Read Online The Bricks That Built the Houses by Kate Tempest - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Tempest
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patchy green with a creaking see-saw and a couple of swings in the bottom corner. Their flat, number seventeen, had a little balcony where they planted honeysuckle and snapdragons and grew weed in big pots, and trained a climbing jasmine to tickle its way along the railings.
When John’s book eventually came out, politics was on the turn. It was 1989 and Thatcher was in government. John felt that the world was in its death throes, and the hearts of the British people were being pushed to breaking point.
In the early spring of that year, Paula Shogovitch fell pregnant. At first, she was convinced that she would continue working through her pregnancy, and that having a baby did not necessarily mean she would have to put her camera down. John assured her that he would support her in whatever decisions she made, but as the pregnancy progressed, it became clear to Paula that John, whether he knew it or not, had no intention of making any sacrifices when it came to his schedule. She felt, in some gnawing part of her mind, that he viewed his work as a purpose, and her work as a hobby. She started saying no to the odd assignment, taking on less until the word got around, and as she grew heavier and more exhausted she stopped walking the streets hunting the hidden moments thatshe had made her name capturing. She felt too conspicuous for it now. She began to photograph her own body, at home, but found this uninspiring. A growing belly in a bedroom mirror didn’t speak to her as loudly as a mounted policeman chasing two prepubescent football fans down a tiny alley, scarves wrapped around their heads, clutching fireworks.
It was a gradual process, learning what it meant to be a woman. Her boyfriend had no time really for her despondency. He tried to buoy her up, telling her that she was sure to get back to work when the baby arrived. ‘You can take lots of pictures when the baby’s born, when you push the pram around.’ He didn’t mean to condescend, but he had no grasp on what was slipping out of Paula’s reach. She sat for hours with her swelling bump, resigning herself to a new life. She felt guilty for every stab of jealousy she felt in the face of his burgeoning career; she knew that he was trying to make the world a better place, and that he suffered for it terribly. But it made no difference when she was stuck at home that long, hot summer; uncomfortable and bored and lonely, while he was manic with his work, and drunk at night when he came home.
Winter laid her solemn hands across the city and stroked all the colours out of the sky. The pavement was wet and cold outside the maternity ward. She named her daughter Rebecca, after her favourite aunt, who had been a poet and a tennis player, and England’s first female locksmith.
Paula held her baby in her arms and understood the meaning of life. Rebecca had John’s serious oak-dark eyes, andPaula could see her mother in the shape of Rebecca’s mouth. She passed the baby to John who held her and stared down into her pudgy face, aware that he had found something he didn’t know he lacked. The love was immediate and more profound than any he had known. In that moment, while Paula, exhausted from the birth, watched her boyfriend with their baby, she entertained a thousand quick-fire fantasies of how their lives might play out, the three of them, together. John, meanwhile, was watching his daughter’s tiny hands, feeling only the urgency to keep pushing himself onwards in his work so that he could improve things for her. His fantasies were of political success and the building of a brighter future.
John’s career was blossoming. His book was well received in the press, and wildly popular, selling tens of thousands of copies in its first months, which was a lot for a political science book. He was celebrated by those on the Left, ridiculed by those on the Right, and was sneered at by politicians who saw his approach as unorthodox and flash-in-the-pan. He was unmarried,
When John’s book eventually came out, politics was on the turn. It was 1989 and Thatcher was in government. John felt that the world was in its death throes, and the hearts of the British people were being pushed to breaking point.
In the early spring of that year, Paula Shogovitch fell pregnant. At first, she was convinced that she would continue working through her pregnancy, and that having a baby did not necessarily mean she would have to put her camera down. John assured her that he would support her in whatever decisions she made, but as the pregnancy progressed, it became clear to Paula that John, whether he knew it or not, had no intention of making any sacrifices when it came to his schedule. She felt, in some gnawing part of her mind, that he viewed his work as a purpose, and her work as a hobby. She started saying no to the odd assignment, taking on less until the word got around, and as she grew heavier and more exhausted she stopped walking the streets hunting the hidden moments thatshe had made her name capturing. She felt too conspicuous for it now. She began to photograph her own body, at home, but found this uninspiring. A growing belly in a bedroom mirror didn’t speak to her as loudly as a mounted policeman chasing two prepubescent football fans down a tiny alley, scarves wrapped around their heads, clutching fireworks.
It was a gradual process, learning what it meant to be a woman. Her boyfriend had no time really for her despondency. He tried to buoy her up, telling her that she was sure to get back to work when the baby arrived. ‘You can take lots of pictures when the baby’s born, when you push the pram around.’ He didn’t mean to condescend, but he had no grasp on what was slipping out of Paula’s reach. She sat for hours with her swelling bump, resigning herself to a new life. She felt guilty for every stab of jealousy she felt in the face of his burgeoning career; she knew that he was trying to make the world a better place, and that he suffered for it terribly. But it made no difference when she was stuck at home that long, hot summer; uncomfortable and bored and lonely, while he was manic with his work, and drunk at night when he came home.
Winter laid her solemn hands across the city and stroked all the colours out of the sky. The pavement was wet and cold outside the maternity ward. She named her daughter Rebecca, after her favourite aunt, who had been a poet and a tennis player, and England’s first female locksmith.
Paula held her baby in her arms and understood the meaning of life. Rebecca had John’s serious oak-dark eyes, andPaula could see her mother in the shape of Rebecca’s mouth. She passed the baby to John who held her and stared down into her pudgy face, aware that he had found something he didn’t know he lacked. The love was immediate and more profound than any he had known. In that moment, while Paula, exhausted from the birth, watched her boyfriend with their baby, she entertained a thousand quick-fire fantasies of how their lives might play out, the three of them, together. John, meanwhile, was watching his daughter’s tiny hands, feeling only the urgency to keep pushing himself onwards in his work so that he could improve things for her. His fantasies were of political success and the building of a brighter future.
John’s career was blossoming. His book was well received in the press, and wildly popular, selling tens of thousands of copies in its first months, which was a lot for a political science book. He was celebrated by those on the Left, ridiculed by those on the Right, and was sneered at by politicians who saw his approach as unorthodox and flash-in-the-pan. He was unmarried,
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