never wanted to go. She always screamed and stamped and sometimes she clung to Carol and had to be prised off. It made Barry wonder why they had to be in care if they were so happy in their home and with their mother.
âYou can
ask
the council to take your kids into care, you know,â Carol said. âIt doesnât have to be that they take them away from you. I couldnât cope after Dave died. I had to do something about the kids. I was desperate.â
Less than two years after Daveâs death, she had Jason. Barry had never asked her much about that, he didnât really want to know, he preferred to be in ignorance. He could probably even have convinced himself that Jason was Daveâs child. Only one day, when Carol was telling him off and calling him a little bastard, Iris said, âYou didnât ought to call him that, Carol. Itâd be one thing if he wasnât one but he is, isnât he?â
When they were married, Barry thought, they could apply to take the kids out of care. Carol could give up work too or at least she could give up working in the wine bar. Barry was ambitious. He had a good job as cabinet-maker and carpenter in a two-man business operating from Delphi Road. Or it would be a good job when this recession came to an end and things picked up a bit. Theyâd be able tomove out of Summerskill Road then and maybe buy a place somewhere and be a real family. Sometimes Barry had a dream that was really a vision, it was so clear and solid, of a room in their house in the future, all of them sitting round the table eating Christmas dinner, all happy and wearing paper hats and laughing, and Carol in a sea-blue dress with their new baby on her lap.
Barry knew it couldnât all be roses. There were the children for one thing, they werenât his and they never could be, and that wasnât just nothing, that wasnât something you could just dismiss. And there was Dave, always there, always smiling out of his plastic frame. Carol might look about seventeen but she wasnât, she was eight years older than him and that much more experienced and sophisticated. And there was one other thing that troubled him sometimes.
He was a gentle person, a bit too soft, he sometimes thought. He couldnât stand seeing a kid get hurt. You had to smack them if they went too far, he knew that, but not hard and always on the leg or the behind. So when he saw Carol strike Tanya with a back-handed blow across the little girlâs face and head, using all the strength of her arm, strike her again and again after that, wielding her arm like a tennis player, he saw red and pulled Carol off and hit her himself to calm her down. That was the only reason he did it, to calm her down, like heâd been told you had to with hysterical people. There was no passion in it for him, no uncontrolled violence. He took her by the arm, and because he was young and strong, he held her hard, and struck her a sharp blow across the face.
It was her reaction that troubled him. She stopped screaming at the child, she was quiet and that was all right. It wasnât that. She cringed a little but she didnât put her hand up to her face where his blow must have stung. He had the curious sensation â and he didnât know how he knew this then, he had no real evidence for it â that she was waiting for him to hit her again, that she
wanted
him to hit her again. She stood there in front of him, vulnerable,exposed, her hands hanging a little way from her body, breathing shallowly, her lips parted, sweat on her skin, waiting for more.
Of course he hadnât hit her again. He had told her he was sorry, he loved her, he wouldnât hurt her, but he had had to do it to stop her when she was out of control like that.
âI didnât mind,â she said and she gave him a curious sidelong look, a look that was sly and also faintly irritable.
That night, when they made love, she tried to
âYou can
ask
the council to take your kids into care, you know,â Carol said. âIt doesnât have to be that they take them away from you. I couldnât cope after Dave died. I had to do something about the kids. I was desperate.â
Less than two years after Daveâs death, she had Jason. Barry had never asked her much about that, he didnât really want to know, he preferred to be in ignorance. He could probably even have convinced himself that Jason was Daveâs child. Only one day, when Carol was telling him off and calling him a little bastard, Iris said, âYou didnât ought to call him that, Carol. Itâd be one thing if he wasnât one but he is, isnât he?â
When they were married, Barry thought, they could apply to take the kids out of care. Carol could give up work too or at least she could give up working in the wine bar. Barry was ambitious. He had a good job as cabinet-maker and carpenter in a two-man business operating from Delphi Road. Or it would be a good job when this recession came to an end and things picked up a bit. Theyâd be able tomove out of Summerskill Road then and maybe buy a place somewhere and be a real family. Sometimes Barry had a dream that was really a vision, it was so clear and solid, of a room in their house in the future, all of them sitting round the table eating Christmas dinner, all happy and wearing paper hats and laughing, and Carol in a sea-blue dress with their new baby on her lap.
Barry knew it couldnât all be roses. There were the children for one thing, they werenât his and they never could be, and that wasnât just nothing, that wasnât something you could just dismiss. And there was Dave, always there, always smiling out of his plastic frame. Carol might look about seventeen but she wasnât, she was eight years older than him and that much more experienced and sophisticated. And there was one other thing that troubled him sometimes.
He was a gentle person, a bit too soft, he sometimes thought. He couldnât stand seeing a kid get hurt. You had to smack them if they went too far, he knew that, but not hard and always on the leg or the behind. So when he saw Carol strike Tanya with a back-handed blow across the little girlâs face and head, using all the strength of her arm, strike her again and again after that, wielding her arm like a tennis player, he saw red and pulled Carol off and hit her himself to calm her down. That was the only reason he did it, to calm her down, like heâd been told you had to with hysterical people. There was no passion in it for him, no uncontrolled violence. He took her by the arm, and because he was young and strong, he held her hard, and struck her a sharp blow across the face.
It was her reaction that troubled him. She stopped screaming at the child, she was quiet and that was all right. It wasnât that. She cringed a little but she didnât put her hand up to her face where his blow must have stung. He had the curious sensation â and he didnât know how he knew this then, he had no real evidence for it â that she was waiting for him to hit her again, that she
wanted
him to hit her again. She stood there in front of him, vulnerable,exposed, her hands hanging a little way from her body, breathing shallowly, her lips parted, sweat on her skin, waiting for more.
Of course he hadnât hit her again. He had told her he was sorry, he loved her, he wouldnât hurt her, but he had had to do it to stop her when she was out of control like that.
âI didnât mind,â she said and she gave him a curious sidelong look, a look that was sly and also faintly irritable.
That night, when they made love, she tried to
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