Lawrence asked Evie about things he already knew of, mainly because he enjoyed the sound of her voice. What France was like; if she could speak French. When he asked why her family had come to Litten, she wouldn’t say.
She’d been the one to move closer. Her bra and knickers had gone almost see-through and Lawrence’s boxers left even less to the imagination. He’d clumsily reached for her, only she wouldn’t have him for longer than a minute and he ended up setting a hand on her knee and saying, “Come on, Evie. Don’t be tight.”
Her response was an ambiguous smile that he instantly knew he would always question. She went to the rope-swing, launched herself over the water and splashed out of sight. Lawrence pulled his clagging t-shirt back on, noticing as he did that, to his horror, Duncan was awake and had witnessed the whole thing. He lay flat on his back and pretended nothing had happened.
He knocked on the door of Threndle House, and was met by Clive Swarsby himself. A robust man with his shirt open a button too far, Clive had shower-damp hair and a lobster-pink face.
He greeted Lawrence warmly. “Lawrence, isn’t it,” he said. “Here to celebrate Labour’s victory?”
“Evie said dinner…”
“I’m joking, of course. Why don’t you come in?”
Lawrence was ushered into the atrium, which had been swept and smelled of pine. He hoped he wouldn’t be asked how he’d voted, because he hadn’t bothered.
“And while a defeat is a defeat,” Swarsby was saying, taking Lawrence’s soaked coat from him. “What matters is we staged a campaign that didn’t end too ignominiously.”
“What was the count in the end?”
“Well, it’s important to reflect on the turnout,” said Clive. “Which, I think was something approaching twenty one percent. Pitiful, really, that the locals can’t be bothered to vote. They forget their ward representative’s an important figure.”
Lawrence had only the vaguest idea of what councillors did. He craned to see around Swarsby into the living room and was pleased to see the table bedecked with various platters of food. He jumped when Clive clapped him on the shoulder and said, “But let’s just say there’ll be no need for a recount.”
Evie chose that moment to show her face. She stepped downstairs pulling on a black turtleneck sweater, widening the neck hole with both hands and pushing her head through so her hair didn’t catch on the sides. She wore a red skirt below a gleaming PVC belt. “Are you talking about the vote?” she said.
“That’s why we’re here, darling. And I believe you assisted with the campaign, Lawrence?”
It was time to concentrate on how he spoke. “Oh yes,” Lawrence replied. “I lent a hand.”
“Good man. I might be able to use someone like you one day.”
“Really?”
Swarsby was no longer listening. His attention alighted upon his daughter. He lifted his chin to Evie, and, to Lawrence’s astonishment, Evie kissed his cheek. There was much to make of the act, all of it forgotten as she kissed Lawrence’s cheek too. Excited, Lawrence was shown into the living room while Clive chattered on about how great Litten was. How sad he’d be to leave. Then again there would always be new challenges.
“I have found it invigorating,” he said. “The dramatic air. It’s Bronte country, plain and simple. The blank pages of the hills…”
Was he drunk? “It’s got something,” Lawrence agreed. “My dad’s always up on the moor.”
Swarsby gave the impression of trying not to react. It was like when someone pretends they haven’t seen you. He clapped Lawrence on the shoulder and said “There is a romance to the land that’s impossible to overlook. I have enjoyed exploring the lea these last few months.”
Fat-arse didn’t look like he did much walking. Lawrence wondered how often Swarsby had visited Litten proper. The bridge in Barnes’ Wood now had anti-Thatcher sentiment sprayed all over it. NO PIT CLOSURES was written on one of the high street walls. NEVER GIVE UP was sprayed up the shutters of the shops in the arcade. No one went out any more. The stand in the centre hosted the brass band still, with its fucking tubas and maudlin horns, mud rivulet up your trouser leg because you’d stood on a wonky bit of pavement and the rainwater had squirted up all over you. Imagine the romance of that. Imagine Clive Swarsby wondering why no one had bothered to come out and vote.
“Sounds like you’ll be wanting to contest the seat again,” said Lawrence, nodding hello at Duncan, who stood by the piano with a pot of weird pink dip in his hand, breadstick reaching from his teeth to fingers, like a cigar.
Duncan answered for his father, “Why on earth would we do that?”
“Well, your dad was just saying how nice it was up here. And getting people to vote next time as well…”
Duncan put down the dip and offered his hand, opaque eyes suddenly alive. “We won’t be staying in Litten, Lawrence.”
Lawrence tried to grip Duncan’s hand as firmly as his was being gripped. “You’re leaving?”
“It’s the prudent course of action,” said Clive. “I made a few calls. We should be south again within the next couple of weeks.”
“I didn’t realise.”
“Why would we stay?”
Evie arrived, her mouth heady with lipstick. She looked at her father. “Dad’s negotiated our way home.”
She never called him dad. Lawrence was going to ask where they were moving to. He wanted to take Evie to one side and tell her he was her reason to stay, she couldn’t go, but a knock on the door surprised him into silence.
“Speaking of which,” said Evie, departing from the room, Lawrence’s enduring quarry. He willed her back. Elongated shadows.
Clive seemed confused. Duncan touched his arm. It was hard to believe that this pretty young man was a year younger than Lawrence. “I’ll get the door,” he said. “Lawrence, why don’t you keep my father entertained.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lawrence accepted a glass of wine. It tasted reedy, a silly drink.
“So what do you do, young man?” Clive said.
Lawrence thought on it; there was no point dressing it up.
“I’ll be going to work at the pit.”
“Yes, yes, important work. Skilled labour. Damn shame what’s been going on. One hopes for a speedy resolution.”
“One does.”
The second guest was in the house. It was difficult to hear what was being said over the jazz playing in the next room, the umbrella being shaken by the door. Lawrence could hear its spokes, the material folding like a set of wings. He imagined the water beating the roof tiles as the winds of his approaching solitude howled outside.
An elegant man entered the room. He had scree-grey hair that was combed to one side, and he patted it to test its shape once he’d removed his leather gloves. The guest seemed to make Clive and Duncan go up a gear, and indeed Lawrence found himself touching his own hair, which was wet still. He turned to check himself in the window. His mop was a bit of a crow’s nest but otherwise it seemed OK, as did the shirt he’d got for Christmas last year, his freshly-ironed school trousers. He couldn’t make out the face. He was nothing but a blank oval.
The man’s fey hands were behind his back as he surveyed the room for the first time. “Goodness, there’s mother’s piano,” he said, pressing one of the black keys and producing a disquieting, minor note. “Many’s the hour spent at this old thing. Many were the rainy days.”