Yeah and no. I suppose because of what ended up happening there.’
There is a pit in Richard’s stomach. He has tried for months to get Graham to move towards whatever it was that sent him here, and now that this moment seems near, he is filled with a sense of doom, as if it is all about to unfold again for real.
Graham stands up and walks over to the window. He rests his back against the ledge and crosses his feet. Richard does not move.
‘I suppose when me and Trace moved there I thought, oh well, it’s not for ever, you know? I thought I’d save up for a house and that. I thought, we won’t be here long. Well, I mean, I wasn’t there long in the end, was I? I ended up here pretty quick. Left Tracy alone with our little girl. Good work, Graham. Nice one.’ He batters his hands rhythmically on the window ledge, and then, like a street magician who’s collected enough coins to pack up his box of tricks and head home, he closes himself up. Closes himself up and walks out.
Forty-Three
Carol
1987
Jim calls often, once a day when he is onshore, which makes her happier than she can remember being in a long time. Nicola knows about the phone calls, but Carol says nothing to Graham. Her son’s relative calm, his apparent resolve to sort himself out, is new. Carol doesn’t trust it, not yet, is still tiptoeing around him, eggshells at her feet. She is desperate for Jim to visit, to see what they have, what they might have together, but mentioning his name could break whatever fragile stability Graham has managed to achieve.
Tracy begins to show towards Easter, and since her parents have disowned her, Carol goes with her on her visits to the midwife. The months clock up on the calendar. Tracy’s belly gets rounder. She complains about feeling like a space hopper when she sits her CSEs. Carol meanwhile knits her new hopes into two matinee jackets and a white crocheted shawl.
One evening in early August, Carol is lying on the sofa watching Coronation Street with her eyes closed. When the phone rings, it wakes her.
‘Mum?’
‘Graham? You at work, love?’
‘No, Mum. No.’ A pause, a choking sound.
‘Graham?’ Her heart leaps to her mouth. ‘Graham, love, are you all right?’
‘Mum, I’m at the hospital. Trace was amazing. Just amazing. The baby, she’s all pink and she’s p-p-perfect and she’s got these little fingers with these little nails, oh my God, the nails …’
‘A little girl,’ she says, eyes filling.
‘She’s called Jade. Like the jewel. Precious Jade. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s perfect,’ she manages. ‘New life, new start. This’ll be the making of you, son. The making of you. Congratulations to you both.’
* * *
A month later, Graham, Tracy and Jade move into a flat at the Globe. Carol tries not to remember that this is where Barry lives, nor think about the fact that it is Barry who is somehow involved in this deal, someone at the council, something she won’t ask about. When they leave with the baby, she feels the silence in the house like never before. Nicola is so studious. Carol will not disturb her, not at any cost. Her life’s aim is to get that girl off to university, out of here. And so records play quietly, radio and television mumble, there are no arguments, there is no baby noise to fill the rooms, no smell of burp cloths, no talc, no nappies. And when Jim is offshore, there isn’t even a daily phone call to look forward to. For once, she is glad of her shifts at Safeway and the company they give her. But none of the women there can put their arms around her and tell her it’s going to be all right.
Tracy comes over with the baby at least twice a week. Jade is bonny and dark, by turns furious and placid. Graham comes for a roast dinner on Sundays, but as winter gets a grip of the year once more, he grows quieter, stranger, and Carol feels her guts tie into knots once again. Tracy seems on edge, seems to be cross with Graham for little things that shouldn’t matter. On two consecutive Mondays after Graham has been to the house, Carol finds less money in her purse than she remembers having there. Both times she tells herself she must have spent it and forgotten.
On the last Sunday in November,