by James Clarke
“Yeah, right, I can see your house. Loads of stuff hidden under a dustsheet in the garage. Croquet sets and golf clubs and . . . boules!”
“Boules?” said Evie.
“You know what I mean.”
“Don’t be crass,” Duncan said, his face sharpening as he exchanged a look with his sister. “And anyway, why are you talking like this when you’ve got everything at your place?”
Lawrence had told the Swarsbys all sorts. Arthur was in business, Shell was a teacher. They took him abroad on their jolly holidays. They had a five-door saloon, ate cooked breakfasts and in the spare room there was a hi-fi. Fast, faster, fastest. He was saving up for a motorbike, he was going to America and didn’t need school so he’d fucking ditched the place.
“I’m joking,” he said quickly. “I’m winding you up. You shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive.”
“You are a bit.”
Duncan rose. Even the way he stood was arrogant. “It’s just you always make having money sound like a bad thing.”
“I never said that.”
“You imply it.”
Lawrence wondered whether Evie would still talk to him if he grabbed a handful of earth and mushed it all over her brother’s teeth. He pictured the black loam pasted across Duncan’s mouth and chin. The nest Evie had made was posed in the middle of them now like a cave, ready to suck them if they could only imagine it.
“I don’t,” he said.
“OK, you don’t. Now can we go please?”
The Newman family tree was getting closer. Lawrence was curious to see how it was getting on. The country sun burned. His hair had started to grow back now but it was still downy, so his scalp felt the heat, and when it was wet it formed into imbricated little spikes.
Lawrence looked identical to his dad at the moment. Sorry Arthur with his runny nose, his balsam and his hangovers. Lawrence watched Duncan, who’d powered ahead like he had a point to prove, and had to wonder what Arthur would make of giving up the last word the way he’d just done. His father had a famous mouth, which was one of the best things about him. Picking Lawrence up from school in Asa’s Fiesta, nettling Asa for the state of the interior; the fact he was never allowed out for a drink past ten. Arthur was always taking the piss out of Lawrence’s mam, too, making her laugh because she knew her brews were too milky and the fact she never dusted the bookshelf despite always saying she was getting around to it. Lawrence didn’t want to be like Arthur and sometimes thought he hated his dad, but people like Duncan swanned about, always had done and needed telling.
“Well, seeing as you want to go into it,” he said, forgetting his new way of speaking entirely, “I just reckon it’s an easier life for people like you, you’ve had it as set out as Sunday dinner.”
Luckily Evie was out of earshot as Duncan bit down on the bait. “Come on,” he said. “That’s hardly our fault.”
“Never is,” said Lawrence.
“It’s wrong of you to try and make me feel embarrassed, Lawrence.”
“I’m not saying you should be embarrassed. Just that you should think.”
“I do think. I think we manage. We’re well managed.” Duncan was pleased by that. “And if other people aren’t then that’s their lookout.”
“My dad says rich people are usually rich at someone else’s expense,” replied Lawrence truthfully.
“Oh, everyone in shitholes like Litten has an attitude like yours. My dad works bloody hard.”
“So do most people, but they still don’t get paid a bomb for doing fuck-all like them in parliament do.”
“Dad’s not in parliament.”
“Still reckon he’s no idea what real world’s like.”
“And you do?” said Evie.
Lawrence buckled at the sight of her, his beams and buttresses seeping dust.
“Well . . . no, but I’m a lad aren’t I . . . a young man.”
“So you say.”
Duncan came down the hill to stand with Evie. It would always be the two of them, Lawrence realised.
Duncan said, “There’s a bigger picture than most people see. It’s not just about them, it’s everyone. If this country’s going to compete on a . . . God, listen to me trying to explain this. The best way I can put it is Clive knows about things, and that’s why he’s where he is, and your dad’s where he is, wherever that is. The point is our families are basically the same. All families are.”
“You seriously reckon we’re the same?”
Duncan raised his voice, yet still managed to maintain his smug overlord manner. “Politics isn’t about making money. It’s about helping people.”
“I thought it were about helping country.”
“People are what make up this country.”
“You ask the miners if they feel part of this fucking country.”
Were they swallows Lawrence could see, or were they swifts?
Soon he was relaxing, taking in the view spread unevenly past Evie’s dark, mysterious head. This landscape seemed so personal, with its enclosed fields, the tractor busying itself above the broadness. Lawrence could see the Litten Path. It made him think of his family.
From her bag Evie produced a litre bottle containing some bright, evil-coloured liquid. “We call this a shit-mix,” she said. “Every spirit we could find in the house. Stir in a bit of water and as much blackcurrant as it takes to make it taste all right.”
Lawrence took a swig and managed not to gag. “Normally I get cider.”
“A babyface like you can get served?”
“Too right I can.”
“It’s funny what you can get away with in the countryside,” said Duncan.
“Police aren’t too fussed,” replied Lawrence, “Usually if you’ve been up to something it’s the locals you need to worry about.”
Evie didn’t even wince when she drank. “The countryside’s too small,” she said. “No one here’s looking for anything new . . . Clive’s words, though for once I can’t say I disagree. You got to admit it’s pretty boring here.”
It was strange hearing what you felt coming out of someone else’s mouth. Lawrence supposed people in Litten were going through everything, just like they were in the south, yet their lives felt drab by comparison. Being alive was surely different elsewhere. It just had to be.
“Would you stay?” he asked the Swarsbys. “If you had a choice.”
Both shook their heads.
“Where would you go?”
“Guess,” said Duncan.
“London’s your home.”
Duncan nodded. “And Litten’s yours.”
“No . . .”
“I’m going to run if Clive makes us stay. Seb and I will disappear.”
“Yeah,” said Lawrence, absently. He’d always wanted to see the capital. The tubes and umbrellas and bowler hats.
“Have you even been to London, Lawrence?”
“Course I have.”
“You haven’t.” Evie nudged him playfully.
“Have.”
“When?”
“When I was younger.”
“Younger than now?” She had such cruel eyes. “What was your favourite part?”
“. . .Westminster.”
“Oh, Westminster, Westminster, wherefore art thou, Westminster? Name another place you went to. Give me a street, a central station.”
Lawrence took the bottle and swigged from it, this time failing not to gag. If this was how Evie wanted to play it . . . “It was ages ago,” he said. “And my mam took me, she’s from down there. Like I say, I were young, I can’t be expected to remember every part. What’s happened to your mam, Evie? You hardly talk about her. She must be coming to join you all at some point.”
The bereft expression on Evie’s face made Lawrence
feel terrible. “Oh she’ll be in her kennel somewhere,” she said. “Clive’s well shot of her.”
“Mummy’s still in London,” Duncan offered.
“Bram’s setting her up,” said Evie.
Her brother’s eyes were fixed and stony. “Bram’s dad’s best friend.”
Evie made a vomiting noise. “It’s his place we’re staying in,” she said, “His family owned the colliery. What’s its name again?”
“Brantford.”
“That’s it.”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
Neither Swarsby agreed.
“. . .I’m sorry to hear about your mam, Evie.”
“She made a tough choice,” said Duncan.
“So very tough,” Evie said.
Lawrence wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not. “Are she an’ your dad still together then or what?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Duncan.
“Well why isn’t she here then?”
Evie piped up. “It’s Clive, he’s—”
“Had his problems,” Duncan interjected. “He needed a break and so did Mum.”
“Luckily we had Bram,” said Evie. “Our hero.”
“Evie.” Duncan glanced at Lawrence. “The opportunity arose to come here, so Dad took it. It’s as simple as that. A fresh start, new fight. That holiday in France was good for him.”
“It was in the paper,” said Lawrence.
“Dad says if he finds out who leaked the story he won’t be held responsible.”
“Jesus, Seb, who do you think leaked it?” Evie sneered, rolling onto her back and kicking her legs in the air. “It’s the lesser of two evils. Release a small story to hide a bigger one.”
“Evie, could I speak to you for a minute?”
Duncan led his sister away without waiting for an answer and spoke at her while heat blared against the hill. When the pair returned, Evie looked so wretched that Lawrence felt he had to say something. “I know what it’s like,” he told her quietly. “To be disappointed.”
It was as if he’d shone a torch in her face. Seconds passed, stillness. It got so that Lawrence became afraid Evie was going to say something horrible to protect herself, like she usually did, so he stood up to kill the moment. The trick to lying is believing what you say in the instant that you say it, thus making what you’re saying at least partly true. But there was no trick to truth, and therein lay its power.
“Come on, Slowcoach,” he said, “I’ll race you to that red tree.”
Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted across the grass, listening to Evie calling after him. He didn’t stop until he reached the family maple, where he was met by a tall figure bumbling through the furze. This stranger wore one of those clinical masks made out of white plastic. He looked horrific, like Frankenstein’s bleeding ghost.
8
Being drunk was hardly a new feeling, but it was always welcome. Evie wondered whether she was too young to enjoy it the way she did, then again her mother had never thought so. They used to drink together when they lived in Muswell Hill, gin and martinis like proper ladies. If Clive was doing well he treated them, splitting the cost across his expenses to justify the west end eateries. Perks, Fiona winked, perks. The Jaguar drove them to lunch. Early maturity meant early refinement, so Evie was allowed to drink.
She’d learned the big lessons early: men were despots, life was flawed and money mattered. It took her longer to learn that in the business of self-preservation there are no equal measures; parents would do anything to have you reflect well on them and pretty much everybody is a hypocrite.
Not a second thought had been given to marooning her in this backwater canal. She, a woman trapped in the body of a girl, forced to doggy paddle past the submerged trolleys and traffic cones of Litten.
As far as Evie could tell the north was bare limestone hills, brusque towns, and lurking beyond them, savage country ruined by concrete and heavy industry. Pragmatic shapes dominated everything. Power station cooling towers and factory chimneys, the gaunt shadows of metal: hoists, cranes and parades of pylons massive against whatever skyline she happened to be driven towards.
They said it was pleasant around Harrogate, Ripon and Wetherby, but down here there was nothing but a village, surrounding villages and yet more villages furnished by works, land and the pit. Litten, where you tucked your hands under your armpits to keep them warm, where the before-morning darkness – so really not darkness at all – flooded the halls of your borrowed home and isolated you in profounder, more unfamiliar ways.
Evie had complained, complained, but as far as her parents were concerned she was old enough to know better if she made a mistake, yet too young to be allowed to follow her own mind. She squinted now, the grass beneath her still morning-damp, the sun ahead bothering the view, then shielded her eyes with her hands, careful not to smudge her make-up. Making an effort was something she could still do. She always wore coloured eye-shadow, always the lips were clad in red. Clarissa Swarsby had been the same: an octogenarian made up like a dog’s dinner to the very end.
Duncan was talking. “Is he coming back?” he said. The endless mottle and chimneys fanned out in front of them.
“Evie?”
“I heard you.”
“Well?”
“Well how should I know?”
It took him three dandelions to realise he had to apologise. “Good for you,” Evie replied, once he had.
“You were saying too much.”
“I wasn’t saying anything.”
“Evie, you nearly told him about Dad.”
“So?”
“So are you mad?”
“What would you find more suspicious, Seb, me playfully skirting the issue or you acting like there’s something to hide? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”
“You’ll care if Lawrence blabs. And what were those hero comments about Bram?”
“You mentioned him first.”
“No, Evie, I didn’t.”
So what if she had raised the subject? Bramwell Guiseley was impossible not to discuss, the man who cooked her devilled eggs in his flat above the wharf. A branch belonging to the dogwood on the balcony had tapped at the window, as if asking if it could come in.
“Take it from someone who knows, Pup. The older you get, the more damaged women your own age are.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Damaged? But how could you be?”
So exciting. Together in Bram’s second or third apartment, which was full peculiar corners and ungainly points. Bram was never without company when Evie was growing up. He was the friend of her parents whom she sought to listen to above the others, ears to the crick between the door and the frame when it was agape, eavesdropping on the dinner parties, the gossip from White’s and The Cavalry and Guards Club, the reminiscences of pitiless conquests and ribbings gone by. Those were the days of cottoning onto the reality of men who could generate their own social climate, for Bramwell Guiseley’s moods could affect entire rooms. Evie admired that. One catcall was all it took. Handsome even in his forties, Bram was the kind of person who would have been carried in a palanquin in another era. Probably cries paisley tears, she’d heard someone say once, although Evie didn’t think Bram capable of crying.
“Lawrence doesn’t know his Ps from his Qs,” she said.
Duncan smirked. He could always be lured with a snide remark. “Have you ever noticed that everything he wears looks like it’s from the penny rail?”
“I think that’s exactly where it comes from.”
“He doesn’t convince me.”
“Doesn’t know when he isn’t being funny.”
“Or when to shut up.”
Evie stopped laughing. There was scorn in her, and it had a tendency to break through when she wasn’t lo
oking. “Still, he’s kind of sweet, though,” she added, not daring to look at Duncan, whose eyebrows she could practically feel rising into his hair.
“That’s rich, you’ve been like a baby with a spinning top.”
“Well, he still feels . . . decent.”
“So you want to play with him.”
“I don’t!”
“Evie, I can see you doing it.”
“Shut up.”
Shut up shut up shut up.
Duncan took the bottle and said, “He’s changed his accent and you don’t even say anything about it. He’s desperate and full of shit – I don’t know which is more pathetic. God, that’s strong.” He put down the bottle. “If you believe even a shred of what Lawrence says then you’re more naïve than I thought. It’s obvious he’s from an estate.”
Evie had never been to an estate and had no plans to visit one. All you had to do was look around Litten to see where Lawrence came from. From the mothers here chained to their prams, to the seagulls that had somehow found their way inland, everything in this place seemed so lost that she could never imagine it found, a death of great insignificance awaiting it, a death it was at all times Litten’s job to avoid. Evie would run if she were made to stay into the New Year.
“I don’t think he’d say anything about Dad.”
“You are more naïve than I thought.”
“Don’t call me naïve, Seb.”
“And you stop calling me Seb!”
“You were apologising a second ago.”
“Now I’m calling you naïve.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“No, why don’t you. Go find Pinocchio.” Duncan pointed. “I think I can see his nose poking out of the bushes back there.”
Fine. Evie headed in that direction. It wasn’t so long ago that her brother had cried so much after his first day at school that their mother had the maid lubricate the histrionics with TCP. Duncan’s whole bedroom had stunk of the stuff. Evie had to hold her nose when she went to ask him what the matter had been. He’d just flung his arms around her, sniffed about people reading his thoughts, being alone. When had that tender boy been replaced by this brass tack?
The grass was matted here, deep green but trodden to tracks. Sure, it was pleasant enough at these heights but it was still just glorified scrubland. The Swarsbys were in exile, Clive removed from protean London: sent away to fight a dead seat. He’d confessed as much while they were in France, Chamonix white outside and a burgundy on the table between them. Slurring his words through the cigar smoke, pistachio shells scattered across the tablecloth.