Smile Page 4

  It’s the speed and the solitude I enjoy. But that day it didn’t feel like solitude, it felt like loneliness. I told myself it was all those women, forty-five of them, and what chap wouldn’t feel separate?

  Someone behind me lit a cigarette. I turned round and wagged my finger at the notice, underneath the cartoons and my St Christopher, which said NO SMOKING.

  ‘But you are,’ she said, pointing to my smouldering fag.

  ‘I’m different.’

  ‘You’re different because you’re driving?’ She shrugged – I saw her in the mirror – and grimaced at her companion. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘You’re right about that.’ I drew on the cigarette. That morning I needed it.

  I thought: all these years I’ve been a forty-a-day man; all these years I’ve been trying to give it up.

  I looked up at the vast blue sky ahead of me. Somebody up there had a sense of humour.

  ‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small …’

  A few of the women were singing in high reedy voices. I remembered the hymn from when I was a lad; I thought, how nice they’re teaching it to the kids. But then I realized they’d altered the words.

  Instead of ‘The Lord God made them all’, they were singing ‘And we destroyed them all.’

  I looked in the mirror. Through the perspex roof, lurid orange light bathed their faces and the bowed, sleeping heads of their children.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said to myself.

  It didn’t sound like an oath; it sounded like a conversation-opener. I turned up the volume on the radio.

  I’d been warned about the traffic jams but this rally lark was even bigger than I’d expected. I’d turned off the M4 near Newbury, and the lanes were choked with traffic and people tramping along on foot – men, women and children – and DIVERSION signs. The air-conditioning had broken down and the coach was sweltering. My shirt stuck to me, it felt like I was wrapped in cling-film. But nobody seemed to be complaining. Behind me the women pressed their noses to the window and exclaimed about the turn-out. The hedges were grey and dusty from the traffic. Beyond them, in a lush green field, black-and-white cows were munching, unconcerned. I thought: nice to be a cow.

  The coach park was a large field. I sat while they filed out. I was tired; nowadays even driving tired me. Now there was a word for my exhaustion, it seemed worse. Trapped in my seat, I felt that echoing, glassed-in sensation again … that everything was happening a long way off, and separate. Yet crystal-sharp, as if I’d never seen a line of coaches before, or the deeper-green clumps of thistles amongst the worn grass. I realized, too, that I hadn’t listened to what the women said, or stored up their daft conversation as jokes for Wally. A bunch of dungareed peace women – what a subject! He would have enjoyed that. Why hadn’t I bothered to take it in? I felt panicky.

  They trudged off across the field, looking purposeful. I opened the boot; the mothers took out the pushchairs. Then I leaned against the coach. Over the far side of the field there was a coffee stall. A crowd of drivers stood there; they looked as small as insects and shimmered in the heat. I knew I should go over and join them, for my own sake. I’m a sociable bloke, you see, and if I started behaving out of character I’d give myself the creeps.

  I stayed, leaning against the coach, my eyes closed. I heard the murmur of the crowd, way beyond the field, and the muffled booming of a loudspeaker. It seemed to come from another year. My passengers had all gone. I told myself I was reassured by the smell of warm metal and the diesel fumes from another coach that was just parking in front of me. Trouble was, nothing smelt familiar. Or rather, it felt only too familiar but it was out of reach. It was like the first day at school, when you’re closed off in a classroom and you hear the familiar noises in the street outside but you can’t get at them. Like that, but worse.

  I was thinking about Doriza, and how I’d have to tell her. Sooner or later, I’d have to. ‘Why don’t you finish it up?’ she’d been asking me recently. ‘You don’t like my cooking?’ Our kitchen seemed so cramped with her in it, fussing me. I suppose most marriages aren’t as happy as people hoped, if we’re being truthful about it. (I was telling myself the truth that day, for the first time. You would too, in my position. The truth, it rears up and stares you in the face.) Fifteen years ago, when we first met, we had this fiery relationship. I’d met her at Paddington Station and she’d been what they’d call voluptuous. Wally would say big tits but it was more than that, she seemed soft and scented and foreign. Mysterious. But mystery’s the first thing to wear off, isn’t it?

  If we’d had children it would have been different. She’s always seemed so dissatisfied. She’s always asking me if I love her. If I get up to go to the toilet she asks me where I’m going. If I’m reading the paper she asks me to read it out loud. Sometimes I feel my head’s going to burst. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still fond of her. We’re probably no worse than most people. Maybe if we’d had kids we’d have had more in common.

  Dolly (I call her that), Dolly, I’ve got something to tell you … Know how I’ve been feeling not quite the ticket? …

  A skeleton climbed out of the coach opposite me. Well, it was somebody wearing a skeleton suit. He or she loped off down the field, amongst the crowds of people.

  I closed my eyes; the sun beat down on my face. I imagined Doriza smothering me in her arms – she’s a big woman – and soaking me with her tears. I imagined us having to be loving to each other, all the time. After this, we’d never be able to lose our tempers. I imagined the house hushed, and hotter, and closing in around me. I thought of Wally and Dave, my partners, shutting up when I came into the depot office … shuffling their feet and stopping their jokes.

  * * *

  I went to lock up the coach. There was somebody still sitting in it.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We’ve arrived.’

  ‘I know. I felt queer. Ill.’ She paused. ‘It must be the sun.’ She was sitting in an aisle seat, near the front. ‘I felt awful on the motorway,’ she said. ‘I thought I was going to be sick.’

  ‘On my new velour? You wouldn’t dare.’

  She looked pale, but then she was one of those redheads, with that white skin. Nearer to, I could see she was covered with freckles. Her hair was bushy; in the orange light it was like a halo around her face.

  ‘Yes, you do look peaky,’ I said.

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m not marching. I’d probably faint and let everybody down. I’ll just stay in the coach.’

  She didn’t. She climbed through a fence with me; we walked across two fields until we came to a little triangular meadow where they’d been cutting hay. Woods closed it in on two sides; there were bales stacked up all over the place. We sat against a pile of them. Above us there were larks singing – well, I think they were larks – and the occasional clackety-clack of a police helicopter.

  She was young enough to be my daughter. You should’ve seen her hands; they were so small, with faint bluish veins at the wrists.

  ‘I feel better,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit anaemic, that’s why.’

  We sat there for quite a while, in silence. She seemed to think it was perfectly natural, just to sit there with her coach driver. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind anything, that day. It all seemed unlikely. I’m not in the habit of sitting in fields.

  She closed her eyes. Most women feel they have to talk all the time, but she didn’t seem afraid of the gaps.

  For the first time since I’d heard the news I felt peaceful. I suppose it was the countryside, and the fact that she didn’t ask any questions. She was a stranger, and I didn’t have to tell her anything. Just because of that, I felt she was the only person I could tell.

  Before I could speak, she opened her rucksack.

  ‘Want a sandwich?’

  ‘I’ve got some in the coach.’

  ‘Have one of mine.’ She passed me a doorstep of brown bread, packed
with cheese and pickle and cucumber, and started wolfing down hers. For such a frail girl she had quite an appetite.

  She paused, with crumbs on her lips. ‘You don’t want any more?’

  I gave her back the other half. ‘You finish it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not that hungry.’

  ‘You’ll waste away.’

  I looked at her sharply.

  ‘Only joking,’ she said, prodding my solid chest. That decided me not to tell her.

  She ate in silence, tearing at the crust. It did me good to watch her. Finally she swallowed the last mouthful.

  ‘Got any kids?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘All those kids in the coach, they made me feel so sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  She paused. ‘Actually, I suppose they just thought it was a day out in the country.’ She was silent, staring at her toes. She’d kicked off her plimsolls.

  ‘I’d have liked to have kids,’ I said.

  She swung round and stared at me. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, realizing just how much. ‘Why not?’

  She gestured at the field, then up at the blue sky. ‘What, bring them into this world?’

  ‘Looks beautiful to me.’

  She made an impatient sound, and turned away. What was the matter with her? A young girl like her, who’d eaten her sandwiches with such relish, greedy as a child, she shouldn’t be talking like this. I looked at her horrible baggy khaki trousers, and her T-shirt the colour of mud. A lovely-looking girl like her ought to be wearing something bright … a mini dress. Something pretty, that would do her justice. I imagined her legs, under the trousers. Her ankles were as slender as a bird’s.

  She turned back. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘Listen, Frank, don’t you understand?’ She stopped and sighed. ‘Oh, I wish I’d gone on the march.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tessa.’

  ‘Tessa …’ I mulled over the name, fitting it to her. Then I grinned. ‘I know why you didn’t. So you could sit here with me.’

  She frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Only joking. Don’t mind me.’ I paused. ‘I mean it – you’ve made me feel a lot better.’

  ‘I couldn’t have.’

  ‘No, honest.’

  She flung back her head. ‘It wouldn’t have done any good anyway.’

  ‘But I just said – it has.’

  ‘I mean going on the march. Just a bunch of people.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done me good. One person.’

  She squinted at me, the sun in her face. ‘But what the hell are you and me? What can either of us do?’

  She had a small, flat, hard voice. I wondered how she’d sound when she was laughing. She ought to be laughing – a beautiful girl like her, on a beautiful day like this. And she shouldn’t be wearing those depressing clothes.

  I wondered how her hair would feel – soft or wiry. I imagined picking wild flowers and putting them into her hair. She’d probably slap my face. Anyway, the hay was cut and there was only stubble left.

  Beyond the woods, a helicopter clattered. Suddenly she turned and grabbed me. Before I could do anything, she pulled me towards her.

  ‘Frank, I’m frightened.’

  ‘It’s only a chopper.’

  She pressed her face into my chest. She repeated in a low voice: ‘I’m frightened.’

  I put my arms around her. She felt even more frail than she looked. I held her against me, feeling her sharp shoulder-blades and the knobs of her backbone. I pressed her bushy hair against my chest, bending my head and smelling her. She smelt of soap, and warm skin. She smelt young.

  I said: ‘Not as frightened as me, love.’

  We clutched each other, rocking. The hay bales bumped our sides. Far away I heard the hooting of cars in the endless traffic jams, and the sound of a tannoy.

  Then she disentangled herself, and in one violent movement she pulled her T-shirt over her head. She bent over to unbutton her trousers. For a mad moment I thought she was going to sunbathe. Then she swung round, tossing back her mass of hair.

  ‘Come on.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘But –’

  ‘You afraid? Who cares?’ She gestured at the woods. ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘But –’ I started again, and stopped. To be honest, this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me that often. Like, never. But wasn’t she going to smile or something?

  She moved her face towards mine. I looked at her white, freckled skin and her dry lips. She searched my face, seriously. Then we kissed. I hadn’t kissed anybody for a long time. She started unbuttoning my shirt and I tried to help her, with my clumsy hands, but before we’d finished she pulled me down on top of her, and wrapped her bare legs around me, holding me fast.

  Greedily she wanted more. She gripped me; there was something impersonal and determined about the way she did it. She kissed me, her tongue pushing into my mouth; she ran her lips down my neck, but when I drew back to speak she twisted her head away and just pulled me towards her again. Once she bit my shoulder, hard.

  At last she lay back, panting. Her skin was shiny with sweat. She was very thin; her breasts were so small they were barely there – just soft, pale nipples and a freckled chest. I wanted to hold her in my arms, but she was lying absolutely still, gazing up at the sky. She hadn’t smiled, once.

  There was a silence. Then she said: ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’

  ‘What about “Make love while the sun shines”?’ I said, trying to be friendly.

  ‘Love?’ She turned, and squinted at me. Then she said, in that flat voice: ‘I’d call it despair.’

  I parked the coach outside Belsize Park tube. There was this golden evening light across the parade of shops. Above the delicatessen the awning was still out; it seemed unbelievable that the shops had been open all this time, and that it had only been one day.

  I missed her. By the time I’d opened the boot, she’d got out of the coach. When I straightened up and turned, I saw her disappearing into the tube; she was hitching the rucksack over her back.

  I drove home from the depot and sat in the car outside our front gate. I knew what I was going to say; the words had been rolling round my head since the night before.

  Dolly, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m not just off-colour … (How could I put it?) As a matter of fact, I’ve got leukaemia.

  I’ve got leukaemia and I’ll spend the rest of my days, short though they are, here in this overheated house with you, pretending we’ve always been happy. I’ll have to behave like a saint because nobody, you or Wally or anyone, will let me behave like a jerk.

  Life’s too short. That’s what she’d said.

  Doriza was in the lounge, eating marzipan fancies. I paused at the door, and opened my mouth.

  Then the words came out.

  ‘Dolly, I’ve got something to tell you.’ I walked in and stopped in front of the gas fire. The words were different than I’d meant. ‘Today I met this girl, this bird …’

  Suddenly I felt airy inside, and lighter. The words came out in a rush.

  ‘See, we went into this hayfield …’

  Dolly stopped munching and stared at me.

  I watched her expression change.

  • Empire Building •

  IT DIDN’T LOOK much when he took it over, the Empire Stores, but a man with business instinct could see the potential. The previous owners had been fined by the Health Authority and finally gone bust. Hamid, however, had standards. His wife told people this too, with a small shake of her head as if she were being philosophical about it.

  The neighbourhood was a transient, shabby one, with terraces of bedsits and Irish lodging houses. The parade of shops, Hamid calculated, was far enough from the Holloway Road for people to rely upon it for their local needs, which he had all intention of supplying. The shops were as follows: a whole
sale dressmaking business with a curtained window behind which the sewing machines hummed – those Greek ladies knew the meaning of hard work; a dentist’s surgery with frosted glass; a greengrocer’s that had ageing fruit and early closing on Thursdays – now how can anyone prosper with early closing; then the Empire Stores, and next door to it a newsagent’s run by an indolent Hindu and his wife. Hamid put a notice UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT in the window of the Empire Stores and re-stocked the merchandise – liquor behind the cash desk, where he sat in control, and groceries along the aisles. His aims were not modest, but his beginnings were.

  His own wife and children were installed in a flat in Wood Green, three miles away, where the air was fresher and the neighbourhood more salubrious. The streets around the Empire Stores were not respectable; you need only have taken a look at the cards fixed to the newsagent’s window – even a family man like Hamid knew the meaning of those kind of French Lessons. Business is business, however, and it is a wise shop keeper who is prepared to adapt. Or, as his father was fond of saying: to those who are flexible comes strength.

  The local blacks were big West Indians who drove up in loudly tuned cars and who suddenly filled the shop. They bought party packs of beer in the evenings and left a musky male scent behind them. One of the first things Hamid did was to extend his opening hours until 9 p.m. Then there were the single young ladies who bought Whiskas and yoghurt and disappeared into the sodium-lit streets. How solitary was the life of these young English women with no family to care for them; no wonder they fell into evil ways. Hamid installed a second cold shelf and stocked it with pizzas, two ranges of yoghurts and individual fruit-juice cartons for these bedsit dwellers and their twilit lives. Such items moved fast.

  Sitting at the till, its numbers bleeping, Hamid thought of the dinner being prepared for him at home – the hiss of the spices as they hit the pan, the buttery taste of the paratha he would soon be eating. He thought of his son Arif, his neat, shiny head bent over his homework, the TV turned right down. He thought of his own tartan slippers beside the radiator. Passing them a carrier-bag, he gazed with perplexity at these lost, pasty-faced English girls.