If This Is Home Page 13

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow. Maybe.’

  ‘Your best bet is the Indian. Follow the road down and it’s on the left.’

  ‘Thanks. Goodnight, Ferne.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe. See you later.’

  She got up unsteadily and headed for the stairs to the rooms. I watched her leave and looked again at the menu. The women in the other bar screamed at something. The barman took my glass and asked if I wanted another. I shook my head.

  *

  There had been women after Bethany. New York was easy that way, and there had been adventures and brief affairs. Those that lasted over a month were few and far between, ending usually with an awkward conversation and on one occasion with the words: ‘Just go ahead and fuck O’Neil.’ But mostly it was just the hand on the arm, saying that I needed help, that no one could be that cold and survive. I did not think of Joe as unfeeling, but all the evidence pointed to the contrary. I had constructed a persona incapable of love in any meaningful sense; a man for whom true intimacy was locked off like a bank vault. Joe had always assumed everyone was the same way; or at least that O’Neil was. I thought of Edith and O’Neil, the two of them in bed and wearing their nightclothes, talking in hushed voices about the mess I’d left behind. I imagined the conversations they’d had over the last few months, how many times my name had been mentioned.

  Saturday, 7th July 1990, 1.41 pm

  Bethany’s father has tears in his eyes and is applauding as the procession comes to an end. Over the PA, the assembled crowds are asked to give a big round of applause for the carnival queen. There are loud whistles and shouts. Bethany waves for the final time. ‘I now declare the tattoo open!’ the announcer says, and crowds surge forward through the gates and spill out onto the fields. There are two large spaces, busy clusters of local stands and booths in the first; in the second, military equipment and personnel, fighter planes to sit in, helicopters to queue for and a fun fair with dodgems and a waltzer. In both there are sellers of balloons and hot dogs and ice creams. There is little shade. A few lads kick around a football, a family searches for a spot to set down their picnic rugs and begin their lunch. A knot of teenagers smoke and laugh, drinking from an oversized bottle of cider. The change is seamless, and Bethany is almost forgotten, standing still on the float on the periphery, her crown slightly askew.

  When she steps down from the platform, she is force-kissed by the footmen, who tell her how beautiful she looks. Marchers stream past, removing costumes if they can. A team wanders aimlessly towards the field, dressed as Egyptian slaves. ‘If we don’t win this year,’ one of the men says, ‘they can fucking forget it next time.’

  Her father approaches along with Hannah. He is smiling; as is Hannah, but in a different way. Someone wolf-whistles and Bethany can’t help but colour. It is a strange nothing space she’s occupying: not quite queen, not quite commoner.

  ‘You were amazing, love. Just amazing. You look incredible,’ her father says.

  ‘I look a mess,’ Bethany says. ‘I’m melting in all this stuff.’ Her father hugs her tight and whispers, ‘Thank you,’ one more time. She holds him as tight as she can. She kisses him on the cheek and wishes she could tell him the truth. All he has ever said is that she will always be his baby. Always. He says it in a way that is at once proud, protective and resigned.

  ‘I have to say that you looked okay up there. But I kept thinking you were going to freak out or something, or shout something to the crowd,’ Hannah says. ‘I’m sort of disappointed.’

  ‘Can someone get me a drink,’ Bethany says. ‘A Diet Coke or something?’

  Her father asks Hannah if she’d like something too. She asks for a Diet Coke and he sets off towards the queue for the ice-cream van.

  ‘You okay?’ Hannah says. ‘You look kinda odd.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Just fucking knackered. You know how exhausting it is to look happy for that amount of time? Feels like my face is going to fall off.’

  Somewhere a klaxon sounds and to their left some primary-school kids start country dancing, their parents surrounding the roped-off area, clapping along to the music.

  ‘I fucking hate the carnival,’ Bethany says.

  ‘Ah, but the carnival loves you,’ Hannah says. ‘You’re a celebrity now. You’re world famous in the North-West.’

  Bethany kicks off her shoes and feels the grass through the mesh of her tights. The thought of Daniel in the crowd makes her scan the area, hoping that he hasn’t followed her, that no one will see them together before they are due to meet. She has no idea why this is important, but still she searches. The only person she recognizes is an old school teacher and the woman who sells the cigarettes at Gateway.

  ‘Is this what happens when you become famous,’ Hannah says, ‘you start to ignore your friends?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Bethany says.

  Mike returns with the cans, freshly cold from the fridge, and they pull the tabs and Bethany drinks half of hers in one long pull. It freezes her head, makes her stomach feel immediately chilled and bloated.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she says as Hannah throws her cigarette to the ground and crushes it out.

  ‘No,’ her father says. ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything.’

  *

  Bethany has two more queenly duties: the first a photocall with the soldiers and airmen in the second field. Waller is late and heavily sweating, his mind lost in the agenda he carries on a clipboard. His expression is fatigued, which suggests that he has not reached his stated target yet; but his voice is light enough to imply confidence that he will prevail. A young male assistant is with him, his ill-fitting suit looking peculiar in the heat. He carries a walkie-talkie, which only adds to the incongruity: it is big and cumbersome. It clicks and barks just like the old CB radio Hannah’s father used to own.

  ‘We’re a very little under forecast,’ Waller says as they pick their way past picnics and coconut shies, ‘but overall, with a bit of a push later on both here and in the pubs, we should be okay. We might even make it to thirty thousand, which I never thought was even possible.’

  ‘That would be quite an achievement, Mr Waller,’ the boy says.

  ‘Let’s not count chickens, Olly. No chicken-counting here. Anyway, Bethany, I do apologize for your having to do this photocall. I did say that it was inappropriate, but they were insistent. Something of a tradition, apparently.’

  At the recruitment stand for the army and air force, they are greeted with a stiff salute from the commanding officer for the day. His name is Peters and he has a neat, greying moustache which makes him look both military and clonishly homosexual. Peters accepts Waller’s handshake in silence and turns his attentions to Bethany.

  ‘This is what the men look forward to the most,’ he says. ‘It’s the highlight of the carnival, these days.’

  Waller rolls his eyes; a moment later, Olly does the same. The dealings with Peters over many months have been fraught. He had wanted there to be a bigger military presence than ever before, an assault course, a hand-to-hand-combat demonstration and a tug of war between the air force and the army. Waller had vetoed them all. At meeting after meeting, he had tried to impress upon Peters the changes in the world, the changes in the country at large.

  Peters walks Bethany past a Harrier jump jet and then around a missile launcher. The men are lounging by a tank, waiting for them. They are dressed impeccably and the tank looks freshly cleaned, a shining olive green. Bethany wonders whether it has seen action, whether this is more for show than for real. In history, they’d studied the Great War and for a moment she is reminded of the paper tanks that had been used to fool the American public. The press photographer, the woman who took her picture earlier in the day, arrives just as Bethany is being introduced to the men. They are young, still coming to terms with their increased fitness and musculature. They shake her hand firmly and she tries not to wince. The one on the end of the line pauses before greeting her.

  ‘Bethany? I don’t know if you re
member me. We were at school together. Graeme. Graeme Lee? I was a couple of years ahead of you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says, having no recollection of the boy this man had once been. ‘So you ended up in the army, then?’

  He is still shaking her hand.

  ‘Chance to see the world. Learn a trade. Make a difference.’

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ she says. His smile never falters.

  The airmen march across; there are a dozen of them, their serge uniforms smarter and more elegant than the fatigues of the soldiers. She shakes their hands too, the head airman introducing each man as though she is important. The photographer smells slightly of wine and tells the men where to stand. The head airman – Jeffers – suggests that they line up by the Harrier, but the photographer simply shakes her head. ‘The tank’s better,’ she says. ‘Besides, we did the Harrier last year.’

  *

  Her picture is taken with Graeme Lee’s arm around her waist. He smells of an aftershave that she recognizes from the pub; a pungent sportswear-ish scent. It is over in a matter of moments, the photographer checking her watch and saying that she needs to be back in the other field for the judging of the floats. Bethany feels Graeme’s hand on her and thinks of Daniel again. Graeme is smiling. He lets her go.

  ‘Are you busy later?’ he says. ‘Perhaps we could go and have a drink?’

  He seems somehow confident that she will say yes; it is a curious kind of arrogance. She thinks she remembers him now as a shy but thuggish boy, a boy who sat quietly at the back of the class, but whom everyone knew to avoid angering. He was suspended, she remembers, for beating up a classmate. He had used a piece of wood.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m busy later. But it was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ he says. ‘Sometimes being in the army’s lonely, you know. It’s good to see a friendly face.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she says.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he says. ‘Like a princess.’

  ‘I’m a queen,’ she says, laughing. ‘But thank you all the same.’

  THIRTEEN

  I picked up my cigarettes and walked out of the hotel. There were lamppost halos, a steady stream of cars making their way up the road. A short walk to my right would take me to the Queen’s and the Red Lion; to my left my secondary school; to the north my father’s house; somewhere to the south-west the place where they found Bethany. They all felt far away. It was slightly chill and I buttoned up my jacket as I descended the stone steps.

  The Italian restaurant was half full, all wooden floors and bright lighting. I scanned the room through the glass, faces unfamiliar except for one table of four towards the front. Simon Beech and Ian Mawby were sitting eating pizza with two women I didn’t recognize.

  They drank their bottled beer and laughed; one of the women got up to go to the bathroom. It is possible that the two men remembered me; possible that they still had occasion to think of me passing them the football, shouting something random at them. If they’d seen me they might have paused, trying to place me. But I kept on walking.

  The Barclays bank was now a pub, two men guarding its door, the swinging sign above – calligraphic writing announcing it as The Counting House – the only clue to its previous incarnation. The noise was audible outside, the banners describing promotions on wine and cider. I paused for a moment, wondering whether this might be the place where the Coach’s regulars had decamped. But everyone I could see through the protected doors was young. Young and dressed for a night out. One of the bouncers looked at me and chewed gum. The other one spat on the floor. A group crossed the road from the High Street and a car sounded its horn. One of the kids flicked him the Vs as it sped past. No IDs were checked, despite how young they looked.

  Ferne would be dressed in her nightclothes, her salad eaten, watching whatever was on the television. Though I had met her only briefly, it would have been nice to have her with me, sitting at the window seat in the Indian restaurant. The dining area wasn’t bad, though it was overlit like all the new places I’d seen: as though people had become afraid of the dark. The table next to me was occupied by two younger women, but most of the patrons were my father’s age: roughly middle-aged and softly packaged, their cheeks reddened from the heat of the food. They could be any one of many people’s parents. Some of them could have known Bethany, some may even have been at the funeral.

  I ordered and passed back the menu, looked around at the diners. As I did, I realized the risk I had taken. I shifted my seat closer to the wall and closed my eyes, the way I had as a child, imagining that no one could see me.

  The food arrived and I could think of nothing as I ate; just the curry and the bread, the beer and the rice. It was better than the Indian places where O’Neil and I used to eat in New York. O’Neil had never seen the attraction, but would humour me when I got a craving. He preferred chilli, his own a version that consisted mainly of beer and bourbon, and was dismissive of any of the curries I forced him to try. I only went when I could no longer face down the longing, full as the curry houses were with ex-pat Brits, or small canteens where the food was too authentic and the waiters’ Gujarati delivered with ill-disguised sarcasm.

  I drank my second Cobra and stared out of the window, at the young people walking up Mill Street. The styles had changed little, still sportswear and earrings and short skirts. Hair was iron-flat, skin tone an unnatural orange or blistering white. They look happier than we ever did, Bethany said. You ever think about that?

  ‘Can I get you a dessert?’ the waiter said. The plates had gone and the table had been swept. A cooling twist of towel lay in a wicker basket.

  ‘Just the bill, please,’ I said and he nodded. The women on the next table were talking loudly.

  ‘Looks real from where I’m sitting, Trish. I’d kill to have legs like that these days.’

  ‘They look like scrubbers.’

  ‘They’re just having fun. Might as well while you can.’

  ‘If that’s fun, you can keep it.’

  ‘You weren’t ever young, were you?’

  ‘With my life? With my old man?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go Queen’s for a drink.’

  The woman shifted in her seat, looked at her watch. ‘Okay, but just one. Can’t be back later than ten. Going fucking kill me anyway.’

  ‘What’s that thing about sheeps and lambs? Me dad used to say something like that.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll call him first,’ the woman said, taking out her phone.

  ‘Oh, just come for a drink. Say it took ages for a taxi.’

  The waiter returned with their coats and I lost their thread. They couldn’t have been too much older than me, if they were at all. I knew them at school, Bethany said.

  The waiter had the bill, the waxy paper inside a leather wallet.

  ‘They were always like that, always bickering,’ he said with a smile. ‘Funny how things don’t change.’

  I handed over some notes and then looked up at the waiter. For a moment I thought it was Abel Farah, captain of the school football team.

  ‘Did you go to Kelmscott?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Eaton Valley. They don’t remember me, but I remember them. Bad girls. Bad girls both of them.’ He laughed and headed back to the bar. On the pavement, the two women were continuing their argument. If we’d stayed, Bethany said, that’s what we’d have become.

  *

  Where Mill Street meets Harrington Street you can see over the town. Green’s Off-Licence was still there, as was the motorbike showroom. The Masonic Hall too, dark and smutty behind a row of new flats. Fully dark now, there were stars in the sky, and the hum of cars and the smell of dope from a bunch of skateboarders sitting on a bench by the entrance to the Safeway car park. We bought our first joint from people like that. You remember? From a guy called Gillon, and you misheard and thought he said Dylan.

  I heard her laugh and saw her talking to one of the long-haired guys, him pas
sing her a spliff and her running across the road. Seventeen years old and with her arm in mine, telling me that she loved me. I must because I’d never have done that for anyone else.

  By the car park’s chain-link fence I lit a cigarette and followed Bethany up the street, past the discounted home and beauty shop, the butcher’s that had somehow survived, a betting shop with pictures of sporting legends unchanged since the late eighties, the same clusters of teenagers drinking on the benches, the same clack of shoes on the brickwork. You used to call this the gauntlet, you remember? she said. You always thought you’d get beaten up. I took a right up to the restaurant where I had worked; it was called something different now, candles visible through the window. The menu was sophisticated, but I couldn’t imagine such cuisine being prepared in the tiny kitchen out back. Things change, Bethany said. You can’t be surprised at everything.

  We passed the Chinese takeaway. Sore finger? she said laughing. You remember that, right? With Hannah we’d get chips on the way home, the Chinese woman asking if we wanted salt and vinegar and it always sounding like ‘sore finger?’ If there were a group of men there would be the inevitable joke and we would roll our eyes, even though we had found it funny many times before.

  The passageway dipped down and on my left there were three small conjoined cottages, tucked away, the bust of a local philanthropist between them. It was said that in his direct eyeline a young boy’s body had been found, drowned by the adjacent river. It was just a story, but we always walked quickly past the cottages and never saw anyone go in or come out. Creepy fucking place, Bethany said, always was.

  At the top of the cut we reached her old house, the lights off, the gate in need of some attention. Bethany’s bedroom window was at the back, the view extending over the untended fields. I sat down on the wall and smoked a cigarette, wondering if Mike really was still there, in bed now, dreaming of Bethany. No time for that now, she said. We have places to see!

  We walked past the Woodman, the sound of karaoke coming from the doors. To the right was a church, the gravestones bent by age. A man was shouting into his phone and for a moment I thought it was John Boxer. You’re not looking, Bethany said, this is not the place you left, so just let it go, okay?