The Pools

by Bethan Roberts

  I spent a moment wondering whether to give Paul a blue tit or a magpie. I eventually decided on a magpie.

  Kathryn came in and eyed my work approvingly. ‘Won’t be long,’ she said, ‘I’ll just make the gravy.’ I knew that today she wouldn’t be pouring boiling water on granules.

  ‘Anyone would think the queen was coming,’ I said in a voice I thought she might not hear, but she stopped in the doorway.

  ‘It’s important to him.’

  As we stood looking at each other, Robert poked his head over his mother’s shoulder.

  ‘Have we got time to go out?’ he asked.

  ‘You stay here,’ I said. I looked back at Kathryn. ‘Why don’t we have some wine, then?’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ Robert chimed in.

  It was a new thing for us, having wine in the house. I liked the brown bottles of Riesling with their elegant, tapered necks and gold writing on the labels. That writing always reminded me of the lettering on the flyleaf of Mum’s old Bible. I used to read Genesis sometimes, thinking that if I could read the whole book it would make me a better person. We were never religious, but Mum kept the Bible on her bedside table, along with a framed photo of Dad and me in the river at Darvington, a porcelain ballerina, and her teeth in a cup. Whenever I opened that book I smelled the mustiness of good words written on feather-thin pages, but I could never read much beyond the first few chapters.

  Robert tilted his glass towards me. I half-filled it. Paul also tilted his glass, and he got the same amount.

  I stood at the head of the table. The crisped roast potatoes had their own warmed dish; the peas and carrots steamed under a sliding knob of butter. The gravy sat in its jug, next to a jar of cranberry sauce, unopened since Christmas. A ring of chipolatas surrounded the bird; each was pink on one side, deep brown on the other.

  ‘Want to carve, Howard?’ Kathryn handed me the knife and three faces looked up, waiting for their meat.

  I knew my knife was too blunt for the job. I remembered that somewhere in the cutlery drawer there was a sharpening stick, unused. Paul’s father probably knew how to sharpen a knife on such an implement, wiping it back and forth along the granite at just the right angle, flicking his wrist like a painter. He’d know how to plunge the knife into the bird, puncturing the crisped skin with the tip of his blade and slicing through so that slivers of clean, gleaming meat folded down like yards of silk on a dressmaker’s table.

  ‘Leg or breast, Paul?’ asked Kathryn.

  ‘I’m easy, Mrs Hall.’

  The two boys exchanged a smirk.

  I sawed through the string that held the legs tight to the bird. It pinged back under the carcass, splattering my hand with pink juice. I stripped off clumps of breast meat and heaped them on the plates. Occasionally my blade hit a bone and there was a cracking noise.

  I served myself last: two wings and a stringy piece of breast.

  Robert picked up his fork, but before he could start to eat I raised my glass and cleared my throat. ‘We should make a toast.’

  Robert held up his glass, and Paul followed.

  ‘What to?’ Robert asked.

  I thought for a moment. The two boys leaned together, their elbows almost touching. I noticed that they both wore matching leather straps around their wrists.

  ‘To friendship.’

  We all drank.

  Afterwards, Robert and Paul washed up. Kathryn said we should leave them to it, so I poured myself another glass of Riesling and sat with the papers.

  I tried to concentrate on the print in front of me, but I kept getting halfway down a column and then realising I hadn’t taken in a single word. Their laughter was interrupting me.

  When I heard a squeal, I looked over at Kathryn, but she didn’t take her eyes off her book.

  On the third squeal, I stood up. My head felt slightly woolly from the wine.

  ‘Leave them,’ said Kathryn.

  ‘They might have broken something.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  I sat back in the chair and folded the paper on my knees. Then I unfolded it.

  There was another squeal, and a splash.

  ‘I think I should go and look.’

  ‘They’re fine, Howard.’

  ‘But I think I should check.’

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to hear me open the door, or what I expected to find behind it, but when I stepped into the kitchen the two boys didn’t seem to see me at all. Both of them had wet hair; Robert’s was covered in soap suds. The kitchen floor tiles were streaked with foam.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Paul let out a loud hoot of delight as Robert grabbed him by the arm and whipped his behind with a wet rolled-up tea towel. Robert’s eyes were shining, and his forehead was damp with perspiration.

  Then my son noticed me. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw something like shame in his face. A blush spread across his cheeks. He let the tea towel drop to the floor.

  I closed the door and went back to the living room.

  ‘Do you think it’s – normal?’

  We were in bed; Kathryn was trying to read.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The two of them.’

  She closed her book and rubbed her eyes. ‘Haven’t we been through this before? And didn’t we agree that it’s good for Robert to have friends?’

  ‘But it isn’t friends, is it? It’s just Paul. And has been for years.’

  She put her book on the bedside table and reached over for the light. ‘I think we should sleep now, Howard.’

  Turning off the lamp, she lay down on her side. But I remained sitting, staring into the darkness.

  After a while I said, ‘I think we should separate them.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘He’s fifteen. He should be doing other things. Moving on. It’s time.’

  She rolled onto her back. ‘We’ve been through all this.’

  ‘We could get him in at the other school. A fresh start.’

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference.’

  ‘So you do think there’s a problem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. Then she added, ‘They’re friends. That can’t be bad, can it?’

  We were both still. I wanted to put the light on again, but Kathryn turned on her side and curled her legs up towards her chest, as if she was about to sleep.

  I let a minute pass, and then I reached over and stroked her hair. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A new school would be the best thing for him, I think.’ ‘We can talk about it tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll ask about the other school. We can get him in there before he takes his exams. We should do it now before the term really gets going.’

  ‘It would unsettle him.’

  ‘No reason to be unsettled. He’s a confident boy. He’ll make new friends.’

  She said nothing.

  I pulled the sheets up around me. Robert had a duvet now, but we preferred sheets and blankets. I liked to feel their weight on me.

  ‘I’ll make enquiries in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be able to squeeze him in,’ I said.

  He was studying for O level Art. The new school, we were told by the headmaster when we met him to discuss the change, had a reputation for the arts.

  ‘All our departments do well, of course, but the arts are a particular pride for us.’ He leaned forward and smiled at my wife. He was younger than I’d expected, and wore round steel-rimmed glasses. On his desk was a framed photograph of a collie dog, and a colourful paperweight in the shape of a snail.

  ‘That was made by one of our fourth years. Pottery class. Lovely thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Kathryn agreed.

  ‘Unusual,’ I said.

  ‘Some parents don’t seem to hold the arts in much esteem, but we think it’s very important to nurture the children’s creative sides.’

  ‘Ro
bert’s always been keen on art,’ Kathryn said. Beneath the table, she took hold of my hand and held it.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘And we both think it’s very important.’

  ‘Even better.’

  Kathryn gave my fingers a squeeze.

  ‘Oh yes. Our son’s very good,’ I said, ‘very good. On the artistic side of things.’

  ‘Splendid. I’ll put him down for Monday week, then. Best to start as soon as possible.’

  In the car on the way home, Kathryn patted my knee. ‘Maybe it will be the best thing for him,’ she said.

  I tried to think of a way I could soften the blow. What could I do that would help my son to adjust to the new school? I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t make it any easier for him, so I decided on a gift.

  I bought him a professional-looking art set: a tin of graphite drawing pencils arranged by grade, 9B to 2H (as the man in the shop explained to me), a thick sketchbook with a hard cover, and a set of thirty-six Winsor and Newton watercolours, mixing palette and paintbrush included.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He ran the tip of the new paintbrush along his top lip. ‘They’re really soft when they’re new.’

  We were standing together in the kitchen. It was Saturday afternoon. Kathryn was pouring out some tea. We hadn’t told him about the change of schools. Not yet.

  ‘Why don’t you do your mother and me?’ I asked.

  ‘Draw you?’

  ‘With your new pencils.’

  Kathryn put the pot down. ‘Howard, I’m not sure – ’

  ‘Why not? We can be models.’

  Kathryn and Robert exchanged looks.

  Then Robert let out a short laugh. ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘I’d like it if you would.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Please.’

  His face softened. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll draw you.’

  We sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden for the picture, framed on either side by sprays of purple asters. I put my arm around Kathryn’s shoulder and held her close.

  ‘You don’t have to smile,’ said Robert. ‘But you do have to stay still.’

  We sat for what must have been an hour while Robert, balanced on a stool, squinted at us. It was the first time I’d seen him concentrate for so long; he shifted his gaze back and forth, his eyes darting from the page up to us, then down to his sketchbook. His eyes moved constantly, but his face stayed very still. Occasionally he rubbed at the page with an eraser and frowned.

  The bench became cold and I felt my bottom going to sleep, but when I shifted, Kathryn nudged me. ‘Can’t wait to see how it turns out,’ she whispered, giving me a sideways glance.

  ‘Stop moving,’ said Robert.

  He didn’t do that thing you see artists on the television doing – holding up the pencil to measure the perspective. He just sketched, and his touch was light, but deliberate. As he drew, I saw his determination to get it right, to see it properly: his frown was just like it had been on the day we’d watched the peacocks together at Brownsea.

  At last, Robert held the sketchbook at arm’s length and screwed up his eyes. ‘That’ll do,’ he said.

  Kathryn was the first to stand. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

  Before he could protest, she had his sketchbook in her hand.

  She stared at the page. ‘Look at this, Howard.’ She waved the book at me, as she’d done with his spelling book all those years before. ‘It’s just like us. He’s really got it.’

  Robert bit his lip and looked away, but I saw his smile.

  I stood next to Kathryn and we held the book together. There we were, in grey and white lines and smudges: a middle-aged couple sitting on a bench, surrounded by flowers. My hand looked big on her shoulder, and Kathryn’s nose was slightly too small, I noticed, but he had captured something. Perhaps it was her hopeful look, my questioning stare. Whatever it was, we were there, on his page.

  two

  Joanna

  October, 1985

  A boy called Robert arrives at school.

  When he comes into the classroom, he looks straight ahead as he walks. Not at the ground, or at anyone else (not even at me), but straight ahead, eyes front, like he’s in the army. Swinging his arms a bit, but with too much swagger to be military.

  His grey school jumper is smooth and straight. A black velvet tick swoops across his chest. No one else has one like it. No one else has trainers like Robert, either, fat and round at the ends and dazzling white. His laces are so white and soft-looking they make me think of the snowdrift we sometimes get at the bottom of the garden.

  After registration, I catch his eye. ‘You’re new,’ I say. ‘I’m Joanna.’ I give him a big beam, noticing the lack of whiteheads on his chin.

  He nods. Then he looks me up and down, batting his long eyelashes. He doesn’t fix me like Shane does. His eyes don’t go that far. It’s more like he’s summing me up, or taking a snap. Flash. Caught on camera.

  ‘Rob,’ he says, not smiling.

  ‘Miss said your name was Robert.’

  ‘It’s Rob,’ he says, cranking up those eyelashes again.

  ‘My name’s Rob.’

  All morning I watch him. His thick brown hair sticks up on the top of his head, making him look even taller. He’s tried to arrange the front of it in a greased curl, like my Dad’s in old pictures. A dry bit pokes out the wrong way, but it still looks good. He’s got flawless skin. A few faded freckles on his long, straight nose. A thin gold chain is draped around his neck. He plays with it a lot, twisting it round and round while he looks out the window.

  Last lesson that day is History.

  I slide in opposite Rob. We’re doing Enclosures, which is all about how the countryside was divided up so it looks like a patchwork quilt. I thought the hedges had always been there. I didn’t know they were planted to carve up the fields, for money.

  Rob twirls a pencil. It’s one of those ones with a big rubber on the end. He lets it slide through his fingers, catches it and twirls it again. He’s good at that.

  Halfway through the lesson, he leans over. ‘What have you got for question six?’

  ‘I’m still on two,’ I say.

  He grins. His cheeks dimple. ‘Good pen,’ he says, gesturing towards my pink plastic fountain pen. I look down at it.

  ‘I’ve got one like it,’ he continues, rummaging in his sleek metal pencil tin. He brings out a purple one, just the same. Then he says, ‘You should have it. It goes with yours.’

  I laugh. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Go on. Look. I’ve got loads more.’ He tips his case towards me. Shiny multicoloured pens are all lined up. ‘You should have it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Really. Take it.’

  I wonder what he wants.

  ‘It’s yours. If you want it.’

  I reach out for the pen. He smiles like he’s given me the crown bloody jewels.

  All month, I have Rob in my sights.

  One drama lesson I pick him as a partner. The theme of the lesson is ‘trust’. I don’t usually notice stuff like that, themes of lessons, but today I know I have to make the most of it, so I listen to what the flowery-scarfed teacher says.

  ‘Pick a partner and ask them to do something that you’d only ask someone you trust.’

  Skinny Luke McNeill moves towards Rob so I cut in, quick as I can. ‘Carry me, slowly,’ I say, touching the smooth sleeve of Rob’s jumper. I don’t know what makes me say it. It comes out before I’ve even thought.

  Luke flicks back his wispy blond fringe and attempts to stick out his little chin. He’s the only boy in the class who gets away with wearing a polo neck, and it makes his face seem even longer, his cheekbones even higher. ‘Rob’s with me, Joanna.’

  Rob bats his eyes, first at Luke, then at me. Those lashes make him look like someone in the centre of Smash Hits. For a minute I imagine him with staples in his flawless cheeks.
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  ‘I’m with Joanna,’ he says, not looking at Luke but at me. I put my hands on my hips. I’m wearing a white plastic belt. Mum says that’s a fifties siren look, your waist all pulled in and a tight sweater.

  Flowery-scarf comes over. ‘Good, Joanna, well done for working with someone new,’ she says, guiding Luke off by the shoulders.

  Rob stands there staring after Luke. ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘Carry me.’

  I’m surprised when he actually lunges forward, hooks his arms underneath mine and lifts me. My armpits are sweaty, but I’m wearing plenty of Impulse. My tits squash against his chest and our noses almost meet. I can feel the heat of his face on my cheek.

  ‘Are you going to kiss me, then?’ I whisper.

  He pretends not to hear, lets go, and drops me right on his toe.

  ‘Joanna will never trust you if you drop her like that,’ calls Flowery-scarf. I swear she winks at me as she says it.

  Luke McNeill looks at us from the corner of the room, pulling the sleeves of his polo neck down over his fists.

  I start to work Saturdays at Buggery Stores. I sit behind the counter and read magazines, take the money for fags and milk. Just Seventeen is usually spread on my lap. Old Mr Buggery would like to be there instead, of course. You should see him when I reach up to the top shelf for a packet of Dunhill. You’d need a trough to catch the drool. You can smell it too, something down there in his nylon trousers, giving off this nasty niff. I reach out one hand for the Dunhill and feel my polka-dot shirt riding up over my belly. Balancing on one leg, I stick an arse cheek in his direction, knowing he can see the bit where my tights go thin over my thighs.

  ‘Joanna, do you want a hand, dear?’ he asks, all innocent. I bet he’s really thinking of Mum without much on, though. She probably wore that sheer teddy she stuffs in her bottom drawer especially for him when they had their thing. She’s got a whole load more like that since she met Simon.

  One Saturday, Rob comes in.

  ‘Have you got Melody Maker?’ he asks, leaning a grey leather elbow on the counter, flashing his gold chain. ‘It’s a music magazine.’