by Chris Smyth
‘Jesus, you’re not the Archbishop of Canterbury! It’s just a job.’
‘But I’m trying to do some good in Dalston. What would I be doing at a private school?’
‘Perpetuating the edifice of class privilege, obviously.’
‘Marcus!’
‘You’ll be educating some kids. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same, is it?’
‘Well, if you feel so sick about it, don’t take the job.’
‘But I don’t, that’s the thing! I applied for the job!’
Marcus watched her pale skin flushing with small islands of colour. But the tired, anxious expression on her face seemed to suck the life out of her features. Sometimes he really found it difficult to put in the effort needed to understand her.
‘So what’s the problem, then?’ he asked.
‘Marcus! You’re not being very helpful.’
‘Aren’t I? What do you expect me to say?’
‘You’re always telling me how you didn’t like the school you went to.’
Marcus couldn’t understand why this was relevant. ‘So you don’t want to take the job because my classmates were a bunch of cocks?’
‘But that’s the sort of students I’d be teaching.’
‘Maybe, but all teenagers are pretty annoying, aren’t they?’
Sarah didn’t reply. They stared out over the river in silence for a while. A couple walking across Hungerford Bridge burst out in private laughter as they passed a busker playing the saxophone. Marcus wondered what the tune was.
Abruptly, Sarah asked: ‘Do you find my moral principles ridiculous?’
Marcus couldn’t stifle his laugh.
‘So you do?’
‘I find that question ridiculous.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously!’
‘Of course I am. I know changing schools would be a big step for you.’
‘No – you’re not taking my moral dilemma seriously.’
Marcus laughed again. He couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry, well, no. Especially not when you put it like that.’
‘Everything’s a joke to you! Why don’t you care about this?’
‘You’re overreacting . . .’
‘No, I’m not. All you think about is your holiday in China. I want to know if I’m doing the wrong thing.’ Sarah was breathing heavily. ‘Thank you,’ she added as the waitress set down the cappuccino in front of her. ‘And then what about the kids? I’d be letting them down. I’d just feel so guilty about it.’
‘At the moment you seem to be feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, so it won’t be much of a change.’
‘That’s the fucking problem with you!’ she flared up suddenly. ‘You don’t care about the wider world unless it affects you! As far as you care, it’s all just the setting for an art house film.’ She took a short, tight sip of coffee. ‘Look at someone like Justin. He’s dedicated his life to helping other people. That’s what I thought I was doing. Now I find myself about to give that up. And all you talk about is what to do with the cash.’
Marcus drank some of his espresso, a little startled by her vehemence. He recomposed himself.
‘I’m still struggling to see why this is my fault,’ he said.
‘You’re not being helpful. It’s like you don’t even care enough to challenge me on it.’
‘Wait, let me check if I’ve got this right. You’re having a go at me because I’m not having a go at you?’
Sarah gave a yelp of frustration.
‘No, no, if that’s what you want . . .’ Marcus pressed on. ‘All right, I can’t believe you’re even thinking about taking this job. It’s a betrayal of all your principles.’
‘Marcus . . .’
‘No, it would be wrong. Morally wrong. You’d be giving up on the poorest children to go to pamper a load of spoiled brats and entrench social inequality for another generation.’ He picked up his coffee cup and drained the espresso. ‘There – happy now?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Marcus!’
‘I can’t win, can I?’
‘You’re so . . .’ Sarah tailed off into frustrated inarticulacy. She gave a short, angry growl jumped up and stormed towards the lifts.
‘Sarah . . .’
‘I’ll see you at home,’ she called. ‘Or wait . . . why don’t you go straight to Justin and Barbara’s? I don’t want to speak to you any more.’
Marcus didn’t get up to follow her. The couples at the other end of the bar were staring at him, but quickly looked away when he turned round.
Marcus took another sip of coffee, realizing too late that he had already finished it. He felt a prickle of annoyance as the grounds seeped between his lips.
But the feeling soon began to subside. Sarah would get over it. She was stressed at the moment, obviously. If the new job stopped the tantrums, it would be well worth it.
Best to give her a bit of time to calm down. Marcus looked at his watch. Still not yet four. The afternoon stretched ahead, precious hours alone before the dinner. He could go back and do the Russian Constructivists. And at his own pace too. Marcus felt a surge of pleasurable anticipation at the thought.
Seventeen
Jonathan stared at the plastic monkey as it revolved slowly on the turntable. A tinny American voice sang an educational song about zoo animals. When the song finished, Jonathan reached out and knocked over the monkey.
Stephen stood it upright for the fifth time. Although the tune was beginning to get on his nerves, he felt oddly proud of his son’s suspicious attitude towards the toy. Still eyeing the monkey warily, Jonathan pressed the big red button on the front of the plastic dashboard, and the song began again.
Stephen gazed at his son with the same total concentration Jonathan gave to the monkey. He was on the verge of speaking now, properly speaking, and Stephen felt a thrill of excitement every time he thought about having a conversation with his son. He was obviously a clever child, and Stephen was convinced that sentences were piling up in there, waiting to rush forth as soon as the dam was breached.
What would he say? Stephen felt sure there would be a lot of questions. Jonathan’s wide brown eyes often seemed puzzled by what was going on around him, but never quite confused. There was always an edge of calculation in there, Stephen thought, a sign that the world was being processed and understood. He reached out and stroked the soft, wispy hair on top of Jonathan’s head. Jonathan didn’t look up. He waited until the end of the animal song, reached out, and knocked over the monkey.
The educational value of the song was clear, Stephen admitted. It ran through the names of various zoo creatures and illustrated them with sound effects. But he couldn’t quite see why Jonathan found it so riveting. Perhaps it was the combination of movement and sound. Stephen tried pointing to the tiger and the penguin when they were mentioned, but Jonathan wouldn’t take his eyes off the revolving monkey.
The song restarted its insistent jingle. It really was annoying. Stephen hadn’t yet met a parent who didn’t become sick of it after five minutes. What grated on him most, though, was the bit about the zebra. The word was pronounced in the American way, zee-bra, and although the woman singing it sounded very friendly, Stephen was irritated that the manufacturers hadn’t bothered to record a British version. Presumably they re-dubbed the song for France or Sweden. So why not for Britain? They were training his child to speak with an American accent. Between the toys and the cartoons, it was no wonder kids got confused about what country they lived in and ended up calling 911 in emergencies.
But then Jonathan looked up and smiled proudly at him after knocking over the monkey, and Stephen’s annoyance evaporated. He bent over, picked Jonathan up – getting heavier all the time – and gave him a hug.
Soon the boy squirmed free, sat back down on the floor, and pressed the red button. The tune was lodged deep in Stephen’s brain, going round and round his head in an endless loop. He tried to tempt Jonathan with some stuffed toys and a book about cater
pillars. Jonathan showed no interest. He waited until the end of the song, then knocked over the monkey.
Jonathan had been given the toy a couple of weeks ago, and Stephen now found the song often popped into his head during the day. When that happened at work he didn’t find it so annoying, because it always made him think of Jonathan. The song reminded him why he was there in the office, that the petty frustrations were all worth it, really.
On Thursday, Stephen had been told that Sujay, his graduate trainee, was being appointed a Sixth Floor Liaison Officer, even though Stephen himself had never even been on the Higher Floors e-mail list. That was when Stephen didn’t mind having the song about zoo animals going round and round his head. It took him outside his humiliation, reminded him why he put up with it and, as usual, showed him why it wasn’t so important by comparison. Before the insistent jollity of the parrots and the lions, his mind would have been a bitter stew of resentment and anger, bafflement at how the company kept going when it was run so badly. How Matt almost certainly didn’t have to put up with this at work. As it was, he came back to his desk with a list of tigers, elephants, penguins and meerkats running through his mind and so was able to wonder instead about how meerkats got in there.
Stephen hated thinking about work at the weekend, particularly on a Saturday morning, when two days with his family still stretched ahead. It was the best time of the week. His son always seemed to have learned so much in seven days.
Jonathan pressed the button again. There were footsteps in the hall, and Rosie appeared in the doorway.
‘Is he still playing with that thing?’ she said. ‘The song drives me absolutely nuts.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Stephen replied.
Rosie was wearing that cape-like jacket thing he liked, the one that gave her a glamorous sixties look. Every year she got it out at about this time, when she put away her winter coat; a sign that spring was almost here.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit repetitive?’ she said.
‘Well, I do, but I’m not the target market. At his age they enjoy repetition.’
‘I can’t stand it,’ she said. ‘Maybe you could get him to play with those wooden alphabet blocks my mother bought for him?’
‘Watch what happens when the song ends. He does this every time.’
They waited as the simple melody played itself out. Jonathan reached out and knocked over the monkey.
‘There, you see? Every time.’
‘Oh my God!’ Rosie clutched her hands together. ‘Do you think he’s autistic?’
‘Rosie! Don’t be ridiculous. He’s fine.’
‘Maybe I should take him to the doctor, just in case.’
‘“And what are the symptoms, madam?”’ Stephen intoned gravely. ‘“Well, he keeps knocking over a plastic monkey.” “Hmm, I see. That sounds serious.”’
‘It’s not funny, Stephen.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Your son might have autism!’
‘He doesn’t, though.’
Rosie tutted. But a smile broke out anyway and there was Stephen’s favourite dimple, the one on her right cheek that he always associated with happiness. It appeared from nowhere whenever she was enjoying herself, as real but transient as a soap bubble. No, he didn’t envy Matt at all.
‘Is there anything you want from the shops?’ she asked.
‘Are you going now?’
‘Yes. Have you seen my Bag for Life?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure I left it in the hall, but it’s not there. I’ll have to take some plastic bags from under the sink.’
‘They’ll give you some in the shop, you know.’
‘Not in the organic shop. I asked for a plastic bag in there once and they looked at me like I was a war criminal.’
‘Then go to Sainsbury’s.’
‘We have to support the local shops.’ Rosie went out into the hall to get her handbag. ‘I have to go now, or the butcher’s will be shut.’
‘What are we having for dinner?’
‘Stephen! We’re going to Justin and Barbara’s tonight.’
‘Oh yes.’ Stephen’s anticipation of the weekend dimmed markedly. ‘The vegetarians.’
‘Don’t be like that, Stephen. I’m sure it will be nice.’
‘Can you get some steaks, then? You know the nice ones they have there?’
‘Yes, OK,’ Rosie said as she searched in her handbag for the keys. ‘We can have them on Monday. Bye.’ She came over and kissed Jonathan and Stephen in turn.
‘See you in a bit.’
Stephen reached down to pick up Jonathan again. Steaks on Monday. That was something to look forward to. Stephen felt unreasonably happy at the thought.
Eighteen
Charlotte opened first one eye – all fine – and then the other. Woah. Not so good. The bedroom was suddenly blurred and unstable. Furniture reared up from the floor while the light from the window whirled around the ceiling. Queasiness welled up from her stomach. She shut both eyes quickly and rolled over on the pillow, waiting for the anxious roaring of blood in her ears to subside.
She could feel her flesh quivering as it sweated out alcohol. She knew if she tried to move it would be painful. For a moment, lying with both eyes closed, she tried to keep the sickness at bay, pretending that if she just stayed still it would somehow disappear. Even as she thought it she could feel her head throbbing and bile rising towards her throat. If she didn’t move, the surge would pass. Even breathing made her whole body shiver. Suddenly her skin seemed hypersensitive, the press of the pillow on her cheek like broken glass. Sightless, she felt like she was twisting, falling into a vortex of nausea.
She tried again to open her eyes. First, the left one. The room seemed clear, and Charlotte anchored her vision on the bedside alarm clock. Then the right eye followed. Immediately the clock dissolved and she felt her innards roiled by a fresh wave of sickness. She screwed her eyes tight shut.
What was going on? She fought to bring her breathing under control. In the hide beneath the duvet she could smell the stale alcohol on her heavy panting. More slowly this time, she tried again. Left eye: fine. Both: the room whirled. Was she still drunk? No, the headache was too bad for that. Was she going blind? Was this an early stage of some tropical disease? Would she be dead within the hour? Bugger. She didn’t want her alarm clock to be the last thing she saw.
Charlotte tried again. Left eye: very good. Close it. Now right eye: very blurred. Left eye: good. Right eye: blurred.
Shit. She’d gone to bed with one contact lens in, again.
Charlotte closed her right eye for the time being and considered getting out of bed. Her nerve endings squealed in protest at the idea. Hmm. This hangover seemed like a bad one. She turned over very slowly and reached over to the bedside table, groping in the drawer for pills. She felt the reassuring crackle of silver foil. But the first packet turned out to be Strepsils, and the second was empty. She tossed them to the floor in disgust.
There was a wet glass lying by the side of the bed, a thin trickle of water spilling on to the carpet. Good. She’d obviously had some water before falling asleep. But the glass was now empty and the back of her throat was parched and ticklish. Was there anything else to drink?
Charlotte flopped forward on to her front, feeling a metallic stabbing pain in her chest. Shit, what was that? A heart attack? Nope. She had fallen asleep in her bra and the underwiring was digging uncomfortably between two ribs. Charlotte groaned. She hadn’t fallen asleep in her clothes again, had she? She looked down. Well, not exactly. Those were definitely pyjama bottoms.
What had happened last night? Charlotte tried to concentrate. After-work drinks as normal. Louise had been on good form, bitching about how unfair it was that Jodie was getting a bigger pay rise, even though everyone knew she was useless. Then some guys from Commercial had come down and they’d moved on to that pub near Warren Street. When they’d got kicked out of there, one of the guys – Dave, was it
? Andy? – had taken them to an underground bar where they were playing loud Latin music. Dave/Andy had bought shots of tequila. So that had become the drink of choice for the rest of the night.
What had they eaten? Ah. That would be the problem. Charlotte felt a wave of hunger, which turned quickly into nausea, but then back to hunger again.
She had finally left when Dave/Andy had tried to get a samba routine going, lurching unsteadily round the dance floor, desperately chasing the beat with his hips. Louise had joined in, but Charlotte had gone home. She was drunk, but not drunk enough to samba.
That must have been well past three o’clock, at least. Even the illegal minicabs were beginning to drift home. What time was it now? Charlotte shifted her head until she could see the glowing red numerals of the alarm clock: 12.47. What did that mean? It was afternoon. Lunchtime anyway.
Jesus, she was hungry. No, nauseous. No, hungry.
Charlotte listened to her own uneven breathing for a while. This was an even worse start to the weekend than last Saturday morning. Whatever she’d felt then, at least she’d been able to open both her eyes without wanting to puke.
Her right eye was beginning to ache with the effort of holding itself shut, so she swapped, closing the left and looking at the blurred world through the right. The soft focus made her feel better. Her nausea could float freely now, without banging up painfully against the sharp corners of the room.
Come on. Time to get up. Food. Water. Pills. Charlotte pulled back the duvet and slid one leg experimentally out of bed. It reached the floor without incident. She sent the other out after it and used an elbow to lever herself upright.
For a few seconds she had to sit still on the edge of the bed, until the roaring in her ears subsided again. Her damp skin felt cold against the harsh air of the bedroom. Maybe this was a bad idea. Charlotte looked back down at the soft, tousled warmth of her sheets. She was about to let herself collapse back on to them when another pang of hunger propelled her upright. By the time it became nausea, she was halfway to the bathroom and it was too late to turn back.
At the sink, Charlotte slipped out the contact lens, stung her face with cold water and dug out some packets of pills from the back of the cupboard, rifling through them for paracetamol. There was only one compartment in the plastic wrapper left unpopped. What about aspirin? She found a packet, but that too had only one pill left.