by Rachel Ward
Ant was biting his lip so hard, a little bead of blood appeared.
‘Tell him, Ant,’ said Bea.
He shook his head.
‘Tell me what?’ said Gavin. He looked at Ant. ‘Tell me what?’
‘I’m never gonna be able to do the things you think I can do,’ said Ant, head down, eyes down, talking to the floor, ‘Because . . . because I can’t read.’
Gavin pursed his lips and a low whistle came out. He was silent for a few seconds, although it seemed much longer than that.
‘You can’t read,’ he said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers in the sockets. Then he opened them again and said, ‘I should have guessed. Sit down, both of you. Come on.’
They sat opposite Gavin.
‘You knew?’ he said to Bea.
‘Yeah, I was going to try and help him learn, but we haven’t got started yet. I’ve been helping him with reading lists and labels and things.’
Gavin sighed. ‘To be honest, considering you can’t read, you’ve done very well. You’ve shown a lot of initiative covering up and coping.’
Ant still looked as if the ground was opening up underneath him, about to swallow him up.
‘I don’t want you to quit, Ant. You’ve got a right to be able to read and write. Costsave has a responsibility to give you the training you need to do the job.’
Ant raised his head a little and squinted at Gavin. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yes, Ant. I’ll escalate this to the regional office.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ll ask them if they will fund some lessons for you.’
‘Oh, right. That would be great. Unless I’m just too thick.’
‘Trust me, you’re not. You can read, Ant. You will read. None of this excuses what happened earlier, though.’
‘No, Sir. I’m very sorry for that. Very sorry.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘He was asking for it, though.’
‘Ah!’ Gavin held his hands up. ‘Don’t spoil things.’
‘He’s not a great role model,’ said Bea.
‘We can’t like everyone we work with.’
‘It’s not that, he’s . . . ’ she paused. ‘He’s not loyal to you, Gavin, or to Costsave.’
‘Well, I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Gavin. ‘Off you go, now, both of you. I’ll make sure you’re on appropriate duties until I can get that training sorted. And, Ant?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t let me down.’
16
‘We want to help you get back to work.’
The woman from the assessment agency, Ms Norcross, hadn’t touched the tea that Bea had made her. Bea had put too much milk in it, a slip of her nervous hands, and now a thin skin was forming on the top as it sat cooling on the coffee table in front of her.
‘I’m fifty-seven and I haven’t left my house for six years,’ said Queenie.
‘We haven’t seen a report of any recognised medical condition.’
‘I don’t go to the doctors.’
‘I’m on the case,’ Bea cut in. ‘I’ve asked a GP to call here and do an assessment.’
‘But we don’t have one now?’
‘No.’
‘So, let’s start from where we are now, how you are today. I’m going to ask you a series of questions.’
Queenie was holding onto her wedding and engagement rings, twisting them round and round her ring finger.
‘It was my husband,’ she said. ‘He had cancer. Pancreas, then bladder and bowels. Liver. I left work to care for him, and I never went back. I couldn’t.’
‘I understand,’ said Ms Norcross in a voice that contradicted her words. ‘But we need to talk about whether we can help you back to work now.’
Queenie wasn’t listening. ‘I just couldn’t face seeing people, having them ask me things, or not ask me anything. I couldn’t go back to my job ’cos that would be like saying that everything was the same, that he didn’t matter, that he’d never mattered.’
‘Mrs—’
‘Out there, everything’s just carrying on, but I can’t be like that. I can’t just pretend to be okay.’ Her hands were shaking violently.
‘Mum. Mum.’ Bea put her hands over Queenie’s. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to go over it all.’
‘But I do. Nothing’s changed. I’m just the same. I can’t go out there. I can’t just get on with it and get a job. That’s what she’s here for – to tell me to stop all this – but I can’t.’
‘Mrs Jordan, I’m here to help. Now, do you need a break or shall we start the interview?’
Somehow they made it through to the end of the questions. Queenie was asked about a typical day, a good day and a bad day, about her mobility, her lifestyle, her medication. After a couple of hours, her inquisitor switched off her tablet and put it in her briefcase.
‘Thank you,’ she said, a little wearily. ‘What happens next is that I write a report and then the department will let you know their decision.’
‘What are you going to say in your report?’ Queenie asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you at this stage. You’ll hear the decision within two weeks.’
Bea showed her out. She closed the front door firmly and stood for a minute with her back leaning against it, then she gathered herself and walked through to Queenie in the kitchen.
‘We need to get that letter from the GP,’ she said. ‘Back you up.’
Queenie was sitting where she’d left her, twirling her wedding ring and staring into space.
‘They’re going to cut me off,’ she said. ‘Then it’ll be down to you. That’s not fair, is it? I can’t ask you to pay for everything.’
‘It won’t come to that, we’re going to sort it.’
‘Did you see her face when I was talking?’
‘Yes, but you can’t tell anything from that. It’s her report that matters. Anyway, if the worst does happen, it won’t be that bad. We’ll manage.’
‘How much do you earn?’
‘You know how much I earn.’
‘And how much are our bills?’
‘Mum, stop it.’ Bea perched on the arm of the chair and put her arm round Queenie’s shoulders. ‘We’re going to be all right. We won’t have to stop our luxury lifestyle – we’ll be fine.’
‘You’d be better off without me. I’m just dragging you down.’
‘That’s just silly talk. What would I do without you? We’re a team, aren’t we?’ She gave her shoulder a little shake. ‘You and me.’
‘Not much of a team. What do I bring? I’m just a burden.’
Bea took a deep breath. They’d had this conversation too many times before. Whatever Bea said, it didn’t seem to help, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep trying. ‘Mum, you bring you. You’re my mum. You’re Queenie. You don’t have to bring anything else.’
Bea’s phone pinged.
‘Who’s that?’
Bea didn’t even look. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It might be something important.’
‘Okay.’ Bea picked up her phone. It was a text from Tom.
Pick you up at 6.30?
Despite herself, Bea felt a little tingle of excitement tickling her stomach lining.
‘What is it?’ asked Queenie, wiping her nose with a flowery hankie.
‘Tom.’
‘Tom the policeman?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing really. We were going to see the fireworks tonight, but I don’t have to go.’ Bea was amazed how light and easy her own voice sounded.
‘Why wouldn’t you go?’
‘Well, because . . . you know. We’ve not had a very nice day, have we? I don’t mind staying in.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’ll be fine. It’s a date, is it?’
‘No. Yeah. Sort of.’
‘That’s a yes, then,’ Queenie said. ‘You go out, have a good time. What are you going to
wear?’
‘God, I don’t know. I hadn’t even thought.’
Her normal Bonfire Night gear consisted of a thick vest and three layers of wool, not the most romantic gear. Was that what was needed, though – something romantic? She remembered the feel of his hands through her clothes as he pressed her up against the kitchen table. God, she thought, definitely lose the vest.
‘I might go and look, see what I’ve got that’s clean.’
‘It’s all clean,’ Queenie sniffed. ‘I do at least keep on top of the housework.’
‘I know. I know you do. You make this a proper home.’
‘Go on. Go and get ready. Don’t want to keep the man waiting.’
Despite a couple of hours of intensive sifting, trying on, shortlisting and discarding, Bea wasn’t ready when Tom turned up. She howled in anguish when she heard the doorbell. Queenie shouted up the stairs, ‘I’ll get it. Hurry up!’
Bea heard the door open and Queenie saying,
‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful?’ she said. ‘Bea will love them!’
Tom replied, but, agonisingly, his voice was too low for Bea to make out the words. She decided to leave the lip liner and just apply lipstick for speed. Two sweeps of neutral pink – nothing too obvious – and she was done. She pressed her lips together, then blotted them on some tissue. One last check in the mirror and she headed for the stairs.
‘No. No, I’ll stay in,’ Queenie was saying. ‘I can see the fireworks from the bedroom window anyway. Don’t have to get cold that way. You kids go and have fun. But Tom?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for asking. And thanks for the flowers.’
Queenie turned round as she heard Bea on the stairs. She was holding a bouquet of flowers in crinkly cellophane and looking a little flushed in the face.
Bea was wearing jeans and a woolly jumper, but it was only one layer and it was a fine-knit, slinky black one, which clung to her curves and was thin enough to reveal the outline of her push-up bra. Behind Queenie, Bea noticed with satisfaction that Tom was taking everything in. She picked up her scarf and coat from the stair post.
‘More flowers?’ she said to Queenie.
‘I know.’ Queenie beamed. ‘I could start a flower shop this week.’
‘Right,’ said Bea, winding the scarf round her neck and slipping her arms into her coat. ‘Are we ready?’
‘I am,’ said Tom.
‘I’ve got my phone, Mum,’ said Bea.
‘I’ll be fine. Have fun,’ said Queenie and shooed her out of the door.
Bea followed Tom down the front path to his car. He clicked the locks and went round to the passenger side to hold the door open for her. Bea smiled and tried to get in as elegantly as she could. There was an awkward silence between them as they set off through the estate. Bea was glad the radio was on, babbling in the background. Radio One. She approved.
She looked sideways at Tom, then out of the front and side windows. Something caught her eye. In the wing mirror, she could see someone cycling along the pavement, pedalling furiously, head down. Now they were looking forward, waving an arm.
‘Tom?’ Bea said. ‘I think there’s someone chasing us.’
He checked his rear mirror. ‘You mean that bike? I could have him. On the pavement. No lights. Little idiot.’
Bea turned round in her seat and looked over her shoulder. The bike was about ten metres away. The rider’s hood had come down and she could see now that it was Ant!
‘Tom, stop! It’s Ant. From the shop. He’s trying to flag us down.’
‘Ant Thompson? I was right, then. It is an idiot. That whole family are crooks.’
‘Ant’s not a crook. He’s my friend. Can you stop a minute, Tom?’
Tom made a show of checking his watch. ‘We’ll miss the fireworks if we don’t get a move on, Bea.’ He accelerated away and Bea watched as Ant got smaller in the wing mirror and then was lost to view as they turned into the next street.
‘Tom?’ she protested.
‘We’re having an evening to ourselves, aren’t we? I’ve been looking forward to this, Bea. You and me. It’s taken long enough.’
You and me. Bea liked the sound of that. Whatever Ant wanted could wait until tomorrow. Bea caught Tom glancing her way and she smiled.
‘Eyes on the road, soldier,’ she said, but she didn’t really mean it. She liked him looking at her.
‘Having said that, I asked your mum to join us.’
‘Really? That was nice.’
‘She said she didn’t want to play gooseberry.’
‘Would she have been? Playing gooseberry.’
‘Hope so.’
Bea could feel the colour rising in her face. ‘She doesn’t go out much anyway. Well, she doesn’t go out at all.’
‘What? Never?’
‘Not for six years.’
Tom frowned. ‘Seriously? She needs help, then.’
‘I know, but I can’t force her to see someone, can I? And now the Social want to cut her benefits off.’
‘Bea, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?’
‘That’s really sweet. You don’t need to do anything. I’ve got it covered.’
Tom parked in the far end of the rugby club car park. They got out and he held her hand. It was a cold, clear, crisp night. Perfect Bonfire Night weather. He started leading her away from the entrance to the rugby ground.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Bea.
‘You’ll see,’ he said. They cut down a path that skirted the field. It was dark, darker with every step they took away from the floodlights at the ground. Tom took a metal torch out of his pocket and shone it at the ground ahead of them. Bea thought she heard someone walking behind them, but when she turned around she couldn’t see anyone, just the dark shape of the hedge one side and the fence the other. Tom stopped. ‘There’s a stile here,’ he said. ‘Careful.’
He went first and offered a hand to help her over.
‘It’s very dark,’ she said.
‘Don’t let go of my hand, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
It was more open on the other side of the stile and Bea realised they’d come to the bottom corner of the park. The path was tarmacked here and it was easier to walk, but she still held his hand. There was a brook to the left of them. A couple of minutes later they reached the lake that fed it. During the day, it was thronging with ducks and seagulls, but now it was quiet – a body of black water disappearing into the dark. They walked along the edge, following the path as it curved round to a little hump-backed bridge.
‘Here,’ Tom said in the middle of the bridge. He stopped walking and turned out the torch.
‘Here?’ said Bea. No bonfire. No hot dogs. No one else at all.
‘You’ll see. Couple of minutes to go, I reckon. Stand here.’ He turned her around too and placed her in front of him. Bea looked across the water towards the bright white floodlights at the ground. The noise of the crowd drifted through the still air towards them. Bea shivered.
‘Cold?’
Tom wrapped his arms round her, linking his hands in front and drawing her closer. She could feel his breath in her hair. She leaned back a little, so his chin was resting on the top of her head. If she turned a little and tipped her face up, and if he tipped his down to meet hers . . .
She jumped as her phone started trilling in her pocket.
Tom tutted. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
She drew some cold air in through her teeth, then reluctantly said, ‘I can’t. It might be Mum.’
She fumbled to get the phone out. The screen was brilliantly bright in the darkness, the caller ID clear: ‘Ant calling.’
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ Bea said. She was about to swipe the screen to accept the call, when Tom reached for the phone and pressed, ‘Reject.’ The noise stopped. After a couple of seconds the screen dimmed.
Bea was speechless. She was outraged at what Tom had just done, but so surprised she didn’t know what to say. If it
was anyone else, she’d tell them to eff off, but this was Tom, the man who gave her butterflies when he said her name, who made her feel something she hadn’t felt for a very long time . . .
‘Really,’ she spluttered. ‘Really, you shouldn’t have – it’s my phone.’
‘I meant what I said, Bea—’ and once again the butterflies took flight inside her ‘I want you to myself this evening.’
‘But—’
‘Shh, look!’
The floodlights had been switched off. For a moment K-town seemed to hold its breath and then a volley of muffled reports announced the first rockets of the evening. Moments later they exploded into life, with ear-splitting noise and a dazzling array of stars, bursting, blossoming, moving outwards, ever outwards, until they disappeared, their place taken by more and more and more. And every point of light was echoed in the still surface of the lake, so that the colour, the movement, the drama seemed to fill Bea’s field of vision. It was magical. It made her feel like a little girl again, seeing the fireworks for the first time, perched on her dad’s shoulders – entranced and a little bit scared, but knowing all the time that she was safe. Her dad had got her.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she squealed and started laughing.
Tom unlinked his arms and stroked one side of her face, moving her hair away, and leaned closer, his mouth next to her ear.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ he said, and his mouth came closer still and he kissed her – on her ear, and her cheek and her neck. Bea didn’t feel like a little girl any more, but she did feel safe – here with this man, on their own in the dark. She could hardly hear the fireworks above the sound of her own breath and his. She turned a little at the same time as he did and she put her hands up around the back of his neck as he undid the buttons on her coat and slid his hands inside around her waist. She closed her eyes as his cold hands explored her body: the small of her back, and then down, undoing the button of her jeans. His fingers were inside her knickers.
‘Not here,’ she said.
‘Yes. Here.’ He was still kissing her, breathing hard and fast.
She tried to move away a little, slow things down. ‘I’m not standing in the park with my jeans round my ankles,’ she said. ‘Let’s find somewhere better.’ He was holding onto her, still trying to pull her close. ‘Tom,’ she said loudly. ‘Let’s find somewhere better.’