The Longest Fight (21 page)

G
eorgie and Pearl looked as if they had walked off a shift at an ammo factory: hair tied up in scarves, dungarees with belts pulled tight. Jack pointed at them from the kitchen doorway.

‘All I need is a headscarf too and you wouldn’t be able to tell us apart.’

‘Easy fixed, Jack.’ Pearl snatched up a tea towel.

Georgie grabbed his arms, dragging him into the room. Pearl pressed on his back, holding him down as the laughter wobbled through him. She fitted the towel into place, his ears squeezed back. Jack straightened up, put one hand on his hip and placed the other behind his head. He shoved out his groin and waggled across to the sink. Georgie wolf-whistled but it spluttered into a laugh.

‘Jealousy is an ugly thing.’ Jack shook his head and climbed the ladder.

The paint was thick as porridge, but Frank had been stirring the pots with a stick most of the morning and it was nearly smooth. A dollop ran down Jack’s wrist as he reached up to the ceiling. Pearl stood at the window.

‘Let him in, Jack.’

Frank crouched over another pot in the yard, leaning on one knee as he took it in turns to whisk with each hand. Mrs Bell’s cat squatted on the wall, flicking its head from side to side, mesmerised by the snap and twirl of the stick.

‘It weren’t me invited him. Newton sent him round with the paint. Couldn’t ask his Jimmy for a hand, could he? No, not now he’s a respectable man of the cloth.’

Jack brushed more paint on to the ceiling, covering a hairline crack spreading out from the corner of the room. The ladder rocked as he stretched across.

‘What do they call this shade?’ Georgie held up a brush and sniffed as if the colour could be revealed that way.

‘Cheap and cheerful’s the name.’

Jack extended his arm. His view of the yard, and Frank, disappeared behind his sleeve. Pearl worked the paintbrush into the rotting indoor sill below the ladder, splits widened by the tremors from bombs. Her mouth moved; any minute she was going to ask again, and again and again, not paying attention to anything else until all the new-painted surfaces were ruined. Jack swiped the cloth off his head, leaned over and banged on the window.

‘Frank, come and make yourself useful. You can paint the other bit of the ceiling.’

Frank came to the doorway, overalls flecked with paint; blobs of it ran down the stick splashing on to his Woolworth’s pumps. He stuck his head inside. ‘What’s that?’

‘Jack said he needs your help with the ceiling. Stand on the table.’ Pearl took his arm, led him into the middle of the room.

He didn’t need Frank’s help for anything but Georgie raised a finger in warning. Jack shook his head. ‘Make yourself useful, then. Brushes are in the sink. Be quick about it or the paint’ll be dry.’

He tutted as he splashed more paint into the crack, but it kept soaking it up. Frank climbed on to the table behind him. Pearl touched the base of Frank’s leg as she moved past to start work on the back door.

‘Thanks, Frank. We’ll get this place done in no time with all of us helping.’

‘It’ll look better than it did before, even with this funny colour.’ Georgie smoothed the paintbrush along the skirting board. The tatty blue dungarees were stretched at the seams as she worked around the edge of the room, sliding along on
her knees. Wasn’t space for things to lurk in corners, or stick to furniture, when she was moving through the old place. Jack got down from the ladder to help her shift the dresser. Georgie stuck her arm behind it, shoulder catching on the corner of the wood. ‘I’m not going to be able to paint all the way behind it, Jack.’

‘Don’t worry, it ain’t going far. That dresser’s probably grown roots.’

Jack rested against it, his fingertips automatically feeling for the split across the top. He glanced up at the ceiling, muscles remembering, straining to catch the sound of a stirring baby. But Pearl was working on the back step, chatting about something to Frank as he nodded, chewing his lip in concentration.

‘Memories?’ Georgie reached up to touch his fingertips. ‘Good or bad?’

‘Only trying to work out what colour this really is.’

‘Hang on, I’ve got something here.’

Georgie extracted a length of ribbon from behind the dresser, mossy with grey dust. It coiled like a snake into the palm of Jack’s outstretched hand; he ran it between his fingers, bringing out a red sheen.

‘Pearl, there’s some ribbon here. You can add it to your collection box.’ Georgie went back to painting.

Rose-red was the colour of the ribbon. Funny, when he’d thought about freshening up the kitchen, he hadn’t stopped to think about what they might unearth. Rosie would have liked to paint the place up when she first moved in. She’d made him spend a whole evening sticking pictures from magazines, and sweet wrappers, to the wall on her side of his mum’s bed: cottage gardens, dogs and kittens; there was even a picture of Grand National winner Reynoldstown – a near-black gelding. The headline had read
Father trained, Mother owned, Son rode,
but Rosie folded the words back. How had he forgotten that? They’d laughed when his mum pencilled out the bit dangling between the animal’s legs.

He crouched next to Georgie.

‘I’ve got a question for you.’

‘I couldn’t even guess at what it is – bluey green, yellowy grey?’ She swept the brush back and forwards over the wood.

‘No, not that. Ever feel like you’re more than one person? I mean looking back on things. Like it were someone else?’ He wrapped the ribbon around his wrist, polishing the colour back to life.

‘Sometimes, and sometimes it seems like years ago was only yesterday. Memory plays tricks like that, Jack.’

‘You’re right.’ He put a hand on her shoulder as he stood up. ‘I don’t even think this colour’s got a name.’ He studied the half-covered skirting.

‘Not worried I’m going to see through you, Jack? That tough old hit-first-ask-questions-later routine.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got news for you. I already see far more.’

Jack felt as if that sticky paint had him rooted to the spot. Pearl tapped her brush on the doorframe. ‘What are you two whispering about? We’re running out over here.’

‘Georgie was going all fortune-teller on me.’ Jack rubbed the stiffness from his knees.

‘Can you read tea leaves and palms? I didn’t know that.’ Frank righted his head.

‘He’s pulling your leg, Frank. If I were a mystic I’d be off predicting the Grand National winner, living the life of luxury.’

It was just a coincidence, but Jack couldn’t help feeling that somehow Georgie had poked at the edges of his thoughts. And, stranger than that, he didn’t mind. He dropped the curled ribbon into Pearl’s front pocket. ‘Take the steps, Frank. You’ll strain your neck looking up like that.’ Jack walked around the ladder. ‘I’ll put a brew on. Now get back to it, workers. It ain’t clocking off time yet.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’ Pearl caught him around the middle before he could get to the sink.

‘Can’t breathe… she’s trying to kill me…’ He made a show of gasping for breath.

For three whole seconds at least, he let Pearl grip him tight. But slowly, his hands settled on her back. He squeezed once then pushed her away to reach the kettle. ‘Leave off. Tea won’t make itself.’

Frank stood on the ladder behind him: clink of brushes against the tin, rustling of overalls. ‘I’m glad I could help out today, Jack. I was wondering if there was any news about –’

‘One more fight, Frank. Only one more. We’ll talk about it Monday, at the gym. It’ll be a good one, see you off with some money in your pocket. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Pearl glanced up, paint dripping off the brush and on to the floor. Jack reached for the whistling kettle, shaking above the flame.

‘It’d certainly come in handy.’ Frank nodded.

‘None of us can afford to turn down money these days.’ Jack warmed the old blue pot, weeping tea from the zigzag fractures the glue hadn’t quite healed.

They sat together on the back step, Pearl and Georgie squashed in the middle: mugs steaming, extra milk in Pearl’s to cool it down. The close-pressed warmth was insulation against the nipping November wind. Three stray gnats bobbed in the back yard as though they were suspended from the sky by separate pieces of string: bobbing and weaving, but never meeting. Jack took a good lungful of London air; it cleared the sharp sting of the paint fumes.

Frank drained his tea. ‘I better get back to the ceiling.’

‘I’ll help.’ Pearl jumped up beside him.

‘Best put some gloves on or you’ll get blisters.’ Frank took her mug, and they went into the kitchen together.

‘My God, you’re going to let those two be alone in a room? Feeling all right?’ Georgie pressed the back of her hand to Jack’s forehead.

‘Laugh all you want. I wouldn’t trust any bloke. They can’t shut themselves off, remember.’ He knocked the open
door next to him. ‘Damage is done anyway. Frank’s walking out of the ring. I can’t make him stay.’

‘You’ve got something planned, ain’t that right?’ Georgie tugged at the hair above his ear.

‘I’m just looking out for me and mine.’ He patted her backside.

‘Cheeky sod.’

A banging sound echoed around the yard. Jack leaned backwards, calling into the room, ‘What you doing in there?’

The banging came again.

‘Someone’s at the door,’ Pearl shouted back.

He knew why she hesitated, why she didn’t want anything to interrupt the afternoon; the gnats bobbed and disappeared into the fading light. Evening was coming, tomorrow was coming.

‘Well, go and see who it is, Pearl.’

‘I better get ready for my shift.’ Georgie stood up, stretched her arms.

The step was cold without her; the tea was cold. Jack hurled the last dregs across the yard, aiming for the ginger tom. The cat skidded off the wall. Frank was halfway through the ceiling, edging from the middle into the far corner of the room, balancing himself above the sink. But there was no sign of Pearl. Jack went into the hallway. Noises came from the front room – not Pearl’s voice but something deeper, talking without waiting for an answer. He didn’t want to find out if it was Mrs Bell, or Newton come to check on the paint. Pearl opened the door. He had his foot on the first step.

‘Jack.’

‘I’m in a hurry, need to get changed.’ He made it to the second step.

‘Win and Winifred are here.’

Jack wanted the loose threads of the carpet runner to twist around his legs and pull him into the dark cupboard beneath the stairs. He hadn’t seen the Winnies since his mum’s funeral. He made it to the third step. ‘I’ve got places to be, Pearl.’

‘They want to talk to you.’ She left the door open.

Jack pictured their faces – Pearl’s get-up, her paint-splattered face. He rubbed the grin from his face with the palm of his hand, walking backwards down the stairs. The Winnies occupied an armchair each: dark suit jackets buttoned up, coats on their laps. The room felt bone-achingly cold; no sunlight reached it. Pearl sat at the table, hands hanging limply at her side, scarf tucked neatly in her belt. A sharp whiff of paint followed him in; the creak of the ladder in the kitchen, footsteps walking above them. He closed the door.

‘Who died?’

‘No one, I hope.’ Winifred shook her head as she answered.

‘We are all of us here in this room, aren’t we?’

Win patted the coat in her lap as if it were a cat. Her hair was greying around the line of her temples – too proud to dye it. Winifred’s dark hair was faded as the colour of the old rug; the older they got, the more they became the same.

Jack picked at dots of paint caught in the hair on his hands. ‘We’re the ones just won’t die.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Win tilted her head.

‘Apology accepted – remember to send a telegram warning next time.’ Jack yawned.

She shook her head, and Winifred blinked. Like black beetles clicking in the armchairs, predicting heavy downpours with their shiny hard shells; he’d only bring a torrent if he stamped on them now. Better to let them run out on their own.

‘So, it’s been a while, then, ain’t it?’ Pearl smiled.

‘I simply don’t know where the time goes.’ Win nodded.

But nothing had changed between them, it never would; the wedges were driven deep. Jack scratched his nostril, working his finger up inside. He wanted to make them look away, tut at least. But, despite all their lace handkerchiefs, scented drawer bags and crustless sandwiches, he couldn’t get a reaction.

Winifred’s gaze passed over Pearl then swung back to Jack. She was trying to start things again, take control, fingers tapping the coat in her lap.

‘We thought it had been too long. I said that only last week to you, Win, and you said…’

‘Too long.’

Win tucked her arms over her ribs. The bones in her hands were like the spines of an old umbrella thrusting up through black cloth. Winifred flicked dust from her skirt. ‘How are you, John?’

They didn’t seem to notice that he didn’t give an answer, didn’t even bother to correct his name; they settled themselves deeper into his chairs. Pearl was positioned at the point of the triangle beside him. He was glad she didn’t look like the other women in the family. Jack wondered what they had been telling her, their lies scraping back the curling wallpaper.

‘Ain’t nothing wrong with us. If that’s all you wanted to know then you can head off again. We’ve got work to get back to.’

‘We came to talk about the future.’ Winifred straightened a jet brooch pinned to her throat.

‘Perhaps it’s time for a fresh start. Have you thought about moving out of London?’ Win tried a smile but it sank away unfinished.

‘Pearl’s got a job at the factory. I work out of the gym.’

‘Yes, your work. It really seems a most unsuitable profession. It could bring you into contact with all sorts of people.’ Winifred clipped each word.

‘What dirty little gossip have you been listening to?’

‘Do you want tea? I could have made a cake if I’d known you were coming, but there’s digestives in the cupboard.’ Pearl twisted her hands around the seat of the chair.

‘Now, how can it be gossip if it’s true, John?’ Winifred smiled up at him.