The Bricks That Built the Houses (20 page)

‘Hi,’ she says, ‘you must be Becky!’

Becky smiles. ‘Hi,’ she says. Wanting to run.

Miriam has a soft, open face, delicate wrinkles tiptoe around the edges. Becky kisses her cheek and follows Miriam into the dining room.

‘Sit yourself down.’

Becky sits on the far side of the table, back to the wall, facing in.
They have a dining room
. David is standing at the end of the room, holding a bottle of wine and rifling through a drawer for a corkscrew. Pete sits down next to Becky, Miriam stands by the dresser and, once she sees Pete and Becky settled,
she joins them, sitting opposite. David opens the wine, sets it on the table, opens another, sets it beside the first one, turns them round so that their labels are facing the same way, smiles and sits down at the head of the table, jiggling on his seat at the excitement of having visitors.

‘And what do you do then, Becky?’ Miriam leans forwards, hands on the table, one on top of the other.

‘I’m a dancer.’ Becky notices how graceful Miriam is, how elegantly she holds herself. ‘I’m a waitress, but dancing is my passion.’ Becky’s voice is edged with exhaustion. This is the last place she wants to be.

‘That’s exciting.’ Miriam’s face lights up. ‘Dancing! What style? Is it much like
Strictly
?’

‘No, not so much,’ Becky says, smiling shyly. ‘Do you watch
Strictly
?’

‘Oh yes, David and I love it, don’t we, David?’

‘Yes!’ David says gleefully. ‘We do.’

‘I’m in a show actually, at the moment. A very small part, but it’s still exciting to be involved.’ Becky speaks carefully, quietly.

‘A show! In town?’ Miriam’s face is a Catherine wheel. She looks at Pete, Pete nods.

‘Yes,’ Becky says. ‘It’s very exciting.’ And she looks at Pete pointedly, but he’s looking at his fingernails.

‘My goodness me!’ Miriam takes her hands away from each other and lays them flat on the table, parallel. They are slender and gentle-looking, her nails are neat, no wedding ring, but a
thin gold band holding two dark green, opaque stones on her middle finger. She leans in towards Becky. ‘I’d love to come and see it!’ David is watching her, smiling to himself. ‘I used to love the ballet.’ Miriam holds her arms above her head, fingertips touching. Laughing.

‘Oh yeah?’ Becky smiles. ‘I haven’t been for years. I went once . . .’ Her voice cracks into shards. She breathes, swallows the sharp points. ‘With my mum.’ She doesn’t want to invite discussion of what her mum does or where she might be in the world, but she’s said it now. She carries on. ‘When I was very young but never since.’

‘Oh, we’ll have to go.’ Miriam is sure of it. ‘My mother loved the ballerinas too.’

Miriam hadn’t noticed Becky’s discomfort. Becky relaxes. ‘I’d like that,’ she says softly.

‘Pete, have you seen the show?’ David asks him.

‘Yeah.’ Pete looks up from his fingernails, sniffs, nods.

‘And . . .?’ David presses him.

Pete flicks his hair out of his eyes, taps his toes on the floor. ‘Yeah, it was good.’

‘He didn’t like it much,’ Becky explains to David.

‘Wasn’t his thing, no?’ Miriam folds her arms and looks disapprovingly at Pete for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t take it personally, Becky, he’s very chalk and cheese about things. He gets it from his father. Some might call it . . .’ She pauses, stage whispers, ‘
closed-minded
.’

Pete leans back in his chair. ‘What’s for lunch then, Mum?’

‘You’ll see,’ Miriam tells him, looking at him carefully for a hint of the meanness his father was prone to. ‘So, you work as a waitress by day, and then you go off and dance in the theatre by night?’ Miriam asks warmly. ‘You’re putting us all to shame, Becky!’

Becky smiles self-consciously. Wants to disappear into the tablecloth.

‘Well said.’ David slaps the table top. Miriam jumps. Pete stares at him, confused. ‘Smart lady,’ he says to Pete. Pete doesn’t respond. Keeps staring at him. David tries to match the stare but can’t. He picks up his fork and looks at the prongs carefully.

‘So, what do you get up to on your days off?’

‘Normal stuff,’ Becky tells her. ‘Money’s tight so we don’t go out much or things like that, do we?’ She turns her body towards Pete.

He shakes his head sadly. ‘Not so much.’

‘But we go out with friends and that, don’t we?’

‘We do.’ Pete puts his arm around the back of her chair, squeezes her shoulder gently. Becky touches his hand. Miriam’s never seen her son show affection to anyone. She melts, pools and evaporates.

‘We go to the pub, and we go to parties and things. If Pete’s up for it.’

‘Oh good.’ Miriam’s eyes grow wider and wider. ‘Does he take you out to the clubs, show you off?’

‘That’s exactly what I do,’ Pete says, straight-faced.

‘What else? Tell me more. It’s nice to hear about young people’s lives, isn’t it, David?’

‘We’re not quite at the knacker’s yard yet, sweetheart,’ David huffs cheerfully.

‘Yes, but you know, we’re not in our twenties, are we,
dancing
and going out to parties with all our friends. I remember those days. Good times, they were. Enjoy every minute, won’t you, my darlings?’

‘We try,’ Pete says.

‘So, do you take classes?’

‘Yes. I take a couple a week, but it all adds up, so sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on what I can afford.’

‘Waitressing is tough, isn’t it? It’s all tips. And rude people.’ Miriam leans forwards, enjoying the presence of a young lady in her house. Her daughter is so boyish that she’s more like another son.

Becky laughs. ‘Yeah, tell me about it. But it’s my uncle and auntie’s place, so I like to help out.’

‘Oh that’s good. If it’s a family business.’ Becky glances at Pete.

‘And I do massage as well. So it’s just about enough. We survive.’ Pete grows rigid in his seat.

‘Oh how nice. Lucky you, eh, Pete?’ Miriam winks at him.

Pete detonates the bomb strapped to his chest and his body explodes and splatters the room with his insides. ‘Very lucky,’ he says. Squeezing her shoulder again.

‘I love all those holistic therapies,’ Miriam tells her. ‘I get Reiki every other Thursday.
And
I’ve had past-life regression.’ Miriam grins at Becky, looking for understanding. ‘David thinks I’m barmy for it, but I love it. I’ve had it a few times now.’

‘What did you see?’ Becky asks her.

‘The first time, I was in ancient Egypt.’

Pete closes his eyes, sighs, leaves them closed for a full second before looking back at his mother.

Becky nods. ‘Right.’

‘I was a boy. I was a noble boy, but I was running in the slums, being chased. I had stolen something and I knew that I’d done wrong and I knew that I was done for.’

‘Scary,’ says David. ‘I once had to run from a gang of thugs when I was a lad.’ No one responds.

‘I don’t know what I had stolen, or why, but I ran, through dirty yellow alleyways, past workmen, women carrying babies on their backs and fronts, market stalls, wagons.’

‘Just like on TV,’ Pete says.

‘Shut up, you.’ Miriam wags a finger at him. ‘I’m talking to Becky.’ She gives her a knowing look. Becky moves her hair behind her ears. ‘It was hot. The middle of the day. Blazing heat. A group of young people threw a ball in the shade, and beyond, I saw the building site, a pyramid! Unfinished! Thousands of bodies, everywhere, I kept ducking through gaps, into doorways and around corners, but they caught up with me, I felt a hand grab my hair and pull me backwards.
And that must have been the end of that life.’ She sits back in her chair. Nodding slowly, eyebrows raised.

‘It’s like I’ve always said.’ David spreads his palms, implores the room. ‘We contain multitudes.’

Pete and Miriam stare straight ahead. Becky looks at him and smiles appreciatively at his wisdom.

The doorbell goes.

‘I’ll go,’ Pete says, scraping his chair on the tiled floor.

‘How many times, Peter?’ Miriam calls after him. ‘Don’t scrape your chair like that.’

Pete opens the door and Becky hears voices. She looks around the dining room. Pete walks back in followed by his sister. Becky looks up and the house falls in on her.

‘Harry, this is Becky,’ Pete says, standing between them. Harry stands in the doorway. ‘Becky, this is my sister, Harry.’

Harry feels her guts lurch. Her body is a dry sponge. Becky feels her lungs expand, each pocket fills with air. She is suddenly aware of every organ in her body, working at the same time.

‘Hi,’ she says quietly. Her hair falls in front of her face. She sweeps it across. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Harry leans down and kisses her cheek gently. ‘Hi.’ Her smile is kind and quiet. Becky is grateful for it. Miriam shifts in her seat to see it. Harry sits down next to her mother and offers a guarded smile. Pete chews his thumbnail. Harry can’t breathe.

‘Well,’ says David, ‘here we all are.’ And he claps his hands together, jubilant.

‘OK then,’ Miriam says, getting up and leaving the room. She returns wearing oven gloves and holding five plates. ‘Nice and warm,’ she says happily.

She heated the plates
. Becky’s never had a family meal, not like this. She sits back in her chair, her body poised, always. She sneaks a look at Harry. Her tiny frame leant back on her chair, she’s rubbing her cheeks with both hands. Their eyes meet briefly, a current courses between them, leaves a trail of ashes in its path. Harry looks away, her restless hands grip the edge of the table as she tucks herself in and examines her cutlery.

Miriam leaves again and comes back with a big pot and puts it in the middle of the table on a serving mat. ‘I just made a stew, so. Nothing fancy. Pete assured me you weren’t a veggie. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. No. I eat everything,’ Becky says.

‘Good, that’s what I like to hear,’ Miriam says. ‘Although I hardly believe it with a figure like that,’ Miriam says on her way out again. Becky squirms, blushes. Looks into her wine. Miriam returns. ‘And mash here,’ she says, ‘and veg too’. She brings two dishes to the table and places them on matching serving mats that also match the serviettes beside each knife and fork. Becky notices all these details. ‘And, here’s some salad too. Just a little salad.’ Miriam puts a big bowl of colourful salad on the other side of the stew. ‘Oh almost forgot.’ She jogs out, they all listen to her footsteps making the short walk to the kitchen and then returning. She comes back through the door. ‘Aaannd the dressing here.’ She’s carrying a jug that
matches the plates on the table, she sets it down, and then, before sitting, she removes the lid from the stew and the steam rises up like it’s an advert for a happy home.

Pete leans over and puts his nose above the pot. ‘It smells so good, Mum.’

‘Well, it’s getting colder out there.’ She looks at him fondly. ‘And we need to keep our strength up.’

‘It looks well nice, Miriam, thank you,’ Becky says. Struggling with a ticking grit inside, trying to hold down an anger swelling for every meal she never ate with her own parents.

‘Oh it’s just a little lunch,’ Miriam says, obviously pleased with the compliments. ‘And David helped me. Didn’t you, love?’

‘Oh no, I must confess, I was no help whatsoever. I am useless in the kitchen.’ He pauses, takes a sip of wine. ‘In other rooms, however, I am extremely adept.’

Pete chokes a little on his wine. Becky leans over to rub his back and starts laughing silently into her hand. Feeling better. Harry looks mortified. Doesn’t know where to look. Miriam blushes deeply.

David is unaware of anyone’s discomfort. ‘Have some water, Pete.’ Pete stares at him in dismay. David sees the look, cogs tick in his well-meaning brain. Nobody speaks. ‘Oh God, no!’ he says suddenly. ‘No, I meant the living room. The lounge. I meant I’m very good at putting my feet up and watching the telly. Goodness. No. I would never. Although, you know. We are all adults.’

Nobody speaks. Becky stifles laughter. Pushes her hand into her mouth. Pete drinks water, shakes his head.

‘Right. OK,’ David says. ‘Who wants stew? Pass your plates.’ He dishes out the lunch and once everyone has their food and more wine, he serves himself.

They sit in silence. Listen to the sound of wet mouths chewing wet meat. The second hand ticks.

Miriam was born a butcher’s daughter. Her whole life had been lived among carcass and flesh; the thump of the steaks as they were cut from the flanks of the beasts. Her brothers and uncles wrapping up slabs in white paper, her dad in his apron. The first shop in Leyton. Her father was Raymond. Her mother was Annabelle. Her mother worked as a nursery teacher and loved her husband and children above all else. They’d met during the war. Ray was a pilot, and Annabelle waved the planes down, held up the bright flags that would guide the descending aircrafts back to solid ground. They were married on the aircraft carrier where they were deployed, somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Miriam was the last-born, youngest sister of a proud bunch. Many years younger than her three elder brothers. Annabelle had almost given up hoping for a girl.

When Miriam arrived, she was her mother’s pride and joy, and Annabelle did her best to keep her daughter far from the shriek of the abattoirs and the swish of her father’s cleaver.
She went to a nice school, her friends were clean, polite children. They lived in a green suburb in east London in a simple, homely house with a sweet-smelling garden. But Miriam was drawn to the floor of the butcher’s shop. She found herself lingering there, begging her brothers to not tell their mother they’d seen her.

At bedtime, Annabelle would sit at the head of her daughter’s bed, showing her postcards of ballerinas that she kept in a special envelope that lived in a drawer in her dressing table. She would whisper the names of the ballerinas, and which ballets they were dancing in in the pictures.

‘To be a woman, you must struggle, like the ballerina struggles. You have to work hard. It is painful work. And when you do it right, it will look effortless. But where we’re different from the dancers, my sweet, is that we will never be applauded for getting it right.’

Miriam listened quietly, as she always did, but she couldn’t make sense of a word of it. Her heart pumped red with butcher’s blood.