he dedicated to Teddy, and
Ampersand
, which he dedicated to me. Usually he just put her name, but for
Affliction
the dedication read, “For Alys. Always.” ’
I nod as if this is news to me.
‘I think she wanted her name taken off that book,’ she says. ‘And I don’t know why.’
‘Well,’ I say, sitting back; I’ve been leaning forward, listening and thinking hard. A siren wails louder and louder, then fades away as a police car speeds past the end of the street. ‘It was just one of those things, wasn’t it? It doesn’t sound very serious.’
‘It doesn’t
sound
like it,’ agrees Polly, looking down into her empty glass. ‘But something had happened. Something which my mother was taking seriously. Still – I’m glad you heard her say what she did. I can’t tell you how much it helps.’
I look at my watch. It’s nearly 1 a.m.
Together we take the throw and the cushions off the sofa, and tug out the bed frame, and then I help her to make up the mattress with some clean sheets. I give her a pillow and a blanket from my bedroom, and a T-shirt to sleep in, and I offer her a spare toothbrush, but there’s one in the interior pocket of her silver satchel. ‘It’s nothing to do with being a dirty stop-out,’ she says, though I feel free to draw my own conclusions about that. ‘I’m a bit OCD about my teeth.’
I say good night and leave her to it, clicking off the light on the landing and starting to climb the stairs.
‘Frances?’ she calls.
I go back and open the door wider, and she’s sitting up inbed, the sheet pulled tight over her knees. ‘Can you leave the hall light on?’ she asks. ‘I’m not very good in the dark.’
I sleep very badly, disturbed by noises that are part of the usual nocturnal soundscape: people arguing in the street, the double blip of car alarms being deactivated, the yowl of cats and, more distantly, foxes. My bedroom curtains slowly fill and empty with breaths of air. The harsh orange of the street lamps gradually gives way to a softer, pearlier light.
Finally, my neighbours’ days begin. I listen to the familiar sounds of sash windows being pushed open and the burble of radio phone-ins, the lunatic fanfare of Saturday cartoons.
When I go downstairs and peer into the sitting room, Polly is still asleep in the dimness. She is stretched out on her side, her long pale legs kicked free of the sheet, one hand under her flushed cheek. On the table, a light pulses on her mobile.
I’m eating toast at the kitchen counter when she comes in, yawning, still pink and dishevelled, expressing amazement and satisfaction that she doesn’t have more of a hangover. I push a cup of tea over to her as she checks her phone. It’s a message from Laurence.
‘He’s asking me to come over for lunch,’ she says, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with her palm. ‘It’s some sort of summit. Brilliant. Another bollocking.’ She sighs and slides on to the stool opposite me. Her bare toes – orange polish – grip the chrome bar like a chimp’s.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe you can use this to get a concession from him. Engineer things a little.’
She looks at me blankly.
‘Oh, come on,’ I say, impatiently. ‘You want to skip college and go off with Sam for a bit. He wants you to stick at the course. Can’t you meet in the middle somewhere?’
‘How would that work?’ she’s asking, aggrieved. ‘He’s made up his mind, and if I don’t do what he wants, he’ll stop my allowance.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘But I’ve been thinking, what about if you managed to convince Tony Bamber, or whoever, that you needed a break from the course? Just temporarily – maybe for a year, or even just a term? I’m sure because of your circumstances they’d consider it. Compassionate leave, isn’t that what they call it? So you’d have a sort of sabbatical, which would allow you and Sam to go off and do your tour … and then you’d be able to go
Ampersand
, which he dedicated to me. Usually he just put her name, but for
Affliction
the dedication read, “For Alys. Always.” ’
I nod as if this is news to me.
‘I think she wanted her name taken off that book,’ she says. ‘And I don’t know why.’
‘Well,’ I say, sitting back; I’ve been leaning forward, listening and thinking hard. A siren wails louder and louder, then fades away as a police car speeds past the end of the street. ‘It was just one of those things, wasn’t it? It doesn’t sound very serious.’
‘It doesn’t
sound
like it,’ agrees Polly, looking down into her empty glass. ‘But something had happened. Something which my mother was taking seriously. Still – I’m glad you heard her say what she did. I can’t tell you how much it helps.’
I look at my watch. It’s nearly 1 a.m.
Together we take the throw and the cushions off the sofa, and tug out the bed frame, and then I help her to make up the mattress with some clean sheets. I give her a pillow and a blanket from my bedroom, and a T-shirt to sleep in, and I offer her a spare toothbrush, but there’s one in the interior pocket of her silver satchel. ‘It’s nothing to do with being a dirty stop-out,’ she says, though I feel free to draw my own conclusions about that. ‘I’m a bit OCD about my teeth.’
I say good night and leave her to it, clicking off the light on the landing and starting to climb the stairs.
‘Frances?’ she calls.
I go back and open the door wider, and she’s sitting up inbed, the sheet pulled tight over her knees. ‘Can you leave the hall light on?’ she asks. ‘I’m not very good in the dark.’
I sleep very badly, disturbed by noises that are part of the usual nocturnal soundscape: people arguing in the street, the double blip of car alarms being deactivated, the yowl of cats and, more distantly, foxes. My bedroom curtains slowly fill and empty with breaths of air. The harsh orange of the street lamps gradually gives way to a softer, pearlier light.
Finally, my neighbours’ days begin. I listen to the familiar sounds of sash windows being pushed open and the burble of radio phone-ins, the lunatic fanfare of Saturday cartoons.
When I go downstairs and peer into the sitting room, Polly is still asleep in the dimness. She is stretched out on her side, her long pale legs kicked free of the sheet, one hand under her flushed cheek. On the table, a light pulses on her mobile.
I’m eating toast at the kitchen counter when she comes in, yawning, still pink and dishevelled, expressing amazement and satisfaction that she doesn’t have more of a hangover. I push a cup of tea over to her as she checks her phone. It’s a message from Laurence.
‘He’s asking me to come over for lunch,’ she says, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with her palm. ‘It’s some sort of summit. Brilliant. Another bollocking.’ She sighs and slides on to the stool opposite me. Her bare toes – orange polish – grip the chrome bar like a chimp’s.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe you can use this to get a concession from him. Engineer things a little.’
She looks at me blankly.
‘Oh, come on,’ I say, impatiently. ‘You want to skip college and go off with Sam for a bit. He wants you to stick at the course. Can’t you meet in the middle somewhere?’
‘How would that work?’ she’s asking, aggrieved. ‘He’s made up his mind, and if I don’t do what he wants, he’ll stop my allowance.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘But I’ve been thinking, what about if you managed to convince Tony Bamber, or whoever, that you needed a break from the course? Just temporarily – maybe for a year, or even just a term? I’m sure because of your circumstances they’d consider it. Compassionate leave, isn’t that what they call it? So you’d have a sort of sabbatical, which would allow you and Sam to go off and do your tour … and then you’d be able to go
Similar Books
