said. —The sea's that way and —
—How do you know ?
—It just is. So that means the south's behind us.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.
—But how do you know? she said.
She didn't doubt him. She knew he was right.
—Geography, he said. —It's easy.
She thought it was great. She watched Jack go to the back door, heading north. She could hear the Dart – and that was west. If she wanted a drink she'd have to head south. She couldn't remember the last time she'd learnt something. Carmel's house was that way, west. America was over the wall, a good long way past Carmel's. It all made sense. She was in the world, surrounded by it.
She never got round to planting the seeds. They're still in their packet, in the press, behind where she puts the sugar bag. She might plant them next year, in the spring.
The woman stops pointing.
—Bring the bags. To here.
Paula is on her own, heading east. There's no one following her now. The field is nearly empty. It would be hard to hide if she wanted to. The stage is huge. She's never seen anything like it. It's like something from a space film. There's no one on it. It's too early for the White Stripes. The crowd is small. It's a mixture of people. Some very young kids with their fathers or mothers – no parents together that Paula can see. Some of them are sitting on big inflatable chairs and sofas. A great idea. They must have bought them somewhere. Now she sees, way over at the end of the field, a hill of inflatable furniture. There's always someone with the right idea, there before anyone else. How do they do it? How do they know? Paula hasn't a clue.
The music is loud and fuckin' terrible but there's no one up on the stage yet.
But there is.
She picks up a cup, one of those big waxy paper ones with the plastic lid, for Coke and that. It's going to be dirty work. They should have given her gloves or something. Her hands are sticky already. Thank God it's too cold for the wasps. She picks up the cup and she hears the voice the same time as she sees the young one on the stage. She's singing about someone sucking on her tits and wanting to come – something like that, anyway. There's no band, just the young one. And she's not that young either. Paula can see that now on the big screen beside the stage. She's in silver hot pants, and wandering around the stage, like a little animal in a very big cage. She'd be sexy or interesting on the telly but, God love her, she must be fuckin' freezing up there. Whoever she is. She's climbing up the frame at the side of the stage. Anything to stay warm. Paula looks at the parents with their kids. No one's paying much attention to the young one. Imagine being like that and no one cares.
Paula picks up a crisp bag. A cigarette butt – she puts her hand down for it but she stops herself. She'll leave the butts. She'll never fill the bag if she starts picking up butts. Another cup. It's empty but she smells the lager. She drops it into the bag. The smell is on her hands. Around her nose and face. The field is full of plastic cups. She picks up another.
Leanne's there when she gets home. Paula's freezing. She stinks. She's expecting Jack. And it's Leanne.
It's grand.
She sits down.
The telly's on, the sound's down. MTV or something like it. Black ones shaking their arses, fellas with medallions.
—Turn it off, love, will you. I've had my fill of that shite.
—What?
She hears the click. She sees the screen go dead. Leanne did what she was asked. She's not gunning for a fight. She's been sitting and probably worrying. Where was her mother at this hour?
Cleaning the fuckin' mountains.
—Come into the kitchen with me, Leanne. I'm frozen. I need a cup of tea.
—Where were you?
—At a gig.
—What?
—A job, she says. —Come on. I must have walked miles today, and I went fuckin' nowhere.
She makes it; she stands up. Her ears are buzzing. The inner ears, the ones she remembers learning about in school, deep inside
—How do you know ?
—It just is. So that means the south's behind us.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.
—But how do you know? she said.
She didn't doubt him. She knew he was right.
—Geography, he said. —It's easy.
She thought it was great. She watched Jack go to the back door, heading north. She could hear the Dart – and that was west. If she wanted a drink she'd have to head south. She couldn't remember the last time she'd learnt something. Carmel's house was that way, west. America was over the wall, a good long way past Carmel's. It all made sense. She was in the world, surrounded by it.
She never got round to planting the seeds. They're still in their packet, in the press, behind where she puts the sugar bag. She might plant them next year, in the spring.
The woman stops pointing.
—Bring the bags. To here.
Paula is on her own, heading east. There's no one following her now. The field is nearly empty. It would be hard to hide if she wanted to. The stage is huge. She's never seen anything like it. It's like something from a space film. There's no one on it. It's too early for the White Stripes. The crowd is small. It's a mixture of people. Some very young kids with their fathers or mothers – no parents together that Paula can see. Some of them are sitting on big inflatable chairs and sofas. A great idea. They must have bought them somewhere. Now she sees, way over at the end of the field, a hill of inflatable furniture. There's always someone with the right idea, there before anyone else. How do they do it? How do they know? Paula hasn't a clue.
The music is loud and fuckin' terrible but there's no one up on the stage yet.
But there is.
She picks up a cup, one of those big waxy paper ones with the plastic lid, for Coke and that. It's going to be dirty work. They should have given her gloves or something. Her hands are sticky already. Thank God it's too cold for the wasps. She picks up the cup and she hears the voice the same time as she sees the young one on the stage. She's singing about someone sucking on her tits and wanting to come – something like that, anyway. There's no band, just the young one. And she's not that young either. Paula can see that now on the big screen beside the stage. She's in silver hot pants, and wandering around the stage, like a little animal in a very big cage. She'd be sexy or interesting on the telly but, God love her, she must be fuckin' freezing up there. Whoever she is. She's climbing up the frame at the side of the stage. Anything to stay warm. Paula looks at the parents with their kids. No one's paying much attention to the young one. Imagine being like that and no one cares.
Paula picks up a crisp bag. A cigarette butt – she puts her hand down for it but she stops herself. She'll leave the butts. She'll never fill the bag if she starts picking up butts. Another cup. It's empty but she smells the lager. She drops it into the bag. The smell is on her hands. Around her nose and face. The field is full of plastic cups. She picks up another.
Leanne's there when she gets home. Paula's freezing. She stinks. She's expecting Jack. And it's Leanne.
It's grand.
She sits down.
The telly's on, the sound's down. MTV or something like it. Black ones shaking their arses, fellas with medallions.
—Turn it off, love, will you. I've had my fill of that shite.
—What?
She hears the click. She sees the screen go dead. Leanne did what she was asked. She's not gunning for a fight. She's been sitting and probably worrying. Where was her mother at this hour?
Cleaning the fuckin' mountains.
—Come into the kitchen with me, Leanne. I'm frozen. I need a cup of tea.
—Where were you?
—At a gig.
—What?
—A job, she says. —Come on. I must have walked miles today, and I went fuckin' nowhere.
She makes it; she stands up. Her ears are buzzing. The inner ears, the ones she remembers learning about in school, deep inside
Similar Books
