You and I should do something special. I’ll take you somewhere, we’ll make a big evening of it and talk like we used to. Would you like that? I’ll even wear my suit.
She subdues her cynicism—it must be important to him if he
wants to dress smartly—and merely nods so she doesn’t say anything stupid.
Would you like peppermint or chamomile?
Surprise me.
In the kitchen she can hear him singing Stevie Wonder, and it soothes her heart temporarily.
The sweetness of magazine pages, perfume samples absorbed into high-quality printed paper. Jeannine holds them to her face and inhales. She keeps glossy magazines, keeps them in order like an archive, gazes at the spines with fondness. She also likes catalogs and brochures, but is more inclined to get rid of these at intervals (puts a few old ones in the recycling box). It is the weight of them, getting something hefty and colorful for little money or for free, their slipperiness, that they are filled with beautiful objects she can fantasize about owning.
Some of the publications are pages and pages of writing set off with a few arty photos—attractive people relaxing in green spaces, attractive people on tiered seating, attractive people in libraries—
and architecture.
Some are as long as novels and filled with possibilities,
possibilities of possibilities,
as desirable and as far out of her reach as a Gucci handbag.
Time to get rid of them.
Then she makes a neat tower that she hides at the back of the wardrobe, unable to part with them (it would be too painful). There are men who hoard pornography, compulsively growing their collection over years, developing emotional fixations with the sexy models they will never acquire in real life; Jeannine Okoro hoards university prospectuses.
The weekend. So Jeannine takes the bus to her sister’s, for there is a conversation she has to have—
Look who it is! Sophia addresses this to both her children, to Josh, the infant she cradles across her denim shirtfront, to Yasmin, the little girl clutching her mummy’s leg. Her gold jewelry swings and jingles. Thank God someone’s here, now I can sleep.
Jeannine is used to Big Sister’s lack of ceremony, used to putting the kettle on for herself, used to being given jobs to do whenever she comes over: peeling, ironing, running to the shop, emptying the dishwasher. Sophia is like their mum—to get on with her you need to do your share, be bossed by her. Jeannine is more like their dad, generally self-sufficient but will take instructions from stronger personalities to maintain the peace.
Josh is laid on the baby mat, his eyes and fingers interacting with the jungle animals on the play gym. Yasmin positions herself on the carpet between her brother and the television, showing
Charlie and Lola,
curls herself into a knot so her head droops on her knee. Sophia and Jeannine sit in adjacent armchairs, mugs of tea balanced. The mother updates the aunt on how the children have changed in the past week. Not much, by the sound of it.
Still, Jeannine is patient, can see Big Sister is tired, gets lonely for adult company, wants to express her thoughts. If Jeannine gives way first, then she can talk about what she needs to talk about.
Sophia lowers her voice. Somebody had a bad dream the other night (she points at Yasmin’s back), screamed the whole place down, I’m amazed the neighbors didn’t complain. I thought she was being attacked, I honestly did, even though I know there is no way anyone could break in without us hearing before they got to the children. Seriously, you don’t know what it’s like to worry about literally everything, every rash, every sharp edge, spiders in the bathroom; the whole world becomes deadly. She was in such a state, and I was calming her down, saying it’s nothing, bad dreams can’t hurt you la-la-la and all the time I’m the one who’s shaking. Then she’s back to sleep (clicks her fingers) like that but I can’t
because now I’m on edge and I have to check the door and the windows and the cooker.
What did she dream about?
I’ve no idea. She’s learned the word lorry—yellow lorry, rubbish lorry—but she confuses it with bus.
Jeannine can’t tell whether this is a clue to Yasmin’s dream or if it’s incidental.
Sophia yawns. Josh and me need to have a nap. You don’t mind, do you?
Jeannine does mind, has to hide her irritation. It is one thing not being waited on so her sister can focus on the children; it is quite another being in charge of one of them, at least before they are old enough to be bribed.
Sophia assures her Keith will be home in a minute, and of course Jeannine gives in. To aunty and niece’s displeasure, the television is turned off.
Yasmin is on Jeannine’s lap for Farm Puzzle.
What is Josh doing now?
Sleeping.
And what is Josh going to do when he wakes up?
Crying.
He cries a lot, does he?
Yeah.
There is a lot Jeannine likes about her little niece: her chubbiness, her tiny, perfect nails, her hair in black twists with pink bobbles. (Her revulsion at the unwanted responsibility subsides a bit.) Why did you have a bad dream? There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll look after you, Mummy, Daddy, Grandma, and Gramps. Me, for what it’s worth.
Yasmin plugs and unplugs the wooden shapes, the duck and the sheep and the cow—will make their noises when asked.
What noise does this one make?
Quack-quack-quack.
That’s right. And what noise does this one make?
Oink. Oink.
That’s right.
And what noise does this one make?
Woof-woof?
And how can you tell when a dog is happy? Because it wags its tail.
Jeannine likes the way her body reacts to her niece and nephew when they are occasionally dumped in her arms: her muscles increase their strength and snap around the child of their own accord, mold to the lumpy form, and the babe clings to her in return with a tough, squishy grip. She likes their miniature features, that they are warm and squirmy.
It’s not your fault you’re so boring, is it? (The suggestible child shakes her head.) And you’ll be very big very soon. (The child nods in agreement.)
Yasmin wriggles, catching Jeannine off guard, her tiny shell ears sensitive to her daddy coming home, to his footstep and keys before they reach the front door and the hearing of big people.
Keith comes in without calling, for fear of disturbing his wife and son, takes off his hi-vis jacket, his height and shoulders blocking the daylight in the hallway. He greets Jeannine, offers to relieve her of her burden, lifts his daughter, raising her into the air. Despite his bulk he has a gentle nature, asks how long Sophia and Josh have been resting, asks after the boyfriend because they haven’t seen him for a while.
Jeannine exhales. Really great. Actually, he took me out for dinner. It was very romantic.
Glad to hear it. What about work? (That’s fine too.) Keith plants his daughter on the floor, takes out the Stickle Bricks, encourages her to play with them. I meant to say to you, Jeannine (Keith and
Yasmin sort through the pieces: What are you making? A dolly?), if you ever need a place to stay, you can always stay with us.
Why would I do that?
Just in case. I thought it was worth reminding you, you could if you needed to.
Jeannine laughs because she does not know what else to do. Thanks, but you guys only have two bedrooms the last time I counted.
And a sofa that folds out.
It’s nice of you to offer, but we’ve got our own place.
Remind me why you’re still renting? Liam said ages ago that you ought to buy while you could afford it, that even if you hadn’t made up your minds to get married, it would be worth having some cash from a sale to split. If I remember rightly, Liam said renting was throwing money away.
He didn’t say that, I did! Jeannine emphasizes it hotly, then glances in the direction of the room where mother and child are napping, lowers her voice: We aren’t breaking up, if that’s what you think.
Who said you were? (Keith helps Yasmin to make a doll with a square head.) If you decide to study again, you might need somewhere to live, that’s all. Staying here would save you money. Come to think of it, you haven’t mentioned it recently.
Me and not Liam . . . ?
It’s a meaningless gesture if he’s able to support you both from what he earns at the leisure center.
It’s a health club.
Is he able to support you both?
Jeannine scowls at her brother-in-law. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
You’ve changed your mind?
Yes, I’ve changed my mind.
A few weeks ago—
Well, I’ve gone off the idea. And I’d prefer you not to mention it again.
Jeannine pretends to admire Sophia and Keith’s wedding photo; the bride and groom had a fit of the giggles outside the church, their expressions frozen forever in exquisite laughter. Sophia had just turned twenty-five when they married. Jeannine is now twenty-nine. She twiddles her necklace (Accessorize, spur of the moment, 12.99 pounds).
Besides, it wouldn’t work, she says. You, Sophia, the kids, there isn’t enough space here—
Keith scratches the back of his head: It wouldn’t be ideal but there’s room for you to eat and sleep. For a year it could work, just about, or until you found an alternative. We would manage somehow.
Jeannine goes very quiet. Why are you saying this stuff?
Because we’re family.
I can take care of myself, you know.
Yes. I know you can. (And this at least has the ring of sincerity.) Call it reciprocity. If something happened to one or both of us, I know you would make sure Yasmin and Josh were okay. Nothing
is
going to happen, but maybe we can do something to help you out? If you don’t want to stay here, that’s different, that’s a choice. But you deserve to have a choice to begin with.
Jeannine taps her empty mug. Thanks.
Then he says, We’re proud of you. We really are.
Keith was not overt in his disapproval when she got her job with Jonathan, but he hardly hid it successfully, either. Jeannine should set him straight, tell him he has no reason to be proud, remind him why he hates the man she works for.
I work in an office.
Yes, and you’re very good at it. You have chutzpah.
She snorts and stretches her arms. I’m going for a run later. A looong run.
Have you thought about asking your parents . . . ?
Ugh. Jeannine clenches her jaw at the thought of it.
Perhaps not. And for your information, we would take Liam in too, if you wanted us to.
I bet you would.
Ye-es, we would, you’d only have to ask.
She hasn’t got a clue we’re talking about this, has she? (No need to mention Big Sister by name.) You don’t even like him. You don’t say anything bad about him in front of me, but I’ve known you for long enough.
I like
you,
and so does Sophia, and so do the kids.
The kids don’t like me. They’ll like me when I put ten-pound notes in their birthday cards.
Yasmin rolls over in her effort to make herself heard, sucks in her bottom lip. I do, Neen.
Liam goes to work while Jeannine is still in bed. His parting kiss disturbs her. He has done this a couple of times recently, instead of letting her sleep for the extra hour until the radio comes on; knows insomnia is a problem for her.
The presenter gives a cursory greeting to the guest on the line:
Can we conclude from these findings that we have reached the limits of survivability . . . ?
The medical expert attempts an answer that summarizes the findings, qualifies what the research actually might indicate.
There is no bread for toast. Opens and closes the fridge. Not enough milk for porridge. Opens and closes the cutlery drawer.
The news reporter fishes for the bullet point he needs while the other is cautious; she almost shies away from the moment, shapes the answer delicately.
Well, it depends on your definition of viability.
The presenter does not like that much, even his caliber of listeners will be confused.
Meaning what, exactly?
Jeannine pours her coffee, savors the smell. Now to choose what to wear, to find the groove for the day.
The other explains why viability is a complicated matter in language laypeople may understand.
He persists, wants something concrete.
What do these conclusions tell us in a way that is useful in today’s debate?
That despite people’s best efforts—
Jeannine is pulling a print skirt and cowl-neck sweater from her wardrobe, holds them against herself in the mirror. She remembers she was going to wear the new shoes, forgot to before, and then waited for a clear London sky. She takes the jewels out of their box, positions them, admires them, gets the full effect of today’s outfit.
—and the association I am a member of does not therefore support a reduction to the current twenty-four-week time limit.
The interviewer pauses for a beat:
Thank you very much indeed.
This morning Jeannine’s hair is ludicrous, the irons are not working their magic, she burns herself, ow ow ow.
People are watching.
Jonathan Ewan says this to Jeannine after she gives him the two files of correspondence. The folders bulge with unanswered letters, and Jeannine makes cover sheets (
in favor
and
against
) so they will not get muddled. Jonathan has decided to wait until after the vote so some wording about the outcome can be included. There will be two versions: one to show solidarity with the constituents who agree with him, one to placate the constituents who disagree. Jonathan considers himself a “communicator.” In letter writing, in meetings, in interviews, in publication, in public debate. He has the ability to soften and to persuade. Jonathan Ewan, MP, is moving
Bexhall South out of the marginal column and into the safe column. The replies will be done by close of play tomorrow; Jeannine’s other work is being pushed back.
He intends to go through the files personally, checking for groups and organizations, for acquaintances and names from the past, for anyone he should be checking for. He has other reading to do, phone calls to return, the summoning of the division bell.