At Hawthorn Time (19 page)

When he was little he’d sometimes dreamed of running away and becoming an outlaw or something; just camping out by himself, nobody giving him a hard time. One schoolday when he was eight or nine he’d just walked to the station and taken the first train he saw. On the train he’d found a ticket under one of the seats and put it in the pocket of his school shorts: it was dated the day before, but it was better than nothing.

It was brilliant being on the train by himself. He could still remember looking out at the unfurling landscape and the rows of back gardens, and the moment when he spotted a boy with a school backpack, a boy who could have been him, emerging from an alleyway and looking up at the train. He’d found himself waving, and another boy sitting near him with his mother had laughed. He had turned from the window to smile back in delight, but when he looked he’d seen that the other boy’s expression was cruel.

The town he got off at had until that day been a word he knew and nothing more. He didn’t really know why he got off there and not somewhere else. He just did.

The barriers were open, which felt like a sign. The town straggled uphill along a shop-lined street: Superdrug, McDonald’s, JD Sports. He walked all the way up the hill to where the shops began to give out: there was a dentist’s there, a big, red-brick church with a square tower and the gates of a school. He could hear the children in the playground: it was morning break. Nobody in the world knew where he was; it was as though he had stepped outside of his life for a little while, like he was invisible, a ghost.

The town was different from Connorville, but the same as well; it wasn’t another world, like he had pictured finding when he was on the train. He’d spent the morning just wandering around with his hands in his pockets, looking at the faces of the people going in and out of the shops: old people with shopping trollies, mums with prams. Did they have secrets? Were they happy, or worried, or afraid? Were they even real – as real as him, as Alex? It was impossible to know.

He’d sat on a bench outside the library to eat his packed lunch, and a tramp had come and looked at him for a while. Jamie had looked back at him, guardedly, and after a while the man had laughed and gone away.

At last Jamie slammed the bonnet shut and dragged the tarp back over the Corsa. He had been trying to fit the turbo all morning, and now his shoulders ached and he was in need of a shower before his shift started.

Working on the car quietened his thoughts. It was about problem solving: doing one thing and then the next. It made him believe in things changing.

Claire’s VW Beetle was parked slightly haphazardly by the kerb when Kitty arrived at the studio. Kitty let herself in, calling out a hello.

When Claire and her second husband had divorced she’d used her half of the money from the sale of their house to buy a flat in Ardleton and take out a lease on a vacant shop nearby. Once a greengrocer’s, it had since then been a cab office, a florist’s and a nail bar; none had survived for more than a couple of years.

Claire had painted the inside white, had a skylight installed and hung her own work on two of the walls; Kitty, who paid her a good amount each month in rent, had suggested they each put a painting on an easel by the window in case of passing trade, but Claire wanted to make the most of the light. ‘It’s a studio, Kitty dear, not a gallery,’ she’d said. ‘We’re here to work, not flog our wares.’ It was all right for her, though; you could buy her cows and dogs across half the county. Sometimes Kitty wondered if she was jealous of Claire; she didn’t want to paint the kinds of things Claire did, however popular they were, but she had to admit that while it was only a hobby, something she enjoyed doing for its own sake, she would love to sell a picture, to have a stranger want to look at it on their wall.

‘In here!’ Claire called out cheerily from the little galley kitchen. ‘Fancy a tea?’

Kitty put her bags down and went to look at Claire’s easel. ‘Yes please. What are you working on?’

‘Oh, that’s just a sketch really. I’m doing a pack of Basset Vendéens, I met the breeder at the agricultural show last year. Lemon and ginger, or raspberry?’

‘Oh – normal tea please. There’s some there, I think. A pack of them – so they’re hunting dogs, are they?’

‘Yes, well, sort of. For hares, originally. Lovely little things. Most sell as pets now, I think.’ She came out of the kitchen with the tea and handed Kitty a mug. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I went to the doctor. They’re referring me.’ Kitty had already told Claire about the fall; she had responded with a story of a friend of hers – ‘a bit younger than you, Kitty’ – who had fallen in the street and later been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Kitty hadn’t been able to work out, from the story, if the friend was still alive.

‘Who are they referring you to?’

‘A neurologist. Queen Elizabeth’s.’

‘A neurologist? Really?’

‘I know.’

‘Oh – not to worry,’ Claire said, although she continued to frown. ‘I’m sure they’re just covering themselves. What did Howard say?’

‘I haven’t told him.’

‘Oh, Kitty. Whyever not?’

‘He’ll just – I just want to find out myself. I’ll tell him when I know.’

Claire folded her arms. ‘Is that wise? Not to communicate like that?’

Kitty laughed. ‘Oh, Claire – we don’t communicate anyway. We haven’t for years.’

‘Really? And you’re OK with that?’

Suddenly Kitty wanted to reel the conversation back; she felt far too exposed. Claire’s views on relationships were very black and white, and there were things she didn’t think she could bear to hear her say; not now. Yes, in an ideal world she’d find a way to tell Howard that she was scared, and he would really hear her. But they weren’t in an ideal world.

She sighed. ‘Anyway, the appointment’s next week. Perhaps – would you come with me?’

‘Of course I will, my dear. And afterwards we’ll go for a large glass of wine and a proper chat, shall we? Really get to the bottom of things.’

‘That would be lovely,’ Kitty said, wondering what she had just done. ‘But now I must get on and do some painting.’

‘And how is all that coming along?’

‘Oh – not brilliantly. I don’t know. I feel stuck.’

‘Still?’ Claire put her head on one side. ‘With all that countryside out there?’

‘I know.’ Kitty sighed.

‘I wonder what it is that you’re
not seeing
,’ Claire said, narrowing her eyes. She could be like that sometimes; Kitty often thought she fancied herself as a bit of an amateur psychologist. ‘You must be looking at things in the wrong way. Have you read
The Way of the Artist
? It’s very good on observation versus inspiration. I’ll bring you my copy tomorrow. You must promise to read it though, OK?’

But Kitty’s mind was elsewhere. Who else had said that to her recently – about not looking properly? The image came to her of a silent pool in the woods, a plastic bottle bobbing slightly in the water. She set a sketch pad on her easel, found a pencil and, from memory, began to draw.

‘Kitty dear, are you drawing litter?’ Claire said a little later, coming to stand behind her easel. It was lunchtime; usually they walked up the road together and had a sandwich and a coffee or, sometimes, a glass of wine.

Kitty laughed. ‘No. Well, yes, I suppose I am. Listen, I’m going to work through lunch – would you mind getting me some water? Any kind, just make sure it’s in a plastic bottle?’

‘Of course,’ Claire said doubtfully. ‘I can’t believe you’re really going to paint a plastic bottle, though. What next? Crisp packets and condoms?’

‘It’s the way the light catches it in the water. Think of it as an exercise,’ Kitty said.

When Claire had gone she turned back to her sketch. It wasn’t exactly pretty, Claire was right, and it might well be that she didn’t take it any further. But she could feel an excitement building that she couldn’t quite identify and didn’t want to examine too closely in case it fled. Just something about focusing in. Something about detail, not vistas, and about it being
real
. A bottle floating over submerged grass. A scrap of dirty wool caught on barbed wire. A dank tangle of briars, the sunlight shafting in.

The others had finished work at five thirty, so when Jamie and Lee caught up with them after the evening shift they were already fairly drunk.

‘
Dicko! Dicko! Dicko!
’ chanted Nick as they pushed their way in among the crowd. It was packed and hot, the music thumping.

The Mytton Park lot were all standing at one end of the long steel bar. Jamie barely knew Nick; they’d chatted once or twice on a fag break, but they weren’t exactly mates. ‘All right, mate?’ Nick shouted now, draining the last of pint and reaching behind Megan to shake Jamie’s hand. Megan had a backless top on; she looked great – though she probably knew it. ‘Yeah, not so bad,’ replied Jamie. ‘What you drinking?’

‘You legend,’ said Lee, overhearing. ‘Mine’s a pint.’

‘Nick?’

‘Same, mate.’

‘Andy? What are you drinking?’ He mimed a drinking motion at Andy, who was grasping Lee’s arm and shouting into his ear. ‘Megan?’ He touched her arm hesitantly, aware of how cold his hand would feel to someone who had been in a packed bar for a while. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

She stood on tiptoes to answer, her breath warm on the side of his face. ‘Can I have a Bacardi and Coke, please?’

‘Sure. Can I . . .?’

‘Course,’ – and she made way for him at the bar.

As he waited to be served, turned away from the rest of the group, he told himself that with a couple of drinks inside him it would start to seem fun. It was always like this at the beginning, especially if you arrived late: you came in off the street to a packed crowd of people all laughing and shouting together and it took a while before you felt like you were one of them. It was always annoying at first, how hot it was and how loud, but soon enough he’d be part of it all.

When it was his turn he ordered a tequila shot and knocked it back on the sly before passing the other drinks over his shoulder.

The bar closed at midnight, by which time Jamie was definitely drunk. But so was everyone else, and worse than him: Lee had nearly got into a fight, and one of the bouncers had come over. Megan had had to calm it all down.

Outside a gaggle of people had formed around the bar’s entrance, smoking, laughing, phoning for cabs. There was a crowd around the cashpoint across the road, too, a different one: doleys in hoods and caps, a blonde woman in pyjama bottoms and slippers with a man’s coat over the top, a dealer half the town knew. Looking over Jamie recognised a lad who’d been in the year above him at school – except now he had a tattoo on his neck and his eyes were sunken and blank. Benefits, Jamie remembered, were paid out at midnight.

He turned away. ‘You coming to the Vault, then?’ he asked, grinning down at Megan who was sparking up a fag. ‘Should be fun.’

‘Oh, I see, it’s like that now, is it?’ she smiled back and blew out smoke.

‘Yeah, it is. Come on.’ And he started walking off, hands jammed in his pockets.

‘Jamie!’ she called, as though telling him off – but not really. It was lovely. ‘You don’t even know which way!’

Jamie laughed, spun on his heel, jogged back. ‘I wasn’t really. I wouldn’t . . . we’ve got to wait for the others, haven’t we?’

‘We have got to do that, yes.’ She only had a cardigan over her top, and she had her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched. What if he put his arms round her, just friendly, just to keep her warm? He pictured it: not anything sexy, just holding her against him for a moment, her letting him, maybe leaning in to his chest. Lee could have pulled it off, definitely; he wouldn’t even have thought twice. But what if he tried and she pushed him away and things went weird?

‘Want my jacket?’ he asked instead.

‘Ooh, d’you mind? You’re such a gent.’

But just as he was taking it off she called out a name, dropped her cigarette and clattered across the street to embrace a girl in a red dress and heels, the group around the other girl looking over non-committally as Lee, Andy and Nick joined Jamie on the pavement.

‘Who’s Tits talking to?’ said Andy.

‘Tits?’

‘Megan.’

‘Oh. Don’t know – friends of hers,’ replied Jamie, grinding out her abandoned fag butt with his shoe and shrugging his jacket back on. He could feel himself turning red. ‘She just went.’

‘Oh Christ,’ said Lee. ‘Not that lot.’

‘Why?’

‘Been out with them before. Fucking . . . young farmers or whatever.’

‘Don’t look it.’

‘Honestly, mate. Unbelievable.’

Andy started saying something filthy about pigs, but stopped when he saw Megan coming back over. ‘Ready, lads?’ she said. ‘That lot are going too – might as well all go together. Come on, Jamie!’ and she put her arm through his and led him back over the road to be introduced.

Four in the morning and Jamie was stumbling along the Boundway towards Lodeshill. The horizon jumped up and down as he walked, and when a car roared past he leaned too far into the hedge and nearly fell.