by SJ Bradley
So this much he knew: Tom was steady, Tom paid his bills on time and never owed money. Tom had once spent a year in the former Yugoslavia doing good works that nobody could exactly name. He still went back sometimes to give a lick of paint to the school or hospital he had helped build. He did some kind of voluntary work with asylum seekers that was maybe giving legal advice, or something to do with housing. Samhain was not sure how he’d also had time to get together with a woman.
This was something nobody knew, what exact date to put on Tom and Charley’s relationship. ‘I don’t know, a couple of years maybe?’ one person had said; another, ‘Must be about a year. No, maybe nine months. No wait, it might be six.’
The boyfriend he knew about, but not how long the boyfriend had been the boyfriend. They could have been together when Astrid was small. When she was still a red-faced, crying thing with weak legs and strong lungs. This Tom might have held her while she still needed her neck supporting, rocking her when she screamed, changing her nappies. May have been there before she was even walking. When Astrid hadn’t fully gained vision yet, before she could even have known the difference between one large pink human-shaped blob and another.
She might even be calling him ‘Dad.’
He texted a second time: Does she know I’m her father?
No reply. For hours and hours and hours.
16.
Charley’s mum lived in a stone cottage, a place of grey stone and black edges, a place with two floors and a low chimney. The doorstep had rosemary and mint in terracotta pots, scenting your steps as you walked to the door. It was the sort of home you could almost fit in your jeans pocket.
Three houses similar in the row, looking softly out into the cul-de-sac. She had new neighbours since the last time he’d been here – they’d painted their front door a smart, shiny black.
He arrived by bike, up to the fence. Mart’s bike was already chained up, shackled by the unbreakable D-lock.
The path to the front door was short. Paved, the lawn next to it shorn closer than a spring sheep. A pink plastic trike lay on its side in the grass.
He walked, pulling the rope lock off his shoulder. It was a heavy, treatment-coated thing, that somebody from the bike club had got for him. The casing was supposed to be unbreakable. ‘Well, a thief could break it,’ they’d said. ‘But they’d need about seven hours and a blowtorch.’
Maybe he didn’t need to lock his bike, not around here. Not if they were happily leaving Astrid’s – his daughter’s – trike laid out there on the grass.
She was old enough, big enough, to ride a scooter. Samhain pressed his bike against Mart’s, looping them both with the chain. Not that anybody would want to steal his bike. It was an ungainly, bumpy old thing, with sticky gears and a too-hard seat, with the seat post rusted slightly too low for his height. This bike must have been around the block a hundred thousand times, and probably been left out in the rain fifty nights out of a hundred.
‘I’m going to count to three...’
Charley’s voice. He looked up: the bathroom window was open.
That voice. It took him back. Unmistakeably Huddersfield. With a friendliness that made you want to do what it commanded, and a shortness that made you afraid not to. Hearing it took him back to the Sunday afternoon cafe, the way she used to deal with bumblers holding up the queue, the ones who weren’t sure what they wanted. ‘Make your mind up, love, this isn’t Who Wants to be a Millionaire.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not going in Grandma Best’s bedroom. Stop messing about now – put your trousers on, like a good girl, or there’ll be no Thomas the Tank Engine.’
‘No!’ came a determined baby voice. ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’
Samhain smiled. That was his girl. A spirited thing, naked from the waist down and doing what she liked, refusing to do as she was told. He came to the door, fist poised to knock. Not out of nappies yet, and already Astrid had the makings of an anarchist.
Mart’s voice came through the open living room window: ‘You alright up there?’
‘I’m fine,’ Charley shouted back. Then more quietly, to Astrid: ‘Quickly now, before Samhain gets here.’
He stopped, cold. The same way he had sometimes out on protest, when he had realised he was in the wrong spot, and the police were coming. This was the way he’d been introduced – Samhain, ‘Mummy’s friend,’ a stranger.
A face at the window. Mart waving, the speed of a child’s windmill caught in high winds. ‘Hey, Sam! You’re there.’ She called upstairs: ‘He’s here!’ Then again, to Sam: ‘Why didn’t you knock, you doughnut?’
‘I just–’
‘Never mind. I’ll let you in. Oh...’
Perhaps this other man, this amazing Tom guy, he of the sterling competence in all areas of life: putting shelves up, having a job, cooking and tidying and washing up; remembering birthdays and buying unexpected presents, and doing everything else a perfect boyfriend should do, including being amazing in bed, making cups of tea in the morning; getting up early to deal with Astrid, and taking her to the park when Charley was tired, taking them both on days out to the seaside and funfair, opening doors and rubbing feet, and doing all sorts of things that Charley had claimed not to care about when they were together, but now clearly did, and had found them all in this man who had a car, and a job, and prospects, and did everything he was asked to and much more without even being asked to, he’d probably even said, ‘I don’t mind if you let her call Samhain Dad,’ so comfortable was he already in the knowledge Astrid already thought of him as her father.
‘Now then.’
The door swung open. Samhain stood there, on the step, one corner of his bag scraping his spine. Mart had said he could bring presents: he was being dug by a set of wooden bricks.
‘You must be Samhain.’
A cheery, friendly-faced man his own age, with short curly hair, and uneven stubble. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ he said. ‘Everything’s chaos today.’ Tom had a smile like a new shirt being opened, and a hand the size of an oven glove; he looked liked the kind of man who’d have a go at building a raft, even though he didn’t know a thing about it.
Unfortunately, Samhain liked him straight away.
‘It’s fine. I brought you a present...’ Samhain dug around for the small box of not-too-fancy chocolates for Charley, ones he knew she’d share with her boyfriend, with a nice bottle of beer, sitting on their comfy sofa, in their lovely flat. He had thought that if the boyfriend was anything like Samhain, he’d go for all the best ones first, before she even got a look in.
But Superman Tom, in his newish red jumper that looked like it had only been worn a few times, wasn’t anything like Samhain. He could see that now.
‘You shouldn’t have.’ Tom took the box.
‘Hi!’
Mart’s voice. He peered around the doorway, and saw her in the living room. She was wearing lipstick, the same shade she put on when she had to go to an important meeting.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be long.’ She spoke as though being charged by the word. ‘We were just saying, as it’s such a lovely day, perhaps we should all go to the park?’ When he really looked at her, that was when he saw how tightly she was holding the cup, how closely she was sitting to the edge of the sofa.
‘Whatever you all think,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll go along with whatever you think’s best.’
The click of the bathroom door.
‘Come on,’ Charley said. ‘Hold my hand.’
Samhain looked up.
At the top of the stairs settled a tiny pair of shoes. Pale blue and round-toed, with Charley’s feet beside them in her battered old Converse. Laces grey and tattered.
He saw the front of the shoes. New, bright, clean. And Charley’s: the shoes that had done a hundred thousand miles. ‘Is that you, Samhain?’ she said. ‘Give us a few minutes. We’re just coming down.’ To the girl: ‘Come on, Bibbledy Boo.’
One step down, the top of the
stairs. Baby legs to whom the stairs were a full leg-length. Holding on tight to her mother, stretching up like a shirt on a line. ‘One step, Bibbledy Boo,’ Charley said. ‘Two step, Bibbledy Boo.’
‘This part always takes ages.’ Tom turned around, twinkling a smile up the stairs. ‘They could be an hour or more, doing that.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ Charley’s laughing voice down the stairs. ‘Doing the stairs is always a bit of a mission. Tom, why don’t you bring Samhain into the house?’
Samhain kept on looking. The rest of her was coming into view. Bendy legs, stout as a pig’s. Sturdy torso, broad as a young tree, wearing a pink floral top.
‘Shall I just carry you the rest of the way, Bibbledy Boo?’ Charley said.
‘No!’ Tiny foot stamping, hitting the floor with the weight of a half-mouse. ‘I do it.’
‘Sorry,’ Charley’s laughing voice. ‘We could be a while.’
‘That’s Astrid for you.’ Tom grinned, stood aside. Pushing the door all the way back, opening a welcome up into the house. ‘She won’t be told. Come on, don’t stand out there on the step. Why don’t you come on in?’
Acknowledgements
First of all, thanks to my editor Nathan Connolly, for believing in this book and for all of his help and encouragement and support. Without him, you wouldn’t be holding this book in your hands now.
Huge thanks also go to Nick at The Print Project, the sadly late and much-missed Protag, and Cathy. Perhaps without them even knowing it, conversations with them around the time of the Mark Stone case being reported led to the ideas that made me write this book in the first place.
Many thanks to Martin Cornwell for lending me books that helped with the research, for letting me stay at his house that one time, for reading and commenting on early drafts, and for the conversations whilst I was writing it. Also, huge thanks to Peter, again for lending research books, for letting me stay at his house, and for being one of the most fascinating people I know. Thanks to Caroline for being such a welcoming host. I couldn’t have done it without you.
I’d like to thank all of the workers, volunteers, and members at Wharf Chambers, for giving me an insight into how flat organising works in practice, and also for the amazing beer.
During the course of writing this book I’ve had some great support and the opportunity to be involved in some wonderful projects, so I would also like to thank: Gianni and Jennifer at December magazine, Barney Walsh at Litro, and Russell MacAlpine at Disclaimer magazine for publishing my stories, and in Barney’s case, for reading early drafts and sending some very useful comments; to all staff at The Leeds Library, for letting me sit quietly in a corner tapping away at my laptop; to Fiona Gell at Leeds Big Bookend for her enthusiasm and support; to the Northern Short Story Festival volunteers, and to Linzi at Carriageworks; to Max and Sai at Remember Oluwale; and to Max Dunbar for many, many drinks and interesting conversations. Massive thanks also to Rachael Rix-Moore and Alice Rix-Moore for their friendship, hilarity, and dedication to making great art projects happen. The two of you continue to be a huge source of inspiration, encouragement, and laughs, even when things go bad, so thank you. I would have been lost without your help.
I couldn’t have written the middle section of this book without having toured the UK in the back of a van, and I couldn’t have toured the UK in the back of a van without my old friend and bandmate Nicky Bray. Thank you to her for all of the good times and memories which inspired this part of the book. Also, a side thank you to Jon Nash and the rest of Tigers!, Human Fly, Wakey Steve, Mike in Grimsby, Dom, Dan and Roo, and to that guy in Sheffield with the glitter cannons, you know who you are.
Almost last but certainly not least, a special thank you to my Fictions of Every Kind co-organisers, Jenna Isherwood and Claire Stephenson. Your friendship and support has meant so much, and without it I wouldn’t have had half so many laughs, or have finished this book, so thank you.
Lastly, thanks to my family, a great source of support, fun, kindness, and inspiration, throughout the past few years; especially to my husband, Ricky, for supporting my writing by asking after the book’s general health, for looking after me when I’m so busy I forget to eat, and for making cups of tea whenever it looks like I need one (all the time). You are the best and I couldn’t have done it without you.
SJ Bradley
SJ Bradley is a writer from Leeds and one of the organisers behind Fictions of Every Kind. She won the Willesden Herald Short Story Prize and was shortlisted for the Gladstone Writers in Residency Award. Her debut novel, Brick Mother, was published by Dead Ink in 2014.
Publishing the Underground
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If you’d like to support new writing then visit our website and join our mailing list. This book was made possible by kind contributions from the following people...
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