Selfish People. Lucy English
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after the meeting because you left it behind, because you were in such a hurry. You didn’t go to the Swan, did you?’
‘No,’ said Leah, thinking as hard as she could of a way to stop this getting worse.
‘You’re a fucking liar.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘What I think? What do I think? I think you were down the dogs’ home.’
‘I had a drink with Bailey.’
‘Ah ha, well, well. Mr Sexy Shorts. So how did this come about?’
‘I arranged it.’
‘A nice secret little liaison. I would never have known, would I?’
‘I didn’t want you to get upset,’ she said pathetically.
‘How nice of you. How sweet and kind.’
She felt foolish and wretched. ‘We can’t talk sensibly now. Let’s discuss it in the morning.’ But this was the wrong thing to say. Al exploded and pounced on her, shaking and hitting her.
‘You’re sneaking off under my nose and you won’t discuss it. You bitch, I knew you were with him …’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you? You went back to his place.’
‘I did … but I didn’t … I mean I didn’t …’
‘I can tell, you know, if you’ve just bonked. I can tell, you know.’ He began to pull at her clothes. Leah screamed but Al had lost control.
‘You let him do it, but you won’t let me, he’s all over you … he fucks you, and you lie and pretend. What do you take me for, a complete idiot?’ He had got her on the floor and was trying to pull off her clothes. She struggled and wept. The more she struggled, the more he hit her. Then from upstairs came a loud bump and a wail. Someone had fallen out of bed. Al stopped and Leah scrambled back on to the sofa. They both listened, then looked at each other like frightened children. Leah was crying and tucking in her clothes. Her arm hurt and her leg and her face.
‘Oh get out!’ said Al. She didn’t move. She thought he was telling her to leave the house. ‘Get out!’ he said more desperately. ‘Go to bed, that’s what you want.’ And she ran. Upstairs and into her room. But even her room didn’t feel safe. She was too scared to get undressed and got into bed with her clothes on. Under the duvet she trembled. This wasn’t the first time he had hit her. This is going to go on and on and what can I do? What can I do? Downstairs she could hear thumps and bangs: it sounded like he was smashing up the whole house, but she wasn’t going to move, even if the children woke up and cried she wasn’t going to move.
I was stupid, stupid to meet Bailey and lie about it. I will never be able to go out like other people and chat and laugh. I will have to stay at home always because he will always be angry and one day he will get something completely wrong and lose his rag and kill me, and that will be the end. He will get a knife and kill me and I don’t mind because it will be over … I will be in a coffin surrounded by flowers and he will cry … but he will go to prison and what about the children? Not his parents, that would be awful, but my mum, she could have them and make cakes and pies and they could play in the garden like me and Jimbo … My friends will all cry and send flowers … and Bailey? But I mustn’t think about Bailey … He will be upset, we could have been friends … I’m thinking of you in your jeans, smiling like you did when I left. Perhaps you’re in bed, perhaps you’re asleep and if I think hard enough perhaps you can hear me. I’m thinking of your room and the pictures of dragons and you’re in bed. Wake up Bailey, please wake up. Al is going to kill me …
Al suddenly burst into her room. She rolled over with a jolt. He went over to her bed and with a huge cry pulled one end of it from under her and tipped the whole thing over. She fell down and hit her head on the wall and the blankets and duvets fell with her. ‘Stupid bitch!’ he shouted and left, slamming the door and breaking the handle. She lay there, her head ringing. She was wedged on the floor between the upended mattress and the wall. Strangely, it felt safe and protected. She was very tired now, too tired to move. Wrapped up in bedlinen she felt like a chrysalis. It was better not to move. It was better to be still.
She was a girl at her parents’ house in Ruislip. The sun was shining on her bed. It was summer. Her brother was in the garden mowing the lawn. She could hear him up and down with the old mower. He was the boy, it was his privilege to mow the lawn. She was never allowed to do it. Up and down. She could smell the cut grass through the open window, the curtains were flapping. She could smell that sweet sickly summery smell. Up and down the lawn. The twin tub gurgled water down the drain. Mama was in the kitchen feeding the washing into the spinner. The baby was in the pram outside hitting the string of rattle bunnies and wafting upstairs was Daddy’s tobacco pipe smoke. She crept downstairs in bare feet. The hallway floor was tiled with yellow, black and brick-red tiles in a pattern. They were cold to walk on. She tiptoed into the study. Daddy Claremont was marking papers at his desk. He was an English teacher at the monastery. The boys called him Daddy Claremont. Jimbo told her when he started there. Now they both called him that.
‘Are you very busy, Daddy Claremont?’ she said.
‘So-so my fairy. Nothing to occupy you?’
‘I finished my game.’
‘Well, I’m still playing mine.’ He was puffing his pipe. He was in his weekend clothes: khaki trousers and a beige cardigan with leather patches on the elbows. She looked over his shoulder. He was circling words on somebody’s essay in red pen. ‘Cooper cannot spell, nor can he write English, nor can he understand the beauty of Hopkins.’
‘Is he in Jimbo’s class?’
‘No my petal, he’s in the upper fifth. Could do better, Cooper.’ He stopped writing and puffed his pipe. She wanted to ask if she could help with the lawn but she knew he would say no. She wished she was a boy. They had much more fun.
‘How about helping Mama?’
She grimaced. ‘I think she’s nearly finished.’
‘Play with the baby?’
‘She’s not crying.’ This was the worst option. All babies did was sleep and poo and cry. Outside, Jimbo was still struggling up and down the lawn. He was a year older than her but she was the same size and she was much stronger. She looked around the study. On either side of the fireplace were shelves of books, rows and rows up to the ceiling. There was a large map of the world on the wall and framed photographs of India. On the desk were several fossils, a sheep’s skull and a horseshoe. Her father went back to his marking. ‘Ah, Eldon the elder, let’s see what you have to offer …’
‘Can I read?’ said Leah. ‘Can I read an art book? I’ll be very quiet.’
‘Any noise …’ warned her father.
She was delighted. She chose a large book called The Renaissance. She took it to the sofa at the far end of the room. She opened it. It smelt of clean paper with only the faintest whiff of pipe. This was her favourite book. She didn’t read it, although she could have. She looked at each picture over and over again. A lady coming out of the sea on a shell, a wind god blowing her hair. Another lady in a flowery wood. Little cherubs in the sky and a man with not much on and three ladies dancing. That was called Primavera which meant ‘Spring’. In the paintings the women had hair to their waists and the men looked like angels with wistful sad faces. This painting was called St Sebastian and he was the most beautiful of them all. Strapped up a tree in a strange stony landscape and being shot at with arrows. He was staring up to heaven in a resigned sort of way. His wavy hair was down to his shoulders. He looked like no man she had ever seen. He didn’t have a moustache or a hairy chest or go pink in the sun. He was tall and smooth and beautiful and so sad she wanted to cry …
She was woken by Jo peering over the edge of the mattress. ‘Mum, what have you done