The Trouble with Goats and Sheep. Joanna Cannon
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rel="nofollow" href="#ucb4434ee-b3c0-580d-836f-a17d9e400750"> Number Four, The Avenue
27 June 1976
The roads on our estate were all named after trees, and Tilly and I walked home from the church hall along an alley which separated Sycamore from Cedar. On either side of us, lines of washing stretched like bunting across deserted gardens, waiting for the whisper of a breeze, and as we walked, drips of water smacked a tune on to concrete paths.
No one realized then that, in many years to come, people would still speak of this summer; that every other heatwave would be compared to this one, and those who lived through it would shake their heads and smile whenever anyone complained of the temperature. It was a summer of deliverance. A summer of Space Hoppers and dancing queens, when Dolly Parton begged Jolene not to take her man, and we all stared at the surface of Mars and felt small. We had to share bathwater and half-fill the kettle, and we were only allowed to flush the toilet after what Mrs Morton described as a special occasion. The only problem was, it meant that everyone knew when you’d had a special occasion, which was a bit awkward. Mrs Morton said we’d end up with buckets and standpipes if we weren’t careful, and she was part of a vigilante group, who reported anyone for watering their gardens in the dark (Mrs Morton used washing-up water, which was allowed). It will only work if we all pull together, she said. I knew this wasn’t true, mind you, because, unlike the brittle yellow of everyone else’s, Mr Forbes’ lawn remained a strangely suspicious shade of green.
*
I could hear Tilly’s voice behind me. It drummed on the parched, wooden slats of the fences either side, which were beaten into white by the heat.
What do you think? she was saying.
She had been turning Mr Creasy’s words over since Pine Crescent, trying to fit them into an opinion.
‘I think Mr and Mrs Forbes are in on it,’ I shouted back.
She caught up with me, her legs fighting with the sentence. ‘Do you think they were the ones who murdered her?’
‘I think they all murdered her together.’
‘I’m not sure they look the type,’ she said. ‘My mum thinks the Forbeses are old-fashioned.’
‘No, they’re very modern.’ I found a stick and drew it along the fence. ‘They have a SodaStream.’
Tilly’s mum thought everyone was old-fashioned. Tilly’s mum owned long earrings and drank Campari, and only ever wore cheesecloth. In cold weather, she just wore more cheesecloth, layering it around herself like a shroud.
‘My mum says Mr and Mrs Forbes are curious people.’
‘Well, she’d know,’ I said.
Back doors were propped open in the heat, and the smell of batter and roasting tins escaped from other people’s lives. Even in ninety degrees, Brussels sprouts still simmered on stoves, and gravy still dripped and pooled on heavy plates.
‘I hate Sundays,’ I said.
‘Why?’ Tilly found another stick and dragged it alongside mine.
Tilly didn’t hate anything.
‘It’s just the day before Monday,’ I said. ‘It’s always too empty.’
‘We break up soon. We’ll have six weeks of nothing but Sundays.’
‘I know.’ The stick hammered my boredom into the wood.
‘What shall we do with our holidays?’
We reached the end of the fence, and the alley became silent.
‘I haven’t quite decided yet,’ I said, and let the stick fall from my hand.
*
We walked on to Lime Crescent , our sandals sending loose chippings dancing along the road. I looked up, but sunlight shot back from cars and windows and punished my eyes. I squinted and tried again.
Tilly didn’t notice, but I saw them straight away. A tribe of girls, a uniform of Quatro flicks and lip gloss, with hands stuffed into pockets, making denim wings. They stood on the opposite corner, doing nothing except being older than me. I saw them weigh out our presence, as they measured the pavement with scuffed market boots and chewed gum. They were a bookmark, a page I had yet to read, and I wanted to stretch myself out to get there.
I knew them all. I had watched for so long from the margins of their lives, their faces were as familiar as my own. I looked over for a thread of acknowledgement, but there was none. Even when I willed it with my eyes. Even when I slowed my steps to almost nothing. Tilly walked ahead, and I grew the distance between us, as stares filled with opinion reflected back at me. I couldn’t find anything to do with my arms, and so I folded them around my waist and tried to make my sandals sound more rebellious.
Tilly waited for me around the corner.
‘What shall we do now?’ she said.
‘Dunno.’
‘Shall we go to your house?’
‘S’pose.’
‘Why are you talking like that?’
I unfolded my arms. ‘I don’t know.’
She smiled, and I smiled back, even though the smiling felt unquiet.
‘Here,’ I said, and took the sou’wester from her head and put it on my own.
Her laughter was instant, and she reached for it back. ‘Some people just can’t wear hats, Gracie,’ she said. ‘It should stay where it belongs.’
My arm linked through hers and we walked towards home. Past matched lawns and carbon-papered lives, and rows of terraced houses, which handcuffed families together through chance and coincidence.
And I tried to make it enough.
*
When we got home, my mother was peeling potatoes and talking to Jimmy Young. He sat on the shelf above her head, and she nodded and smiled at him as she filled the sink with soil.
‘You’ve been gone a while.’
I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or to Jimmy.
‘We were at church,’ I said.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said, and fished another potato from the mud.
Tilly’s laughter hid inside her jumper.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I took two cheese triangles from the fridge and emptied a packet of Quavers on to a plate.
‘He’s gone to get a paper,’ said my mother, and she drowned the potatoes with a little more certainty. ‘He’ll be back soon.’
Pub, I mouthed at Tilly.
I unwrapped a triangle and Tilly took off her sou’wester, and we listened to Brotherhood of Man and watched my mother fashion potatoes.
Save all your kisses for me, said the radio, and Tilly and I did the dance with our arms.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I said to my mother, when the record had finished.
‘Now, do I believe in God?’ Her peeling slowed, and she stared at the ceiling.
I couldn’t understand why everyone looked towards the sky when I asked the question. As though they were expecting God to appear in the clouds and give them the right answer. If so, God let my mother down, and we were still waiting for her reply when my father appeared at the back door with no newspaper, and the British Legion still smeared in his eyes.
He draped himself around my mother, like a sheet. ‘How is my beautiful wife?’ he said.
‘There’s