by James Clarke
“Oh, Lawrence, it’s the perfect way to describe it.”
He almost folded in two. “. . .I always thought it were daft.”
“No, no. It’s quite beautiful.”
The Litten Path. Evie murmured the words to herself and tried to visualise it, although picturing something so figurative was surely pointless. She had the idea of a line of pebbles showing the way in a hailstorm; another of stepping stones reaching to an endless island on the other side of an unknowable lake.
“Your gran taught you all this?”
“My dad, mainly. Did you know my whole family’s either a Capricorn, a Virgo or a Taurus? We’re Earth symbols, all of us. Which star sign are you, Evie?”
“Aries.”
“That’s fire.”
She picked up the dice and rolled her turn.
The rain had abated and now dusk had settled. Evie’s feet seemed to make no impact in the furls of mud, the saturated grass. Unable to resist following Lawrence had betrayed the interest she had in him, an interest she hadn’t been prepared to acknowledge up until now. She blamed their conversation earlier. It had slit holes in every part of her. She could now see her thoughts for the lost cleft of stones they had always been. She could see that life was really just a hike to a barrow built at storm height just for you.
Lawrence’s spry figure made its way down the lane, and into Litten itself. His parka could have been a cloak. She could have been pursuing a highwayman in the eighteenth century. Evie wished she’d brought a coat herself.
Urgent blue flashed in the armada of rabbit runs and chicken coops that comprised Flintwicks Estate. Evie knew where the welfare was, the arcade and bandstand. She knew where the pit was, too. Living here during the miners’ strike had been like flying above a tempest, even though she had befriended Lawrence, who she now knew was from a pit family. Even though he had described to her the intimacies of the strike, his experience at Orgreave, Evie had been barely able to express anything beyond a plastic kind of shock as she reached for the next gin and tonic.
But that Litten Path. He was just like her, and so, at last, what was going on had become no integer, but a number and a half. There were additional values to everything, it seemed. Hidden decimals.
Lawrence must have been eighty feet away. He was a funny thing: loping and genial, and that pigeon chest! Lying on the sofa, slipping his top off, that time, Evie wouldn’t have been surprised to see a downy bar of plumage across his breast. He looked so much like his mother. After he’d told her about Shell’s affair, Evie had gone to have a look at the woman. Scones in a paper bag, a tired face, spinach-green tabard and netted homburg; the two of them had touched fingers as Evie received her change. Saturday lunchtime, full of the secret power of knowing things. Shell had no idea Evie knew about her. No idea at all.
Evie had also quizzed Lawrence about the family friend who turned up that night, the scarred man with ashen pinches in the crunches of his eyes that made him look like he was wearing mascara; Lawrence just said there’d been a falling out. Evie wondered what he’d say now if he saw her as they came to a strip of terraces. These houses were bigger than those on the Flintwicks estate, and were bricked or pebble-dashed. A clump of scruffy trees flailed outwardly behind them.
Evie kept her distance as Lawrence arrived at one of the houses and stuck his key into the door. She had come this far. She whistled as a tycoon might, causing Lawrence’s outline to stop. He removed his key and stared at her.
“This is the big mystery?” she said, strolling over, nearly reeling at the thunderous expression awaiting her.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I got bored of the Scarlet Pimpernel act?”
“You had no right to follow us!”
“Oh, fine, if you’re going to be so precious about it.”
Evie was about to sweep away when the door to the house opened. Lawrence’s mother stood there wearing a coat and a scarf, holding a tea towel. “I heard the key in the door,” she said. “Oh, hello.”
“You must be Mrs Newman.”
“Who’s this, Lawrence?”
“A friend.”
Some friend. Before she could protest, Evie was ushered into the Newman’s candle-lit lounge, where Lawrence’s mother tidied away a variety of papers from the settee. She seemed alone and highly embarrassed.
“Dad in?” said Lawrence.
“Upstairs.”
Lawrence glared at Evie as if that was her fault.
Shell introduced herself by name. Evie did the same.
“So nice of you to pop round an’ see your mam,” Shell said to Lawrence, apparently wanting to hug him but unsure how. “I’d offer a brew but we’ve none, Evie. Do you drink coffee?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How do you take it?”
“I like cappuccinos.”
“We’ve instant. I can do it milky.”
Mrs Newman left for the kitchen where she produced a carton of powdered milk from the cupboard. In the lounge there was no TV, no radio or furniture other than the settee and the armchair, a stuffed bookshelf and an empty minibar. A photo of Lawrence hung above a mantle beneath which a switched-off electric fire stood, its metal bars dusty. The floor in front of the fire had scratches on it and a bank of flickering candles offered the only light. The room would have felt cosy if it wasn’t so cold. Beginning to realise the scale of her imposition, Evie tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees.
“You’re always so secretive,” she said quietly.
“Who do you think you are?”
“I don’t.” Evie shut her mouth. “I should go.”
“You’re here now. Have a good look.”
“It’s not like that.”
But it was.
“I didn’t realise. I mean, I thought you weren’t even living at home?”
“I’m not,” said Lawrence.
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to see us mam. That alright wi’ you?”
“You’re not being fair.”
“That what you used to say to Lord Guiseley?”
There was a clattering upstairs.
Guiseley.
“Don’t mind the racket,” Shell said, entering the room with three mugs set on a tray. “That’s just Lawrence’s dad.”
The lukewarm coffee was sweet and had discs of grease floating on its surface.
Guiseley.
“How’s he doing?” said Lawrence. Not an inch. Not even the guts to look at Evie. She could feel her indignation growing.
“Fine, I suppose,” said Shell.
“Pissed, then.”
Was Lawrence blushing? He was!
Shell gave him a hard look, then diverted her attention to Evie. “Will you be eating, Evelyn? Is it Evelyn? I’m afraid we’ve not much in.” She was nibbling a lock of hair. “I could run to the shop.”
“Oh no. Thank you. I was just walking Lawrence home.”
“You’re sure?”
“Just stretching my legs.”
“I wasn’t expecting guests. If this one had said something, I could’ve tidied.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs—”
“Shell, please.”
“Shell.”
The woman was tremendously pale and unable to make eye contact with anyone. What must it be like to have such a sense of the done thing that to have your home even slightly out of sorts in company was this upsetting?
“For God’s sake, Mam, what?” said Lawrence.
“Nowt.” Shell faced the bookshelf. “Are you sure you won’t stay, love? I’ve some Parkin. I work at the bakery. We’ve—”
“Mam, will you just leave it!”
“Well pardon me, Lawrence, I was only . . . Do you know, Evelyn, my son has never once mentioned you. In fact, I don�
��t think he’s even had one friend round, not in all the time we’ve lived here.”
“Before you shipped us to Fernside I did.”
“Aye, and we know what happened there, don’t we.”
Lawrence glowered whilst his mother pushed the long kinks of curly hair from her eyes. “I’m plain embarrassed,” she said. “Here’s me, all wrapped up, no face on an’ tha’s here for the first time and it’s all . . .” Her hand went to her lips. “I’ve just thought. Are you not cold, love? I’m sorry. How rude of me. Let’s get a coat round them shoulders before a death is fetched.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs Newman. Don’t worry—”
“It’s no bother. And please call me Shell.”
The poor woman was on her way to the kitchen when Lawrence swore, which made his mother stomp over and clip him around the head. The blow made a snapping sound.
“Watch your mouth when we’ve guests! Cursing like some flamin’ paddy.”
The sound of footsteps. A voice ricocheted down the stairwell. “What’s all this racket about a fucking paddy?”
No one spoke. Lawrence’s father stomped about upstairs, audibly complaining about not being able to find his boots.
“Arthur,” Shell called. “Them boots are where they were left.”
No response.
Arthur. Evie thought of the look on the man’s face that summer. No way, he’d said. She hadn’t thought of that in months.
“Evie’s to be off,” said Lawrence. “Remember your date, Evie?”
“Oh yes.” She downed her coffee.
Guiseley.
“I’ve got a red hot date with the tub.”
“Oh, I am jealous,” said Shell. “But will you not say hello to Lawrence’s dad before you go? Arthur!” she called, raising a single finger when Evie opened her mouth to protest. “Get down here an’ meet us guest.”
Arthur’s booming voice made Evie jump. “Guest, what bloody guest?”
“You OK, love?” Shell said.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Evie stood. “But I can’t stay.” Shell was wittering on about tea when it was dinner, not tea. Evie hurried from the room before anyone could stop her, heading out of the door and into the possible night.
Her dreams were full of bends in shape. Chrysanthemums in plastic wrapping, a creaking byre with a corrugated iron roof and wretched, collared birds fledging from the byre’s eaves. The night, it wound about her. The smell of Ryan Fenton’s hair gel, Bramwell Guiseley’s desk adorned with antique pens, its green leather top. Eventually the night evolved into the radial of day and with that came Evie’s father who sat opposite her, greedily buttering his toast.
“So you’ve finally noticed what’s going on, and now you want me to take a look?”
Evie slugged back her orange juice. “It just occurred to me that you might make the campaign more convincing if you were to actually meet these people. You could even help.”
“The campaign isn’t supposed to be convincing. And if I was to go and kiss a few babies, I doubt I’d come back in one piece.”
“Honestly, Clive, they’re struggling.”
“They’re quite capable of going back to work if they want to.”
“It’s not as simple as that and you know it.”
Her father was really launching into breakfast. He poured another cup of tea from the pot then spooned an entire boiled egg onto a dripping segment of toast, mashed it with a fork and sprinkled it with salt and pepper. “Look . . .” he began.
“All it takes is a phonecall. What’s the energy secretary’s name? Or the coal board? I bet you know someone.”
“For God’s sake!” Crumbs exploded across the table. “The vote’s tomorrow, there’s no point rocking the boat now. What’s brought this on anyway?”
“Maybe I have an ounce of humanity in me?”
“Spare me the violins, Evelyn.”
“I prefer the cello. It’s a far sadder instrument.”
Clive waited.
“I made a friend,” said Evie.
“Ah yes, Duncan mentioned him. The local boy?”
“His father’s on strike.”
“They’re all on bloody strike. What’s his name? He’s been helping with the posters and things, hasn’t he?”
“Lawrence.”
Clive demolished the remains of his food then carried his plate across the kitchen. “Well you’ve kept him well hidden, that’s for sure. But you can bring him for dinner if you like. He can take a doggy bag home for his parents.”
Beneath the hot tap, Clive’s empty plate tolled against the Belfast sink. Even he must have realised how callous he was being, because his voice softened. “So the family . . . you’ve met them? I assume that’s what’s brought this plea on.”
“I met the mother. She’s a Litten Lady, that’s what they call themselves.”
“Ah, yes. Soup kitchen. Admirable women.” Clive switched off the tap and patted his hands dry on his trousers. “And what about the father? Why hasn’t he gone back to work if things are so dire?”
“Oh, Arthur, God knows. Lawrence refuses to talk about him but he’s a bit of a character by all accounts. It was quite funny actually . . .”
She was reaching for the toast when Clive grabbed her by the wrist.
He didn’t even give her time to put on shoes. Evie rubbed her bare feet while her father beat the Jaguar’s horn and swore until the rusted old jalopy farted into life. They tore into Litten – it was lucky Evie remembered the way – then pulled in at the far end of the street where Lawrence’s parents lived. Clive got out and wrote down the address. He seemed in two minds about whether to knock on the door, decided against it then came back and sat in the driver’s seat.
“Describe him,” he said.
“Why?”
“Evie, tell me what Newman looks like.”
“You’re hurting me!”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s tall, short hair, beard! He has this mark!”
“Here?”
“Yes!”
Clive wouldn’t say any more. He disappeared into the study the moment they arrived back at the house. All morning Evie could hear him oozing down the phone. She tried to listen in on the conversation from outside in the hallway but when she accidentally made a noise, Clive flew out and bellowed at her to make herself scarce.
She reverted to the sanctuary of her Walkman. Bored, lying on her bed, Evie wished for Lawrence but dared not go to him. At a loss, she retreated from questions and spent the day smoking the last of the grass she’d stolen from Clemmie Dallas until she fell asleep. Later she ventured downstairs and found Duncan in the living room. The lawn out of the windows was frozen and the trees had been picked clean by the winter.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked.
“London.”
“That’s short notice.”
“He had a meeting.”
Evie scratched away the last of her nail polish, and was shocked to see a horrid smile carving its way across Duncan’s face like a red wound.
“He’s meeting with Bram,” her brother said nastily. “Your boyfriend.”
20
The field was full of Canada Geese, a familiar sight in the gravel pits and down the rec. There were twenty of them now, absent wardens ferreting in the white. Lawrence leant on the fence to watch them go about their business. He always found in the natural world a reflection of the things he felt.
He was heading to his gran’s along a slippery pavement embroidered with hexagons of frost. He’d be there within the hour. He blew on hands that looked frozen themselves they were so cold, gave them a rub and hurried on his way.
Tomorrow he’d be back on Water Street. He was far from struck on the idea but his grandmother couldn’t afford to keep him anymore. He was just back from l
ying to his mam about the whole thing, explaining that it was by choice that he was moving home, and that if he was to see it through she’d to end whatever it was she had going on with Uncle Het. Arthur might be too weak to see what was going on. Lawrence knew very well. He just did.
Of course he was careful with how he went about it. He wasn’t specific. He just said it needed doing. It. A stop put.
Seeing your mam go all quiet, go inside herself. “You know what I mean,” Lawrence said.
“Heard you, love.”
“I know what Dad’s like. It’s just . . .”
He stopped short of saying Arthur didn’t deserve the betrayal he was getting.
“And you’ll come home?” Shell said.
Lawrence nodded.
“Then it’s settled. And that’s the last any of us will say on it.”
She’d been having it away all right. He would never forgive her.
The geese took to the air in a skein. They passed overhead, hooting. Lawrence watched them wink out and disappear. Cottonlea Retirement Home was in view, St Michael’s weathercock poking above the adjoining cathedral of trees. What were their names? His dad would know. Ash, maybe. They loomed above an understorey of hawthorn. Lawrence stopped to twist one of the hawthorn’s stubborn branches in half and jammed its spines against the fence. He couldn’t believe what Evie had tried last night. She had trespassed all over him. She thought she knew his every step before he thought to take it.
He arrived at his gran’s, the house enveloped in the smell of his goodbye dinner. She’d done him a pot of tea, boiled some ham with potatoes and cabbage, while dessert was jelly and ice cream. Gran didn’t eat any herself, preferring to watch Lawrence enjoy his food, which he did, for the most part. He’d be dining at the soup kitchen soon enough. Chips, egg and beans on a trestle table, followed by more chips, egg and beans and the same again the next day. Christmas would be fun. Lawrence wasn’t even thinking about his approaching birthday.
After he’d finished his meal, he planned to head upstairs so he could pack and be angry in peace, but his gran lay her hand on his wrist. Her skin was spotted and coloured by poor circulation. When Lawrence thought of her, this room was where she was, reading the newspaper, slippers tapping the chair leg, or dwarfed by the stove and surrounded by a bloom of steam and the melt-cackle of spitting butter.