The Pools

by Bethan Roberts

‘It’s your patch,’ I said. ‘You dig. I’ll help with the planting.’

  I meant to go in and make a cup of tea, let him have a minute to get into it on his own, but I found myself standing by the fence again. The two lads’ thighs were almost touching; Graeme had let his leg roll out to the side, showing the hairless place behind his knee. Their noses shone with sweat. Graeme tapped his stomach in time with the song on the radio, and the other lad moved his lips to the words of the song.

  ‘Excuse me, lads.’

  I’d spoken to Graeme only once before, when he’d looked over the fence and asked what year the MG was. Kathryn always said hello if we saw him in the street, even if he was wearing his motorbike helmet. ‘He can’t hear you,’ I told her. ‘He can see my lips,’ she replied.

  Graeme lifted his head and pushed his sunglasses down his nose to look at me.

  ‘I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind turning it down a bit.’

  I thought that maybe he couldn’t see me properly because of the sun, but then he reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t a shove or a shake, it was a touch. ‘Turn it down,’ he said to him, and the other lad twisted the knob round. ‘Sorry, Howard,’ said Graeme, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

  ‘Sorry, Howard,’ repeated his friend.

  They lay down and smiled at the sun.

  The music was still low when I went back outside after fetching Robert an orange squash from the kitchen. Stooping over the patch, he was engrossed in his work, and didn’t hear me approach. His coarse hair was almost like a hat on his head, and I thought that he must be hot under it. His jaw had dropped in concentration, and he was up to his elbows in dirt.

  ‘You’ve planted them all.’

  He looked up and nodded. The seed trays were empty, and there were two rows of plants in the soil. Not very straight, not evenly spaced, some of the leaves a little bashed, but they were in there. I crouched down beside him and put my arm round his shoulders. ‘You’ve done a very good job.’

  Then the music’s volume increased. Only this time, one of the lads was singing along.

  ‘Shall we water them in?’

  The singing next door became louder and laughter bubbled up into the air. I ignored it. My son had planted rows of sunflowers, and he had done it on his own.

  ‘Give them a good soaking,’ I said, handing Robert my stainless steel watering can.

  ‘Dad, I can’t – ’

  Afterwards I knew that his fingers had opened with the weight of the water. I’d filled it too full, not thinking that his arms were a nine-year-old’s, a little boy’s arms. He dropped the can in the dirt, flooding the plants and engulfing his sandals in mud. There was a moment then, as we both stood there looking at the swampy mess, when I thought, if I can recover quickly enough, it will be like it never happened.

  ‘It’s all right – ’ I began, but his face crumpled.

  ‘That was your fault!’ he announced, stamping his foot in the muddy ground.

  The lads next door continued to sing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Just then, Kathryn came through the gate.

  ‘We were doing so well,’ I said, watching my wife’s frown deepen as she approached.

  She put an arm around Robert and bent to look in his face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. A little accident.’ I reached into the mud and dragged out one of the sodden seedlings.

  ‘He’s covered in mud, Howard.’

  ‘I think we can salvage these.’ Just a bit of drying off, that was all that was needed. ‘I really think they’ll be all right, son.’

  Kathryn straightened up. ‘What’s that row?’

  ‘It’s the men next door,’ Robert said. ‘Dad told them to turn it down.’

  Kathryn glanced at me. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Dad told them,’ said Robert. ‘And they turned it down.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s no need to sound so damn surprised,’ I said, picking up the muddy watering can.

  Kathryn blinked back something like astonishment. ‘No. No, of course not,’ she said, letting go of Robert and touching my sleeve. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Shall we plant these again, Robert?’ I held out the seedlings.

  He took one of them in his hand and gazed down at the soggy root.

  ‘We can still plant them, can’t we?’

  He took another seedling from me and spent a moment examining it.

  ‘No harm done. Let’s give it another go.’

  Then he lifted his head. ‘All right,’ he said.

  Kathryn watched us as I led him back to our patch to start again. When I looked back at her, she was smiling. ‘You’ll make a gardener of him yet,’ she called.

  eight

  January, 1982

  I’d been pleased when I’d come home to another bike propped up beneath the kitchen window. ‘Robert’s brought a friend home,’ said Kathryn. ‘From school.’

  I could hear the boys’ laughter leaking down the stairs. Kathryn lifted a chop onto a plate. ‘They’re having theirs upstairs. I said they could.’ She spooned out four slightly soggy potatoes, letting a small pool of water settle around them, then sat down to her cheese sandwich.

  ‘That’s all right with you.’ She chewed her Red Leicester.

  I wasn’t sure if it was a question. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I sawed into the meat and watched the fat swirl into the potatoes, then thought to add, ‘Just this once.’

  Every night after that, a boy called Paul came. Paul’s neck was already speckled with pimples. His fair hair was short on top but too long at the back, and often stuck out like a stiff brush where it met his collar. They played the same records over and over. Tainted love, woah yeah. The words to that one got stuck in my head.

  Paul always seemed to be in my house. His bike (a racer, twelve gears) propped up beneath my kitchen window sill. His jacket (light grey, elasticated waist) slung over my banister. His shoes (white plimsolls, a star on each side) on the mat in my hallway. I thought I could smell his socks, see the sweaty imprint they were leaving on my stair carpet as he followed Robert up the stairs.

  Within a month, it seemed, Robert had acquired the same jacket, the same shoes, and similar jeans to Paul’s. I didn’t tackle Kathryn about it, although I knew she must be supplying him with all these new items. Instead, I told her that I thought I could smell Paul in the house. A sharp, chemical smell. It reminded me of the smell in the turbine hall. She looked at me with a little smile. ‘That must be Robert you can smell, Howard,’ she said. ‘I bought him some shower gel. Aqua Fresh, or something.’

  ‘What’s wrong with soap?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘He just asked me to buy him this instead.’

  We’d promised him a trip to London for his twelfth birthday.

  I’d been to London once, with Kathryn, before Robert was born. I’d wanted to take her somewhere glamorous, buy her something to wear, maybe take in a show. But I didn’t know where anything was. I only knew the words Carnaby Street.

  I thought if we could just find Carnaby Street, we’d be bound to have a good time. We could do all the things I wanted to do there: the sun would be shining on the polished glass of the shop windows, and we’d stop somewhere for a coffee (which would be Italian, and would make a lot of noise as the waitress wrestled with the steaming machine). I didn’t like coffee much, but in London it would taste different. We’d sit in a café window and watch the other young couples glide by. Pop music – something by Dusty Springfield, or even a black singer like Sam Cooke – would be playing somewhere. And Kathryn would sip her coffee and look at me, and I’d squeeze her knee under the table.

  But when we got there – after a three-hour bus journey – I couldn’t work out where we were. It was all so loud, so grey, and so wet. The traffic splashed mud up Kathryn’s new coat, and I felt every lump in the pavement through
the thin soles of my best shoes.

  In the end, we did find Carnaby Street. What I couldn’t believe was that it was so short. Just one little street with a few shops on. There was a coffee bar, but it was crowded; we had to stand up, and the sugar shaker was sticky from all the greasy fingers that had been there before mine. There was a lump of crusty sugar stuck inside the nozzle, so the crystals couldn’t shake out freely. I shook and shook, and all I got were a few yellow crumbs around my saucer.

  Condensation ran down the windows, and everyone smoked. It wasn’t Dusty Springfield or Sam Cooke on the radio, but the Rolling Stones. I’ve never liked them.

  But Kathryn drank a coffee, and as she sipped at her foam, she slipped a damp hand into my pocket, and we stood at the counter together, steaming.

  So I thought I must plan this trip for Robert’s birthday with the greatest precision. I decided we’d splash out and catch the train. No three-hour coach journey via Sandhill, Wallingford and Henley-on-Thames for us – as diverting as those places may be. No stumbling off the coach feeling slightly sick, the streets swaying with the remembered rhythm of the coach. No. We’d sit back, Kathryn and Robert on one side, me on the other, and we’d relax as the countryside slid by; Sandhill, Wallingford and Henley-on-Thames would be nothing more than church spires in the distance.

  Then Robert asked if Paul could come too.

  I hadn’t included Paul in my image of the train journey, hadn’t pictured him walking next to Robert as we approached Madame Tussaud’s, hadn’t heard his voice in the Berni Inn restaurant I’d located. I’d seen only the three of us, Robert walking between Kathryn and me as we introduced him to the wondrous waxworks.

  He was almost at my shoulder then; the year before, he’d suddenly sprouted. It was like he’d been elongated; everything about him was shooting up towards the sky. His arms and legs had extended.

  ‘It’s his birthday, Howard,’ Kathryn said. ‘It would be good for him to have a friend there.’

  So Paul came.

  His father dropped him off. He had a blue Rover that was so wide I thought he’d never get it in our drive.

  Paul stepped out of the car and slammed the door. ‘Hello, Mr Hall.’

  Paul was always very polite. Mr Hall this, Mr Hall that. He didn’t seem at all afraid of me, not in the way I remember being afraid of other boys’ fathers. And how are you Mr Hall? he’d ask, as if he was an adult too. And how’s your wife? That always seemed like a strangely intimate question for a young boy to ask a man.

  ‘Hello, Paul.’

  ‘How’s your wife?’

  ‘She’s fine, thank you.’

  I walked past him and over to the car. Resting one hand on the roof, I peered into the driver’s window. Mr Kearney sucked on a cigarette. He wound down the window.

  ‘He’ll be safe with us,’ I said.

  Mr Kearney frowned as the smoke hit his eyes. ‘Good stuff,’ he said, starting the engine.

  I managed to pat the roof of the Rover before he pulled away.

  I successfully manoeuvred us through Paddington Station. Out on the street, we had to shout to make ourselves heard over the clatter of traffic and the chaos of bodies.

  ‘We’re going to McDonald’s,’ Robert announced. His eyes were on Paul, who was walking several paces in front of our group. I suddenly noticed how short Robert’s jacket was. And his jeans looked much too tight.

  ‘There’s one just round the corner,’ Paul shouted back at us.

  ‘He’s been there loads of times,’ yelled Robert.

  The two boys strode ahead, and I thought the better of protesting.

  A man with a gold chain round his neck bumped into my shoulder and I had to step into the road to keep from falling.

  Kathryn and I had to jog to keep up with the boys as they wound through the crowds, their heads bobbing together.

  ‘Where is he, Howard?’ Kathryn kept asking me. ‘I’ve lost him again.’

  ‘He’s just ahead. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Where?’

  I looked and for a moment didn’t see anything but a wave of the wrong heads, ginger curls, blue hats, blonde wisps, black frizz – but then his wiry brown hair came into view, the back of his head a little flat, like mine. A swirl at the crown. His cockatoo touch.

  Robert and Paul took a left through some bright red and yellow doors. I followed them with relief; it would be good to sit down and concentrate on a menu.

  But inside was just as noisy as out. A great sound rose up from the floor of the restaurant. People yelled orders, gobbled food and shouted at each other; a kind of music – mostly a beat – blared over the tannoy.

  At the far end was a long counter with photographs glowing behind it. It was like the meat counter at Tesco’s, only not as ordered, because there was nowhere to take a ticket. And no one seemed to be in charge. The people behind the counter were dressed like garage mechanics, in brown dungarees and caps. There appeared to be no waitress. There was no queue, and nowhere to hang your coat.

  Robert and Paul were already pushing into the throng of bodies around the counter. Kathryn stood on tiptoe and shouted in my ear, ‘Why don’t you let the boys do the ordering? We can find somewhere to sit.’

  ‘Boys!’ I called. Paul looked back at me, but Robert stared ahead at the counter. ‘Boys!’ I tried again, but Robert still did not turn around.

  ‘Order whatever you want!’ I shouted into the throng.

  There was a long queue outside Madame Tussaud’s. Loud foreign voices surrounded us. A group of Italian boys were in front, and they didn’t stop talking for a second. They all seemed so excited, despite the fact that it had begun to spit with rain, and the entrance to the waxworks was still not in sight.

  ‘Put this on.’ I handed Robert the bright red fold-up waterproof we’d bought for him the year before. The hood had toggles and poppers at the chin. Kathryn opened her umbrella. I pulled my own blue waterproof over my head.

  When I’d zipped my raincoat up to the neck, Robert still hadn’t got any further than putting his arms in. He was punching the air before him, and marching with stiff legs for Paul’s amusement.

  ‘Prince Charming! Prince Charming!’ trilled Robert, and Paul laughed.

  The rain came down harder.

  ‘You’ll get wet,’ I warned.

  Robert stamped one foot and then the other on the pavement and fixed me with a stare. A couple of the Italian boys looked round at him.

  ‘Prince Charming!’ He marched towards me with a flourish. His eyes were bright and slightly bulging. His bared teeth flashed. His nose was long and straight now; it had lost its early fleshiness.

  ‘Ah-woah!’ hollered Paul, joining in with the stomping dance as if he was a member of some primitive tribe.

  When they’d finished, the two boys leant back together and laughed.

  The Italians began to applaud.

  I looked at Kathryn. She was smiling at them both. ‘They’re really very good at that, Howard.’

  The first waxwork I remember was Sleeping Beauty. You suddenly noticed, after long minutes of admiring her, that her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. It was oddly reassuring to realise that she was really only asleep.

  But it was the Chamber of Horrors the boys loved – particularly the alley of famous murderers. Robert insisted on reading out highlights of information about each terrible scene, mouthing the worst of the words exaggeratedly to Paul.

  ‘He AXED his wife to death… filled the bath full of ACID… DISSECTED his victims with a Stanley knife… STUFFED the bodies inside the wall cavities … ’

  It went on and on, the both of them laughing as Robert widened his eyes at the horrors.

  I didn’t find the waxworks lifelike in the least. Their hair was too thick, too low on the forehead, or else their noses were too large, or their hands bent at slightly odd angles. It was the settings that disturbed me: how these murders seemed to happen on ordinary streets, in living rooms like ours. The cosy wallpaper that cov
ered up the cracks where the bodies were stuffed; the bath full of acid with the rusty taps and blackened overflow. I was sure we had the same bath mat as Christie.

  ‘Which one’s your favourite, Dad?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ I replied.

  part two

  Joanna

  one

  Summer, 1984

  Dad starts it off with me and Shane.

  I know he feels sorry for him, after the accident. Everyone in Calcot knows about it. Everyone knows Shane’s Dad, Derrick, can’t have looked. Was probably drunk. Everyone knows about the lorry that pushed them onto the verge of the Darvington Road, crushing the side where Shane sat. He was unconscious for days. Every day Mum would say, ‘Poor Sheila. Poor Sheila.’ And Dad would say, ‘It could happen to anyone.’

  It didn’t stop Shane’s dad driving, but he left soon after that. Now Shane and his mum never go anywhere. Poor buggers.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see that boy down the road, Joanna?’ Dad asks. He knows Shane’s older than me, bigger than me, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. ‘Why don’t you go and cheer him up a bit? He’s been through a lot.’

  ‘He’s bloody backward, that Shane Pearce, Dan,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t go on at her.’

  ‘He’s not backward,’ says Dad. ‘I know he’s not.’

  Then there’s an argument about what backward means, with Mum saying you can’t trust Shane, everyone knows what he gets up to. Nicking stuff from Old Buggery’s shop, hanging about late at night down the pools, scaring other kids. ‘Someone saw him with a flick knife,’ says Mum.

  ‘I’ve never seen the boy leave the house,’ says Dad.

  All summer Dad encourages Shane to come over. Shane doesn’t actually come in the door. He always stays outside. Dad pays him to help clean our car or paint the gate or clip the hedge. They work in silence, and from the living room window I watch Shane’s arms move as he throws buckets of water over the Cortina. Every week his skin’s browner.

  Shane doesn’t talk to me. If I walk out there, he looks at the ground. His black curly hair hangs over his face. His fat lower lip moves as if he’s chewing the cud.