The Bricks That Built the Houses (33 page)

‘What you been up to then?’ Becky asks Gloria.

Gloria takes her time to answer; it feels like gravity has tripled. ‘I’ve been here, doing this, haven’t I? Working. Same old.’ Gloria gets a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps out the box and throws them at Becky. ‘Still your favourite?’ Becky nods. Opens the crisps. Starts eating them. Two, three at a time. Drinking her drink in small, staccato sips. ‘What about you?’ Gloria asks. ‘What’ve
you
been up to?’

Becky shakes her head. Eats crisps. Gloria raises her eyebrows. ‘I worked a bit, we drove around. Then we had a little flat we lived in.’

‘You and Harry?’ Gloria spins her hoop.

‘Yeah.’ Becky nods again.

‘And you just got back?’ Gloria asks her.

‘Yeah.’ Gloria thinks that her friend looks thin and tired and far away.

Becky slumps a little over the bar. All these months have passed and she can’t work out where to start or whether she even needs to start. ‘You look really well,’ she says. ‘Healthy.’

‘I been going boxing,’ Gloria tells her.

‘Boxing?’ Becky says.

‘I had some trouble.’ Gloria breathes out loudly, blinks fast a couple of times.

‘What kind of trouble?’ Becky asks her.

‘Nothing really. Couple of guys one night.’ She shrugs.

‘In here?’ Becky looks around at the pub, the regulars.

‘Another pub, down the road.’

Becky watches Gloria. Her wide eyes sweep the room for drinkers getting to their last swigs. Her body, as sure as stone, all the edges neat and compact. Tall and strong and golden brown. Broad, open face, like an ancient goddess.
Gloria
. Becky feels her pulse pick up its speed and go hurtling through her at the thought of her friend in danger.

‘What happened?’ she asks her. ‘What did they do?’ Her voice is heavy and fast.

‘Nothing,’ Gloria says calmly. ‘I fought them off.’ She speaks matter-of-factly, no big deal. She spins her hoop, stands with her weight on her right hip.

‘You fought them off?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Jesus.’ Becky shakes her head. They stand in silence for a moment.

‘With a bottle,’ she says, smoothing her hair down.

‘A fucking
bottle
?’ Becky is horrified. Her face screwed up.

‘Yeah.’ Gloria sighs.

Becky’s panic constricts her words, they come out strangled and strangely pitched. ‘Were you alright?’

‘In the end, yeah, I was fine.’ Gloria smiles at Becky, her voice level as always. Becky winces, shakes her head. ‘I was alright. And I like the boxing. Tommy keeps saying he’ll come with me, but he never does. He’s getting fat as well, don’t tell him I told you.’

Becky watches Gloria’s hands, gold rings on three fingers, the thin tattoo that bracelets the wrist.

She turns to serve a customer. ‘Yes, darlin’, what’ll it be?’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My producer, Dan Carey, who was the first person to hear any of these ideas and who encouraged me to make it a story.

My agent, Becky Thomas.

My editor, Alexa von Hirschberg.

Alexandra Pringle at Bloomsbury.

My US editor, Rachel Mannheimer.

I spent a month writing at 57a in Whitstable, thank you Katie Gordon for allowing me the space.

I wrote the bulk of the final draft in the back of the tour van driving through Europe and the United States. I have to acknowledge the patience and support of my bandmates and crew; Alex Gent, Anth Clarke, Archie Marsh, Caragh Campbell, Clare Uchima, Dan Carey, Ed Feilden, Francesco Caccamo, Gareth Routledge, Georgia Barnes, Hannah Tee-Dub, Kwake Bass, Liam Hutton, Raisa Khan, Sebastian
Renaud and Toby Donnelly, who’ve been with me touring for the last eighteen months. Love you lot, my Welfare Unit.

Elaine Williams, thanks for chatting Paul Gilroy, the Lewisham Riots and knife crime with me. You’re a G. And I’m blessed to call you mate.

Lucy McGeowen for the invaluable blow-by-blow description of years spent working in cafés. Thank you sis.

I had huge help from three dancers: Daisy Smith, Jennifer Leung and Julie Cunningham. Big, big thanks to you all for your generosity and time. I want to acknowledge that some of Becky’s thoughts about dancing and choreography come directly from conversations I had with these three. Especially Daisy Smith.

The staff, drinkers and friends of The Birds Nest pub.

I began to tell the stories which would lead to this story in my first play
Wasted
. I want to acknowledge Paines Plough, who commissioned that play, and especially James Grieve and Stef O’Driscoll, who directed it and who supported me through that time. Also, the cast of
Wasted
– Alex Cobb, Alice Haig, Ashley George, Bradley Taylor, Cary Crankson and Lizzie Watts – who bought my characters to life. And the tech team and crew who put it on.

Brand New Ancients
was the next step. I want to acknowledge the support of the Battersea Arts Centre, especially David Jubb and Sophie Bradey, in the writing and staging of that piece. I need to acknowledge the musicians and crew who played that show with me over the course of the tour:
Alex Gent, Ben Burns, Christina Hardinge, Emma Smith, George Bird, Ian Rickson, India Banks, Joanne Gibson, Kwake Bass, Matt O’Leary, Natasha Zielazinski, Nell Catchpole, Raven Bush, Sarah O’Connor and Tara Franks.

I need to acknowledge the love and support I have had from my family: my parents, Gill and Nigel Calvert. My sisters, Laura, Sita, Ruth and Claudia. My brothers, Jack, Matt and Martin. And little Bess and Zig. All my brilliant cousins. All my uncles and aunties. My grandparents, who I love and miss.

Need to acknowledge my brother Jimmy Davey and my good good friends that haven’t been mentioned above: Adam Bloomfield. Billy Carabine. Callum Locke. Dawna King. Evie Manning. Freddy Vernon. George Latham. Kieran Barry. Kitty Zinovieff. Luke Eastop. Maisy Siggurdson. Niaomh Convery. Sophie McGeevor. Sam Soan. Mica Levi. Thank you guys so much.

Want to acknowledge south-east London; even though you’re changing, you’re still my engine and my anchor.

Want to acknowledge Murphy; my wolf.

Charissa Gregson, Emma Brook, Rebecca Danicic; thank you for your time and attention, your patience and encouragement.

Assia Ghendir, thank you for your love.

Finally, I want to acknowledge the help I have received from India Banks – in this novel and in all the things I’ve written. But especially for the guidance in understanding Becky better and for the support in writing ‘A Hammer’.

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Kate Tempest was born in London in 1985. She has published two plays,
Wasted
and
Hopelessly Devoted
, and two collections of poetry,
Everything Speaks in its Own Way
and the acclaimed
Hold Your Own
. Her epic poem,
Brand New Ancients
, won the 2012 Ted Hughes Award for New Work in Poetry. Her album
Everybody Down
was nominated for the 2014 Mercury Music Prize. She is a Next Generation Poet.
The Bricks that Built the Houses
is her first novel.

First published in Great Britain 2016

This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

© Kate Calvert, 2016

Kate Calvert has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.

‘The Truth’ lyrics appear
here
by kind permission of Domino Publishing Co Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the Publishers would be glad to hear from them.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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eISBN 978 1 4088 5732 8

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