Meeting the English (10 page)

He was standing in the darkened kitchen draining the oil from the tin when he saw the half-basement window start to move. The bottom sash creaked in its old frame, and two muscular hands appeared underneath it, pulling upwards. In a moment, Struan slid across the kitchen tiles, and crashed the window down on the fingers.

‘Ow,' said a posh voice from the other side, ‘that hurts. Is that you, Juliet? Raiding the fridge like Porky Pig? Let me in, won't you? It's Jake.'

Jake Prys. And Struan was wearing his shorts. But there was nothing for it but to let go of the window and watch as one tanned leg, then another, then a quiffed head of golden hair eased themselves through the window.

‘Cool,' said Jake Prys, ‘excellent. Sorry to have alarmed you. You must be the nurse, hmm? Stru-anne?'

‘Ah'm Struan,' said Struan, hearing his own accent, suddenly. ‘Sorry about your fingers. I thought you were an intruder.'

‘Me,' said Jake Prys, ‘an
intruder?
How funny.' Jake was Struan's height and build but tanned, and with his hair pouffed out and bleached at the ends like a porcupine. He had long eyelashes and a loose plump mouth and high-arched feet in deck shoes. He had shorts, all right, white ones, and a white collarless dress shirt with the sleeves rolled.

‘Have you come to see your dad?' asked Struan.

‘Well,' said Jake, ‘could do, Strew-anne, could do. Pay my filial respects, all that. Came to get supplies, actually.' He took a bottle from the fancy wine rack under the countertop, the one Struan would never have touched, and a corkscrew from the sink, and a large, heavy goblet from the dresser.

‘Have a glass?' he said.

Struan shook his head.

‘Do carry on with the tuna,' said Jake.

‘I'm starving,' said Struan, abashed. Jake had surely already noticed the shorts.

Jake took a gulp of the wine, then opened the larder door and came back with the box labelled ‘Juliet'.

‘Empty,' he said. ‘Goodness. What a little piggy my sister is. And of course, it takes an awful lot to feed a growing boy.' And he tossed it on the floor, and took a fork, and dug it into Struan's tin.

‘I thought you were in Oxford,' said Struan, ‘doing a play.'

‘Was,' said Jake, ‘was. Will be again. Just a few problems with, you know, logistics. Supplies.' He caught the last decent morsel of tuna on his fork, and swallowed it. ‘Truth is, Mercutio got arrested, the silly man. Possession. Left us in a bit of a fix.'

‘Are you back in London, then?'

‘I come and go, come and go. Got a comfy little berth on the other side of the Heath, actually,' said Jake, ‘young lady.' And Jake raised his eyebrows and moved his hips in a way that made Struan shudder.

‘You're not staying with your mum, then?' said Struan.

‘My mother's nuts,' said Jake, ‘you must have noticed. Nuts and very unpleasant. Bitter. You know?' He opened the fridge and found a packet of waxed paper at the back of it, and half a pint of milk, and put them on the counter. ‘And her attitude to me? Sick, my dear chap. Just sick. Beyond Oedipal, into, well what would you call it? Chap who ate his children? Cronos? Fancy my sister much?'

‘What?' said Struan.

‘Juliet,' said Jake. ‘Fancy her much? Or too much of a lard-arse for you?'

Struan thought about Juliet, trying to talk to her father on the Heath. She had a huge bum, all right.

‘I like Juliet fine,' said Struan. ‘She's a nice wee lassie.'

Jake unrolled the paper and a found a layer of thin dried meat, something like bacon, at the bottom. ‘Shirin, then? Now, there's class, eh?' He proffered a shred of the meat on a serrated knife. ‘Prosciutto? Strew-anne?'

‘Struan,' said Struan, waving away the knife.

‘I'm sorry?' said Jake.

‘My name,' said Struan. ‘Struan, like you know. Strew-in. No Strewanne. It's a trochee, no an iamb.'

‘Nicely put, Strew-anne,' said Jake. ‘I didn't realize you were a student of the arts.'

‘Actually, I'm going to be a dentist,' said Struan, ‘but I took an A Band One in my Higher English mock.'

Jake shook his head. ‘Sorry, my dear chap,' he said, ‘just don't think you're what the company is looking for, on this occasion.'

‘Look,' said Struan, ‘you've clearly no come to see me. Shall I call Mrs Prys for you?'

‘She's not here, Strew-anne,' said Jake, ‘is she?' And Struan dropped his eyes and wondered how he knew.

‘Are you going to wait?' he said. ‘She won't be long.'

‘Oh no,' said Jake, dimpling, ‘can't wait, can I? Can't stay. Cos you're in my room, Strew-anne. Aren't you?'

This had never properly occurred to Struan. He was in Jake's place. He was doing for Jake's dad what he had done for his own dad. He was stopping Jake from doing it. No wonder Jake was being funny with him.

‘I do believe,' said Jake, ‘you're even wearing my trousers.'

‘Look,' said Struan, ‘I'm sorry. I'll move, I'll go home. I was just thinking about it anyway. You have your room back. You take care of your dad.'

Jake slapped his hand on his skinny white-clothed thigh. He actually laughed. ‘Change Dad's nappies?' he said. ‘I couldn't do that.'

Struan's eyes stung. He turned away. He picked up the serrated knife and put it in the dishwasher. He started to wrap the ham in its waxed paper. He thought about his own father, at the end, stranded and hairless in his wheelchair, and of the vast, insuperable difference between himself and this gilded wheeling stranger. He could only say it in his native tongue.

‘How no?' he asked. But the window was wide and Jake was gone.

*   *   *

At four in the morning, Juliet was sitting on Seal's window seat doing her thigh-pinching. Each pinch drained the flesh of blood, turned it the new fashionable colour; the one Mum had done the living room in the flat, magnolia. Juliet pinched harder, then let go, and surveyed the red line. It would show in the morning, but it didn't matter. No one saw her in her swimming costume anyway. No one saw her without her clothes. No one ever would.

She wondered if she should do the cutting yourself thing, she'd read about it in
Cosmopolitan,
but then she thought how much fat she'd have to razor through to reach a vein. Like slicing a French Fancy for the jam. And it just wouldn't look right, anyway: razor cuts on fat arms. Like so many kinds of rebellion, tattoos, and leather, and transvestism, like going to the comp or losing your virginity, you just had to be thin to pull it off. She wished it wasn't so hot. Dawn, and hot enough for her fringe to stick to her forehead, for a single drop of sweat to run down her back.

Silent and light, Celia slipped from her bed and sat beside her on the window seat. She laid a slim flat paw on Juliet's shoulder.

‘Are you OK?' she said.

‘I'm in love too, you know,' said Juliet, ‘me and Struan. At it every night. He's gorgeous you know, he's really tall.'

In the half-light, Celia unzipped the cushion cover, and slid a hand under the cushion, and pulled out a blister-pack of pills.

‘Juliet,' she said, ‘listen. I've got just the right thing for you.'

9

The next morning, Struan overslept. It was nearly nine when he staggered downstairs, his ribs bruised from the assault by the Velux, his tongue dry in his mouth. He was prepared to resign if there was any funny business: that was what he was thinking. He could just go back to his gran, and start over. He could get another job. He'd found a magazine called
The Lady
lining the vegetable box in the kitchen, and it had ads in the back, stuff he could do, no problem. But here was Shirin, neat in white jeans in the hall, picking up the estate agents' brochures that were scattered all over it and rolling them up in her hands. She turned to him and smiled.

‘Struan,' she said, getting the stress perfectly. He loved her voice. Her accent was hardly foreign at all, just had a little fur and creak to it: chamois leather over glass. ‘I hope you're OK.'

‘I overslept,' said Struan. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You've been getting up too early,' said Shirin, ‘there's nothing to worry about. I got Phillip up and now the nurse has been. He's in the study, and he's clean and fine and comfortable. And in the shade, Struan, I promise, hmm? Now, you need some breakfast.'

She led him down to the kitchen. There was an omelette at his place on the table, rolled and on a china plate, and round flat breads and a napkin beside it. Under the plate were two ten-pound notes, fresh from the bank. ‘Sit down,' said Shirin. She was wearing a wee gold belt with the jeans, and it was really made of metal: the links clicked. Struan didn't normally notice belts and so on, but he liked this one. Shirin was tiny, not much taller than Juliet, but half her width. ‘I'm going to make you a coffee,' she said.

She used the wee metal contraption to do that, while Struan tucked into the omelette. It was cold, but that was all right, Struan thought, in fact it was nice, sort of pancake-y. And there was green stuff inside it which wasn't parsley. It was a bit nutty, a bit peanut-buttery, but crunchy, not greasy. Peanut butter with pine needles would be the best way to describe it. It was good, but.

‘Is this Iranian?' he said, gesticulating with his fork, and trying not gobble.

‘I suppose,' said Shirin. ‘Eggs are international, aren't they?'

‘I never had this in Cuik,' said Struan. ‘And that's awful nice coffee too.' Shirin had warmed the milk for him, and stirred in a sugar.

Shirin came and sat opposite him at the table. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, and her eyes were such a beautiful shape, and wetter than other people's, clean brown and white, like a child's, ‘I should have done this before. I have been putting my show together, you see. But I should have made you a meal. My grandmother would be ashamed of me.'

‘Ah've got a gran like that,' said Struan, grinning. ‘Soon as you get in the house, she's got the kettle on and she's feeding you a Mars Bar.'

He leaned back on his seat, legs pushed nearly to the other end of the kitchen table. He felt OK, suddenly. The window was closed: he could hardly believe the adventure of the night had actually happened. He didn't know whether to mention it to Shirin. He didn't know how much Shirin knew Jake, really. He hoped it was not at all.

‘Was it good,' he said, ‘your opening?'

‘Very good,' said Shirin, ‘And now it is done, that is the best thing, and we are going to push the wheelchair over to the Mixed Bathing Pond. That's where Phillip wanted to go, isn't it?'

‘Uh-huh,' said Struan, sitting forward, startled. Shirin believed him about the wink; she did not think he was a fool. ‘The swimming pond. I think so.'

‘The Mixed Pond,' said Shirin, ‘is not the best pond, in fact. Phillip used to like the Men's one, but I am not permitted there. I can take you to the Mixed one this morning, and show you where the Men's one is – it is very near – and then you can take him another morning. And I'll point you to the Lido, too, if you like lane swimming. Did you bring a swimming costume?'

‘I did,' said Struan, ‘it's upstairs.' He rose to get it, but Shirin picked up a bundle from a chair and held it out to him.

‘I thought,' she said, looking at his soap-stiffened T-shirt and grass-stained trousers, ‘that you did not pack for the heat? So I went through Phillip's clothes, and here are some shorts he cannot use, and some vests too, and a shirt? They will be OK for you. Traditional British brand. Nice quality, and quite trendy, I think. Especially the shorts, they are exciting. Sixties. Like, you know, Doctor No.'

And she smiled at him suddenly, a chummy smile, as if she were just his own age, and Struan wondered how shorts could be exciting, and he remembered that film, Bond, with the blonde girl on the island. Shirin wasn't like that, like Ursula Andress, she was more like one of the perky clever dark girls Bond usually runs through in the first half of the film: the ones who wear white coats and are doctors, sometimes; the ones who are often spies.

*   *   *

One of the main effects of Celia's pills, Juliet discovered as she bounced off the little train at Finchley Road, was springiness. The platform sagged beneath her feet as she disembarked, then threw her back against the already burning sky. The pills sent her tripping and grinning past the ticket inspector, and goofily trotting through the barrier. It was like wearing rubber high heels. Also, there was an airy gap where her knees usually were, and a googly effect round the eyes: a sort of rainbow edge to the world.

Other than that, they made you feel terrific. Or maybe they just let you get in touch with how terrific you'd usually feel all the time if it weren't for your mother who'd blighted your life by bringing you up completely wrong and with a whole mess of body issues. The pills lifted you above all that. They made it easy to plan. For instance, this morning, Juliet planned to: give Myfanwy Celia's copy of
Fat is a Feminist Issue;
tell her all the things she'd done wrong; walk out with a suitcase of all her possessions; and go back permanently to Yewtree Row. She'd also have a real go at Myfanwy for being so pointlessly mean to Struan.

Struan didn't have much money, she'd suddenly realized last night when Myfanwy was shouting. He was the first person she'd ever met who really was poor. That's why he had nasty trousers. Even if he bought 501s, though, Juliet would not be kissing him. She'd be kissing someone else, maybe several people. The new Juliet, the springy, wobbly, clear-headed Juliet, was going to jump out of her fat like a jack from his box, and kiss simply loads of boys in 501s.

But Myfanwy's flat was empty: just a whiff of ‘L'Air du Temps' and a gap where the shopping basket should be. Juliet had a quick prowl round: a Slimfast box on the kitchen table; a Narda Artwear bag in the bedroom, some new documents on the desk, mostly about the Cricklewood cottages, and, on the kitchen worktop, a letter from Jake's Oxford college, which Juliet read in case it was something useful, hurrah, like Jake overspending.