Read Online Sunstroke and Other Stories by Tessa Hadley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tessa Hadley
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and roasting it with a match. From her indifferent distance she supposed this must be drugs, but she wasn’t frightened of that now.
—Don’t tell your daddy the vicar what you’ve seen, said Neil.
She was confused – did the others know what had happened after all? – until she realised that he meant the brown lump.
—Are you two really from a vicarage? asked Becky. —It’s like something out of a book.
—We can’t offer the respectability that Hilary’s used to, Neil said. —She’ll have to slum it here for a few days.
Hilary could see that Neil was the centre of all the others’ attention. At least he had not joined in when the others were fluttering and fussing about their work; he had smiled to himself, licking the edges of little pieces of white paper and sticking them together as if none of it bothered him. He had an air as if he saw through the sham of it all, as if he came from a place where the university didn’t count for much: she could see how this had power over the others. He didn’t say much but when he spoke it waswith a deliberate debunking roughness that made the others abject, ashamed even of the feel in their mouths of their own nice eager voices.
Becky told Neil flirtatiously that he would have to be on his best behaviour, while Hilary was staying. —No swearing, she said. —’Cause I can see she’s a nice girl.
—Fuck, he said. —I hadn’t thought of that. Fuck that.
Hilary thought of the farm boys at home, who called sexual words when she and Sheila had to walk past them in their school uniform. She had always thought, however much it tortured her, that they had an obscure right to do it because of their work. In the winter mornings from the school bus you could see the frozen mists rising up out of the flat colourless fields, and figures bent double with sacks across their shoulders, picking Brussels sprouts, or sugar beeting. But Neil was here, wasn’t he, at university? He’d crossed over to their side, the lucky side. Whatever she thought of her life, she knew it was on the lucky side, so long as she wasn’t picking Brussels sprouts or meat-packing.
No one had said anything since she arrived about where Hilary was to sleep. Sheila was supposed to have booked a guest room for her at Manor Hall, but of course she couldn’t go there now. When she couldn’t hold herself upright at the kitchen table any longer she climbed upstairs to ask what she should do, but Sheila was asleep, breathing evenly and deeply. Her forehead was cool. Hilary kept all her clothes on and wrapped herself in an old quilt that Sheila had kicked off; she curled up to sleep on the floor beside the bed. At some point in the night she woke, frozen rigid and harrowed by a bitter draught blowing up through the bare floorboards; she climbed into the bed beside Sheila who snorted and heaved over. Under the duvet and all the blankets it smelled of sweat and blood, but it was warm. When she woke again it was morning and the sun was shining.
—Look at the patterns, Sheila said.
She was propped up calmly on one elbow on the pillow, and seemed returned into her usual careful self-possession. Hilary noticed for the first time that the room was painted yellow; the sun struck through the tall uncurtained windows and projected swimming squares of light on to the walls, dancing with the movements of the twiggy tops of trees which must be growing in a garden outside.
—Are you all right? she asked.
Sheila ignored the question as if there had never been anything wrong.
—How did you get on with everybody last night?
—We went to a pub.
—Oh, which one? She interrogated Hilary until she was satisfied that it must have been the Beaufort. —We often go there, she said enthusiastically.—It’s got a great atmosphere, it’s really local.
—When I told them we lived in a vicarage, Hilary said, —one of them asked if we were Catholics.
—That’s so funny. I bet I know who that was. What did you
—Don’t tell your daddy the vicar what you’ve seen, said Neil.
She was confused – did the others know what had happened after all? – until she realised that he meant the brown lump.
—Are you two really from a vicarage? asked Becky. —It’s like something out of a book.
—We can’t offer the respectability that Hilary’s used to, Neil said. —She’ll have to slum it here for a few days.
Hilary could see that Neil was the centre of all the others’ attention. At least he had not joined in when the others were fluttering and fussing about their work; he had smiled to himself, licking the edges of little pieces of white paper and sticking them together as if none of it bothered him. He had an air as if he saw through the sham of it all, as if he came from a place where the university didn’t count for much: she could see how this had power over the others. He didn’t say much but when he spoke it waswith a deliberate debunking roughness that made the others abject, ashamed even of the feel in their mouths of their own nice eager voices.
Becky told Neil flirtatiously that he would have to be on his best behaviour, while Hilary was staying. —No swearing, she said. —’Cause I can see she’s a nice girl.
—Fuck, he said. —I hadn’t thought of that. Fuck that.
Hilary thought of the farm boys at home, who called sexual words when she and Sheila had to walk past them in their school uniform. She had always thought, however much it tortured her, that they had an obscure right to do it because of their work. In the winter mornings from the school bus you could see the frozen mists rising up out of the flat colourless fields, and figures bent double with sacks across their shoulders, picking Brussels sprouts, or sugar beeting. But Neil was here, wasn’t he, at university? He’d crossed over to their side, the lucky side. Whatever she thought of her life, she knew it was on the lucky side, so long as she wasn’t picking Brussels sprouts or meat-packing.
No one had said anything since she arrived about where Hilary was to sleep. Sheila was supposed to have booked a guest room for her at Manor Hall, but of course she couldn’t go there now. When she couldn’t hold herself upright at the kitchen table any longer she climbed upstairs to ask what she should do, but Sheila was asleep, breathing evenly and deeply. Her forehead was cool. Hilary kept all her clothes on and wrapped herself in an old quilt that Sheila had kicked off; she curled up to sleep on the floor beside the bed. At some point in the night she woke, frozen rigid and harrowed by a bitter draught blowing up through the bare floorboards; she climbed into the bed beside Sheila who snorted and heaved over. Under the duvet and all the blankets it smelled of sweat and blood, but it was warm. When she woke again it was morning and the sun was shining.
—Look at the patterns, Sheila said.
She was propped up calmly on one elbow on the pillow, and seemed returned into her usual careful self-possession. Hilary noticed for the first time that the room was painted yellow; the sun struck through the tall uncurtained windows and projected swimming squares of light on to the walls, dancing with the movements of the twiggy tops of trees which must be growing in a garden outside.
—Are you all right? she asked.
Sheila ignored the question as if there had never been anything wrong.
—How did you get on with everybody last night?
—We went to a pub.
—Oh, which one? She interrogated Hilary until she was satisfied that it must have been the Beaufort. —We often go there, she said enthusiastically.—It’s got a great atmosphere, it’s really local.
—When I told them we lived in a vicarage, Hilary said, —one of them asked if we were Catholics.
—That’s so funny. I bet I know who that was. What did you
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