Love and Fallout (19 page)

‘Oh yes?' I said, an ear on Rori and two eyes on the road.

‘She didn't give the details, doesn't talk much about herself. But she's deep.'

There was definitely a closed-off aspect to Angela, she had a way of retreating into herself even when surrounded by other people. Into herself or into a book. A biography of Saint Theresa of Avila, that was something she'd been reading at the fire, and I'd noticed the rosary beads she squirreled into her pockets if she was unexpectedly disturbed. Why wasn't she at one of the gates with the religious women if she was as devout as all that? Even though I was genuinely curious about Angela's dependency on heaven to re-configure global politics, it would have been unimaginable to actually ask her what she believed. She flowered like a winter crocus in Rori's presence, and she got along with Jean and with some of the others like Barbel, who loved everyone without restraint, but she and I had no natural connection. And now, after the journalist episode, I felt she might only be tolerating me for Rori's sake.

‘We're nearly at Sapphire gate,' called Rori after we'd been cycling for a few minutes, ‘that's where Sam used to live.'

‘Why did she move?'

There'd been a wobble when a car overtook us at a narrow passing place, but otherwise I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of freedom.

‘Some problem with her ex. And she said the mess was getting on her nerves, no one cleaned up.'

A clutter of tents and DIY shelters hoved into view, all jostling for space in the layby, and I caught the blur of a few placards: ‘Hoot if You Hate Cruise' and ‘Angry Wimmin'. I knew Sapphire had a lot of Rads and Revs, but wasn't sure what the difference was, only that neither group seemed keen on men. Rori waved hello as we passed, and I remembered Cat, the woman from the blockade, and wondered if she'd managed to escape the police cells.

‘Tuck in behind,' called Rori as we approached the main road. The cold air stung my lungs, and the traffic thundered perilously close, but I followed, moving when she moved, stopping behind her at the lights, eyes streaming wind tears.

She twisted around. ‘Ready?'

‘Ready!'

‘Let's go!'

With its market square and well-proportioned buildings, Newbury was more like Hitchin than Stevenage. It said cared for, comfortable, conservative. We walked into it like visitors from a ravaged country, bedazzled by shop windows.

After days of indeterminable vegetarian stews and canned food, we headed first to the bakery. ‘Heaven,' said Rori, biting into her second jam doughnut. She was wearing the short red kilt over leggings, her black coat pinned with badges, the pom-pom on her hat nodding as we walked along discussing the outside world. Like mine, her DMs were crusted with dried mud. In the window of Our Price I caught a harrowing glimpse of myself reflected in the top 40.

Inside the bakery, the hot pies had gone some way to disguising the particular tang of wood smoke, a smell like old kippers, which clung to our clothes and hair, but in the newsagents we were unprotected. At least the shop was empty. Rori seemed impervious to the disapproving looks the newsagent kept throwing us as we stood scanning the papers for Greenham stories.

‘Nothing,' she said, leafing through
The Sun
. I leaned towards a picture of Princess Diana with baby William. Mum loved the royals. On the day of the wedding we'd sat round the TV with the curtains shut to keep the glare off the screen, and she'd made a spread with a Victoria sponge and bucks fizz. Later, she'd bought every souvenir supplement going.

‘God save the Queen and all who pay for her,' remarked Rori. ‘That's this country's problem, the everlasting fawning.'

Before they'd agreed on Tessa, Mum had considered Elizabeth. I said nothing and picked up a copy of the
Telegraph
and turned a page.

‘This isn't a public library,' called the newsagent from behind his hefty moustache.

‘We'll be making a purchase,' said Rori, her tone light and pleasant. She picked up
The Mirror
and I reached for something called
The Berkshire Chronicle
. Leafing through the stories of small-scale fires and golden-wedding anniversaries, I stopped at the centre pages, opened my mouth to speak and aborted the operation immediately.

‘Anything in that one?'

‘Nothing,' I said, returning it to the pile.

‘Oh, here we are, they're bound to have something in the
Newbury People'
, said Rori, ‘they're fixated.' I tried to put
The Berkshire Chronicle
out of my mind. ‘Apparently they've had to expand the letters page because of us. This is from Mr Bernard Blume,' she assumed the voice of an affronted man. ‘Dear Sir, Why do we have to put up with the continual presence of these so-called peace women in Newbury when they're hell bent on causing nothing but aggravation to local people. My mother was recently disturbed when two women, who had clearly been drinking, were attempting to. Oh.' She stopped short and frowned.

‘What is it?'

There was a pause while she read on. ‘It seems they were having a pee in her garden after the pub. Whoops. Ah, here's something from Mrs Cosgrove, she's always in here, let's see now,' she said. ‘Yes, I think that's the full complement… waste of public resources… abuse of courts… eyesore… honest ratepayers. Bingo. What shall we award her?' I suggested a personally cooked meal from the lucky dip box, Rori suggested a full body massage from Sam, and we took turns suggesting until the newsagent bristled under his moustache.

‘If you don't buy something you'll have to leave.' We were hunched over, giggling. Rori straightened up and walked to the counter.

‘Good afternoon. Two Mars Bars please,' she said in her immaculate accent. He frowned, attempting to marry her ragamuffin outfit with her Minor-Royal's speaking voice. Meanwhile I selected a biro for Angela, testing it first to make certain the ink flowed.

Outside, the sun was still making bright shapes on the red brickwork of the town buildings.

‘Thought there might have been something by that journalist woman, April thingumy,' said Rori, retrieving a surprise third doughnut from her pocket.

‘I don't suppose everything makes it in,' I said, and changed the subject.

*

The smell of chlorine and wet towels took me back to school swimming lessons at Stevenage pool. A lady with damp hair passed through the turnstiles, fresh with the scent of citrus shampoo, her face flushed with exercise, and as I waited to pay, I thought of the dirt collecting in the cavities of my body, graining my belly button, rinding my toenails; the dried rain and woodsmoke seeping through my hat and into my hair. At camp we washed in buckets and bathed at a local supporter's house, a Quaker woman who let us troop through her home in our socks, but I was looking forward to a proper hot shower.

‘One adult please,' said Rori into the plastic porthole.

The girl at the desk lifted her face from her magazine and blinked as if she'd just bumped into someone she wanted to avoid. ‘Are you swimming?'

The badge on the girl's aertex shirt said Michaela; the badge on Rori's lapel said Cruise is Death.

‘My friend and I are paying for a swim, yes.'

‘But are you
swimming
?' repeated Michaela. Neither of us had costumes – like all the other women from camp, we were coming to shower, not swim. ‘I can only let you in if you're using the pool.' She passed her eyes between us to make sure I was getting the message too, then tapped the window. ‘It's on the sign.'

Customers are required to swim or entrance will be refused.

Rori remained pleasant but her tone was firm. ‘Could I see your manager please?'

If I'd been with Maggie I might have given her a nudge and suggested we get going, but I didn't want Rori to think I was the sort who buckled.

Michaela tucked her magazine out of sight and disappeared through a swing door, calling for someone called Keith, who arrived a minute later wearing a similar aertex shirt. His arms were surprisingly flaccid for someone who worked in a health facility, and his face, previously arranged in a ‘How can I help you' expression, spasmed minutely at the sight of us.

‘Is there a problem?' he asked.

‘I hope not. We'd like to pay for a swim,' said Rori.

‘The showers are for customers using the pool,' said Keith, indicating the sign.

‘We are customers,' said Rori. ‘That's discrimination.'

‘No, that's the rule, Madam.' The word madam was given undue stress. ‘If you come back to swim and you're wearing clean footwear, we'll let you through,' said Keith. ‘Perhaps you could tell your friends. Thanks, Michaela.' The swing door flapped behind him.

‘This is ridiculous,' I said, but no one was listening and Michaela had returned to her magazine. The thought of cycling back to the camp unwashed was too depressing.

‘Okay,' said Rori, ‘Time for plan B.'

16

A Pink J-Cloth

We stopped beside a set of railings. The previously patchy blue sky had been swallowed by white cloud and the wind whipped a stray thread of hair across my cheek.

‘Where are we going?' I asked, hoping Rori hadn't decided on an outdoor pool.

‘We're here,' she said.

‘Where?'

‘Here.' She pointed to the building. ‘Hot and cold running water,' she declared opening the door of the Ladies public toilets.

Like all public lavatories, it was the sort of place you wanted to get in and out of as quickly as possible. Small frosted windows reduced the daylight, and the scent of disinfectant didn't quite mask a base-note of urine. A petite lady wearing an overall sat beside the door. She was reading.

‘Good afternoon,' said Rori.

‘Oh, you made me jump,' said the woman, dropping the book to her lap. The cover showed a woman in a red Spanish dress falling deeply into the arms of a Latin man.

Rori apologised. ‘My friend and I were wondering if you might help us.'

The woman took in our generally unkempt appearance, her face settling into an expression of bemusement. ‘You living on the common?'

Without obvious embarrassment, Rori confirmed that we were and then explained our predicament. ‘We were hoping to use the shower at the swimming pool you see.'

‘Looks to me like you need one.'

‘We do rather.'

She fanned the air.

‘It's the woodsmoke,' I explained.

‘That what it is,' she replied cheerfully. ‘Well, you better have a wash in here then.'

‘That's very sweet of you,' said Rori, as if the woman had presented us with flowers.

‘Got something to wash with?' We hadn't, we'd been expecting the jet force of a swimming pool shower to rinse us clean. The woman unlocked a cupboard and pulled out a cellophane packet. ‘Couple of these should do the job,' she said, passing us each a new pink J-cloth. ‘What are your names?'

‘I'm Tessa and this is Rori.' She raised an eyebrow. ‘Short for Aurora,' I explained.

‘Sounds like a lady in one of my books,' she said appreciatively. ‘I'm Vi. Short for Violet.'

After checking we had towels, she returned to her chair.

In the age-speckled square of mirror, the new me stared wonderingly back at herself, her usually white skin sporting a new smutty tan from the campfire, her hair mostly stuffed under a hat with a few greasy tendrils escaping about the ears.

‘What a state,' I said.

‘Nonsense, you look fabulous,' said Rori, ‘grime's very this season.' I unzipped my sponge bag, but Rori's eyes were still on me, ‘You've actually got a perfectly lovely face.'

Never sure what to do with compliments, I usually felt obliged to refuse them immediately, as if someone were trying to give me money. But Rori didn't listen.

‘Take it from me, you're a peach,' she said, as if that was the last word on the matter. ‘Where's your shampoo?'

I handed her the
Timotei and she plucked off her hat, shaking out her curls. She'd already dispensed with her shirt and cardigan. I ran the hot tap until the water stung my fingers.

‘Don't mind me,' said Vi, who'd been temporarily left out of the conversation. ‘You get on with your wash and I'll read. Not that it's much cop this one.'

‘Why's that?' I asked, pulling my jumper over my head and praying no one would come in. We had to be quick anyway because I wanted to return Angela's bike on time.

‘Well, Fernando disappeared to his father's Spanish mansion just when Priscilla was expecting to marry him, so now she's in a right tizz because she's left her ritzy job as an air stewardess to be with him; anyway, Miguel, that's Fernando's brother, is sniffing around her, so it's obvious Fernando is going to leave the family crisis after his step-sister's funeral and come and take her back to Seville. That dispenser being tricky again?'