Chapter 10
MICHAEL
This bleedin’ letter feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket.
I was up until gone two this morning filling in the application in a fit of…
I don’t know, right bloody madness Dad would say.
But the more I draw, the further away from this life I feel.
I’ve taken to heading down to Dad’s shed at the bottom of the garden, like some kind of thief in the night.
Working under the paraffin lamps, sitting between my old Chopper and a bag of compost. The small space smells of neglected half-finished jobs. Fitting. In a way.
I was running late for work. Carl had been holding the letter up above his head like the little shit he is, I’d snatched it away and haven’t had a minute of calm to read it. I’d had to borrow Mam’s car to get me here on time.
This is one of the new builds at the edge of the town.
All double glazed and high-ceilinged, not a patch of woodchip or Artex to be seen.
So here I am, up a ladder, the brush coated in paint.
The owner is being given a tour of the progress so far and has just walked into the room.
I can smell the hairspray keeping her militantly permed hair in place from here.
I sneeze as she beams through bright lips that match her purple leotard, straining above bright cerise Lycra tights.
‘I just knew the midnight white would be perfect,’ she purrs with the kind of self-congratulatory air that belongs to her lot. I nod, even though I’m pretty sure that the only difference in adding ‘midnight’ is the bloody price.
Jim pulls out his packet of Benson’s.
‘Oh, no smoking in here, if you don’t mind,’ she says. Jim rolls his eyes as she turns back to me. I don’t have a great poker face, so I’m not sure how my nod to her yakking on about how the bloody midnight white adds a certain je ne sais quoi might have landed.
I head outside for my break, sit down on the newly unwrapped garden furniture, and take out the letter. I look down at the writing on the front, the weight of what might be inside, compacted in the modest dimensions of the thick white envelope.
Jim joins me. ‘Give me bloody strength.’ He passes me a brew so strong that it could strip the paint better than the turpentine I constantly smell of these days. ‘She wants a dado rail in the lounge.’
I exhale and raise my eyebrows. ‘What’s a dado rail?’
‘Buggered if I know.’
I laugh, fold the envelope away and take a swig of tea.
‘She wants bloody clouds on the walls in the back room. I’ve told her straight, I ain’t seen no cloud wallpaper in all my years of decorating.’
He blows out a long plume of smoke.
‘I can do it,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘Paint clouds.’
He laughs then takes in my expression. ‘You’re serious?’
I shrug, taking another swig.
‘Well, blow me. Not just a pretty face, eh?’
‘I want paying full whack, mind.’
‘Leave it with me. Well, I never, we’ve got bloody Picasso working for us.’
He crunches the butt under his boot. ‘Best get back to it. Got a right bee up her arse that one, wants the lot done by the end of next week. Still, she’s paying well, which is what matters.’
We work flat-out for the rest of the day.
Mrs Thompson – or Just Jenny – agrees to look at a sample of my work before giving the go ahead.
I decline a swift pint once we down tools and head towards Kate’s, my gear and drawings rolled up in my backpack.
Danny is out of town and so she’d suggested coming over for tea and some peace and quiet to work on my portfolio.
I’d best sketch out some clouds first. We’d agreed ninety quid for the whole wall – if she’s pleased with the standard of course, she’d said, hand lingering on my arm.
* * *
My head is dipped over the pages in front of me, the clouds already done and I’ve added a colour palette beside the sample so Just Jenny can choose over-priced tins of Dulux.
I can hear Kate busying in the kitchen, singing off-key loudly to the radio.
She pops her head around the door. ‘Tea’s almost ready.
’ She wipes her hands on her jeans and stands behind me, reaching for the side profile of Alice.
‘This is stunning, Mike, really.’
‘I had an easy subject.’ She sits down next to me, hands lifting and examining the partial sketches of Alice’s eyes. I haven’t got them right yet; they look too sad, too lost. ‘I can’t quite get them right.’ I tip back in the pine chair and scratch the back of my head with a yawn.
‘How do you mean?’
I sigh and lean forward. ‘She was confident, but whenever I draw her, there’s this emptiness, like.’
‘You could always draw me instead. It’s got to be easier than trying to conjure her up from one night after a few pints, right?’
‘Aye. Maybe.’
She widens her mouth with her thumbs, fingers pulling down the bottom of her eyes. ‘How about this?’ she says, her words sloshing. I laugh.
‘Perfect, if you could just stay there for half an hour?’ I say, grabbing a pencil and roughly sketching her.
‘I would, but—’ she continues to talk through the face she’s pulling, but starts laughing and drops her fingers ‘—tea won’t cook itself, will it?’
I turn the page around and she snorts. ‘Dreamy, aren’t I?’ she winks.
I pull the clouds back towards me, Dad’s words echoing in my head. Art doesn’t put money on the table, lad. ‘Maybe I should be concentrating on this kind of thing instead of the application. I won’t get in anyway.’
‘Look, I know I’m not an expert, but these are so good, Mike, they shouldn’t stay hidden away.’
She lifts another page, the same side profile and the only one that I’ve tried to paint. Watercolours for now; I might move on to oils tonight.
‘Has she written back?’ she asks, fingers following the deep snatches of oranges from the street lamp, the purple black twist of hair along her cheek bone.
‘I…’
‘Shit!’ She drops the paper and rushes from the room.
The distinctive smell of veg caught in the bottom of the pan lines the edges of the walls.
‘Hope you like your cabbage well done!’ she shouts from the kitchen.
I get up and head into the small room, where she’s wafting smoke with a tea towel.
I open the window to let out the billowing smoke.
‘I was going to make bubble and squeak to go with the gammon. Chips do?’
‘You don’t have to cook for me.’
‘I like cooking. Well, I do when I’m not burning it.’ She heats up half a bottle of sunflower oil in the pan and I begin chopping the potatoes into chips.
‘So, did she write back?’ Kate asks again, lowering the sliced potato into the mesh basket, the oil fizzing and popping.
I lean against the counter and pull out the envelope. ‘This arrived this morning.’
Kate shakes the basket of chips.
‘So… what did she say?’ she asks.
‘It’s… it’s from Sarah.’ I turn the envelope around. ‘Recognise the handwriting.’
Kate takes out the gammon from under the grill and turns it over, slamming it back under the heat. ‘And what does fish face want?’
‘I don’t know, haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Give it here.’ I pass the letter over and she rips it open, unfolding the paper.
‘“Dear Mike”,’ she begins, clearing her throat.
‘“I’ve tried ringing but you’re either out at the pub or working, so thought I’d do it the old-fashioned way.
I’m not convinced your mam has been passing on my messages.
” Did I mention how much I love your mam?
’ She grins over at me. ‘“Anyway, I need you to know that—”’ Kate looks up at me, like she’s on the verge of wincing.
‘Go on, it’s fine,’ I reassure her, even though it feels like something’s caught on my ribs and won’t shift.
‘You sure?’
‘You’ll only make me tell you anyway. Shall I do the eggs?
’ I ask, needing to do something other than standing here with the sounds of next door having a row through the open windows.
‘“I’ve met someone”.’ She glances up. I pause, hand holding on to the egg carton.
I take out the eggs from the fridge and return with the carton in my hand, Kate looking at me, concerned.
I gesture with the carton for her to go on.
‘“We’re coming back home in a few weeks and thought it might be a bit awkward for us to bump into each other”. How considerate,’ Kate says sarcastically. ‘“And there’s something else. I’m…”’
‘Frying pan?’ I ask. But Kate steps towards me, taking the eggs from my hands. ‘She’s pregnant, Mike.’
I nod. Swallow. ‘Frying pan?’ I repeat. She holds her breath for a second then passes it over.
‘What else?’ I ask, turning the rings on and adding oil to the pan.
She looks back to the letter, scanning the words. ‘She says it’s a bit sudden, but Jasper says…’
‘Jasper?’
‘Yeah. What a dickhead name.’ Kate smiles up at me as I crack the eggs into the pan.
‘And…?’ I ask, reaching for a spatula, watching as the translucent whites of the eggs slowly solidify. I flick oil over the pale yolks.
‘She just says, that when the time’s right, it’s right, and that she wanted you to know.’ She folds the letter.
‘Shit, the chips!’ She lifts the basket and lays out a length of kitchen towel on the counter, scattering them onto the surface.
I’m holding my breath, my chest fit to burst.
Kate looks over at me. ‘You alright?’ She pulls out the gammon and places the two slices on a plate.
I exhale, sliding the eggs next to the meat.
‘Yeah. I mean, it’s not like she didn’t try to get in touch.
’ I think of the notes left for me telling me Sarah had rung and Mam’s looks of pride when I didn’t call back.
Kate adds the chips and we grab our plates, sitting down at the kitchen table at the end of the room.
‘Didn’t she say that she didn’t want kids yet?’ she asks, shifting her chair closer.