Can We Still Be Friends (24 page)

‘He thinks I might need an operation. But we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.’ Joy smiled at her daughter. ‘I’m so pleased to see you here. Your father needs someone.’

‘Mum. Don’t be ridiculous. Surely he can fend for himself. I’m not here to look after him. I’ve come for you.’ Sal didn’t feel much the wiser about her mother’s condition, but Joy’s closing eyes brought a halt to the conversation. Women’s bodies, she thought, became such a murky business as they aged. She remembered a man on the paper remaining in the pub one night till last orders. Normally, he was just a quick-one-for-the-road man but that evening he had stayed with them because he said his wife ‘was getting her undercarriage done’. If you thought about it, which she rarely did, one minute you were worrying about not getting pregnant and spending hours in the birth control clinics and then, after all that, once you did have children, your reproductive system turned against you and you had to have it removed.

‘Have you spoken to Jonathan?’

Joy’s eyes instantly opened again, and she smiled at the thought of her son. ‘He dropped by the other day. He’s in good spirits. Awfully busy, of course, these days, with his cases, and Fiona and the boys.’

‘Yeah, but did you talk to him about the operation and things?’ Sal pictured Jonathan there, briskly arriving and filling the thin house with his aura of capability while not actually doing anything.

‘Why don’t you see if you can get your father something to eat? That would be such a help for me. I did ask him to get the basics in. You could rustle up scrambled eggs, or something. As you know, he can’t even make toast for himself, and it would be a relief to think of you having a nice supper together.’

The kitchen had become a gloomy place, the fridge bare apart from milk bottles in which she could see the cream congealed under the silver foil cap. But she managed scrambled eggs and some baked beans and toast and, much to her relief and surprise, her father had
suggested a whiskey. She didn’t remember them ever sitting down to eat, just the two of them, before. They were both silent on the matter of her mother’s gynaecological problems, neither prepared to take steps into the potential embarrassment of the conversation. As Maurice cleared the few items from the table Sal stood at the sink squeezing on the rubber gloves, discovering the unappealing squelch of cold water in their tips.

‘So I thought I’d get the afternoon train back tomorrow.’ Sal spoke above the running water. ‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it? Or should I stay another night?’

‘The latter would be nice for your mother. I’m sure it will cheer her up to have a new presence in the house. You’ll take her mind off things. And next week we should know more from Dr Harris.’

It was only ten o’clock when Sal was left pacing around her old bedroom. She was plugged into her Sony Walkman listening to Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the raucous urgency of ‘Relax’ acting as an antidote to the oppressive quiet of the house. It was strange being in the room, preserved just the way she had left it when she started university six years ago. She could see where the paint had chipped when she tried to peel off the poster of John Travolta in his white trouser suit and the cigarette burn mark on her desk which she had tried to disguise with paint. Saturday night, and here she was, stuck in the permanent Sundayness of Cheltenham.

She flicked through her teenage diary and address book which sat in the top drawer of her desk. Doodles almost obliterated the floral cover and the only dates entered were of people’s birthdays and school terms. At the back there were addresses, rarely more than one assigned to each letter. She looked at a name, Pete, scribbled in dark-purple ink. Painswick Pete. She hadn’t seen him for ages. He was a laugh. She’d call him tomorrow and see if they could meet for a drink. She had his new number somewhere, she was sure.

The previous night’s rain had cleared by morning and the old town sparkled in the bright light of spring. Sal had woken in a good mood,
even attempting hospital corners as she made her mother’s bed. Seated in the small button-backed armchair, Joy was holding a copy of the
Herald
in her lap. Her daughter’s article on
EastEnders
occupied nearly half a page in the middle of the paper and was accompanied by a large picture of the cast in the market square.

‘I do feel proud of having a daughter with her name in print.’

Sal looked over her mother’s shoulder. ‘But they cut some of my best bits. Dad’s already let me know what he thinks of the paper carrying pieces about TV. I suppose one day I’ll write something he rates.’

‘Don’t be silly. He’s proud of you too. It’s just not his way to show it. Now go off and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you back here later.’ Joy’s eyes were clearer this morning. Perhaps it was true, thought Sal as she ran down the stairs. Maybe it would all right itself, like she had said.

She saw Pete immediately through the crowd in the pub where they used to meet when he took the bus into town from nearby Painswick. A greyhound was curled like a fossil at his feet.

‘My lady Salome, a pleasure.’ Pete leant forward to kiss her. He had never quite recovered from his stint as a roadie, adopting the faux formality of the concert stage, with its grandiose gestures and introductions. ‘Do you want a pint? Or have you got London habits now? Is a G and T more your bag?’

‘Don’t be daft. A pint, please.’ Sal looked around the bar, several tables filled with faces she recognized from years back.

Pete carried the beer mugs to a table in the corner. In his worn jeans and scuffed brown boots, his lank black hair framing a pale face lent an unexpected exoticism by slanting almond eyes, he had lost none of his teenage appeal. He still had the dark-red stud in his ear, the one that he always swore was an Indian ruby but most of her gang were sure was just glass. Sal suddenly felt uncomfortable that she was wearing her office shoes, plain black courts, as if their presence semaphored ‘ambitious career girl’, a condition she thought Pete would probably despise. She’d known him since she was fifteen and, although they’d once attempted sex, in a damp
dawn garden, they had both agreed to give up mid-session and just lie looking at the stars instead.

‘Are you going to introduce me to your dog?’

‘That’s Gina. She found me a few months back. We’ve become soul mates.’

‘Hmm, I can imagine. She kind of looks like you. Not exactly a cuddly animal, is she?’

‘“Cuddly”? Where’s that at?’ Pete reached across to run a finger across her fringe. ‘Like the hair. Very Iris Murdoch, isn’t it? What was that book you used to go on about?’

‘That’s amazing, you remembering. Yeah.
The Sea, The Sea
. But I remember you quoting Baudelaire at me, and I was ever so impressed by your French. What was it? Something about a serpent?’

‘“
Le serpent qui danse
” is the ode you’re referring to. Always a hit with the girls. No idea why.’

Sal drained her glass. The beer had made her feel bloated, but she didn’t want to fulfil Pete’s expectations of her going poncey on him by ordering a vodka.

‘Another round?’ She went to the bar, ordered two pints and downed a quick vodka and tonic before returning to the table. By the time the bell rang for last orders Sal was in full throttle, wallowing in old jokes and memories, made all the more enjoyable by being in the lofty position of the one who’d got away. She couldn’t have stuck living there like Pete, hanging out in the same old place, but it was good to be there right now.

Sal could hear Pete explaining about his occasional work with a posh painter and decorator, but it was background to the thought that had struck her, out of the blue, that what she wanted, quite desperately, was to go to bed with him. She contemplated just coming out and saying it: ‘Can we go back to your place now and make love?’ But that wasn’t really possible – even with all the talk about feminism and glass ceilings, girls didn’t say that kind of thing. Of course, boys didn’t either, not when you came down to it. You had to go through the process, didn’t you? He looked gorgeous, though. And she hadn’t had a shag in so long she might be in danger of closing up.

After the smoky room of the pub, when they left, the bright sun outside made her dizzy.

‘Why don’t you show me where you live now? I don’t want to go back home so early. It’s a lovely day and … you know … it’s good seeing you again.’ She shrugged. Pete considered her, silent for long enough for her to worry that he wanted her to leave. ‘OK. Let’s take Gina for a run.’

They set off across the town, Sal finding it hard to keep up, the way she always had, his loping stride leaving her trotting alongside. With one hand holding Gina’s lead, he reached for hers with the other. After what appeared to be an unnecessarily long walk, they found a patch in the park that satisfied Pete and, letting Gina off her leash, he collapsed on to his back, fumbling in his jeans pocket for a small brown lump of dope.

‘Brilliant,’ said Sal. ‘Just what we need.’ She lay on her stomach, feeling the sun through the thick denim of her jacket. When she took the joint, the smoke at first caught in her throat, before she exhaled and watched it float away like a streamer. When she sat up to remove her jacket, she saw him looking at her. He took her hand and circled a finger around her palm, gradually adding more pressure to the movement before pulling her slowly towards him. His kiss tasted sweet, and made her want to kiss him for ever.

The lights of the cars flashed through the window, making a pattern on the mattress below. Wearing Pete’s T-shirt, Sal stood circling a scrap of silk scarf in the air as she undulated to the fuzzy sounds of the Jesus and Mary Chain. Against the dark sheets, Pete’s was the whitest man’s body she had ever seen, his chest hairless save for a thin black line leading from his stomach to the darkness of his groin. She didn’t ever want to leave the room. The music mixed with the dope and the drink into a perfect nowhere land. She felt deliciously sore between her legs – she’d lost count of the amount of times they’d had sex. Pete stood up and walked across the small room to open a can of dog food for Gina.

‘It’s nearly midnight. You should be getting back, Sal. Come on. I’ll walk you.’

‘No – it’s fine,’ Sal drawled, following him and running her fingers down his spine. ‘I can stay here. It’s not a problem.’

‘But it’s not fine. Is it? Your mum is ill and they’ll be in a right state about where you are. I don’t want to be the one causing trouble. Get your kit on.’

He helped her into her skirt and shoes, leaving off her knickers and tights, which required too complicated a manoeuvre, and wrapped her in his ratty old fur coat. The sun of the afternoon had been exchanged for a bitter night, and he propelled her quickly through the empty streets, his arm around her shoulders, supporting her when she occasionally stumbled. Turning off the main road and into the row of houses where the Turners lived, they saw the blue flashing at the other end of the road.

‘Isn’t that outside your place? Shit. It’s the fuzz.’ Pete plunged his hands into his back pockets and was relieved to discover that the dope he usually housed there was absent. As they got closer, they could see it was not a police car but an ambulance, which was moving away. They ran the last few yards, but it had left the road behind by the time they reached the front door.

‘Go on, babe. Better find out what’s happening. Call me tomorrow.’ He gave her a kiss on her forehead. She didn’t move. ‘Have you got your keys? Come on, Sal. Don’t be a wuss.’

Sal nodded, finally unlocking the front door. There were no lights in the house, and every move she made was amplified by the silence as she walked towards the stairs, past the dark of her father’s study.

‘Where on earth have you been, Salome?’ His tone was curt. He never shouted – anger made his enunciation crisper, more measured. ‘I suppose you don’t know what time it is. Lost track, presumably.’ Sal stood at the entrance to the room, wearing the fur, her legs bare beneath it, and even in her condition she was aware that she was probably demonstrating the day’s heavy substance intake.

‘Dad, I’m sorry. The ambulance. Was that Mum?’

‘Yes, your mother has just left for the hospital. It’s precautionary, they say.’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s too late. I don’t wish to talk about it now. But I will say that the evening has not been helped by her having to worry about where you had got to, on top of everything else. But, of course, Salome, that is not something you would have thought about.’

‘But is she all right?’ There was no answer and, knowing that her father at this stage of the evening considered her to be a tiresome irrelevance, Sal climbed the stairs, passing a pile of sheets outside her parents’ room. Blood stained the white cotton. She ran up the next flight, to her bedroom, and shut the door quietly. She should have gone into his study to see him, she knew. Tried to make it better instead of walking away from him. It was typical that, when they should have been able to prop each other up, act as mutual support, the distance between them had never been greater. It was always like this, the pair of them isolated in their own worlds, neither making the effort to try to engage with the other. Lying on her old bed, she could see the streetlight outside, noticing the way it made a pear-shaped patch on the door opposite the window, as it always had. Then, she was asleep.

When she woke in the morning the house was empty. On the kitchen table Maurice had written a note in his small italic script. ‘Your mother is under observation but is stable. She is in the Leonard Ward at St George’s but will be returning home today.’ Sal filled the kettle and plugged it in. When she went back to her bedroom, she noticed that the pile of sheets had gone from the staircase.

She was angry with her father. After all, it wasn’t her fault her mother was ill, and she’d come to see her, hadn’t she, as soon as she was asked? He always made her feel as if she was failing him. When had he ever congratulated her on anything? He was a master of finding and focusing on the lapse in any situation, and that was if he focused on anything to do with her at all. At school she had managed to consistently achieve straight ‘A’s while appearing to do a minimum amount of work, and it was always the ‘lack of
application’ that he would mention rather than the good results. On one occasion, Joy, listening to his dry criticism of their daughter after a weekend of heavy partying shortly after her excellent A level results had been received, had stood up for their daughter, suggesting that ‘We should really applaud her for what even you, Maurice, must acknowledge are particularly good results. She deserves that.’ But this small speech had resulted in days of tension within the house and had never been repeated.