Authors: Emily Bullock
‘Mum, this is Rosie.’
His mum sits down on the other side of him. She looks washed-out with Rosie in the room, shabby and drab like the house. Rosie shines, a red gloss to the tips of her black hair and skin brighter than milk. Jackie’s lungs throb inside him whenever he looks at her.
‘So, you’re the one who’s kept my son out of the house all these months.’
His mum picks up her mug. Rosie doesn’t bother to be offended and helps herself to tea, loading sugar on to the spoon. ‘That’s me. Jackie likes the park and the fair, don’t you?’
He grins at her and nods.
‘Jackie, that’s an Irish name. Are you Irish?’
His mum’s brown eyes are unblinking. Rosie doesn’t notice the question isn’t for her; she slurps up the sweet tea.
‘My ma’s Irish. He looks like a Jackie.’ She glances back at him through the milky steam.
‘Funny, John always used to be good enough for him. Sugar, John?’
His mum has put a bowl out, but it is only for show and he knows she is counting every grain. He takes another spoonful. They drink in silence. Rosie makes soft blowing noises as she cools her tea, and that animal sound makes him smile as he remembers the shade of the trees again. She sees his smile and blows louder. Jackie straightens his face. He wonders if his mum can tell – whether there is a smell or a look that women detect, the way Mrs Bell’s cat always finds eel spines at the bottom of a bin. But his mum is drinking tea and rolling the loose gold wedding ring around her finger; she doesn’t know. Rosie winks and puts down her mug. With that one little movement, which is meant just for him, he falls in love over again.
Rosie clears her throat with a loud cough.
‘I’m expecting.’
She grins, moves forward in the chair, bending around him so that his mum can see the smile better and the gentle push of her stomach against the blue dress, the flower pattern in bloom around her. His mum’s face turns greyer, like fish scales.
‘No, John. Don’t tell me it’s yours?’
‘Mum…’
‘I said I don’t want to hear it.’ She stands up. ‘Your father would know what to do,’ she mutters, pacing around the small room and its big furniture.
His dad lingers in the house, worse than the smell of fried kippers. Jackie sees his face in the thorns of the rose-pattern wallpaper. He won’t have it any more, won’t have it ruining his new life. ‘Don’t mention his name to me again, Mum.’
‘This is his house – my house now. And don’t you forget that.’
‘I’m glad he ain’t here. I wouldn’t want him around Rosie or my son.’
‘Your son?’
His mum clutches her hands together, looming over the table, and for a moment she seems as sturdy as he remembers when he was small, when he thought she could protect him.
Rosie laces her hands over her belly. ‘It’s a boy, I feel it.’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ His mum grabs her by the elbow.
‘Mum?’
He doesn’t know what she will do first, slap them or throw them out of the house. Since his dad died she has been moping around the place, but now she is awake, moving with purpose as if it is wash-day. She marches Rosie to the rug in front of the fireplace, pushes on her shoulder until she is flat on the floor. ‘Stay down.’
His eyes dart from Rosie to his mum, but Rosie is smiling so he kneels next to her, that thick hair curling across his lap. His mum takes off her wedding ring and fetches a length of string from the dresser drawer. She ties the ring on to the end, drops it from her hand and lets it settle above Rosie’s belly. They wait, and slowly the gold begins to move in a tight circle.
‘It ain’t a boy.’ His mum wedges the ring back on her finger.
‘It feels like one. There’ve been enough boys in my family.’
Rosie eases herself up against the armchair. Jackie helps her settle into the cushions, but he doesn’t know who to
believe. His mum goes back to the table; he wants Rosie to be right.
‘We’ll see.’ His mum picks up the pot. ‘I’ll put more tea on.’ But she turns before leaving the room. ‘Mark my words, it’ll be a girl.’
A
kettle whistled, and a door clicked shut; it was enough to wake Jack. He rubbed his eyes and rolled towards Georgie. Evening’s dirty fingers crept in through every crack. The white wool of Georgie’s hair lay knotted across the pillowcase. Jack lowered his head on to the same pillow. The movement tilted her forward, so close that her damp breath settled on his nose. She was stirring now, eyelids moving. Her lashes, thick with mascara, tickled his cheek. He gently touched her shoulder. He didn’t want to get up alone.
‘Where am I?’ Georgie opened one eye.
‘Don’t even know what bed you fell asleep in – what a disgrace,’ Jack whispered in her ear.
She chuckled, burying her face down into the bedding. She was wearing his shirt and he tweaked the back of it.
‘I would’ve warmed you up if you were getting cold.’
He pressed his fingers to her spine. He liked her roundness, the way angles and lines tripped and curled away from her body; it made him want to slide his fingers from her neck to the heel of her foot.
‘Suppose you’re hungry, that’s why you’ve woken me.’ She flipped over, trapping Jack’s hand against the mattress.
He checked the clock on the bedside cabinet. ‘It’s teatime. I think Pearl’s back. She’ll have something.’
He hopped into his trousers. Stepping over her upended dress and underclothes slumped in a pile by the bed, he reached into the bedside drawer and felt the curled edges of Rosie’s photograph; he couldn’t leave the room without doing it. No smell of summer grass and peppermints, just war dirt
and unwashed cotton. But Georgie was there now. She threw the warm shirt at him.
‘I’ll see you down there, Jack.’
The house was dead, all doors closed against dust, and no light touched the landing. He used his fingertips to balance against the wall as he went downstairs. A lightning-struck tree lurked at the end of the hallway; it only turned back into a coat-stand when Jack took his mac from one of its branches. The floorboards creaked. But there were other noises, a soft rustling and the bumping of furniture. Mrs Bell’s damn cat had got into the front room again; Pearl must have left a window open. The tomcat liked to scratch its claws down the table legs and piss in the cupboard under the stairs. Well, it wasn’t going to get away this time; that cat had escaped drowning once too often. Jack carefully turned the handle, holding back until the click told him it was open. He swung the door wide, slammed it shut behind him. The animal was trapped now.
‘Jack.’ Frank’s voice leapt out from the depths of the room.
Frank and Pearl were squashed together in the chair, his armchair. Her yellow jumper lay discarded on the floor at his feet. Jack stepped over it. Frank’s left hand slipped down from her face, his other hand buried somewhere deeper in the cushions. Released from the touch of Frank’s fingers, Pearl shuddered, the curls on her head snapping into place. She was up, buttoning the blouse and tugging her skirt into shape before Jack crossed the room, twisting her stockings round as she bent in front of the fire, blocking the fading heat. The static crackling of a storm was building up. Jack couldn’t understand why blue sparks, bright as coal flames, weren’t leaping from his skin. But now he was in front of them, toes touching the chair, he couldn’t move. Frank stood up; his shirt and waistcoat rumpled, greasy smudges splattered around the buttons.
‘Jack, I know this don’t look too good, me with Pearl. But it definitely ain’t what you’re thinking. I mean, it is what it looks like but it ain’t like that…’
‘We love each other.’ Pearl reached for Frank’s hand.
Jack strained to hear her above the cracking of his lungs inside his chest. She didn’t even turn to Frank. This was all her doing. Pearl stood in front of him, toes curling inwards and grasping at the thin rug; no support shoes to keep her straight. Sweat sat on her upper lip; the trail of a wet kiss lingered on her neck. No grazed shins and running nose. Jack tightened the belt of the mac.
‘Frank wanted to tell you. It was me, Jack. I’m the one told him we should wait until we had it all sorted…’
Jack felt the words coming at last, rising and bubbling up out of his chest. ‘Sorted? Christ almighty, you’re knocked up.’
He sank on to the threadbare arm of the chair. The door opened. Georgie swayed her hips across the room towards the table, touching the pot and pouring herself tea.
‘It’s all out, then. Did you tell Jack or did Jack catch you? I’m hoping you told him.’
‘You knew about this?’ Jack’s head snapped up.
‘It weren’t hard to guess. But I didn’t think it was none of my business.’ She shrugged and perched against the table, searched for a spoon.
She was just like the others, trying to break him.
‘Please listen, Jack.’ Pearl shook her head.
‘You knew Pearl was up the duff and never said nothing.’
‘Well, no. I didn’t know that. But there’re things you can have done. I know a woman who can sort it.’ Georgie tried to smile.
‘Pearl will need to see –’
‘I ain’t expecting.’ Pearl clutched the front of her skirt.
‘Then why all the shouting?’ Georgie pulled her lips into a straight line and went back to pinning a strand of hair in place. Jack ripped off the mac, held it balled up in his lap.
‘That’s something to be bloody thankful for. Frank’ll move back to the gym. We can forget about this happening, because it won’t happen again.’
‘It ain’t up to you, Jack. You ain’t listening properly.’ Pearl picked up the spoon from the floor and placed it on the table. ‘We love each other.’
‘I’ll be all right at the gym, Pearl.’ Frank held on to her hand. ‘Jack’s got a right to have his home the way he wants it. We got to respect that.’
‘Ain’t it my home too, Frank?’ She pulled him closer.
They formed a wall in front of the fire, and all Jack had left before him was the dent of the seat, a long dark hair caught across the back. He studied the threads of the armchair, unravelling after years of wear; draped his coat over to cover it up. Georgie clinked the teaspoon as she stirred; it sounded like an iron hook scraping against his head. Not enough air to breathe. Jack planted his fists on his knees, swallowing down air before he could speak.
‘You two will do as I say, that’s what I understand. Home and gym ain’t for mixing.’
‘Tell him, Frank…’
‘I’ve got responsibilities now, Jack. It’s not just me – there’s Pearl, and when we do have kids… well, I need to stop fighting soon. I have to think about our future. Look at me, Jack. This eye’s scarred, I don’t hear none too clearly –’
‘You’re only a kid yourself. No point thinking like an old pro with hundreds of fights to your name.’ Jack shook his head. ‘That’s fear talking.’
‘Pearl can’t protect herself, all the damage she takes. All them scars. But I’ve got a choice, Jack. One of us has to stay strong. It’s not right for Pearl to be putting me back together too. I need to be taking care of her.’
‘Poor you.’ Jack’s fist clasped the arm of the chair. ‘We signed a contract, Frank. I paid out good money.’
‘We’ll see you’re not out of pocket. Pearl wants to be a nurse and I need to support her, get a job, regular money coming in.’
‘A job? Labouring, the steel works? Think that kind of life’s going to keep you pretty? You won’t be able to stick it.’
‘We got it all decided, me and Frank. I’m going to go do nursing, it pays same as the factory to begin with but we can save.’
Shut up, shut up.
Jack stood up and the chair slid backwards with the thrust of his calves. ‘What a load of cock and bull. Next you’ll be saying you’re off to buy them ten-pound fares to Australia. I’ll bloody well take you to the ticket office myself. See how you do on your own out there, shall we?’
‘We want to stay here. Please…’
Jack swatted Pearl’s words away with the back of his hand. ‘That contract binds us, Frank. I’ve got deals lined up. I’ll never get another booking, another fighter, if I cancel it all now. Vincent and his friends ain’t the type to take no for an answer.’
Jack grabbed for Frank then stopped, frozen in the dusty evening light just like the first time at the gym. The leather bag had swirled around but this time it was Pearl getting between them. She held Frank’s hand behind her back, eyes fixed on Jack. It was always her, always making him choose. He didn’t move any closer.
Georgie stood up. ‘Come on, Jack. We can go to the Electric for a cuppa. Let things settle a bit.’
‘I’ve got years’ worth of tea slopping inside me, and you want to keep pouring it down my throat.’ Jack grabbed the pot. ‘I’m choking on fucking tea.’
The blue ceramic sides burned into his palms. Pearl blinked back at him. ‘We need you to understand, Jack…’
Understand.
She had torn it all into shreds, stamped on every hope he ever had. Jack hurled the pot at the picture frames on the mantel. Glass and pottery cracked open on the brick hearth; a brown stain like blood soaked into the wallpaper. Frank might as well be lying out for the count on the floor, no hope of ever getting up. Pearl scrambled on her knees and Frank helped her pick up the bent photographs, their heads touching. Georgie gripped the edge of the table. When Frank and Pearl were crushed together, sneaking
around, they had made a fool of him. Jack strode towards them. Laughing behind his back, setting him up and waiting to snatch it all away – just like the rest of them: his brothers pushing him around; the Winnies smiling and spreading poison; his mum’s boiling jealousy; his dad standing back and admiring his work as they ripped each other apart. He reached up for the framed picture.
‘Don’t. Leave him alone.’ Pearl tried to cuff his hand aside.
The walls of the house slammed up against Jack. He pushed back. His palms thumped into contact with Pearl’s shoulders. She stumbled against the fireplace, the side of her head knocking against the heavy-framed picture with its funeral wreath engraving. Frank side-stepped to catch her. The picture hung askew. His dad stared down at them from behind the splintered glass.
‘Pearl, you all right?’ Frank tried to hold on to her arms but she shook herself free. ‘No more, Jack.’
‘He ain’t done yet. Are you, Jack? Admit it. You’ve been waiting years for me to do something wrong. Ain’t you? Show me what you really think of me. Do it, Jack.’
Shut up. Shut up.
He wasn’t Jack, he was John Munday, son of John. He slapped Pearl, knuckles hitting bone.
‘Enough.’ Georgie got down on her knees, picking up pieces of glass and splinters of wood.
‘What you all looking at me for? She didn’t feel a thing, not even a bloody twinge.’
That flat round face was still as a mirror, the red shape of his fingers reflected back at him. Everything she made him do: grabbing her from Rosie’s arms, yellow bundle of wool, screams fading to a squeak like the rats; the black water had plugged his ears until he was deaf to Pearl. Now she was ruining everything again. She held the fading photographs. He raised his hand, wanted to break his fists against the metal fireplace. Frank seized his wrists, thrust him against the wall: fingers burning into his skin, feet lifted into the air, dangling like a child.
Pearl touched Frank’s arm. ‘No, you’ll hurt him.’
Frank placed him back in the chair, gently as a snowflake settles. Jack swallowed down air and melted into the cushions. Georgie dropped the debris on to the tray. Frank helped Pearl set the broken pictures on the mantel; she shook the glass from the paper and straightened the bowed frames, carefully settling them in their original places. All carrying on without him: Jack, head of that rotten family.
‘Think on this, Frank – I gave you a chance. Without me you’ve got nothing – you
are
nothing. Now fuck off out of my house!’ Jack’s voice crashed over into a scream. ‘And you.’ He pushed his face towards Pearl. ‘Get out of my sight.’
Spit landed on her chin. As she moved he smelt Frank on her skin. Jack looked away but he could taste them: the lies. It was everywhere, in the heavy wallpaper and the worn rug, dripping from every surface in that house. He couldn’t trust any of them.
Pearl and Frank stood side by side in the doorway.
‘I love him. Even you can see that, Jack.’
The first time Jack heard that word, ‘love’, he’d been so happy; it had meant that at last he would have something of his own. Someone to spend his life with, and the baby was supposed to bring him all that. He knew better this time. Jack snatched up Frank’s bag from beside the chair, threw it at his feet. ‘He was
my
business.
My
future. Not yours, Pearl.’
‘I wouldn’t play her around. We want to get married.’ Frank picked up his bag.
‘Fighting’s all you had, Frank. There ain’t nothing else for you.’ Jack let out a sharp laugh and the push of air tightened his throat.
Frank rubbed at a scar on his cheek. ‘It ain’t like that.’
‘It’s exactly like that.’ Jack gripped his hands around the base of his neck, their signal to finish and get out. ‘Just make sure you turn up to our next fight, or I’ll come looking for you. That contract binds us more than anything you’ve said to her.’
‘I’ll fight our next fight. I’ll win it for you, you know I can.’ Frank hauled the bag up on to his back. ‘But I can’t keep at it.’
‘A fighter that don’t want to fight. Fucking big fat joke on me.’
Georgie circled behind them, looking for an in; they were all coming at him.
‘I’ll see you at training, Jack. We’ll be mates again, I know we will.’
‘It’s only business to me.’
‘Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll see you later.’ Pearl stepped back into her shoes as she kissed him on the cheek.
Frank left the room, the front door clicking shut behind him.
‘I won’t stop seeing him, Jack.’
‘None of you even know what’s broken here, do you? A bloody fighter that won’t fight – that’s our ticket out of this hole flushed right away.’
‘There’ll be other fighters.’ Georgie twisted her eyebrows into an arch.
‘Why don’t you shut up and fix your hair or whatever it is you got to do.’
The sharp nagging of her voice was like a set of nails scraping down his face, her fat shoulders rolling forward and her head pushed out towards him as she spoke.