‘Nancy is that you?’
It was Babycham. She hadn’t changed. Well, she had, because of the hair extensions and a fur coat. And her lashes were false. And ten years had made a difference. Those pink cheeks had fallen a bit and the powder looked like bruises; or maybe it was the cold.
‘It’s been ages…’ The fur ruffled magically leaving windy paths like those corn circles. It was the real thing. You could tell.
Nancy had just got off the bus. With worked-up hope, she’d gone east this time, into West Ham, hoping for a glimpse of Mr Johnson. She’d sat by the buzzer, her eyes latching on to every uncertain step among the flow of jackets and prams; she’d checked a bench by a newspaper kiosk and a heap outside Currys. He was blind. He couldn’t have gone that far. She’d stepped out to buy some Polos, when that voice had made her jump.
Nervously Babycham said, ‘Lovely hat.’
Riley had found it in a drawer at a clearance. It was yellow polyester with black spots.
‘How’s things?’ asked Nancy When they’d last met, she’d told her she was full of wind and bubbles.
‘Altogether nice,’ said Babycham. She turned to a newsagent’s, to the paints and pens and toys with stickers on. The glossy mags were on display – happy faces, baring their teeth. Woman’s World had a couple of answers. ‘Take Control:
Tell Him What You Want in Bed’; and, in bigger letters, ‘How to Stop a Yorkshire Pudding Falling Flat.’
Nancy admitted, ‘I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘Course you didn’t.’
Nancy waited, but Babycham didn’t reciprocate. It was to be expected. She never dealt in returns or cast-offs. She’d always gone top drawer. Knew her mind. She’d told Nancy to run. They’d had a meeting.
Babycham looked hard into the window again. The glare from the shop made her cheeks redder. Forty-denier tights. All you had to do was tear a number off the bottom and ring up whomever it was. Only one had been taken.
Nancy said, ‘So what’s been up, then?’
Babycham pulled out a hankie. It had a blue ‘B’ on one corner and lace round the edge. ‘Well… I ended up with Harold… You know, the boss.’
‘Mr Lawton?’ Nancy’s surprise made it sound ridiculous.
‘Yes.’ She carefully touched the corner of one eye.
‘So it’s easy street for you then, Babs.’ Mr Lawton must have made a packet, what with the development of the docklands.
‘Well, he held on to his turf, so he could negotiate, sort of thing. That was the idea. And you?’
‘Antiques.’ Nancy felt a punch of self-hatred for the lie, for the lack of pride in what she did, for who she was.
‘Oh, very nice.’
‘Well, you know, second-hand. I’ve a small shop.’ Before Babycham could ask whereabouts, Nancy said, ‘I suppose you’ve got tons of kids?’
‘Three. And you?’
‘None.’
‘Sorry.’ She dabbed the other eye. ‘It’s arctic.’
Riley had said, ‘No children. No talk of it. It’s just the two of us.’ He’d spoken like it was a deal before they hit the sand. They’d make it out of this hell together. Confident and romantic, he’d ducked like John Wayne on Iwo Jima. Nancy had agreed, not knowing that Riley never changed, that he’d come out of the packaging ready made and complete, all the screws in place. There was nothing to add on, no expensive extras. Whereas she’d been incomplete, with gaps, so many gaps. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and the nearest she’d got was Arnold. Shame and a kind of hatred – again, of herself -twisted in her stomach, like when she’d been starving after a day on grapefruit, part of a diet that was meant to transform her shape in two weeks. It hadn’t worked.
Babycham said, ‘Harold didn’t sell up when he wanted, you know.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He had to. After he got fined.’
‘What for?’
‘Health and safety.’ The hankie went up a sleeve. Her eyes were fine now, and her cheeks not so red. ‘Did you not hear? A lad drowned off E Section.’
‘No.’ Nancy shuddered as something fell inside her – like one of those metal shutters that could stop a car, never mind a smash and grab. Her voice failed.
Years back a woman had come to the shop and handled a mirror – checked her lower teeth and a spot on her chin. She’d been sociable and asked how business was going. Then she’d shocked her by using her name: ‘Nancy I’m not a customer. I’m a copper.
Feeling sick, she’d said, ‘What have I done?’
‘Nothing. Can we have a talk, just us two, going no further?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
She’d tried to win her round, with talk of the poor mother, and that man Bradshaw, the father, who’d walked out of the court. Cartwright, that was her name. Jennifer. She’d made insinuations. It was like being trapped in Wyecliffe’s office all over again.
‘Where was he last Saturday?’
‘The car-boot fair at Barking.’
‘It rained.’
‘He went.’
‘What time did he get back?’
‘I was asleep.’ That hadn’t been true. But lying awake was her secret.
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘Elevenish’
‘The fair would have wound up by six or seven?’
‘Yes, but his van broke down.’
‘Where?’
‘How would I know?’ These police and their daft questions.
Babycham said, A lad went through some of the planks. Harold had put up a notice, a fence, bollards, but they’d all been moved. Dumped in the river.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He’d checked them on the Friday at seven o’clock, but they’d gone by Saturday night.’
Nancy said nothing. Babycham stepped closer. Fur tickled Nancy’s wrist.
‘And that was when the lad drowned, the Saturday They said he was a trespasser.’
‘And Mr Lawton got fined?’
‘Because of the holes in the fence and the missing bollards.’ Like she had an itch, she repeated. ‘They said he was a trespasser.’
‘I suppose he was, then.’
‘Well, I don’t think so. And neither does Harold.’
A slow-moving HGV had snarled up the traffic. It crawled past, heaving a trailer with a huge shed on it, more like a fairy-tale doll’s house, painted red and white. There were two windows and a door in the middle. Someone’s moving home, joked Nancy to herself, her eyes smarting. The idea stung everywhere at once, as if she’d crunched a nest underfoot; wasps, angry and purposeful, swarmed around her.
Jennifer had said, ‘Where was the van fixed?’
‘On the spot.’
‘Who by?’
‘He does it himself… He keeps everything he needs in the back.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s been breaking down a lot recently’
‘For how long?’
‘Six months.’
And he always does the work himself?’
‘Yes.’
At the side of the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him do it?’
‘Once.’ She’d said it with a gusty success, as if she’d swatted a big one.
‘When?’
‘At home. About three months back.’
Jennifer had looked inside a wardrobe and checked the joints. ‘Does he always tell you when the van breaks down?’
‘Well, if he doesn’t tell me, there’s no way I’d find out, is there?’ These police. No wonder they didn’t catch anyone. ‘We’re man and wife, you know. That’s why we talk.’
‘Of course, Nancy… But there are people who say things… and your husband won’t help himself, you know that. That’s why I’ve come to you.’
‘Saying what sort of things?’
Babycham said, ‘We think it was deliberate.’
The doll’s house had gone, and Nancy hadn’t noticed. She hugged herself, gripping her elbows. ‘Deliberate? You mean the lad jumped in?’
‘No. I mean someone pushed him. Or let him fall. Got him out there. When it wasn’t safe.’
‘Why do that?’
‘I wonder.’
‘Who’d do a thing like that?’
‘There’s no knowing, is there?’ It was a real question. Nancy stepped back, away from the tickling hairs. ‘Then Mr Lawton should’ve fixed the fence.’
Babycham dug out the hankie and prodded the corners of her mouth. A matey tenderness from the yard made her voice suddenly hoary – like when they’d told Carmel Pilchard to get knotted, that she couldn’t join in – ‘You haven’t changed.’
‘Neither have you.’ For one brief, terrible moment they were both barelegged in knee-high socks, with bruises on their knees. Pilchard’s main had one eye and her dad was doing time. ‘Serves him right with a name like that,’ Babycham had said. Nancy had thought that a bit on the harsh side.
‘Best be off,’ said Babycham, checking her watch – it was small and gold with trinkets dangling off the strap: a horse, a pig and a penny ‘I’d stay but I’ve a plane to catch. Winter break.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Who’d’ve thought there’d be an airport between the King George and the Royal Albert. The place was dead.’
With a quite awful longing, Nancy wanted to go back to those days of heavy morning mists… when they’d first arrived at the docks, when she’d tramped up the iron stairs to the office with a view of the river. On some days, you wouldn’t be able to see it until lunchtime. As the sun burnt through the sodden cloud, the waves would appear, here and there, like silver chains. She wanted to wind back time some more, into the yard, by the toilets, when they’d changed their mind about Carmel. They’d felt sorry for her main. Exclusions weren’t so bad, then, although it had felt like it. She said, And who’d’ve thought you’d be cooking dinner for Mr Lawton.’
Babycham pressed a button on a key and a nice car winked. It was like magic.
Nancy said, ‘I’ll see you around, then.’
‘No. You won’t.’ She didn’t deal in returns, Babycham. And she always spoke her mind.
‘Ta-ra, then.’
‘Yes, ta-ra.’
When the bus pulled into the depot, Nancy changed numbers and followed another route, her face set against the window It was useless, but she kept looking for Mr Johnson, while her mind kept turning to Arnold. Her breath steamed up the glass. She gave it a rub with the sleeve of her coat… and out of nowhere, she remembered seeing her man at the top of their street at two in the morning Nancy knew it was him from his walk, and the way his arms swung like loose ropes.