The Living. Anjali Joseph
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I sat near him and did the same. He didn’t speak, he seemed further away than he was. The sunlight fell through the trees, and got lost before it could reach the ground.
Well, he said, best be getting back, I suppose. You probably need to get back, don’t you. He seemed to have lost energy.
Not really, I said. But I did. I hadn’t said anything to Jason.
Let’s get you home, he said. We didn’t talk on the way.
When he dropped me at the corner he said, So when am I going to see you again? He said he often went to the Star, nearer town, on a Friday night. Will I see you there? he asked.
What time?
Oh, later, he said. About eight. Eight or so. So long then.
He drove off and I went towards the house, doing things to my hair.
Jason was home, with Steve. They were making tea – potato waffles, baked beans, fish fingers. He put more on. I sat at the table with a cup of tea. The kitchen was light, a good smell in the air, the back door open, summer coming in. Something white and grey flitted across the edge of my eye. I turned. The cat from up the road – it likes our garden.
Steve smiled at me. How are you, Claire? he asked. He’s a nice lad. There’s something damp about his eyes, but he has a sweet smile.
I’m all right, I said. How’s it going? How’s your mum?
I was going to ask about his plans for next year, college or what, but then I thought better. A good day, why not just let it be a good day.
Jason and I needed to talk about next year. I didn’t remember when we’d had a conversation that lasted longer than a few minutes and didn’t end with him walking off. I watched him eating his tea tonight, but he didn’t look at me. He knew I wanted to talk; I knew he didn’t.
He doesn’t look that much like his dad, thank God. Except his colouring. There was an age – when he was eleven, twelve – when he looked just like Pete. It was strange – the first man I’d been with appearing from time to time in my son. Pete wasn’t even a man when we started up. We were kids, but we thought we were grown up. He looked older, more like a man, around the time he left. It hurt for so long. Now I can’t believe how young we were – almost Jason’s age.
Jason’s the same build as Pete now – tall, broad in the shoulder, not like me. The same dark hair and blue eyes. But he reminds me more of Jim, Jim who isn’t there any more. I used to tell him when he looked like someone. Now I don’t bother. He doesn’t like it. He’s good at shaking things off, Jason. He doesn’t have to say anything. He just looks across, like a little bull, eyes big and direct, and gets ready to refuse.
But he did say something, just before he took his plate to the sink. Mum, some of the lads are going to Newquay in August.
Oh right? I said.
For a week or ten days. Staying in a hostel. I want to go.
Do you, I said. I find myself saying stupid things, like my mum, when I don’t want to say yes but I don’t know how not to.
Can I? For my birthday? He stopped and looked at me straight. He was properly asking.
When are they leaving?
The fifth or so.
Can’t you come back for your birthday? I was thinking of having a party. You could have your friends round.
He didn’t quite roll his eyes.
Why am I always trying to stop him, I thought.
We could have it when I get back, he said. Couple of days later.
Like the nineteenth or twentieth? All right, I said. Have you got enough money?
Yeah yeah, he said. He had his back to me. He was even washing the plate. Nearly, he said.
How much do you need?
Maybe a hundred and fifty quid.
Early birthday present, eh? I said.
He turned round and grinned at me. His grin can floor you, that boy. Thanks, Mum, he said.
I went to the bedroom and tried not to think about Jason battered out of his mind in Newquay and the stories you read in the paper. I’d make him text me every day. Because that’d help. It always went like this. I said no no no no oh okay then. I didn’t want to be that parent, the one who says no and doesn’t know what happens. Not that anyone knows.
And this wasn’t why I’d said yes, I swear, but I also thought: the house empty for ten days.
He turned me over. Here, he said. He put a pillow next to me.
What? I said. I looked at him over my shoulder. The curtains were drawn. I couldn’t see his face. He was kneeling over me.
Put it under you. Here. He helped me shift it, then got into me. There you go, he murmured as he started moving. He said things to himself. Yeah … Mmm … and got turned on quickly. Do you want me to come? he asked.
I thought it was a general question. Course, I said. He moved faster and did, with a shout. When he’d finished, he breathed in and moved in me a few times, just I guess because it felt good.
I waited for him to say something about the fact that I hadn’t come, offer to do something. He leaned back, took the pillow from me, put his head on it, got me in the crook of his arm. I liked that, the warmth. He’d be here for a while; he was in no hurry. And it was still early. I looked up at him, but he was different. Before, he was concentrated on me, like a spotlight. Now, he was here, my head was on his chest, but I’d disappeared.
He looked up at the ceiling. So, Claire, he said, how do you like doing it?
How do you mean? I said. I like it, I added.
He chuckled. His chest moved under my face.
What?
You’re funny, he said. He squeezed me with his arm. No, I meant, which way? Which other way do you like?
Like, position?
Mm.
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