Selfish People. Lucy English

based on repression and narrow-mindedness and he was going to establish a new method based on freedom. We moved to Brundall and he fell out with the anarchists. He did odd jobs in the boatyards and I was in my second year and my parents were having a fit … In the third year I was pregnant and I sat my finals with a belly like a barrel and that was in June and Jo was born in July. We got married because both our parents were having fits, but a wedding and a baby and they all became friends, even though Al’s dad writes books about Anglo-Saxons and his mum’s a specialist in Victorian women and my dad was just an English teacher in a tin-pot Catholic boys’ school and my mum’s, well, just a mum … But we were respectable and everybody adored little Jo. I got a 2.2, which was disappointing and Al kept working in the boatyards.

      But he was always a rebel. He fell out with the boatyard owner and our landlord and we got evicted. Just before Christmas we left Norfolk with all our things in a van and went to Devon because Al wanted to learn furniture making. Six months later he fell out with the man who ran the course and set up on his own. And Ben was born. We lived in a tiny poky cottage and we couldn’t move because the rents were too high. Then Al’s mother did a generous thing: she bought us a house. I wanted to go to a town because I was sick of the countryside and being alone but Al liked it in Devon and we had plenty of rows about that. But we came to Bristol because there might be more work for him here but there wasn’t. Then Tom was born. I started going to the Project. Al was always angry with the world and now he was angry with me and we haven’t stopped fighting. He gave up the business and remembered his aim to transform Education and he started training to be a primary school teacher … and here we are.

      She came down to breakfast on Sunday morning. Al and the children were round the kitchen table looking every bit of a happy family. I did the wrong thing, again. I was too independent and selfish. Why can’t I just shut up and be a mummy like all the other mummies and cook and sew and clean and smile at my husband. Why do I want a life away from all this?

      ‘Mummy,’ said Jo. ‘Daddy says you’re going to get a new house and live there and we’re going to stay here sometimes and see you sometimes.’ He looked at Al. ‘Does Mummy know yet?’

      ‘It was her idea,’ he said, glaring at Leah.

      ‘Will we have our own rooms?’ said Ben.

      She sighed. As far as she was concerned it was still an idea. She sat down and helped herself to muesli. She felt quite hungry.

      ‘Can we have a big garden?’ said Tom.

      ‘Look,’ said Leah, ‘it might not be for ages.’

      ‘Oh really?’ said Al, tapping the table with a spoon.

      ‘Anyway,’ said Leah, looking at Al, ‘it won’t be till after Christmas, will it? It can’t possibly be, can it?’

      He was triumphant and she felt how he could use this situation against her. He had told the children: everything to them was now, now, now.

      ‘You see,’ she said, ‘Mummy and Daddy keep arguing and I thought it might be better if I found another house because if we’re in different houses we might not argue so much.’

      ‘Why?’ said Tom.

      She ignored this. ‘But it takes a long time to find a house, a long long time, like, not until after Christmas and a long time after that.’ To the children this would seem like years. She wanted them to go away. She wanted to talk to Al on her own.

      ‘What I can’t understand,’ said Jo, going pink, ‘is, why can’t you stop arguing anyway?’

      The Project was quiet. Most people were out Christmas shopping or put off by the weather. The morning ticked over in the office. Leah wrote a presents list. At a rough guess it would all cost ₤200. She would have to discuss this with Al. The thought made her sick.

      ‘Hurry up and have your lunch,’ said Barbara.

      The café was nearly empty. It was run by Joan and her son Johnny. He was a neat little man with a long spotless white apron and immaculately manicured hands. His mother left all the talking to him but made her presence felt with strong perfume and loud blouses.

      ‘Leah, darling. Done all our Christmas preparations, have we?’

      ‘None at all.’

      ‘Oh, leave it to the last minute, why not? Mummy, Leah’s done nothing for Christmas and you were making puddings in November. She’s very well prepared.’ She came in with a plateful of mince pies and put them on the counter. ‘And there’s nobody to eat them,’ moaned Johnny.

      She sat at the far end of the café and listened to Joan and Johnny planning the next week’s menu. She ate her casserole, mainly for Johnny’s benefit. Then Bailey walked in. All those stupid rows were about you.

      ‘Mr Bailey, what can I get you?’ Nobody called Bailey ‘darling’.

      He ordered a massive fry-up with chips and three cups of tea. He plonked his sportsbag by Leah’s table and sat down with a thump. She looked at him. He was unshaven and grim.

      ‘Just thought I’d tell you. I’ve cancelled this arvo.’ He drank his first cup of tea.

      ‘You could have phoned in.’

      ‘Nah, I wanted me lunch.’ Johnny put Bailey’s steaming plate in front of him. Bacon, egg, sausage, chips and beans and chips. He began to plough into it.

      ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

      Bailey, with a mouthful of food, shook his head. He took a swig of tea: ‘Nah, it’s something else.’ She waited. He finished his lunch and lit up a cigarette. At this point Vic Rodgers came in.

      ‘Our sports chappy smoking? Can’t have that. Did you tell him about the bins?’

      ‘Er, not yet,’ said Leah.

      ‘Well, the compost bins are going to be moved to the back of the sports hall.’

      ‘So what,’ said Bailey.

      ‘Exactly. No problems, I thought so. Sometimes the direct approach is needed.’ And he left.

      Bailey snorted.

      ‘You mustn’t mind Vic, he’s terribly influential. He used to be on the Council.’

      ‘He’s a plonker,’ said Bailey.

      They sat without talking. Leah realised he was looking at the faint mark above her eye and instinctively she covered it with her hand. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ she said.

      ‘Can we talk?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Not here, I can’t talk about it here. Come back to my place.’

      She was once again in Bailey’s blue sitting room. She was anxious and he was not helping. He paced about, fiddling with everything: the fire, the ashtray, the newspapers. Eventually he sat down.

      ‘What’s the matter, Bailey?’

      ‘I’m going to have to pack in me job. That’s it.’

      ‘Why? I thought it was OK. Don’t you like it?’

      ‘It’s not that. It’s not the Project, or you, or nuffin. It’s me. I can’t hack it.’

      ‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ She was exasperated. Now there would have to be selections, interviews, and all before Christmas. ‘You can’t pack in your work just like that.’ She stopped. This was a man who had walked out on a wife and baby just like that. He was on the sofa looking despondent.

      ‘Why did you leave France?’ she said suddenly. He looked at her sideways. She had made a connection.

      ‘I can’t sleep,’ he said flatly. ‘I get bad dreams.’

      ‘So you have to pack things in. That’s weird.’

      He