Bleed for Me (3 page)

Sienna bows her head glumly.

The drama teacher claps his hands. ‘OK, let’s do that scene again. I’l play your part, Lockwood. It’s a kiss, OK? I’m not asking you to take out her tonsils.’

Mr El is takes his place opposite Erin, who is tal for her age and wearing flat shoes. The scene begins with an argument and ends when he puts a single finger beneath her chin and tilts her face towards his, whispering in a voice that penetrates even at the lowest volume. Erin’s hands are by her sides. Trembling slightly, her lips part and she topples fractional y forward as if surrendering. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss her, but he pul s away abruptly, breaking contact. Erin looks like a disappointed child.

‘OK, that’s it for today,’ says Mr El is. ‘We’l have another rehearsal on Friday afternoon and a ful dress rehearsal next Wednesday. Nobody be late.’

He looks pointedly at Sienna. ‘And I expect everything to be perfect.’

The cast wander off stage and the band begins packing away instruments. Easing open a fire door, I circle a side path to the main doors of the hal where a dozen parents are waiting, some with younger children clinging to their hands or playing tag on the grass.

A woman’s voice behind me: ‘Professor O’Loughlin?’

I turn. She smiles. It takes me a moment to remember her name. Annie Robinson, the school counsel or.

‘Cal me Joe.’

‘We haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘No. I guess my wife does most of this.’ I motion to the school buildings, or maybe I’m pointing to my life in general.

Miss Robinson looks different. Her clothes are tighter and her skirt shorter. Normal y she seems so shy and distracted, but now she’s more focused, standing close as if she wants to share a secret with me. She’s wearing high heels and her liquid brown eyes are level with my lips.

‘It must be difficult - the break-up.’

I clear my throat and mumble yes.

Her extra-white teeth are framed by bright painted lips.

Dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘If you ever need somebody to talk to . . . I know what it’s like.’ She smiles and her fingers find my hand. Intense embarrassment prickles beneath my scalp.

‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

I muster a nervous smile. At least I hope I’m smiling. That’s one of the problems with my ‘condition’. I can never be sure what face I’m showing the world - the genial O’Loughlin smile or the blank Parkinson’s mask.

‘Wel , it’s good to see you again,’ says Miss Robinson.

‘You too, you’re looking . . .’

‘What?’

‘Good.’

She laughs with her eyes. ‘I’l take that as a compliment.’

Then she leans forward and pecks me on the lips, withdrawing her hand from mine. She has pressed a smal piece of paper into my palm, her phone number. At that moment I spy Charlie in the shadows of the stage door, carrying a schoolbag over her right shoulder. Her dark hair is stil pinned up and there are traces of stage make-up around her eyes.

‘Were you kissing a teacher?’

‘No.’

‘I saw you.’

‘She kissed
me
. . .’

‘Not from where I was standing.’

‘It was a peck.’

‘On the lips.’

‘She was being friendly.’

Charlie isn’t happy with the answer. She’s not happy with a lot of things I do and say these days. If I ask a question, I’m interrogating her. If I make an observation, I’m being judgemental. My comments are criticisms and our conversations are ‘arguments’.

This is supposed to be my territory - human behaviour - but I seem to have a blind spot when it comes to understanding my eldest daughter, who doesn’t necessarily say what she means. For instance, when Charlie says I shouldn’t bother coming to something, real y she wants me to be there. And when she says, ‘Are you coming?’ it means ‘Be there, or else!’

I take her bag. ‘The musical is great. You were bril iant.’

‘Did you sneak inside?’

‘Just for the second half.’

‘Now you won’t come to the opening night. You’l know the ending.’

‘It’s a musical - everyone knows the ending.’

Charlie pouts and looks over her shoulder, her ponytail swinging dismissively.

‘Can we give Sienna a lift home?’ she asks.

‘Sure. Where is she?’

‘Mr El is wanted to see her.’

‘Is she in trouble?’

Charlie rol s her eyes. ‘She’s
always
in trouble.’

Across the grounds, down the gentle slope, I can see headlights nudging from the parking area.

Sienna emerges from the hal . Slender and pale, almost whiter than white, she’s wearing her school uniform with her hair pul ed back in a ponytail. She hasn’t bothered removing her stage make-up and her eyes look impossibly large.

‘How are you, Sienna?’

‘I’m fine, Mr O. Did you bring your dog?’

‘No.’

‘How is he?’

‘Stil dumb.’

‘I thought Labradors were supposed to be intel igent.’

‘Not my one.’

‘Maybe he’s intel igent but not obedient.’

‘Maybe.’

Sienna surveys the car park, as though looking for someone. She seems preoccupied or perhaps she’s upset about the rehearsal. Then she remembers and turns to me.

‘Did that hearing happen today?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they going to let him out?’

‘Not yet.’

Satisfied, she turns and walks ahead of me, bumping shoulders with Charlie, speaking in a strange language that I’m not supposed to understand.

Although slightly tal er, Charlie seems younger or less worldly than Sienna, who loves to make big entrances and create big reactions, shocking people and then reacting with coyness as if to say, ‘Who me?’

Charlie is a different creature around her - more talkative, animated, happy - but there are times when I wish she’d chosen a different best friend. Twelve months ago they were picked up for shoplifting at an off-licence in Bath. They stole cans of cider and a six-pack of Breezers. Charlie was supposed to be sleeping over at Sienna’s house that night but they were going to sneak out to a party. They were thirteen. I wanted to ground Charlie until she was twenty-one, but her remorse seemed genuine.

The girls have reached my third-hand Volvo estate, which reeks of wet dog and has a rear window that won’t close completely. The floor is littered with colouring books, plastic bracelets, dol ’s clothes and empty crisp packets.

Sienna claims the front passenger seat.

‘Sit with me in the back,’ begs Charlie.

‘Next time, loser.’

Charlie looks at me as though I’m to blame.

‘Maybe both of you should sit in the back,’ I say.

Sienna wrinkles her nose at me and shrugs dismissively but does as I ask. I can hear a mobile ringing. It’s coming from her schoolbag. She answers, frowns, whispers. The metal ic-sounding voice leaks into the stil ness.

‘You said ten minutes. No . . . OK . . . fifteen . . .’

She ends the cal .

‘I don’t need a lift any more. My boyfriend is picking me up.’

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘You can drop me at Ful erton Road shops.’

‘I think you should ask your mother first.’

Sienna rol s her eyes and punches in a new number on her phone. I can only hear one side of the conversation.

‘Hi, Mum, I’m going to see Danny . . . OK . . . He’l drop me back. I won’t be late. I wil . . . yes . . . no . . . OK . . . see you in the morning.’

Sienna flips the mobile shut and begins rooting in her bag, pul ing out her flapper dress, which is short, beaded and sparkling.

‘Eyes on the road, Mr O, I’m getting changed.’

I tilt the rear-view mirror so I can’t see behind me as I pul out of the parking area. Clothes are discarded, hips lifted and tights rol ed down. By the time I reach the shops, Sienna is dressed and retouching her make-up.

‘How do I look?’ she asks Charlie.

‘Great.’

‘Where is he taking you?’ I ask.

‘We’re going to hang.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Hang, you know. Chil .’

Sienna leans between the seats and adjusts the mirror, checking her mascara. As she pushes the mirror back in place her eyes meet mine. Did I have a girlfriend at fourteen? I can’t remember. I probably wanted one.

We’ve reached Ful erton Road. I pul up behind a battered Peugeot with two different paint-jobs and an engine that rumbles through a broken muffler. Three young men are inside. One of them emerges. Sienna is out the door, skipping into his arms. Kisses his lips. Her low-waisted dress is fringed with tassels that sway back and forth with the swing of her hips.

It looks wrong. It feels wrong.

As the car pul s away and does a U-turn, Sienna waves. I don’t respond. I’m looking in the rear-view mirror unsuccessful y trying to read the number plate.

Julianne answers the door dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. Her dark hair is cut short in a new style, which makes her look younger. Sweet. Sexy. Her loose shirt shows hol ows above her col arbones and the outline of her bra beneath.

She kisses Charlie’s cheek. It’s practised. Intimate. They are almost the same height. Another two inches and they’l see eye to eye.

‘What took you so long?’

‘We stopped for pizza,’ answers Charlie.

‘But I’ve kept your dinner!’

Julianne looks at me accusingly. It’s my fault.

‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’

‘You always forget.’

Charlie steps between us. ‘Please don’t fight.’

Julianne stops herself. Softens her voice. ‘Upstairs. Have a shower. Don’t wake Emma. I just got her to bed.’

Emma is our youngest and has started school in the vil age, looking tiny in her blue tunic and grey socks. Every time I see her walking out the school gate with her friends, I think of Gul iver and the Lil iputians.

Charlie dumps her schoolbag into her mother’s arms and makes the stairs seem steep as she goes up to her room. Julianne unzips the schoolbag looking for school notes or reminders. She’s wearing the silver earrings I bought her in Marrakesh.

‘I like your hair,’ I say.

‘Charlie says I look like a lesbian.’

‘That’s not true.’

She smiles and arranges the coats on the coat rack in the passage.

This is what our conversations are like since we separated. Brief. Polite. No deeper than a puddle. We were married for twenty years. We’ve been separated for two. Not divorced.

Julianne hasn’t asked me. That’s a good thing.

We no longer shop together, go to movies, pay bil s, buy cars, book holidays or attend dinner parties as a couple, but we stil talk and do parent-teacher nights and family birthday parties. We talked today. I made her laugh, which is always my fal back when I’ve got nothing else. Humour and anti-depressants are my antidotes to Mr Parkinson, who was the third person in our marriage, the other man, who stayed with me after the separation and now is like an unwelcome relative hanging around for the reading of the wil .

‘How’s the trial going?’ I ask.

‘They haven’t needed me yet. They’re stil choosing a jury.’

Nine months ago, Julianne quit her high-flying corporate job in London, to be closer to the girls. Now she’s working as an interpreter for the police and the courts, occasional y getting late-night cal s because victims, suspects or witnesses have to be interviewed.

They’ve asked her to interpret at a murder trial in Bristol. Three men are accused of firebombing a boarding house, kil ing a family of asylum seekers. The newspapers have label ed it a ‘race-hate trial’ and politicians are cal ing for calm.

Julianne has finished tidying the hal way. I linger, rocking on my heels, hoping she might invite me to stay for a cup of tea and a chat. Occasional y, she does and we spend an hour talking about the girls, planning their weekends and itineraries. It’s not going to happen tonight.

‘I guess I’d better go.’

‘Are you going to sit outside again?’ She doesn’t make it sound like an accusation. ‘I saw you last night.’

‘I went for a walk.’

‘You were sitting out there for two hours, on the wal , beneath the tree.’

‘It was a nice evening.’

She gazes at me curiously. ‘You don’t have to guard us, Joe.’

‘I know. It was an odd day yesterday.’

‘Why?’

‘I missed the girls.’

‘You’re seeing them most days.’

‘I know, but I stil missed them.’

She gives me a melancholy smile and holds the door. I lean close and she lets me kiss her. I hold my cheek against hers.

Stepping outside, I walk down the path and turn. Julianne is standing motionless in the doorway, the light framing her body and creating a halo around her head that disappears as the door closes.

2

Home now is a smal two-storey terrace in Station Road, less than half a mile from my old life. Trains stopped running through Wel ow in 1956 but there’s stil an old station building at the end of the street, which someone has converted into a long narrow house with a covered verandah where the platform used to be.

The tracks were ripped up long ago but it’s possible to trace the route of the railway line to a red-brick viaduct with a grand arch, which is the signature photograph of the vil age.

My terrace is darker than a cave because the windows are so smal and the rooms are ful of faded oriental rugs, wobbly side tables and old-lady furniture. Charlie and Emma have to share a bedroom when they sleep over, but Emma often crawls into my bed with me, forcing me downstairs on to the sofa because her core body temperature is akin to nuclear fusion. I don’t mind the sofa. I can watch late-night movies or obscure sports that don’t seem to have any rules.

There are three messages on my answering machine. Message one is from Bruno Kaufman, my boss at the university.

Joseph, old boy, just reminding you about the staff meeting Thursday. Peter Tooley wants to cut the post-grad programme. We have to fight this. Call me.

Clunk!

Message two. Charlie:

Are you picking me up? Remember we have rehearsal. Hey, I got a joke. There’s this tray of muffins being baked in the oven and one muffin says to another, ‘Man, it’s getting hot
in here.’ And the other muffin says, ‘Holy shit! A talking muffin.’