The Trouble with Goats and Sheep. Joanna Cannon
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it would be wrong of me to speculate.’
There is only one thing his mother enjoys more than gossip, and that is withholding it from an interested party, based on her sudden unearthing of the moral high ground.
They argue. Brian never wins their arguments, his mother is far too practised and far too stubborn, and by the time he gives up and looks back into the avenue, the figures have disappeared.
‘That’s that then,’ says his mother. The cards still lie on the carpet, and she gathers several Virgin Marys on the way back to the settee.
‘What do you think they were doing?’ Brian says.
She takes another biscuit, and he has to wait for an answer until she has prised off the lid of the custard cream and examined its contents.
‘Well, whatever it is,’ she says, ‘let’s hope it involves getting rid of Bishop once and for all. We’ve had too many incidents around here just lately.’
For once, he agrees with her. The last few weeks had seen one disruption after another. The police never used to visit the avenue at all, now it seems as though they’re never away from the place.
‘I know one thing.’ His mother bites into her custard cream, and a spray of crumbs settle themselves down on the antimacassar. ‘It’s a good job you’re here, Brian. I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my bed, otherwise. Not as long as that man’s still at the top of the road.’
Brian leans back on the windowsill, but it digs into his spine, cracking against his vertebrae. The room is too hot. His mother has always kept it too hot. As a child he would stand in this very spot, staring through the window, trying to work out a way of making the heat escape and disappear forever.
‘I’m going for another cigarette,’ he says.
‘I don’t know why you don’t smoke in here, Brian. Isn’t my company good enough for you?’
She has gone back to threading Christmas cards. There is a theme, Brian thinks. She is threading another Baby Jesus on to a row. There are thirteen stars of Bethlehem. Thirteen preoccupied donkeys. A queue of Baby Jesuses to hang across the mantelpiece and watch them eat their Christmas dinner in silent, paper hats.
‘I just fancy a bit of fresh air,’ he says.
‘Well, don’t be gone ages. You know with my nerves I don’t like being on my own for too long. Not until all this nonsense is sorted out.’
Brian takes his tobacco tin and box of matches from the windowsill. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he says.
And he walks back into the darkness.
5 July 1976
It was Monday. The first real day of the holidays. The summer built a dusty bridge to September, and I lay in bed for as long as I could, holding on to the moment before I took the first step.
I could hear my parents in the kitchen. The noises were familiar, a sequence of cupboards and plates and doors, and I knew which sound would come next, like a piece of music. I squashed the pillow under my head and listened, and I watched a breeze press into the curtains, sending them billowing like sails. Still I knew it wouldn’t rain. You could smell rain, my father said, like you could smell the seaside. All I could smell as I lay in bed was Remington’s porridge and a drift of bacon climbing into the room from someone else’s kitchen. I wondered if I could get away with going back to sleep, but then I remembered I needed to find God and Mrs Creasy, and my breakfast.
*
My mother was being very quiet. She was quiet when I walked into the kitchen, she was quiet for the entire time I ate my Rice Krispies, and she was still quiet when I put my bowl in the sink. Although it was strange that, even when she was quiet, she still managed to be the loudest person in the room.
My father sat in the corner, cleaning his shoes on a piece of newspaper, whilst my mother orbited the cupboards. Every so often, he said something very ordinary to see if he could tempt someone into a conversation. He had already tried the weather, but no one had joined in. He’d even spoken to Remington, but Remington just beat his tail against the lino and looked confused.
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