Love and Fallout (27 page)

Three minutes later she exhaled a long breath. ‘I've sent the healing of the sisters on you,' she said, recovering from her efforts like a medium after an encounter.

‘That's nice,' said Sam. ‘Do you think you could ask the sisters if they wouldn't mind sorting me out a cup of tea?'

Vicky's black eyes flashed in the firelight. ‘You ought to thank me,' she said, and vanished into the woods. In the morning a note fluttered from a tree saying Vicky had returned to Ruby gate where the energy was healthier. She wasn't the only one who needed a break. I made a pros and cons list in my exercise book.

Here

Rori

Learning

Making a difference

Home

No Angela

Bacon and eggs

Maggie

Hot bath

Warm bed

Telly

Telly

23

Bacon and Eggs

Mum moved about behind the frosted panel of the kitchen door and I watched her for a moment, happily contained inside her life, before turning the handle and interrupting it. She gave a start.

‘Tessa! What are you… God save us.'

Radio 2 was on and she was wearing her Eiffel Tower apron. Rows of jars jostled for space on the windowsill and on every other available surface. She was pickling again. She took a step towards me and then an immediate step back. ‘What's happened to your hair?'

‘Dyed it.'

‘What with?'

I touched my hand to my head, remembering I was back where personal appearance mattered.

‘You're filthy,' she said, taking a sniff at the air, which to me smelt of pickled vegetables and the tang of lemon cleaning spray.

‘Nice to see you too.'

‘Oh Tessie,' she wrapped her arms around me. ‘Of course I'm pleased to see you.' Her body felt warm and familiar and comforting. When we'd finished the hug she held me at arm's length.

‘Are you staying? Have you had enough?'

‘It's only a visit. A few days.'

I didn't know how long the visit would be, I just wanted time away from the camp, a night in a soft bed, or maybe three or four nights. I didn't want to admit that I'd been lured home by the thought of television and central heating, that I was too weak to hack it. I unlaced my boots and set them outside on the back step.

‘Thought you'd agreed to stop,' I said taking off my donkey jacket. The jars were everywhere, all with the labels removed, their shapes identifiable from having once contained mayonnaise or marmalade: she must have been hoarding her empties for weeks.

‘Ah well, here's the thing,' she said brightly. ‘It's for Paula next door, she's having a bring and buy.'

‘Do you think she needs this many?' If there was one thing Mum loved it was pickling. She did everything: onions, squash, marrow, cauliflower, beetroot, until one day Dad said he liked a gherkin as much as the next man, but there was a limit.

‘You should be pleased, Paula's doing it for your camp, because she couldn't get to the holding hands event.'

Pickling with impunity. ‘But all this veg must have cost a fortune.'

Mum laughed, which wasn't like her at all – money was no laughing matter in our house. She often shopped at the end of the day when the pricing gun was out, and she knew the best cuts of cheap meat and what to do with them: belly of pork cooked slowly, beef skirt, pork hock. It came as a surprise when none of my school friends had eaten corned beef fritters or mince slices.

‘Never mind that, what about this hair?'

‘I'm allergic to bleach.'

I moved a bag of beets so there was room to sit down at the table, which was only big enough to fit in the kitchen if you didn't extend the leaves.

‘What are these?' she said, sifting my hair and touching the scabbed-over blisters. ‘It must have hurt, love.'

‘Looks worse than it is.' For a while my scalp had been like bubble wrap. ‘Can I have a cup of tea?'

‘She could have burned all your skin off. You don't drink tea.'

‘I do now,' I said, waving her away from my head. The kitchen felt glamorous as a film set. The radio, the rollerblind with its tulip print, the shining chrome of the oven and the lino floor so clean you could eat your dinner off it.

‘Where's Dad?'

Mum raised her eyebrows in a
Where do you think
expression.

‘Who are they playing?'

‘Luton Town.'

I opened a jar of baby onions and munched a couple while Mum filled the kettle.

‘You should have rung. I could have got something nice in. What do you eat up there?'

I explained our vegetarian diet of ratatouille, soup and pasta.

‘Proves you can eat vegetables when there's no choice,' said Mum. It was true, I'd definitely come round to them, and even tried a few I'd never tasted before. Aubergine was quite nice, but Swiss Chard didn't live up to its intriguing name.

A stream of pure water shot into the kettle, a real kettle that plugged into the wall and only took a few minutes to boil – a white plastic kettle, so white it was almost funny. Mum leaned against the washing machine, arms folded. I crunched another baby onion.

‘What?'

She was smiling. ‘What have you got on yourself there?'

‘It's a bodywarmer.' I'd found it in the donation box. It had possibly once been worn by an Inuit woman. Or man. I took the bodywarmer off because it was unbearably hot in the kitchen and the central heating was making the hair on my neck prickle.

‘How many sugars?'

‘None please.'

‘None?' She assessed me without the extra clothing. ‘Have you lost weight?'

I decided not to mention my flu diet. ‘Might have. A little.'

In no time she was shaking the frying pan while the kitchen filled with the heavenly waft of bacon. She cracked an egg into the pan and listened as I gave her an edited version of daily life; a version that didn't include blockades, witchcraft or stand-offs at swimming pools. I thought it best to keep quiet about Angela too or she'd only tell me to come home where I had a warm bed and friends like Maggie to rely on.

I began relaying some things I'd learned at the camp. ‘Did you know we're renting a Trident submarine from the Americans? It's a ballistic missile called the D5.'

Mum said, ‘Is that right?' But her attention was on rescuing a knife which had slid to the back of the cutlery drawer.

‘It can send eight nuclear warheads halfway across the world.'

‘Ah!' Mum found the knife. ‘We look out for you on the news,' she said, setting the plate down. ‘Dad thought he saw you at the hand-holding event but it was difficult to tell.'

‘It's in this place in Faslane,' I said, ploughing on. ‘That's Scotland.'

‘But the camera moved too quickly so he couldn't be sure.'

I gave up with the Trident conversation. At least she'd seen Embrace the Base.

‘Didn't you think it was amazing?' I asked. The egg yolk glistened and ran deep yellow when I pierced it. Mum agreed that it was.

‘Me and Dad are proud of you for standing up for your beliefs, but you don't have to stay there. You've shown your support, haven't you? And they've got all those volunteers trooping in and out. So we were thinking you might want to come home for Christmas and make a new start next year.'

1983. The year the missiles were to arrive. I listened to Mum as I arranged my last perfect forkful: a triangle of bacon fat toast, a slither of white and a smear of yolk with just a lick of tomato sauce.

After the luxury of a bubble bath I dozed off on the bed wrapped in a dressing gown that smelled of washing powder, and when I woke up it took a couple of seconds to remember where I was. The poster of the ballerina reminded me. She'd been there ever since I was eleven and waking from a long fantasy of a grown-up life lived in pointe shoes. I knew ballerinas didn't have the sort of breasts I was destined to develop.

All the clothes I'd managed to live without were waiting in the wardrobe to be re-discovered. I put on a pair of jeans, which needed a belt to keep them secure at the waist, and a red V necked jumper. I'd almost forgotten it was possible to feel warm and fed and clean all at the same time.

The house felt different, the way it does when you come back from holiday. There was a new rug in the lounge with a pink and green floral design and tassels at both ends. Mum's china ladies, holding baskets or petting miniature spaniels, were gathered where they'd always been in a cabinet beside the television, only there seemed to be more of them.

‘Shall we go over then?' asked Mum, untying her apron. I'd said I'd go and find Dad in The Volunteer, where he always went after a match.

‘You're coming too?' She hardly ever visited the pub.

‘Special occasion.'

The three of us sat in the saloon bar, where the drinks were more expensive but you got to drink them in nicer surroundings. Roy, the pub dog, an old lurcher, stretched out his straggly grey body beside the fire. They already had their decorations up and I recognised the collapsible Chinese lanterns from years gone by. I'd tried engaging Mum and Dad in a conversation about disarmament but it hadn't really worked and eventually I'd given in to the pleasurable cosiness of the pub. It felt good to be sitting beside a fire that wasn't trying to smoke you to death, a supply of neatly chopped logs piled high in a dry basket.

‘Thought you'd be drinking pints by now,' said Dad, nodding at my brandy and soda. Dad's epitome of unladylike behaviour was a woman holding a pint glass.

‘She's got a friend called Rori. Short for Aurora,' said Mum, who liked the idea of me mixing with the upper classes, even if we were doing it on a patch of mud.

Dad raised his eyebrows; he wasn't interested in his betters the way Mum was. ‘So when are you back for Christmas? We thought we'd push the boat out this year.'

We'd been talking about it at camp, and if everyone deserted at Christmas, what sort of message did that send out? We needed to stand strong. Even so, I'd never missed Christmas with Mum and Dad, or Christmas Eve with Maggie.

The fire charred up a log until it cracked a fiery vein with a pop and broke in two. We sipped our drinks.

‘Is that a new jumper?'

‘Your mum bought it,' Dad said, looking doubtfully at his chest. Mum smiled at the pastel pink and yellow diamonds approvingly. It was the sort of jumper worn by men in golf clubs. ‘She's smartening me up.' He leaned forwards to Roy and patted his head, ‘We're old fellers, aren't we, can't teach us new tricks.' Roy raised his eyebrows, but seeing there were no pork scratchings on offer, closed them again and gave a deep dog sigh. We laughed.

‘You could start having a think about new jobs in January,' said Mum. ‘Worked hard for those certificates didn't you, don't want to throw them away.' She meant my typing tests.

‘Maybe.' I couldn't imagine going back to an office to work as a secretary.

‘Me and your dad might even be able to buy you a little car so you can get about. How does that sound?'

Was this an act of final desperation? They couldn't afford to buy cars.

‘You can't do that.' I imagined them lying together in bed plotting the best way to get me back home, and felt suddenly guilty.

Mum was smiling. ‘We want to.'

Dad nodded. ‘Call it a Christmas present. You could choose it yourself.'

‘You mean my own car?'

Dad nodded again.

‘Seriously?'

Mum laughed. ‘How would that be?'

That would be fantastic. I could go wherever I wanted, drive to the Common. Drive home. My mind began turning over.

‘Anyway, we've got some news,' said Mum, setting down her Pernod and black. ‘We tried to tell you on the phone, but you were in such a rush.'

‘The pips were going.'

From the other half of the pub, a cheer went up. A hatched door separated the public bar from the saloon, and if you were positioned in the right spot you could see a slice of the action. I caught sight of a darts player, and the profile of a girl leaning over the bar.

‘Back in a minute,' I said, getting up. The girl was laughing, chatting to the barman in a way I knew well as she pushed a row of bangles further up her forearm, accepting her change. I entered the noise of the public bar, breathing in the cigarette fug, ready to surprise the girl who was now carrying a pint and a half, a packet of crisps dangling from her teeth for comic effect. Typical Maggie.

The introduction to Sweet Dreams came on the jukebox, the synthesised pulsing before Annie Lennox's half male/half female vocal kicked in. Maggie walked steadily to a corner table and set the drinks down, dropping the crisps like a cat presenting an offering, and with her mouth free she bent to kiss the bloke sitting there. His back was to me. The room throbbed with The Eurythmics and the cheers of the darts match and everyone knowing it was Saturday and supping up the joy of it with their beer. I was in place to surprise her. She edged around the table to sit down and as she moved she caught sight of me: the expression that washed over her face was horror. The bloke turned in his seat to see what was wrong. He was wearing the denim jacket with the collar up, and there was gel in his hair. He used to laugh about men who wore gel.