Selfish People. Lucy English

take them,’ said Leah, a bigger martyr. ‘Did you eat any of this?’ Two pink faces watched her tipping squashed Shreddies into the bin.

      ‘It was Tom’s fault, he did it,’ said Ben.

      ‘I didn’t!’ And Tom began to cry.

      ‘Shut up and sit down.’ Leah made toast. She was glad Jo was staying with a friend. Al was sneaking away. ‘I’ll take them to Rachel’s, I haven’t seen her for ages and I had this dream about her …’ She spread the marmalade, but Al was halfway up the stairs.

      There was silence in the terraced house kitchen which never seemed to get any light even when it was sunny. It was sunny now. She stood by the sink, her hands in the washing-up water, staring out of the window. The window looked out on to the wall separating them from next door. The children watched her nervously.

      ‘Yes. We can see Rachel and her boyfriend and Oliver and play with all his toys.’

      ‘And his battery car?’ asked Ben with a third piece of toast.

      ‘And his battery car.’

      ‘Has he got a torch?’ asked Tom.

      She ran a bath. She had a bath every morning. Despite the rush getting the children to school and Al’s protests she spent half her life in there. The bathroom was tacked on to the back of the kitchen. It was damp and full of black mould and slugs who slipped in at night to disgust those foolish enough to step on them in bare feet. She poured in rose oil and stepped into the sweet water.

      This is my only quiet space. Here I can float. Here I can be queen.

      Al rattled the door handle. ‘How long are you going to be? I thought you were going out?’

      ‘I am going out.’

      ‘When? When? I can’t possibly concentrate with those two.’

      She splashed the water over her. In the summer her skin went golden but now she felt pale and dull and flabby like a huge white slug. ‘When? When?’ She heaved herself out of the bath and opened the door to Al. She found it difficult to talk to him when he was angry.

      Why are you so angry? What have I done? But she said none of this.

      ‘I suppose you’ve used up all the hot water, then?’ said Al, sounding very like Jo.

      ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’ And she squeezed past him and ran up to her room.

      They had separate rooms. When they first moved to Bristol this was something to do with Tom being a tiny baby and Al saying he didn’t want to be disturbed any more. But that was four years ago. Leah’s room was neat and rather prim, with geraniums by the window and an Indian rug. China on a big chest of drawers, a carved mirror and watercolours on the walls. She had a dolls’ cot with six old dolls in it, dressed in gowns. In an alcove cupboard were all her clothes. Leah had plenty of clothes. Years ago she stopped buying china and paintings because they didn’t have the money, but she still bought clothes from jumble sales and charity shops. Al saw it as reckless extravagance. What shall I wear? She had to get it right, she had to feel right. Today, she chose blue and white striped leggings and a sea blue jumper: she wanted to feel strong and clear. Al was coming up the stairs. The children were squabbling in the front room.

      ‘When are you going out?’ He was standing outside her door, waiting, as if he wanted to catch her naked. He opened the door quickly, but Leah was dressed, in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Her hair was long and gold blonde. Al watched. Leah didn’t look at him, but at herself in the mirror.

      I am small. I have slanting blue eyes and a pointed nose. Sometimes I feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel like an old witch.

      He went to his own room and kicked something in the doorway. Al’s room was a muddle. Clothes on the floor, newspapers, cups of coffee, college projects, children’s drawings and half-eaten biscuits. If things from the house landed up in his room they were never seen again. It might have been his idea in the first place but Al hated having separate rooms. To other people he would say, ‘That’s my study,’ but it was obvious nothing could be studied in there. If questioned further he would get angry and admit it, with a postscript, ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t sleep together.’

      She phone Rachel twice but she was engaged.

      ‘So, when are you going?’ Al was still in his dressing gown. Ben and Tom were now playing a wild whooping game on the stairs.

      ‘Sod it, we’ll go now.’ She stuffed wriggling children into their coats and bundled them out of the door. ‘Good luck with your essay.’

      It was a long walk to Rachel’s, right over the park and up the hill to Totterdown. It was November. Leaves had fallen off long ago. The park looked wintry, but it was sunny. The city below was shades of pink and gold. The wind pushed against them, stinging ears and blowing hair all over the place.

      ‘Can I play with Oliver’s torch all day?’ said Tom.

      ‘We might not be able to stay long …’ They were at the highest point in the park and they stopped to look at the view. ‘Look, there’s St Mary Redcliffe, and there’s the suspension bridge … We might not be able to stay long because her boyfriend isn’t very well.’

      ‘Has he got measles?’ said Ben.

      ‘No, he’s got cancer, it’s a bit different.’ My dream, the picture world turning sad grey, and now I feel bad. He’s been ill since June and I haven’t been round there once. Rachel’s having a bad time with it. She watched two seagulls flying towards the city. Her children next to her were waiting for an explanation. Why am I always answering questions? ‘He has to lie down a lot. He gets very tired. We’ll have to be good and quiet.’

      The Wells Road was steep as they walked into the wind.

      ‘Can we have a snack soon?’ said Ben.

      ‘You’ve just had breakfast.’ He put on his grumpy look. He was the sturdiest of her children and tall for his age. Tom was flimsy and fine boned. He had golden curls. He was often mistaken for a girl. At that moment he was sucking his thumb, but Ben was frowning like a tank commander. ‘Don’t,’ said Leah. They turned into Rachel’s street and for a second were protected from the wind. Up here the houses were larger and grander than the terraced boxes of Garden Hill. Leah hesitated. She wondered if she were doing the right thing.

      Rachel opened the door. She was all in grey. Her face was grey too. She wasn’t surprised or shocked to see them. ‘Come in,’ she said.

      ‘If it’s not convenient, we’ll go away.’

      ‘No, come in.’ She moved into the darkness of the hall and Leah followed her. Oliver bounced down the stairs and when Ben and Tom saw him they all ran squealing into the sitting room, which was full of people. Upstairs were more people. Leah was confused: she had expected a hushed hospital-like atmosphere. In the kitchen was Rachel looking lost and weary. On the table were vases and vases of flowers.

      ‘Where’s Ian?’

      ‘He’s dead,’ said Rachel.

      ‘It was last week.’ Rachel wiped her eyes with a large man’s handkerchief. She was so thin her jumper was slipping off her shoulders.

      ‘Was it here?’

      ‘No, he was in hospital. I couldn’t cope with it here any more. They were decent. He had all his friends there.’

      Leah had only met Ian once. He was from Liverpool. He was down to earth, likeable and had friends everywhere. It seemed insane somebody so full of life should die like that.

      ‘He was unconscious. He kept slipping in and out … it went on for days … I’m glad it’s over.’

      Leah knew Rachel wasn’t hard hearted. Ian had rotted away for months. Rachel blew her nose loudly; she was not delicate sometimes. She looked delicate, though. She was pale and her hair was fine and very dark, cut