by James Clarke
“I shall miss thee,” she said, “who will I have to peel us spuds and weed the garden when tha’s gone?”
“Who’s going to pay me for it as well as you do, Gran?”
Helen grinned. She had been good to him.
“There’ll always be a place for you under this roof. But it’s the right thing, you going home.”
Lawrence nodded, although he couldn’t say he agreed. The zip on his gran’s apron had been replaced by a safety pin. He watched her play with it, up and down. A centimetre, up and down.
“Oh, look at that face. Tha’s like tha father, lad. Chin up.”
Lawrence didn’t answer, he didn’t move.
“Those like you see the deep streaks. Blots on clean windows an’ even in the sunlight, sadness. It’s not all so bad. All of this will be a footnote one day, you’ll see.”
Lawrence had only a sense of what his gran meant, yet still nodded. Usually he couldn’t see through her Spitting Image face. Today was different. Smooth her cheeks out and also the forehead, reduce that nose of hers and those ears and the folded skin gathered like bedsheets around her neck, then add a bit of colour and there you had it: how she’d been when she was young. His gran believed in reincarnation, and Lawrence wondered, if she was right about all that, if she’d had the same face throughout all of her lives. She had once told him that people are born with their hands closed because they’re holding onto their new souls; that they die with them open because they’ve released their soul to the next body. Perhaps that’s why babies look like pensioners, he thought. He felt ancient himself, as if generations of his forebears were coursing through him to this day, long after they’d gone up the Litten Path.
“I don’t know if I feel any better,” he said. “Thinking that.”
Lawrence lay under his covers the following afternoon, remembering Orgreave. At the time he had worried he would never make it out of the shed he’d run to. Now he knew that in one form or another, he would always be trapped there.
More of a lean-to than anything, the shed had smelt of garden paint and wood preservative. He’d hid on a compost bag below a push-mower hanging from a nail. Powerless hours, every now and again peeking through the murky window at the crucible of Orgreave village: the eddying violence dragging anyone in who got too close.
Horses on the tarmac. Blokes dragged up the street by officers in double-breasted tunics. The boiler-suited officers were the worst. The others with their great round shields came a close second. Every person there had a sweat-marbled face, cop and picketer alike fighting through the bricks, the glass, the heat. The riot officers giving it that terrifying Zulu.
Landing that punch on Het had been almost worth it. Lawrence had tumbled down the hill and nearly fractured his collarbone, before retreating into the village where he found the shed, sneaking out later on when he thought it was safe. Two officers proved him wrong on that front. They charged him and knocked him to the ground. Kicked him and punched him. He’d thought he was going to be arrested but they left him alone once they realised how young he was. He’d ducked into a side passage and found three blokes there, hiding: Scottish lads who’d caught the coach south then the bus that morning from town. 15p to come and have a truncheon wrapped around your head. Bare-chested and bleeding, shirts nowhere to be found because they’d not had time to put them on when the cavalry charged. They’d never seen a shield unit deployed this way, nor those Orgreave horses, who had turned into foaming monsters rather than the trained sentinels they were supposed to be. Orgreave. Each man in that village snick promised never to trust a policeman after what they’d seen that day.
Orgreave.
Orgreave Lane.
Lawrence left the bed and was forcing on his shoes ready to go for a walk when he heard a knock on the door. It was Evie, dressed in a baggy leather jacket and a denim shirt, a yellow kerchief and sunglasses. Her hair was in a ponytail, this show-home girl of cryptic comments and casual flirtations.
He tried to shut the door on her but she stuck her foot in the gap.
“I’m saying it then,” she said.
“Sayin’ what?”
“Really, Lawrence?”
“Apologising means actually saying you’re sorry.”
She removed her sunglasses. Her eyelids were as green as they’d been the morning Lawrence first met her. “I’ve come to invite you to dinner,” she said. “So how’s that for an apology?”
“What dinner?”
“It’s the by-election tonight. We’re celebrating.”
Lawrence had completely forgotten. “I know what night it is,” he said. “What if I’ve plans?”
“We both know you don’t.”
“I could be busy.”
“Well if you are then you’ll never see me again,” said Evie, and cocked her head. There you go. She made it a few yards down the street before turning around to call back at him, “And I am sorry, OK? I’ll see you later.”
Lawrence watched her go and wanted to follow. He shut the door.
No question of not attending. He owed it to the last months of trying to have another crack at Evie. It was a long shot but you never knew. She was the one who’d come all this way, and dressed up, too. That had to count for something.
It was just that Evie was the only girl Lawrence had ever got anywhere with, and whenever he was with her he became so clumsy that his every limb might as well have been wrapped in duct tape, his tongue made out of that coir stuff you made doormats from. She must have realised. She must have seen.
Girls could have anyone they wanted, it was so easy for them. Lawrence wondered what the fabled terrain of post-virginity would be like when he reached it. He had a fantasy of returning to Fernside after he and Evie had done it. He wouldn’t have to say anything. Everyone would just know.
He went to the bog and had a cold bird bath in the sink, rinsing his armpits and squeezing the pimples on his shoulders and chest. Maybe he was wasting his time, considering the way Evie carried on. She wasn’t bothered about a charity case, a novelty act like him.
Although, to be fair, he had got some of the way. He’d kissed Evie. Held her close. So maybe she did care. Maybe she cared so much that she was saving herself so that when it happened it’d be dead special. Apparently girls did that. Lawrence used the last of the talcum powder. Most of it dappled the bathroom carpet.
In any case it was confusing, especially with Evie’s tactic of connecting then pulling away, making you feel like you’d done something wrong. That day at Conisborough Viaduct was a typical example. They’d taken the train to where Lawrence had visited one foggy morning with Arthur when he was a kid. Amazing, it had been. Twenty-one arches, brick caves of cloud, hundreds of feet of lattice girder spanning the River Don.
Both the Swarsbys were impressed. From the top of the viaduct, where the tracks used to be, they could see a changing valley, the approaches, the water necks and townships. They shared a bottle of brandy above Lawrence’s North of industrial vestments, spiritual fetters and battered walls.
When they’d had enough of the view they moved on to a sun-washed glade where a rope swing had been rigged above the water from the low-hanging branch of a tree. A great find. The river here was as golden as chip fat and above it the twitch of blue cord had been looped above the natural overhang. Lawrence and Evie took turns gripping the stick-handle knotted to the rope, and belted free above the water. Duncan sat on the bank because he wasn’t in the mood to get wet.
Run up, career out, let go. Once Lawrence and Evie went at the same time, hanging onto a portion of the handle each, their damp torsos bumping against one another before they dropped into the river. It might have been one of the best days of Lawrence’s life. He didn’t know if that meant he’d led a sheltered existence, or what. There was just something about being the one to show others a special place that made the moment stick in the memo
ry, gave it meaning.
While Duncan slept a little later, Lawrence and Evie sat on the bank to dry off, smoking some of the grass Evie had managed to get hold of. Although admitting it was against his instinct, Lawrence confessed he’d never tried weed before, and was thrilled when Evie said he was handling it well for a first timer. Enjoying the roving buzz of the grass, he’d imagined the trains carrying coal over the great disused viaduct: a clockwork kind of enchantment trundling over the Don and Dearne, a memory of the barracking passage of industry, the slippage of time.
Lawrence asked Evie about things he already knew of, mainly because he enjoyed the sound of her voice. What France was like; if she could speak French. When he asked why her family had come to Litten, she wouldn’t say.
She’d been the one to move closer. Her bra and knickers had gone almost see-through and Lawrence’s boxers left even less to the imagination. He’d clumsily reached for her, only she wouldn’t have him for longer than a minute and he ended up setting a hand on her knee and saying, “Come on, Evie. Don’t be tight.”
Her response was an ambiguous smile that he instantly knew he would always question. She went to the rope-swing, launched herself over the water and splashed out of sight. Lawrence pulled his clagging t-shirt back on, noticing as he did that, to his horror, Duncan was awake and had witnessed the whole thing. He lay flat on his back and pretended nothing had happened.
He knocked on the door of Threndle House, and was met by Clive Swarsby himself. A robust man with his shirt open a button too far, Clive had shower-damp hair and a lobster-pink face.
He greeted Lawrence warmly. “Lawrence, isn’t it,” he said. “Here to celebrate Labour’s victory?”
“Evie said dinner . . .”
“I’m joking, of course. Why don’t you come in?”
Lawrence was ushered into the atrium, which had been swept and smelled of pine. He hoped he wouldn’t be asked how he’d voted, because he hadn’t bothered.
“And while a defeat is a defeat,” Swarsby was saying, taking Lawrence’s soaked coat from him. “What matters is we staged a campaign that didn’t end too ignominiously.”
“What was the count in the end?”
“Well, it’s important to reflect on the turnout,” said Clive. “Which, I think was something approaching twenty one percent. Pitiful, really, that the locals can’t be bothered to vote. They forget their ward representative’s an important figure.”
Lawrence had only the vaguest idea of what councillors did. He craned to see around Swarsby into the living room and was pleased to see the table bedecked with various platters of food. He jumped when Clive clapped him on the shoulder and said, “But let’s just say there’ll be no need for a recount.”
Evie chose that moment to show her face. She stepped downstairs pulling on a black turtleneck sweater, widening the neck hole with both hands and pushing her head through so her hair didn’t catch on the sides. She wore a red skirt below a gleaming PVC belt. “Are you talking about the vote?” she said.
“That’s why we’re here, darling. And I believe you assisted with the campaign, Lawrence?”
It was time to concentrate on how he spoke. “Oh yes,” Lawrence replied. “I lent a hand.”
“Good man. I might be able to use someone like you one day.”
“Really?”
Swarsby was no longer listening. His attention alighted upon his daughter. He lifted his chin to Evie, and, to Lawrence’s astonishment, Evie kissed his cheek. There was much to make of the act, all of it forgotten as she kissed Lawrence’s cheek too. Excited, Lawrence was shown into the living room while Clive chattered on about how great Litten was. How sad he’d be to leave. Then again there would always be new challenges.
“I have found it invigorating,” he said. “The dramatic air. It’s Bronte country, plain and simple. The blank pages of the hills . . .”
Was he drunk? “It’s got something,” Lawrence agreed. “My dad’s always up on the moor.”
Swarsby gave the impression of trying not to react. It was like when someone pretends they haven’t seen you. He clapped Lawrence on the shoulder and said “There is a romance to the land that’s impossible to overlook. I have enjoyed exploring the lea these last few months.”
Fat-arse didn’t look like he did much walking. Lawrence wondered how often Swarsby had visited Litten proper. The bridge in Barnes’ Wood now had anti-Thatcher sentiment sprayed all over it. NO PIT CLOSURES was written on one of the high street walls. NEVER GIVE UP was sprayed up the shutters of the shops in the arcade. No one went out any more. The stand in the centre hosted the brass band still, with its fucking tubas and maudlin horns, mud rivulet up your trouser leg because you’d stood on a wonky bit of pavement and the rainwater had squirted up all over you. Imagine the romance of that. Imagine Clive Swarsby wondering why no one had bothered to come out and vote.
“Sounds like you’ll be wanting to contest the seat again,” said Lawrence, nodding hello at Duncan, who stood by the piano with a pot of weird pink dip in his hand, breadstick reaching from his teeth to fingers, like a cigar.
Duncan answered for his father, “Why on earth would we do that?”
“Well, your dad was just saying how nice it was up here. And getting people to vote next time as well . . .”
Duncan put down the dip and offered his hand, opaque eyes suddenly alive. “We won’t be staying in Litten, Lawrence.”
Lawrence tried to grip Duncan’s hand as firmly as his was being gripped. “You’re leaving?”
“It’s the prudent course of action,” said Clive. “I made a few calls. We should be south again within the next couple of weeks.”
“I didn’t realise.”
“Why would we stay?”
Evie arrived, her mouth heady with lipstick. She looked at her father. “Dad’s negotiated our way home.”
She never called him dad. Lawrence was going to ask where they were moving to. He wanted to take Evie to one side and tell her he was her reason to stay, she couldn’t go, but a knock on the door surprised him into silence.
“Speaking of which,” said Evie, departing from the room, Lawrence’s enduring quarry. He willed her back. Elongated shadows.
Clive seemed confused. Duncan touched his arm. It was hard to believe that this pretty young man was a year younger than Lawrence. “I’ll get the door,” he said. “Lawrence, why don’t you keep my father entertained.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lawrence accepted a glass of wine. It tasted reedy, a silly drink.
“So what do you do, young man?” Clive said.
Lawrence thought on it; there was no point dressing it up.
“I’ll be going to work at the pit.”
“Yes, yes, important work. Skilled labour. Damn shame what’s been going on. One hopes for a speedy resolution.”
“One does.”
The second guest was in the house. It was difficult to hear what was being said over the jazz playing in the next room, the umbrella being shaken by the door. Lawrence could hear its spokes, the material folding like a set of wings. He imagined the water beating the roof tiles as the winds of his approaching solitude howled outside.
An elegant man entered the room. He had scree-grey hair that was combed to one side, and he patted it to test its shape once he’d removed his leather gloves. The guest seemed to make Clive and Duncan go up a gear, and indeed Lawrence found himself touching his own hair, which was wet still. He turned to check himself in the window. His mop was a bit of a crow’s nest but otherwise it seemed OK, as did the shirt he’d got for Christmas last year, his freshly-ironed school trousers. He couldn’t make out the face. He was nothing but a blank oval.
The man’s fey hands were behind his back as he surveyed the room for the first time. “Goodness, there’s mother’s piano,” he said, pressing one of the black keys and produ
cing a disquieting, minor note. “Many’s the hour spent at this old thing. Many were the rainy days.”
Duncan and Clive made consenting sounds. The guest could have been a magnate standing in the heather, annihilating grouse. A clever man who did things to insects when he was a boy.
After a loaded moment he seemed to look, not past Lawrence, more through him, at the large crack up the wall. He put his hand to it. “A new development,” he said, caressing a line of subsidence so dark that it could have been made of obsidian. Whatever age this man was, Lawrence wouldn’t have been surprised to hear it. Nor that he had gone up the Litten Path himself a few times, somehow managing to claw his way back.
“Clive?” the man said.
“It’s just shown up.” Clive chortled. He was well into a large glass of wine by this point.
“Subsidence,” Lawrence offered. “From the pit.”
The words had just popped out. The man straightened and regarded Lawrence. “And isn’t that neat,” he said slowly.
Clive Swarsby cleared his throat. “This is Lawrence. Local boy, Evelyn’s guest. Done some sterling campaigning for me.”
Lawrence held his hand out to greet the man. He could smell cooked meat, and out of the window thought he could see the outline of someone watching everything, a tall, malingering shape standing a few yards away in the snow.
“Lawrence,” said Duncan, doing a great job of expressing a lot while saying very little. “This is Bramwell Guiseley.”
You couldn’t really have that good an idea of someone you knew by deed alone. From what he’d been told about Guiseley, Lawrence had been expecting someone a lot younger, more disdainful. He supposed the man had presence. A powerful chewer, Guiseley pushed great clods of nubile lamb into his mouth. He ate in sequence. First the carrots and then the greens, then the potatoes, eventually graduating to the roast beef. He hadn’t said much all night, and now in the final plump stages of his meal, he continued to hold his tongue.