapped the page. ‘I mean, I could have told them that,’ he said, disappearing into the house.
Work
JOSIE AND Darren from Births, Marriages and Deaths were huddled over cigarettes in the shade by the wall. Bea waved hello as she hurried up the steps, then punched the entry code into the security panel, pulled her staff ID tag over her head, greeted Archie on reception (‘Oh, someone had a late night last night’), said, ‘Morning,’ to Nertili, who was swabbing the floor, saw just in time that it was Louise from Leisure and Culture waiting for the lift (‘I’ve got to go for more tests . . . this time they think it’s my—’), cut through Housing and let herself into the stairwell, where she began the long climb up to the sixth floor and her office in Land Registry, Covenants and Deeds.
On the third landing, she passed Angela from Transport and Streets. Angela was a firm believer in the stairs’ ability to keep cellulite at bay and used to be fleet of foot, but today, in the sixth month of her pregnancy, she held tight to the rail and waited with one hand on her stomach. Bea asked if she was all right and Angela nodded, pointing wordlessly at Bea’s chin. ‘Toothpaste,’ she mouthed and waved her on. Bea dabbed at her chin with one finger, dabbed and licked and plodded onwards, hoping she’d remember to check her make-up in the mirror before the day swept her up and carried her off to lunchtime. At the next turn in the stairs, her legs felt so heavy and slow, her thighs were so chafed and sausaged up in the too-small tights that twisted and squeezed that she had to stop and rest too. Perhaps I’m pregnant, not menopausal, she thought wildly, looking down the stairwell, where she could see the top of Angela’s head, the grey beginning to show. Bea’s woman’s brain, which could perform complicated calculus in units of twenty-eight, reeled backwards to the last time, the one last time with Patrick by the river three days before he left Shire Hall, Cambridge and, finally, her. Backwards through the weeks and months, taking into account those with days of thirty not thirty-one, back, back through September, August and July to 30 June. Yes, yes, she told Precious whose desk was next to hers, of course it was finished, years and years ago, but then something that never officially existed could never really be over either.
The doors to the fifth floor on the landing above her burst open and Jonathan from Policing and Public Safety flew past, taking the stairs two at a time, the scent of lime and something spiky in the air around him. He called, ‘Morning, Bev, how are you?’ but by this time Bea was breathing too heavily to say either ‘Morning’ or ‘I’m not Bev, I’m Bea.’ Her chest rose and fell, there was an ache at the back of her lungs and she wondered when the breathlessness had begun. Was it before the summer? Before Patrick left and vanished into an Ionian sunset? She ran her tongue over her top teeth and thought, God, yes, he’d done it. By the skin of his teeth, Patrick had actually done it – escaped with a pension, a marriage and two family homes all safe and intact. She didn’t know whether to hate him or admire him.
Bea pulled at her skirt, which had migrated up and back as she climbed, had bunched mid-thigh the whole time she had walked to work and was yet another item of clothing that would be sent to the charity shop after only one wearing. Nothing she wore these days looked right. She tried to slow her breathing and stand up tall. She pulled her stomach in and tightened her bundas, as Precious was always telling her to do. She had never understood just exactly where her bundas were, was unsure if she actually had any, but she tried her best to pull everything between her navel and the tops of her thighs up and in. Of course, the affair with Patrick had been over for years by the time he left. And breathe, Precious would remind her. Well, ‘over’ in as much as they didn’t spend Thursday afternoons in the Novotel any longer, no, not since she married Frank. Relax your face, Precious would say. Not easy when you’re trying to hold your bundas in as well as keeping a listing marriage afloat and seeing the man you love but lost every day of your working life, thought Bea, pressing fingertips to the skin on her jaw and her cheeks and her forehead. Christ, how long till her mother’s birthday? Two weeks? She would ask Frank’s father, Lance. They got on rather well at the wedding. Her mother was losing her mind and Lance was losing his legs. They were almost made for each other. She would buy her mother a CD player and get Frank to tell Lance to buy her a CD. Margaret and Lance. Perfect.
At the double doors to her floor, she applied a smile, adjusted her bra and prepared herself for the day. It was a week since her river baptism, and Frank was still sleeping downstairs. They should probably have a talk.
She took a deep breath and made her entrance. The air was heavy with ozone and static. Photocopiers churned, faxes spooled, phones chirruped and flashed. Across the entire top floor, every seat at every desk was occupied except for her corner where she sat with Precious and Karen. At the far end of the room, the new boss – Barry, was it? Charles? – was being ushered around by Human Resources. Bea sank on to her swivel chair and tried to calm her breathing. She watched him, noted his youth and his gelled hair, the new suit and stiff demeanour, then swung round and saw that Precious had materialised from nowhere and was switching everything on while sweeping magazines, coffee cups, Tampax and soup sachets into a drawer. Their corner was normally calm and ordered, but in the last weeks they had become overwhelmed by paper, laminated notices and stapled documents the weight of a Christmas turkey, which had been dispatched by every department from Fostering and Adoption to Recycling and Environment. In the summer weeks between Patrick Cumberbatch’s departure and Barry Charles’s arrival, the council had become a febrile hothouse of accountability anxiety, frantic manic machinations devoted to ‘the covering of the arse’, as Precious liked to put it. Preliminary Scrutiny and Assessment exercises were carried out, and Bea’s Accounting and Record-Keeping Skills were found wanting. A mock inspection occurred in early September, where Land Registry, Covenants and Deeds was deemed to have slipped from Satisfactory to Poor. Precious, Bea and Karen were sent on professional development courses to bring them up to speed, but despite being PowerPointed half to death with compressing, zipping, archiving and merging, Bea had found it hard to leave go of the old way of doing things.
She switched on her computer and Adrian and Laura leapt into life, mid-jump above the river, whi
te limbs wide, hair spiking the air, mouths open and eyes tight shut. Bea pressed at a tear with her fingertip and tried to reel herself in. Her days with the children were numbered; summer was gone and soon Adrian and Laura would be gone too, to London, new schools and a new life. The computer whirred and chugged and a chaos of files and documents scattered themselves across her screen. She looked up. The group with Barry Charles began to step their way, heads nodding and small twitchy smiles. Where the hell was Karen?
Bea swivelled round in her chair. ‘Precious,’ she said, pointing at her computer screen.
In a second Precious was leaning over her shoulder, fingers dancing across the keyboard and mouse, and her screen was suddenly a clear corporate blue, no icons or children in sight. Bea put on her headset and wondered whether Frank was going to sleep downstairs for the rest of their marriage.
She bent down and eased two boxes of deeds dated 1926 to 1940 out of sight beneath her desk and smelt the fear and anxiety rising from her armpits. She opened her desk drawer and rifled through the pens, spare reading glasses, staples and Nurofen, and just for that moment couldn’t for the life of her remember why she had married Frank in the first place. She found a packet of Wet Ones, gave each armpit a quick wipe while bending down behind her desk, and remembered that meeting Frank and living with Frank and eventually marrying Frank was her way of being good, of ending the affair with Patrick, of bringing an end to the not knowing, to the waiting to be wanted. She had thought that if she was good, really good, like Katharine, then who knows what might happen, children weren’t out of the question at forty, were they? And it didn’t break her heart, because in the ten years since then, she had seen Patrick most days at work and – she dropped the Wet Ones in the bin – it was enough. Yes, it was enough. It had to be. But now—
‘Bea,’ hissed Precious and passed her the Audit of Accounts folder. ‘Karen’s on a course. She’s being fast-tracked.’ She passed over the Accounts and Governance Review and the Review of Financial Systems Report. Bea fumbled in her drawer for one of many pairs of cheap reading glasses, stuck on a pair that did not sit entirely true on her nose, and then Barry Charles was standing in their corner.
Bea tried to stand up but found she was tethered by her headset. She smiled and put her hand out nevertheless. He took it briefly and she heard someone saying, ‘As Head of Finance, Barry Charles will be responsible for implementing the council’s Reshaping for Excellence Strategy.’ Bea nodded and kept the corners of her mouth turned up because she had read an article in a magazine recently that said that women who smile have better job prospects than women who don’t. The burner fired up in her and she wondered what Barry Charles would do if the pretty, faded woman with the headset and the poor database skills in front of him spontaneously combusted and became a column of fire. Precious asked him about his last job, although everyone knew everything already. He had been parachuted into post following Mr Cumberbatch’s early retirement and his brief was to ensure the council improved its financial reporting, for which it had got 2 out of 4 the last time they were formally inspected. This, Barry Charles had made clear in his introductory letter to staff, would not happen again.
The visitors were discussing tactics over Bea’s head with Sunita, assistant to the Regional Director.
Barry Charles said, ‘. . . robust management of budgets . . .’
Sunita said, ‘. . . challenges facing the council for the future . . .’
‘. . . performance indicators . . . ?’
‘. . . implementation and outcomes.’
‘. . . risk assessment project management of Private Finance Initiative . . .’
‘ . . . action plans have been developed and strategies are in place . . .’
‘ . . . strategise the way forward and take it from there . . .’
‘Waste Management Private Funding Initiative?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
The light on Bea’s phone came on. She replaced her headset and took the first call. The first call of the day always made her tremble. After that it was usually downhill unless someone rang who was either very rude or very nice to her. The rest of the calls meant nothing, they were just voices that she cut as short as possible, listening to their request or enquiry and putting them through.
Sunita was leading Barry Charles away from their desks. Bea looked up as he was swept on through to Social Care and Housing.
Precious slid a tub of rice pudding from her drawer and peeled off the top.
‘That went well,’ she said.
‘How old do you think he is?’
‘Eleven?’ Precious put a spoonful of pudding into her mouth. ‘Twelve maybe?’
Bea’s phone rang again. When she picked up, she heard Frank’s silence on the other end. She waited a moment, filling the cells of the spreadsheet on the screen in front of her with figures from what she hoped was the correct version. Her mouth was dry and she wished she had had time to collect a cup of tea from the canteen on her way up.
‘Frank?’ she said.
‘Do we have life insurance?’
‘I’m covered by work. You don’t have life insurance because you decided—’
‘So what does that mean?’
‘It means if I die in service you get a lump sum.’
‘So we are protected?’
‘You are protected. Why do you ask?’
‘Just doing a mortgage thing, you know. Seeing whether it’d be cheaper to switch.’
‘Right.’
There was a silence. Bea glanced at Precious, who was being very busy with a new printer cartridge.
Bea spoke quietly. ‘We should talk, Frank.’ A call came in on her phone. She watched the red light blinking at her and waited for Frank to speak.
He said, ‘It’s probably not worth switching.’
‘Probably not, no.’
‘Right then.’
‘Okay.’
She replaced the receiver and did not meet Precious’s gaze.
Endgame
‘IS IT because you snore?’
Frank’s pencil point was poised above the page, ready to make corrections. Really, this was impossible. He was never going to finish Lupa, let alone make a start on Close and Personal, unless the childcare situation was sorted. This was the third day in a week that Katharine had dumped her children at their house. Could they not afford a nanny? What was the problem? The problem was that Bea wanted them here. The problem was he quite liked them here too. He closed his eyes and gave his head an irritable little shake. Then he tipped his head back so that when he opened them again, his eyes met Chekhov’s. Chekhov said nothing. Frank said, ‘I beg your pardon, Adrian?’
‘The separate rooms thingy.’ Adrian was lying on the couch, legs cycling the air, hands on hips. Beside him on the coffee table a game of chess was laid out.
‘You’ve fixed your pawn on the colour of your bishop.’
Frank turned round on the piano stool and glared at the chess board. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing.’ Adrian continued cycling, but in reverse.
Frank got up and gazed down at the chess board. He nodded sagely at the framed poster of his college production of The Seagull in the Cherry Orchard, which the local paper had hailed as ‘uneven and overlong’. It had probably been a mistake to roll the two plays into one. He stood up straight and raised himself on his toes, then snatched a look at Adrian, who was gazing mildly round the room while he waited for Frank. ‘Hmm,’ said Frank, looking at the small glass trophy he had won for his first radio play, Three Brothers, based loosely on Three Sisters but set in Burnley. No, it was not nothing to be BBC Lancashire’s Promising Newcomer of the Year at the age of twenty-three. He turned and nodded fiercely at the chess board. It was not nothing to have always remained true to his art and to have laboured day and night getting the words down on the page. He blew the dust from his trophy and wiped it with his cuff. No. Not nothing.
‘What?’ said Adrian.
&
nbsp; Frank looked at him. ‘What do you mean, what?’
‘You said something.’
‘Oh, I did, did I?’
‘You said, “Not nothing.”’
‘You’re not making any sense, Adrian.’
Frank let out a short, exasperated laugh. He bent down and put his thumb and forefinger on the head of his bishop, nodding and humming cunningly to himself. Adrian stopped cycling and watched. Frank pursed his lips and pushed the bishop along three squares. Adrian carried on cycling again. Frank rubbed his hands together and nearly said Ha! but stopped himself. The boy was just a child, after all. Beating him at chess was hardly a victory to crow about.
Frank returned to his desk, picked up the pencil and read the words ‘A duck flies into the tree . . .’ A duck? In a housing estate? Well, yes, it was possible, there were parks and ponds and lakes up there, but even so, a duck was possibly taking the Peter and the Wolf connection a little far. He crossed out ‘duck’ and wrote ‘magpie’, then read it through again. Yes, ‘magpie’ had the requisite sense of the ordinary and the omen, the vulnerable yet avaricious, it was both a sign and a—
‘Your turn.’ Adrian was sitting up, chin in hands, looking down at the chess board.
Frank looked over. His bishop was imprisoned behind Adrian’s back row. It was staring at him with that mournful expression that bishops have. He stuck his pencil behind his ear and marched over to the chess table.
‘Hang on a minute. Just show me what you did there, please.’
Adrian showed him. Frank puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. His back didn’t hurt today. Wanda had worked miracles on it the day before. She certainly knew the meaning of the word massage. He sat down and studied the board. Inexplicably, things did not look good. Things did not look good at all. His king was backed up in a corner, his pawns were doubled up and his knights were doing bugger all.
Adrian said, ‘Knights belong in the middle of the board . . .’