Nightingale Point. Luan GoldieЧитать онлайн книгу.
and her heart thumps with schoolgirl excitement at the prospect of seeing him again.
The walk towards the close of bungalows fills her with a feeling she remembers first having when she was nineteen and on the cusp of marrying David. A feeling she enjoys but knows she should not have in relation to a man other than her husband. Pop music plays from a stereo; a father and teenage daughter wash down a car together. They both glance up and smile at her. They look like a television advert: perfect and happy. On the other side of the road an elderly lady in a straw hat and pink gardening gloves picks at a blooming brood of hydrangeas. Vanbrugh Close is a world away from Nightingale Point and its smelly stairwell, blinking strip lights and cockroaches. And as Mary turns into the small neat drive of Harris’s home, she realises the life she has created with this man is a world away from herself, from the woman she has grown to be: the mother of two, grandmother of four, nurse of thirty-three years and wife to a fame-chasing husband.
She lies on the sofa listening to the neighbours’ argument as it sinks through the wall. The mother–daughter screaming matches have become an almost weekly occurrence, both of them going back and forth at each other in their matching catty voices. Pamela closes her eyes and imagines what it would feel like to scream and shout at Dad the way the girl next door does with her mum. Pamela could never; she would be too scared to say all the things she really thinks about him. She jumps at the sound of a door slamming in the neighbours’ flat, the sound that usually signals the end of the row. And now there’s nothing to distract her. She stretches each leg out above her head. She misses running so much. How long will this go on for?
On the train back from Portishead Dad had told her not to expect to return to London and fall back into her normal routines, but she never expected this, for him to actually lock her in the flat, to put a complete ban on her going out. There was only ever a slim chance of him letting her take up running again, but it was him that pushed her to start swimming after her injury, so why rule that out as well? There’s no way he could have found out how little she actually swam.
‘I’ve circled the ladies-only sessions for you,’ he had said as he handed her the pool timetable. He even went out and bought her a costume.
She knew she wasn’t going to like swimming as soon as she got into the cold changing rooms. Most of the locks on the cubicles were broken and women of all shapes and sizes roamed about naked. Pamela looked the other way as old ladies stood with their swimming costumes half hanging down, applying deodorant and chatting to friends. There were used cotton buds left on the wooden slat bench, the floor dusty with talc. Quickly, she changed into the overly modest costume and made her way out to the pool, her eyes already stinging from the chlorine.
As she waded through the water her fingers caught long strands of black hair. She couldn’t get a rhythm going, the pool was too small and crowded, and she found herself gripping the scaly tiles at the far end, waiting for someone to complete a lap so she could have a turn. There was no freedom, no clearing of the mind and no possibility of losing herself in the monotony of the movement. It was the opposite of everything she loved about running.
She flipped her collar up while she stood under the awning outside, watching the bus home pull away. If she ran she could be home in fifteen minutes, but there was no rush to get back there, to sit in the dreary living room alone.
Two people came towards her with their hoods up. One went through the sliding doors but the other one stopped.
‘Hey.’ It was Malachi. He removed his hood and wiped the rain from his face.
‘Hi.’ She wanted to smile back but instead looked around cautiously in case Dad appeared from somewhere.
‘How’s your leg?’
‘Fine. Well, no, it’s sprained, so I’m giving it a bit of a break from running.’
The sliding doors kept opening and closing until Tristan stepped out from them. ‘Mal, we’re not allowed in.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, it’s a women-only swim session,’ Pamela said.
Tristan stood between the two of them. ‘What kind of sexist nonsense is that? I bet they don’t run men-only sessions, do they?’
Malachi rolled his eyes.
‘Let’s go gym instead?’ Tristan said.
‘I told you, you’re too young for it.’
‘Come on, swimming never gave anybody a six-pack. Ain’t that right, Blondie?’ He nudged her side.
‘Maybe you should take up running?’ she suggested, still looking at Malachi.
‘I’d like that.’ Malachi smiled and held her gaze.
Tristan laughed. ‘Yeah, running is a great choice of sport for a chronic asthmatic.’
‘Tristan, I’m going to meet you back home, all right?’
‘For real?’ Tristan looked at Pamela like he wanted to laugh. But of course, it didn’t make sense that someone like Malachi, who was tall and perfect, would want to spend time with a girl like Pamela, who was plain and invisible.
Malachi dug in a pocket and pulled out a crumpled fiver. ‘Here, go cinema or something. I’ll see you later.’
Tristan kissed his teeth as he took the note. ‘All right, see you back home. Laters, Blondie.’ He threw up his hood and sulked off into the rain.
They stood and faced the road, the rain coming down heavier now.
She wanted to wait for him to speak first, but couldn’t hold it in. ‘You know it’s too wet to run, right?’
He looked at her. He had amazing eyes. ‘I know. And you’ve been swimming already. You hungry?’
She shook her head. She didn’t have money to eat out anywhere.
‘What about a drink then? There’s a greasy spoon over there, it does good milkshakes. I’ll race you.’
It was awkward as they ran to the café together, as if they both knew straight away there was something more happening. The smell of burnt onions hit her as they stepped inside. They sat opposite each other in metal chairs and he picked up the laminated menu and held it closely to his face, studying it for way too long. Frowning, his forehead wrinkling, he looked so serious, so utterly different from every other boy she came across at school.
‘How old are you?’ She felt embarrassed straight after asking it.
‘Twenty-one.’ He put the menu down and folded his arms. ‘Twenty-one going on sixty.’
She smiled at him. ‘I know the feeling.’
He looked at her for a beat too long.
‘I’m almost seventeen. I’m the oldest in my year group at school,’ she said, trying to justify their age gap. ‘Seventeen in September. If I was born one day earlier I would already be in college.’ She paused. ‘You and Tristan don’t look very much alike.’
‘No. We’re not alike in lots of ways.’
‘Do you have the same dad?’ she asked.
‘What kind of question is that?’
The milkshakes came and she felt she had blown it, asked a stupid question and revealed herself to be a stupid schoolgirl after all.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
‘He’s my brother. That’s all there is to it.’
She