The Pools

by Bethan Roberts

  Burgrey Stores consisted of two narrow aisles, a chiller cabinet and a magazine rack. Packets of hair grips, combs and tights hung in the window. The shelves were heavy with dusty tins – peaches, pies, peas. Magazines and newspapers were piled on the floor as well as on the rack. The sound of a televised football match floated in from the back room.

  The girl was leaning on the counter, reading a magazine. The sleeves of her jumper were pushed up past her elbows. The skin on her arms was blotchy; the pattern of vein and skin made me think of pith on an orange. Both her elbows were smeared with a patch of ink. As her arms moved over the pile of newspapers on the counter, I wondered how she managed to scrub off all that ink every evening. Did it turn the sink grey as she stood in the bathroom, up to her elbows in soapy water? Perhaps she didn’t bother washing at all, but just let the ink rub off on her sheets as she turned in her sleep.

  I asked her for a packet of cigarettes, pointing to a gold box. It was all I could think of. I’ve never smoked, and I’ve always hated to see women’s mouths, particularly, pulling on the tips of those things, sucking them dry.

  I could see why a boy would choose her as a girlfriend. She had lots of shiny blonde hair that fell like a scarf around her shoulders, smooth cheeks, a pink little mouth, ready to open, and eyelashes painted with blue. Her curves were a bit like Kathryn’s used to be, only more so.

  ‘Is that it?’ Her earrings winked at me as she spoke.

  ‘And a box of matches. Please.’

  She turned and reached for the matches. Her skirt lifted a little and she seemed to pause for a moment. I looked away.

  Her bangles clattered as she slammed the matches on the counter. ‘One ninety.’ She held out her hand and looked directly at me, and I was struck by how grown-up she seemed. She was like a woman in a painting, standing there in relief against all those multi-coloured cigarette packets, a patchwork of government health warnings and gold seals behind her.

  I cleared my throat. ‘You know my son, I think.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Robert. Robert Hall.’ I tried to smile.

  She didn’t smile back. Her mouth was open, rimmed with lipstick, waiting. ‘Anything else?’

  What had I come here for? Whatever plan I had, it seemed ridiculous now.

  ‘No. Thanks.’ I put the money in her palm and turned to leave.

  ‘Rob’s nice.’

  I stopped.

  ‘Rob’s a really nice boy,’ she said.

  I turned round. She gave me a quick smile, and as she did so, the lipstick on her bottom lip cracked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He is.’

  She tossed her bright hair over one shoulder. ‘Don’t think he likes me much, though.’

  I approached the counter again. ‘What makes you say that?’

  She laughed. Then she half-closed her eyes and said, in a drawn-out voice, ‘I cannot imagine.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know,’ she said, and shrugged.

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  She looked up at me with big eyes. She didn’t blink as she curled her lips into a long, slow smile. Her pink jumper was tight on her shoulders and her chest as she leant over the counter, her bare elbows smudging the newsprint beneath. ‘You know,’ she said again.

  twelve

  Joanna

  December, 1985

  It’s Saturday and I wake up with a nose full of snot. I lie in bed, blinking at the light. My eyes feel like they’re sweating.

  The phone goes. I think about leaving it but know Mum and Simon won’t get up. He makes her breakfast in bed on Saturdays. I usually hear him imitating the noise of a coffee machine, like on that advert. Then she moans that he gets muesli in the sheets.

  RING. RING. RING. RING. The phone keeps going and my head feels like it might roll off my body, it’s so heavy when I get up.

  ‘Joanna?’

  Dad. He’s in a phone box. His money’s clanking.

  Then I think. He’s probably called every Saturday. Probably he’s called every Saturday and I haven’t known because I’ve been at the shop. Probably he’s called every Saturday and no one bothered to tell me.

  ‘Joanna?’

  Or perhaps this is the first time he’s called. He could have called me at Buggery’s. He could have found out the number.

  ‘Is that you, love?’

  I could refuse to speak. I could slam the receiver down like Joan Collins in Dynasty.

  ‘You’ve a right to be angry. I’m sorry I haven’t called before. I’ve been working nights. It’s been a bit – difficult.’ My just-woken-up breath stinks in the receiver.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I sniff.

  ‘Have you got a cold?’

  I sniff again.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. Lowers his voice. ‘Why don’t you come and see me? Would you? I’d really like it if you would.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Darvington. Didn’t your mum tell you? You can get the bus.’

  ‘Can’t you come and pick me up?’

  ‘Your mother’s got the car, Joanna.’

  ‘I’ve got a cold.’

  ‘Please come,’ the pips start to go. ‘It’s Two Saxton Close.’

  The line dies.

  I don’t bother calling Buggery to tell him I won’t be in.

  I wear the coat Simon bought me. I want Dad to ask me about it, but I’m not sure what I’ll say when he does.

  The sky’s blue and the freezing air makes my eyes feel less burny. The pavements shimmer with frost, like shop displays at Christmas.

  The heater on the bus blasts my ankles but nothing else feels hot. Everyone who gets on comments on the weather, claps their hands together and breathes into them, stamps their feet, then sits there steaming. By the time we’re halfway to Darvington, the bus smells like wet dog. I get my compact out to re-dust my nose. The powder’s started to crack around my crusty nostrils. My lips are tight. If I stretch the lower one the wrong way it’ll split and bleed. I do it, taste blood, then slick lipstick over the top.

  Dad’s flat is on an estate just like ours. There’s a pushchair, an old TV, a pile of wet newspapers and a black bin liner full of empties in the hallway. I climb the concrete stairs and stop outside the door. His number two sticker is peeling off around the edges.

  Before I can knock, Dad’s opened up. ‘I thought I heard your shoes,’ he says.

  He looks neat. Blond hair brushed to the side. Clean-shaven. Blue Stratos. I bought him that last Christmas. He’s never worn it before.

  He holds the door open and I walk in.

  ‘I wanted to get the place straight, before you came. That’s another reason I didn’t phone before. Not that it matters now.’

  And it is neat, just like him. But it’s like he’s piled all his stuff around the sides of the room. Everything’s arranged around a small rug in the centre of the floor. Record player. Stacks of albums. A couple of dumb-bells (new). A pile of paperbacks. Two chairs that look like they belong in a pub. A portable TV in the corner.

  ‘Well,’ he says, looking round. ‘It’s coming on. Tea?’ And he disappears into the kitchen.

  I hear the tap choking, the water gushing out, Dad saying ‘shit’.

  There’s a photo of me, aged about six, in a frilly frame on top of the portable TV. I’m wearing a green zip-up cardigan and wellies, and I’m grinning. Dad bought me the wellies. Mum asked him why he bothered. ‘It’s not like we go anywhere there’s mud,’ she said. ‘Sensible people stick to the pavement.’ But I loved jumping in puddles, splashing dirt up my cream tights. I’d pick it off later, leaving balls of fluffy mud on my bedroom carpet.

  ‘You can take your coat off.’ Dad turns in a circle on the rug, looking for somewhere to put the mugs down.

  It’s too cold in here to take anything off, but I unbutton. Dad watches me. ‘That’s new,’ he says. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘Simon bought it.’

  Dad
nods quickly then looks away. He gestures towards a chair, spills a bit of tea, rubs it into the rug with his toe.

  I throw the coat into a corner.

  We sit on the pub-like chairs. Dad hands me my tea and puts his down on the floor. Then he presses his palm to my forehead. ‘You’re hot,’ he says. ‘I’ll get some aspirin.’ He’s up and out into the kitchen again. I hear him rummaging in drawers, opening cupboards. ‘There’s some here somewhere,’ he calls. ‘Just a matter of finding the buggers.’

  After a minute, Dad comes back. ‘Can’t find them. Sorry.’ He shows me his empty palms. ‘Useless.’

  I smile and my lip splits again.

  Dad stands there for a bit longer, empty hands hanging at his sides. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  I sniff and swallow.

  ‘I have got tissues.’ And he’s off. Cupboards and drawers opening, doors banging.

  He hands me a battered box. ‘Mansize,’ he announces.

  I take one and blow.

  He puts a palm on my forehead again. This time he presses so hard that my head touches the wall behind.

  ‘Do you want to lie down?’

  ‘No.’

  Dad nods at my coat on the floor. ‘It’s nice, that. Must have set him back a bit.’

  There’s a silence while Dad chews his bottom lip and twists his watch round on his wrist. He’s lost weight.

  ‘Do you get on, then? With him?’

  ‘He’s a dickhead.’

  Dad looks surprised for a second. Then he slaps the top of the portable, throws his head back and laughs. We both laugh. I laugh until I start to cough. I taste the blood from my lip. Then we laugh some more.

  Afterwards, Dad says, ‘Shall we go out? Do you think you’ll be OK? I was thinking we could go out. Pub lunch. A treat. Would you like to? We could, if you want.’

  When I stand up he stops gabbling and stares. Then he covers his mouth with one hand and screws up his eyes and looks like he might burst. He puts his free arm round my shoulder. Brings me in close. His chest heaves. I smell him beneath the Blue Stratos. A smell like fresh mud. A Dad smell.

  Phlegm rattles in my throat. Dad puts both arms round me.

  ‘Lemonade? Good for colds. Best thing. Vitamin C.’

  ‘Coke,’ I say. ‘No ice.’

  It’s warm in the pub. Even with my blocked nose, I can smell the fug. Unwashed carpets, spilled beer, fag ends, old chip fat. I like it.

  While Dad’s at the bar, I go to the loo. The doors are thick with paint. There’s grime around every handle. The window’s open and it’s freezing. Artificial flowers, grey with dust, shiver in the breeze.

  I sit on the bog and the seat’s so cold it burns my bum. There’s no lock. I get a bit of pee on one hand because I have to keep the other on the door in case anyone comes in.

  When I’m done, I stand at the sink and look in the mirror. Someone’s scraped ‘I LOVE COCK’ into the paint beneath. Only too much paint has chipped off and it looks more like ‘I LOVE COOK.’

  My face is as yellow as my hair. My nose is as red as my Scarlet Fever lipstick.

  I take the end of my lipstick brush and scrape Shane’s name into the paint, underlining it, twice.

  Then I fish my can of Elnett out of my bag, spray, and go back to the bar.

  Dad’s sitting at a corner table, fingering a wilted menu. ‘Hi,’ he says, as if we didn’t arrive together and it’s the first time he’s seen me today.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘They do everything in here. Burgers. Sausage. Steak Pie. Chicken Kiev. Scampi.’

  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Feed a cold, starve a fever. You should eat something.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve got a fever.’

  A woman with crystal drop earrings and a red mouth puckered like an x is staring at us from the bar. She twiddles an empty glass round in one hand. The slice of lemon inside flops from one side to the other.

  Dad sees me looking at her. ‘She’s a friend,’ he says, nodding in her direction. And that’s enough to make her walk over, her x mouth unpuckering into a smile.

  ‘Is this your girl, Dan?’

  ‘This is my Joanna.’

  The woman studies me. She waves her empty glass towards Dad. ‘It’s about time love, isn’t it?’ she says, putting a hand on Dad’s shoulder. ‘She’s a lovely looking girl, Dan.’

  ‘She is.’

  She bends towards me and the crystal drops swing forward to her chin. ‘Look after your dad, Joanna. He deserves it.’ I smell gin.

  After she’s gone, Dad downs half his pint. ‘Joan,’ he says, shaking his head and smiling. ‘She means well.’ He glances at the bar and she raises her glass to him. ‘Looks out for me.’

  ‘Do you know everyone in here?’

  ‘I’ve come in quite a bit. It was lonely. You know. At first.’ He looks into his pint. ‘Anyway. You’re here now.’ He pats my knee.

  ‘I’ll have a burger,’ I say. ‘No onion.’

  He goes to the bar, gets another pint.

  We sit looking at the door, as if we’re waiting for someone else to appear.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Dad asks.

  ‘She’s fine. The usual.’

  Dad nods. ‘I don’t hear from her.’ He sups his pint. Pauses. ‘And school. How’s school?’

  ‘Usual.’

  ‘Shane?’

  I don’t say anything for a while. I study the swing doors, imagining him pushing his way in.

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘He’s – usual.’

  ‘Do you see him much?’

  ‘More than usual.’ A hotness pulses in my face. I look down at the menu. ‘Have they got ice cream?’

  ‘You’re looking after each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dad puts his elbows on the table and breathes out through his nose. The sleeve of his jumper dips in a puddle of beer. ‘He needs looking after, you know. It’s not his fault. Any of it.’

  My eyes feel hot again. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Being – like he is. It’s not his fault.’

  I run a finger down the condensation on my glass, tracing the bump near the lip. I think about my hand in Shane’s pocket.

  Dad drains his pint. ‘It’s not been easy for Sheila.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or for me.’ He looks into his empty glass. ‘Want another?’

  When Dad comes back from the bar, I’ve destroyed his beer mat. Shreds of soggy cardboard are scattered across the table. But he manages to clear a little space for his pint. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘You already asked me that.’

  ‘Oh.’ He gulps more beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and belches softly.

  ‘Are you remembering what I told you? About working hard?’

  I flick my hair over my shoulder. ‘Simon’s helping me with my homework.’

  Dad’s knee jiggles up and down, making the table shake.

  Then a red-faced girl arrives, puffing like a bull. ‘One burger. One pie. That’s it.’ She crashes the plates down on the table and swings back round towards the bar. Pieces of beer mat go flying into our laps.

  My burger bun has already gone limp. I bite into a chip. Everything tastes of snot today.

  Dad picks up his knife and fork and releases the steam from his pie lid. ‘He’s the brainy type, then.’

  ‘Kind of.’

  Dad loads his fork with pie, blows. ‘You can do it on your own, anyway. No need for extra help.’

  ‘It keeps him quiet.’ I wipe my mouth on a stiff serviette and examine the browned blobs of lipstick I’ve left behind. I give it a minute, then I say, ‘Why did you leave?’

  He swallows. ‘I thought you knew.’

  ‘The Power of Love’ comes on the jukebox. Jennifer Rush. I hate that one.

  ‘I tried with your mother, God knows. But in the end – ’ he looks off towards the swing doors, searching for something. ‘There’s not much you can do when you find out you don’t
want to be together any more.’

  I look up to the bar and Joan raises her glass to me.

  Dad reaches over the table for my hands. His fingers are damp and hot. ‘You’re cold,’ he says.

  ‘I’m ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes look massive and black. His eyebrows strain in his forehead.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, hoping he won’t cry.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  His fingers are tight on mine. I think of how I never showed him the rip in my palm that day at the pools.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘I’ve got to blow my nose.’

  He lets go of my hands and I rummage in my bag for a tissue. They’re all reduced to strings. I blow, and taste the saltiness of snot on my upper lip.

  It takes Dad five goes to get the gas fire lit. Finally it bangs into life and I kneel in front of the burners, warming my hands in the hissing heat.

  Dad comes in with the tea. ‘Get that down you.’

  We drink. After a bit, he says, ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything. I’m still your dad. It’s my job to get you whatever you need.’ His voice sounds scratchy and worn out.

  ‘I don’t need anything.’

  ‘What about Shane? Does he need anything, do you think?’

  I look over at him. He’s slumped in the chair, eyes closed. His chin looks baggier than it used to. His checked shirt pokes through a small hole in the elbow of his jumper. He opens his eyes and catches me staring. ‘Something the matter, love?’

  I shrug and he comes and kneels by me. We sit in silence and breathe in the burning dust.

  Then Dad talks again, and he sounds weird, whispery but urgent, like he’s been running. ‘I should have told you something ages ago.’ He coughs and there’s a smell of beer. ‘I meant to. But it was difficult. I suppose it’s all right, now.’ The gas fire’s scorching my sleeve. I wonder if it’s possible for your clothes to melt while you’re wearing them and still not feel warm.

  ‘Thing is.’ He pauses, gives me a look.

  ‘What?’