You Don't Have to be Good (6 page)

‘You’ve fixed your pawn on the colour of your bishop.’

Frank turned round on the piano stool and glared at the chess board. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing.’ Adrian continued cycling, but in reverse.

Frank got up and gazed down at the chess board. He nodded sagely at the framed poster of his college production of
The Seagull in the Cherry Orchard
, which the local paper had hailed as ‘uneven and overlong’. It had probably been a mistake to roll the two plays into one. He stood up straight and raised himself on his toes, then snatched a look at Adrian, who was gazing mildly round the room while he waited for Frank. ‘Hmm,’ said Frank, looking at the small glass trophy he had won for his first radio play,
Three Brothers,
based loosely on
Three Sisters
but set in Burnley. No, it was not nothing to be BBC Lancashire’s Promising Newcomer of the Year at the age of twenty-three. He turned and nodded fiercely at the chess board. It was not nothing to have always remained true to his art and to have laboured day and night getting the words down on the page. He blew the dust from his trophy and wiped it with his cuff. No. Not nothing.

‘What?’ said Adrian.

Frank looked at him. ‘What do you mean,
what
?’

‘You said something.’

‘Oh, I did, did I?’

‘You said, “Not nothing.”’

‘You’re not making any sense, Adrian.’

Frank let out a short, exasperated laugh. He bent down and put his thumb and forefinger on the head of his bishop, nodding and humming cunningly to himself. Adrian stopped cycling and watched. Frank pursed his lips and pushed the bishop along three squares. Adrian carried on cycling again. Frank rubbed his hands together and nearly said
Ha!
but stopped himself. The boy was just a child, after all. Beating him at chess was hardly a victory to crow about.

Frank returned to his desk, picked up the pencil and read the words ‘A duck flies into the tree . . .’ A duck? In a housing estate? Well, yes, it was possible, there were parks and ponds and lakes up there, but even so, a duck was possibly taking the
Peter and the Wolf
connection a little far. He crossed out ‘duck’ and wrote ‘magpie’, then read it through again. Yes, ‘magpie’ had the requisite sense of the ordinary and the omen, the vulnerable yet avaricious, it was both a sign and a—

‘Your turn.’ Adrian was sitting up, chin in hands, looking down at the chess board.

Frank looked over. His bishop was imprisoned behind Adrian’s back row. It was staring at him with that mournful expression that bishops have. He stuck his pencil behind his ear and marched over to the chess table.

‘Hang on a minute. Just show me what you did there, please.’

Adrian showed him. Frank puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. His back didn’t hurt today. Wanda had worked miracles on it the day before. She certainly knew the meaning of the word massage. He sat down and studied the board. Inexplicably, things did not look good. Things did not look good at all. His king was backed up in a corner, his pawns were doubled up and his knights were doing bugger all.

Adrian said, ‘Knights belong in the middle of the board . . .’

‘Er . . . yes!’ snapped Frank sarcastically. ‘I am aware of that, I believe. If I wasn’t trying to work right now as well as babysitting, I might be able to keep my eye on your cheap tricks.’

Frank clasped his hands in front of his mouth. Nothing happened for quite a long time. Adrian counted his blinks. He had got up to one hundred and twenty-eight when Frank scratched the top of his head and grimaced before pushing a pawn forward two squares.

Adrian took his move and said, ‘
Is
it the snoring, though?’

‘I don’t snore in point of fact, Adrian.’

Frank sacrificed his white knight to tempt Adrian’s queen.

‘How do you know?’

‘I think I would know if I snored!’ snorted Frank. ‘I would wake myself up.’

‘But it’s unconscious. People don’t snore when they’re awake.’

‘Your aunt has been known to snore whilst gardening.’

‘That’s not snoring.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Panting. Grunting maybe.’ Adrian looked at his watch. He stood abruptly, flung both arms above his head, groaned loudly and sat down again. ‘Hurry up.’

‘It’s your turn.’

‘No. I’ve been. Look.’

Frank looked. Somehow Adrian had sneaked his queen across the board and was now menacing Frank’s king. The phone rang. Frank snatched it triumphantly and listened.

He looked up at the ceiling and opened and closed his fingers into fists. After a while he said, ‘Hello, Margaret.’ He rolled his eyes at Adrian. ‘No, Bea’s out. Yes . . . yes . . . hmm . . . Oh dear. I’ll get her to call you, shall I?’ He put the phone down.

‘Was that Granny?’

‘That was Granny. Something about a variegated shrub and a funny noise coming from the oven.’ Frank waved his hands in the air, shaking all that tedious detail off him. ‘Now let’s get this over with, shall we?’ He lifted his bishop and took Adrian’s queen, then got to his feet humming to himself.

Adrian took Frank’s queen with his rook.

‘Check,’ he said.

Frank stopped halfway across the room. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Checkmate, actually.’ Adrian unfolded his long legs and got to his feet.

Frank looked across at the board and nodded knowingly. ‘I taught you well. Not bad, not bad. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’ He walked to the door and held it open for Adrian.

‘I mean, Mum and Dad share a bed.’

‘And your point is?’ Frank craned his head forward, mouth turned down. Adrian looked faintly surprised, so Frank brought his head back up again and looked at the ceiling. What in God’s name had possessed them to paint it mushroom gloss all those years ago?

‘You should share a bed too. Marriage is like a game of chess.’

‘Marriage is like a game of chess, is it?’ Frank was doing the nodding again but he couldn’t stop himself. The boy was absurd. ‘Had a lot of experience yourself, have you?’

‘Identify the weakness. Fix the weakness.’

‘Well when you’ve been married for as long as your aunt and me, Adrian, I shall seek your advice again. In the meantime, just stick to chess, hmm?’ Frank waved him out.

‘Not sharing a bed is not nothing.’

Wanda passed the open doorway carrying the vacuum cleaner. ‘Hello, boys!’ she called.

‘And maybe just check the snoring,’ said Adrian, going out.

A
T
E
LYSIAN
Fields Garden Centre Bea had, over the years, spent a good proportion of her salary from Shire Hall. It was a place she often took the children, even when they were tiny. Nappy-wadded, Adrian and Laura tottered along winding paths between shrubs and perennials while she indulged her fantasy of a verdant garden filled with scented blooms. They preferred the garden centre to playgrounds for it had a raised pond with newts in it, a café and places a child could safely get lost in. Two weeks after she walked into the river, Bea took Adrian and Laura to the garden centre for the last time.

She stood before the display of spring bulbs and considered its promise of snowdrops and crocuses. She moved away. No bulbs survived the squirrels in her garden, but here, in Autumn Colour, she could see some possibilities in fuchsia and chrysanthemum. No. They reminded her too much of her mother’s home in Hastings. She turned the corner and found herself in Conifers, Heathers and Alpines. Absolutely not. She didn’t want the north or the cold even though her garden was north-facing and overlooked by large trees; it was only a matter of time before she would have to surrender to the darkness and grow nothing but hostas. But what was the point? Hostas were immediately sacrificed to the slugs. Her own garden had become enemy territory. There used to be a sunny patch over by the fence where flowers could grow but shade encroached a little more each year, stealing more light and sky. And to make matters worse, she couldn’t read anything these days without a pair of glasses, and as she intended to resist, until the final moment, the wearing of glasses round her neck on a string, she had begun to find that the world of words was retreating unless she
peered
. Not a good look, sweetheart, Precious reminded her. Peering now at the labels on a display of
Hedera helix
, she stood upright and grimaced. Who in their right mind would buy ivy? It had invaded her garden;
Hedera helix
grew up the fences, along the ground and throttled everything in its path. It spread and clung with the tenacity of a malignant disease, however often she was out there with secateurs and gloves.

In the last aisle she found herself in Water Features. This was more like it. She could abandon the lawn and dig a lake. There would be frogs and newts, lilies and kingcups. It was the answer to her gardening problem. Look, here there was even a fountain and a low trickling waterfall.

‘Bad idea,’ said a voice. ‘All those leaves.’

It startled her, she hadn’t heard him approach. She turned to see a tanned, shaven-headed man. He wore yellow work gloves and an open-mouthed smile.

‘Oh,’ she said, smiling too because she recognised him. ‘Haven’t we . . .’

‘Urban,’ he said, with a faint trace of an accent that she could not place. He pulled off his gloves and dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Urban Feake.’

‘Of course!’ Bea laughed with relief and thought, what sort of a name is that? ‘You’re Wanda’s friend, aren’t you? You did my patio last year . . . I’m just looking for a . . .’ She was jabbering. He was very attractive . . .
earthy
. It had been joyous having him and Wanda work in her garden. Precious had come round one day after work and helped her cook for everyone. They’d stood at the sink, she and Precious, nudging each other like girls as they watched Urban wield the sledgehammer. And now here he was again, looking at her like an old friend. She stopped herself and glanced around her. ‘Now . . .’ She turned away so she could adjust her bra and straighten her blouse. ‘I think I’ve lost my children.’

She blushed. Urban must know the set-up. But even so, sometimes it was easier to pretend Adrian and Laura were her own children. It could be so complicated explaining they were her sister’s, and anyway, they looked like Bea. Well, Laura did. She glanced at Urban, who hadn’t moved. Stocky and muscled, he gave the impression of being wound tight like a spring. His English was good, she remembered that, but ‘nephew’ and ‘niece’ might be tricky.

Scattered gravel made them turn round. Chanel raced towards them, giggling as though she were having an asthma attack. She whisked past and took a running jump at a collection of faux-terracotta urns, four feet tall and enough to take a good-sized tree or teenager.

‘That’s not one of mine,’ said Bea, pointing. ‘She’s a friend.’

Laura skidded round the corner and looked wildly about her. ‘Where’d she go?’

Bea gestured at the urn. Laura ran up to it and looked inside. Snorts, shushes and guffaws ensued as she swung one leg up over the lip of it and hopped on the other foot.

Chanel started to giggle.

Laura said, ‘It’s not funny, man, I’m gonna wet meself, innnit though?’ She carried on hopping.

Chanel stood up in the urn and gave Laura’s leg a yank.

Laura let out a shriek. ‘Mind me mufti!’

Chanel started to hoot.

Bea said, ‘Stop it, both of you,’ and looked shamefacedly at Urban, who had rolled a cigarette. ‘You’re going to damage the pot, now get out.’ She took a step forward and grabbed Laura’s foot.

Miraculously, Laura slid easily into the pot and the two girls fell silent, faces looking up at her from the inside, pleading with her not to tell.

Adrian wandered over. Bea leant back against the pot and smiled, running a hand through her hair. I am flirting with the gardener, she thought. So what? There was something about the outdoors, something about the non-Englishness of Urban that made her feel like her old self. Women of her age didn’t thrive in England. It was the damp and the dark and the tabloids. Urban lit his cigarette and watched her coolly.

She said, ‘Adrian, do you remember Wanda’s friend Urban?’

Adrian said hello and Urban nodded, looking away at the stacks of larch lap fencing.

‘Like the pope?’ said Adrian, studying Urban.

Urban smoked silently.

‘Are they a band?’ Bea said, remembering that she hadn’t bought the meat yet. And the milk was running low when she left that morning. They would have to go to the supermarket on the way home.

‘The pope was a pope,’ explained Adrian. ‘During the Crusades. Pope Urban. There were lots of them.’

Urban looked none the wiser. Can’t be a Catholic thought Bea. She seemed to remember Wanda telling her he was Czech or Chechen, neither of which sounded like they’d have much truck with popes, but then Wanda was Catholic and she was from Poland. Bea shook her head. Personally, she welcomed the falling of borders on the continent. It widened everyone’s horizons and it gave her hope, but Katharine said the NHS was buckling beneath the strain. The urn behind them squealed and rocked on its base. Adrian looked at Bea. Bea looked at Urban.

‘Do you work here?’ she said, noticing a small tree motif on the pocket of his sweatshirt.

‘Parks and Gardens,’ said Urban. ‘I’ve come to pick up some masonry.’ He gestured at her empty trolley. ‘Find what you were looking for?’

‘Oh.’ Bea looked around them vaguely. ‘I wanted a water butt . . .’

A shadow of a smile crossed Urban’s face. ‘Ah yes. Wanda told me. Over here.’ He started to walk away, back towards the building. Bea followed him, pushing the ungainly trolley along the gravel paths like a mother who has lost her overgrown baby.

Adrian paused by the urn and looked about him. The girls’ whispers began to echo inside it. Soundlessly he crept behind the urn and lowered himself to the ground. The whispers got louder.