Beauty stared at the shoulders of the man in the seat in front of her. She’d stayed outside Norris’s small bedroom until he awoke to make sure that he was all right.
It was my fault.
She hadn’t wanted to leave Ethel alone either, ever again, but Maria had told her to go home.
Ethel said she would see her the next day, and not to worry about the silly old folk in the home: they did get visits from their children, but no one liked to talk about it. It wasn’t fair on those who never saw theirs. Beauty felt dizzy again as she listened to the elderly lady.
Never saw their children!
What was the point of having them?
The bus jerked forward in the traffic and the radiator blew hot air from under her seat. Beauty felt sick. She pressed the stop button and got up when the bus slowed.
It was a long way to the town centre but she didn’t mind. She wanted to walk and walk, and not think about what she had to do.
The wind rushed through the branches of the trees overhead.
Most of them got kids.
She glanced up …
‘She may as well be dead, for all you see her.’
… and walked faster …
‘If you die I hope they don’t show me your face.’
… beyond the bus and the cars that had stopped at the traffic lights, until the trees and their ghosts ended.
An old man passed her with a walking stick, a small dog by his side which looked at her; and a white-haired lady in a faded pink raincoat and loose tights.
‘I’m a bit of a handful, I’m afraid.’
It was getting dark. The pain in her foot slowed her down. Cars crawled past with the faces of children staring from windows. Beauty tried not to look at them.
White way, your kids put you in a house full of strangers and leave you there to die? She’d never heard of that before. Until the end, you stayed with your parents; you cared for them, dressed them and cleaned them; they needed help, like children, so you helped them, like they had done for you.
God said that’s your job to look after your parents. That’s what we’re here for.
But what did she know, a dumb girl who believed in God? That white guy, Peter, had looked at her like he felt sorry for her. If white people’s laws were based on Ehudi and Christian stuff, like he said, why did they throw their parents away when they got old?
Didn’t they have laws for looking after their mum and dad?
Is that what people meant by being free?
Your kids gonna look after you one day?
In the town centre she walked close to the shop fronts and looked ahead for her brothers. She didn’t need to hear Dulal’s threats again; she knew them by heart. There was only one way out now, only one thing to do to stop her family hassling her. And knowing made her feel lighter, like she had felt in her dream, when all the pain had stopped.
At the orange football stadium she turned right into Linton Road and stopped in front of the Asian Women’s Centre. She looked up at the windows of the three-storey building. Was the runaway with the rucksack still sitting in the corner? The playground of the primary school opposite was empty. Where was the little girl with the plait?
From Craddock Street she made her way to Mark’s house through the side streets and narrow passageways of Graiseley, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.
Peter stood outside his house, lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wall. Kate said the smoke was giving her a headache while she packed her clothes. She was leaving him. For good. Peter couldn’t decide whether he was happy or not. The realization of his long-hoped-for split-up had caught him by surprise. His ‘wanting-her-to-stay’ and ‘looking-forward-to-seeing-her-after-work’ had been short-lived. Not even a day. Confronted with his internet searches, including some of the pictures, he had at first tried to lie his way out before realizing it was useless and that it was better to let her rage run its course. Besides, ‘it was a junk mail link I followed’ seemed a feeble excuse when faced with the mass of pages she had found. Nor was moral outrage at the invasion of his privacy an option, judging by the anger and hurt she said she was feeling.
What kind of sicko had she been going out with? she’d demanded to know. Was that what he got up to as soon as her back was turned? It had been so humiliating to find out that her boyfriend would rather look at that, pointing to the screen, than have sex with her.
What could he say? That he’d been bored one night and decided to look at the worst of human sexual depravity? He’d kept to it as a line of defence. Did she really think he fantasized about midgets sticking their feet up his arse, or having clothes pegs attached to his scrotum?
What about all the Asian women he’d been looking at? It made her feel so worthless and unwanted, she’d sobbed.
Peter had tried to comfort her, but she’d screamed at him to get his filthy hands off her. Instead he said things like ‘I can’t handle this any more’ and ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with my life’, had even clutched his head for dramatic effect. And then he made the mistake of asking her if anyone else had seen it, which provoked another outburst of tears and recriminations. Peter had felt himself becoming aroused again at her misery, but it hadn’t seemed opportune to make this fact known to her. Kate was alternately furious, hurt, dismissive and confident, depending on the nature of the ‘home truths’ she thought he needed to know. Peter had tried to appear suitably chastened. Indeed, it hadn’t been one of his most splendid moments.
He’d slept on the sofa that night and never did find out if Beauty had been there when Kate had made her discoveries. Had the two women looked at the fruits of his internet searches together? What if Beauty told Mark that he was some kind of sexual deviant? What if Mark got together an angry mob of torch-bearing local residents to hammer on his door in the middle of the night? Should he move? Peter thanked God that he hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in any online schoolgirl uniforms, and then felt embarrassed to have invoked Him in such a sordid affair.
He flicked the butt of the cigarette into the road. Jesus! Was he becoming religio-superstitious himself?
Peter looked up the street and saw Beauty rounding the corner. Even if she hadn’t seen the porn, was there still a chance that she might take up his invitation to find somewhere to live together?
Beauty didn’t notice the white guy until he stepped in front of her. She’d had enough of this shaitan and his devil words.
Ethel.
That’s where his ideas ended up.
Peter could see Kate in the sitting room through the net curtains.
‘Did you manage to think about what I said?’ he asked Beauty, as she moved round him.
Beauty turned to face him and looked into his pale face and bloodshot eyes. She remembered everything he’d said.
‘Yeah. I just seen your free.’
Peter watched her disappear into Mark’s house. What the hell was she talking about? His treatment of Kate? The porn? Or had she been referring to something else?
It could have been anything, he realized.
A light rain began to fall. A siren flashed past at the end of the street.
Peter waited for Kate to emerge from the house. Was that it between them now?
When the front door opened he moved to take the bag she was holding.
‘I don’t need your help, thank-you-very-much.’
He followed her to her car, unsure whether he felt the usual guilt at hurting her, shame at the porn, or neediness after the withering look from Beauty. Did it matter? He wanted Kate to stay. There was something different about her, as if she’d woken up after years.
‘Is that it?’ he said, as she lowered the bag into the boot. ‘Why don’t you stay? Can’t we talk about this?’
Kate slammed the lid shut. ‘What’s there to talk about, Peter? You tell me you love me – and I catch you drooling over a … a vulnerable young girl … and all that filth … You know, I feel really sorry for you.’ Her anger was restrained.
She took an envelope from her coat pocket and headed towards Mark’s house.
Peter looked about him at the houses in Prole Street, up through the drizzle to the grey sky, sighed, and went indoors.