A week after the Sutcliffes’ arrival, after supper, when they were all round the table, William had raised the subject of the visit. Under Lucy’s doubtful eyes – he had not discussed the matter with her – Joe’s steady gaze, which must have rattled many a bus stop vandal and car thief in his working days and Marie’s timid, fearful look, he had proceeded determinedly with his prepared speech. His and Lucy’s working hours. The size of the flat. The conclusion, some phrase of his father’s about good fences making good neighbours. When he finished, Lucy was looking at the tablecloth, Joe was still staring steadily at him as if he were incriminating himself and Marie was on the verge of tears, saying, ‘Of course, if you don’t want us here, we’ll go back home.’ Lucy said, ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. We’ll manage,’ and Marie had begun to weep uncontrollably. Lucy had sent William out with Joe and put her mother to bed – in their bed. ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he’d suggested to Joe. He wasn’t going to apologize. ‘Good thinking,’ Joe said easily, as if nothing much had happened.
With a pint in his hand, William’s father-in-law said, ‘Don’t think I don’t understand how difficult this is or that we’re not grateful. It’s Marie,’ he continued and then told William again how upset his wife had been about the suicide attack at Thwaite airbase and the spectacle of military vehicles full of armed men rolling down their village street. William listened in silence, waiting. He had heard all this before and assumed that, the story retold, Joe would move on to the practicalities, a suggestion about making life easier, a mention, perhaps, of how long he thought it would be before he and his wife could go home. But he did not do this. William had to recognize that Marie’s state of mind had become the centre of the Sutcliffes’ marriage; it controlled almost all their actions and decisions. In some ways, neither of them was normal. He felt very discouraged. They walked back to the flat in silence.
When they got in Marie and her mother were watching a video of The Lion King. Marie could stand very little in the way of entertainment. The news was out, of course, and most documentaries, also films containing violence, sex, bad language or conflict between the characters. This ruled out most films, TV, newspapers, books and magazines, leaving only afternoon TV, Disney films and magazines showing the homes and lives of the rich and famous. Marie lived in the only world she could endure, her own. William, unwilling to sit with three adults watching a children’s film, had gone to bed.
As he got on the bus he accepted reluctantly that the row with the drunken MP at the restaurant, ending in the eviction of the whole party, might have been his fault. It was his job to deal with the guests, however out of control they became. Jack Prentiss had as good as told him he was losing his grip. And he probably was. And Lucy was tired and growing paler and thinner – if she made a mistake it would not just be a matter of a few people in a restaurant having their dinners disturbed. The bus arrived, William got on – and he decided to act. This cheered him.
Getting out at Shepherd’s Bush, he noticed the Auxiliary Police were on the Green again, clustered round their camouflaged vehicles. It looked as if they’d set up a permanent base there. Why? he wondered. He’d accepted the idea that in these times of terrorism and the threat of terrorism the police needed all the help they could get. But the stories he heard were always about the Auxiliaries being idle and thuggish at the same time. They had a lot of power and were undertrained. People feared them.
As soon as he came in, Marie, who must have been waiting for him, lifted her head from the pillow and said, ‘Lucy’s period’s late. Do you think we could be expecting a grandchild?’
William responded jovially, ‘It can’t have been me. I haven’t touched her for weeks. It must be that rotten Bob from downstairs.’ He marched into the bedroom and banged the door. Later, he sat on the bed grinning and dropped his shoes heavily on the floor as if he were drunk. He’d enjoyed that – it was almost the first thing he’d enjoyed for weeks. Marie would have disliked the reference to sex between her daughter and her husband, and the suggestion of adultery even more. Nominating Bob Archer, the Friths’ downstairs neighbour, who was black, as the guilty man, made it all the better.
He’d pay – of course he’d pay. Through the door he could hear Marie lightly sobbing. That would wake Joe. Next morning, they’d both be tired. Joe’s face would be as long as a fiddle, Marie’s eyes would be red and as soon as Lucy got up there’d be a post-mortem into William’s drinking habits and general behaviour as a husband. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t be in the flat anyway. He put his head on the pillow and went straight to sleep. Lucy did not escape so easily. He half-heard her talking to Marie when she came in. When she got into bed he pretended to be more deeply asleep than he was.
When he got up the Sutcliffes were eating breakfast in the kitchen. Marie looked very worn and pale and had an untouched plate in front of her. ‘Morning,’ said William, pouring himself a cup of tea.
‘Can I get you any breakfast, William?’ Marie asked with forbearance.
‘No. I’ve got to go out straight away,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you have this?’ she asked, indicating her own plate. ‘It’s still hot but I don’t seem to feel like anything this morning.’
‘I’ve got to go and see someone,’ said William, putting down his cup and heading for the door. ‘Are you feeling all right, William?’ Joe called after him.
‘Fine. Fine,’ said William and left. He went to the café where he thought his friend Mo Al Fasi might be taking a break. Mo would have been up before six to get fruit and vegetables for his father’s shop and left one of his brothers in charge while he went for a cup of coffee. He found Mo sitting with a group of Moroccan men at the back of the café and went up to him. ‘How’s it going, Will?’ asked Mo.
‘Horrible,’ said William. ‘Can I have a word? I need to find a flat.’ Mo glanced at the other men. His father and uncles had come from Morocco forty years earlier, responding to job advertisements by British companies. They’d worked, brought their families over and, scraping money together, had managed to buy a house in the then downmarket area of Shepherd’s Bush. They now owned two shops and several houses.
Nevertheless, the situation was delicate. However, William calculated, Mo owed him a favour, ever since fifteen-year-old William had alibied fifteen-year-old Mo when he’d got into trouble. The offence – a small drugs deal – would have brought little in the way of a penalty but the court appearance would have shamed Mo’s father and badly upset his mother. At the time the only person who had known about this was Mo’s father. However, fifteen years had passed and perhaps, now, others knew. Which would make it easier for Mo to help William out. That was the way things were. A signal between Mo and the other man evidently passed and Mo said, ‘Might have a place.’
They left the café and went to a pub in a quiet street. William had a pint and ordered a tall glass of orange juice, which he fortified with vodka, though he was not sure whether marriage, business and fatherhood had made Mo more conservative. Mo, however, took a swig and did not make any comment about the contents of his glass. Mo was tall, thin and rapid in his movements. As a boy, with his large brown eyes and long curling lashes he’d looked like a Renaissance angel. Now he was married, with three small children and a business. His long face was tired and there were shadows under his eyes. He asked, ‘Who’s the flat for?’
William outlined the situation with the Sutcliffes and Mo, no stranger to the demands of the extended family, nodded. ‘There might be somewhere – Dad’s got a flat – one room, kitchen and bathroom, in one of his houses. It’s nice,’ he said. ‘Lucy wouldn’t mind it. The last bloke who had it was a BBC producer, commuting from Norwich every week. But he’s moved on.’
‘What about the rent?’
‘Couple of hundred a week. One fifty if Dad’s in a good mood.’ Seeing William’s expression he said, ‘I know. I know. But that’s the going rate round here.’
‘Still got to pay the mortgage, that’s the problem,�
�� William said.
Mo finished his drink and put his glass down. ‘It’d be better if your wife’s parents went home,’ he said.
William looked at him hopelessly. ‘How’s your own family?’
Mo’s face closed. ‘Don’t ask,’ he replied. They agreed to meet that afternoon, at the shop, when Mo would have spoken to his father about the flat.
William stopped for breakfast, bought a couple of CDs he would look forward to playing in the new place and went home, relieved. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen whatever accommodation Mo’s father was renting yet. Nevertheless, he felt confident, a mood which altered when he entered the flat. Marie sat limply on the sofa, Lucy in a chair. Lucy’s face was even paler and there were darker shadows under her eyes. She’d had, William calculated, about five hours’ sleep. He suspected that Marie had found a way of waking her up early, in order to discuss what he’d said last night.
He went to Lucy and whispered, ‘Sorry, love. It was just a joke.’ She nodded, wearily. He turned to Marie. ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’d had a bit too much to drink.’ Marie made no reply to this unapologetic apology but Joe turned stiffly from the window and said, ‘All right, William. These things happen.’
‘Luce,’ William said. ‘You look tired. Why don’t you go back to bed?’
‘I’m all right here,’ she said.
William said crossly, ‘Well, I’m going to get some sleep,’ and went into the bedroom. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t know why Marie, because she’d been upset, had to have her husband and exhausted daughter in the room with her, but he knew this was the case. Then the TV went on, so that if he had been trying to sleep, he would have been disturbed.
This is insane, he thought. We’re all living with an insane woman and we’re all going mad ourselves. He realized that if Mo’s father’s flat were a concrete room in a windowless basement, he’d still take it.
Lucy came in, with a cup of tea in each hand. She gave him one and sat down on the bed. It would have been made with loose tea leaves, which William disliked, but he took it anyway. ‘Mum was really upset by what you said last night,’ she said. ‘And that you were drunk.’
‘I wasn’t. You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘No,’ she said wearily and lay down beside him. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said. And told her what he’d arranged with Mo. ‘I’m making mistakes at work,’ he added. ‘Jack’s annoyed.’
‘I nearly gave one patient another patient’s drugs from the trolley last night,’ she said. ‘I was lucky – the patient pointed it out to me.’
‘Poor old Luce,’ William said compassionately. She began to cry and he consoled her. William had thought he might have to argue Lucy into moving out but he was wrong. This was the Lucy who had got on a train in her probationer nurse’s uniform and gone to London one morning. She dried her eyes and blew her nose. ‘How’ll I tell them?’ she asked.
‘I’ll tell them,’ William said.
‘Let’s just go and look at the outside of the house,’ suggested Lucy. ‘If we can’t see inside until later.’
William hesitated. He didn’t want to start putting pressure on Mo, when all kinds of complicated family discussions might be taking place. ‘We can go and talk to him,’ he offered.
Before they left William told his in-laws they were going to the building society to talk about the mortgage. He didn’t want them to forget that he and Lucy were paying it.
At the shop, a supermarket covering the bottom of two houses in a busy street, Mo’s brother Jemal was sitting behind the till with his head in a book written in Arabic.
‘Hi, Jemal,’ William said.
‘Oh – William,’ Jemal said, barely recognizing him.
‘Did you hear about me and Lucy maybe moving into a flat your father’s got?’ asked William.
‘Something about it,’ agreed Jemal.
‘Well, I don’t want to push, but we were wondering if we could go and take a look – just at the outside—’
‘I think they went round there – Mo and his wife and Mum – to check it out.’
‘Do you think they’re going to rent it to us?’ asked Lucy.
‘I think it’s OK,’ Jemal said to William.
‘Where is it?’ asked William.
‘Oakham Street. 47 or 49.’
‘Thanks, Jemal,’ said William. Jemal muttered something and went back to his book.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ William told Lucy. ‘Jemal’s not exactly spot on. I was surprised to find him in charge of the shop. Mo doesn’t usually let that happen. Jemal’s clever – he got eight or nine GCSEs – but he’s hopeless. He went a bit vague and religious at school.’
‘Oh, William. I hope it works out.’ Lucy sighed.
‘Well, if it does,’ said William, ‘I hope you’ve got something in your little black bag for when you tell your mum.’ He thought Lucy might round on him and call him heartless but instead she said, as they rounded the corner into tree-lined Oakham Street, ‘I spoke to a doctor at the hospital and got a prescription for her.’
That was when William realized how hard on Lucy the past weeks had been, harder perhaps than for him. Lucy added, ‘She needs professional help.’ William carefully said nothing. ‘Oh, look!’ Lucy said delightedly.
47 Oakham Street was a nice little house with a well-tended front garden, in which some late roses bloomed. The front door was open and William saw Mo up a ladder in the hall.
Mo got down, a light bulb in his hand. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘It’s small.’
The room at the back of the house was, indeed, small and seemed smaller when Mo, William and Lucy joined Mo’s mother and sister, who were already in there. Mo’s mother looked very old in her hijab and long Moroccan dress and Mo’s sister very young, for a busy solicitor, in her black business suit. But if small, the room was light, looking out on to a small patio. The bed, couch and table looked new and there was a small separate kitchen. Lucy, in the doorway, looked excited. Then she took in Mrs Al Fasi and asked, ‘Mr Al Fasi – badly fractured wrist. Is that right?’ Mo’s mother agreed.
‘One seven five, OK?’ Mo asked.
‘Excellent,’ William replied.
‘Month in advance?’ Mo said.
‘I’ll bring it round to the shop before I go to work.’
‘Cash would be appreciated.’
William saw that there would be no lease but did not care. They had the place, and Lucy liked it. Nothing else mattered.
When they had gone, Lucy went and jumped up and down on the bed. She stopped and said, ‘You can shower, cook breakfast and watch TV all at the same time. Brilliant. Only one snag, though – no washing machine.’
‘We’ll take our laundry round to that flat we’re paying the mortgage on and put it in the washing machine we paid for,’ William remarked sourly.
‘Oh, William. Don’t start talking about money.’
‘I wasn’t going to – I love rent, and mortgages – bring ‘em on. I’ll pay them all. I’d pay your parents’, if they hadn’t already paid theirs off.’
Lucy laughed. It was, William realized, the first time he’d heard her laugh for some time.
Five
Sugden’s, Fox Square, London SW1. October 29th, 2015. 1 a.m.
The restaurant was almost empty. British elections are held on Thursdays because it had been decided, during the reign of Queen Victoria, that the best way to persuade the British working man, paid on Friday or Saturday, to go the polling stations and vote, was to hold elections on Thursdays, when his beer-money would have run out. The short but intense weeks running up to election day in Britain had passed and the Thursday polling day came. Voting had ended at nine and now most of the MPs who had spent six weeks in their constituencies, asking for the votes of their 70,000 constituents, were still there, watching the votes being counted or at victory or defeat parties. The
journalists who had been covering the election were at their papers; party staff were assembled at headquarters.
Only a few senior civil servants were dining, and planning the future. And two renegade MPs who already knew they were still MPs, had taken advantage of an early result to sneak off from their victory parties to work out what they would be saying the next day, on Westminster Unplugged.
Julia had nearly finished her wine, although the food had not yet arrived. Joshua refilled it. She shot him a beady glance and asked the question which was already on some lips, and which would, over the coming weeks, be on many more. ‘How did Petherbridge do it?’
Joshua shook his head, ‘Our policies appealed more, our campaign was better and so was our advertising. Petherbridge had everything under control. Safety, Stability and Security.’
Julia stared at him. She did not think Joshua was lying to her, but he was certainly not telling the whole truth.
Joshua Crane had kept his seat in the constituency of Finchley and West Hampstead with an increased majority. Julia Baskerville had held Whitechapel Road and Stepney Green with a reduced majority. But there had been little doubt before the election that both seats were safe for their respective parties.
The exit polls had indicated a strong swing to the Conservatives. Early results were showing the same. Two key marginal constituencies had already gone decisively to the Conservative Party. ‘Not quite a landslide, certainly a big mudslide,’ said the BBC. There had been exit polls, post-exit polls and computer predictions. All the signs suggested the Labour Party should send back the champagne and the Conservatives send out for more.
Julia was tired. She had walked the streets of her constituency for six weeks and spent almost every evening in strategy meetings. She had seen her daughter only in the early mornings and for whatever time off she could spare on Sundays. Now her party had been beaten again and this time, it seemed, the Conservative Party might even have a comfortable majority, the first straight majority one party had had over its rivals for five years. There had been eleven Labour seats lost already, two being those of close friends.
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