We Need to Talk E-Book

Jonathan Crane

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A WICKEDLY HONEST PORTRAIT OF MIDDLE ENGLAND ON THE EVE OF COVID 'A hymn to the mundane, as intricately crafted as an Ayckbourn play. A brilliant first novel' AILSA COX It's 2019 in Sudleigh, a market town not far from the south coast. It's not a bad place to live, provided the new housing development doesn't ruin it, but most residents are too caught up in their own grudges, sores and struggles to notice. Gap-year Tom is cleaning toilets but finding unexpected solace in his Chinese house-share. Former lounge musician Frank wants to pass his carpet business to his nephew Josh, killing the boy's dream to become a chef. Sharp-elbowed phone-sex operator Heather will stop at nothing to become manager of the golf club. Miss Bennett keeps putting her house on the market when she doesn't want to move. Do they all know how their lives are linked? And will creative writing tutor Tony, hard at work on his ironic pseudo-children's book The Jazz Cats, ever pluck up the courage to leave his unappreciative girlfriend Lydia? Meticulously observed, with flashes of wicked comedy, We Need to Talk offers a jigsaw puzzle of unwitting connections for the reader to assemble. The finished picture is an unflinchingly honest portrait of multi-jobbing, gig-economy Middle England on the eve of Covid.

Leseprobe

JONATHAN CRANE completed an MA Literature and a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Essex, where he is now an academic in Creative Writing. He also works with charities to design and deliver writing programmes in prison and community settings. His previous writing includes fiction and academic papers. Formerly a musician/composer, he has released two albums. We Need to Talk is his first novel. He currently lives in Hampshire.

Published in 2021

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785632389

Copyright © Jonathan Crane 2021

Cover by Ifan Bates

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

‘Josh’ was originally published as ‘What’s wrong with carpets?’ in Short Fiction in Theory and Practice, Volume 9, No 2, October 2019.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

Contents

Martin & Bridget

Frank & Ted

Tom

George

Tony & Lydia

Heather

Miriam

Josh

Sheila

Sean

Tony & Lydia (again)

New Voices from Lightning

Martin & Bridget

Everyone was talking at once.

‘…thin end of the wedge…’

‘…single mothers pushing prams…’

‘…degrading a respectable neighbourhood…’

Martin looked around the table. They were all there: the hosts, Clive and Susan Saunders; Dr Hugh McFarlane and his wife, Jacqui; Phil Bishop, civil servant, and the artistic Lydia Dixon. They called themselves Fight for Sudleigh; they were discussing the proposed development at the top of the road.

‘…destroy the rural character…’

‘…push down house prices…’

…what about the dormice?’

Martin pulled at the dark hairs on the back of his hand.

‘And what’s Bridget going to do about it?’ Phil asked, forcefully prodding the table.

Martin glanced across at him. ‘I’m not sure what she can do.’

‘She’s the district councillor, Martin,’ Phil scoffed. ‘Surely she has some say.’

‘She can make a comment…’ Martin began.

‘We should write a letter to the Sudleigh Gazette,’ Clive stated.

Lydia raised an eyebrow and sipped her Pinot Noir.

‘We just want as many people as possible to post objections online,’ Martin said.

‘What about a leaflet drop?’ Phil rubbed his paunch.

‘Absolutely,’ Clive agreed, nodding.

‘And we need to demolish them at the planning committee,’ Phil advised.

‘Who’ll be spokesman?’ Susan asked.

‘I think Martin should do it,’ Clive said. ‘You’re good at that sort of thing.’

‘Agreed,’ Phil said.

‘I really don’t think…’ Martin gripped the edge of the table.

‘Show of hands everyone?’ Jacqui hinged forward, scanned the faces.

‘Look, I’d rather not get…’ Martin complained.

‘All those in favour of Martin presenting the argument?’ Jacqui proposed.

Martin massaged his forehead, forced a smile.

‘So that’s decided then,’ Hugh said, reaching for his glass.

‘How was Dubai, Susan?’ Lydia quietly asked.

*

It was freezing hard now, the pavement glittered with frost. He walked slowly homeward; he only lived a few doors away. Beside him tall hedges rose up, screening the set-back houses. The sharp air carried the musty tang of coal smoke. This was his road; it was where he’d put down roots, brought up a family. He stared ahead; two hundred yards further on, the road veered off at a right angle and the streetlights ceased. There was darkness beyond, where the fields took over from the town and rolled up the black hillside. No, they had to fight this development; it would change everything.

He unwound his scarf and threw it onto the coat stand. Bridget’s hairdryer was whining upstairs, muted behind the bedroom door. Unzipping his jacket, he ambled along the hallway, passing the photographs on the wall, their daughters, Emily and Virginia, from gap-toothed primary school grins to mortar-boarded graduations. He drifted into the dining room, draped his coat over the back of a chair. His laptop was on the table, open, waiting. He slid his finger across the mousepad and sat, squinting at the glare as the screen revived. There was a new email. He read it quickly, then typed a reply.

‘Not sure we can call a paint shade ‘Gypsy Blush.’ ‘Dusted Fudge’ and ‘Brumous Dawn’ are good. More the tone. We’re presenting ideas on Monday. Tell them if they haven’t made significant progress by tomorrow lunchtime, they’ll be sacked.’

A new account had come in, rebranding a paint manufacturer, sexing it up. The young copywriters weren’t taking it seriously; but he’d been the same, fresh out of Oxford with his geography degree, all those years ago.

He pushed his glasses up his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Grey growth had overrun his once dark hair; there were pouchy, blue-black shadows beneath his eyes. Slumping back, he gazed idly at the screen and thought about his commute back from London.

The train had been delayed, hung up outside Surbiton. It was packed; people coughing, talking into phones, the smell of burger grease lingering in the air. A woman had crammed onto the seat beside him, elbowing him each time she turned the page of her Metro.

‘…incident on the line ahead…waiting for the police…’ the guard had announced. Everyone knew what that meant. A suicide.

‘I’m supposed to be meeting friends for a meal,’ the woman complained. Thankfully her phone had rung.

‘You’re back,’ Bridget said, slippering past the doorway. He heard her in the kitchen, the fridge door opening and closing again.

‘Mmm.’

‘How was the meeting?’ She scuffed into the room, rested her thigh against the table and folded her arms, cradling a bottle of water. She was wearing the white towelling robe he’d bought her for Christmas.

‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

She pulled her robe closed at the throat. ‘What are they going to do?’

‘A leaflet drop, apparently. I think this is Phil’s Vietnam.’

She laughed. ‘What else?’

‘Oh, the usual. Objections on the website.’

Bridget pressed her lips together.

Martin reached up, stroked her arm. ‘There is one thing though…’ He hesitated, withdrew his hand. ‘I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

‘What is it?’

He flicked her a glance. ‘They want me to be spokesman.’

She inhaled sharply, expelled a loud sigh. ‘You did say no, didn’t you?’

He hunched his shoulders. ‘I didn’t feel I could.’

‘I thought we’d agreed.’ She was searching his eyes.

Creases ridged his forehead. ‘Do you really want a housing estate at the top of the road?’

She shook her head and walked away, then turned back. ‘We did talk about this, Martin.’

‘You talked about this,’ Martin protested, but she’d gone before he finished.

He gazed vacantly at the computer screen, listening to the dull creak as Bridget climbed the stairs. The screen’s brightness was making his eyes ache. He removed his glasses, slid them onto the table, then rubbed his face with both hands. She was different now. It had begun a while ago. He stared myopically into the corner of the room. Once the girls had left, she’d started networking, schmoozing down at the Conservative Club, at the Rotary Club, ‘getting involved’. When a vacancy on the District Council had arisen, she’d been nominated. Then, once she’d been selected, she started taking it seriously. ‘I want to make a difference,’ she’d told him. ‘I want to do something that matters.’ She’d actually said that. And now, nine months later, she was willing to let developers build a housing estate on their doorstep.

Martin gripped the back of his neck. Somewhere, behind his eyes he could feel a headache building, pushing forward to a point.

*

On Saturday morning, just after nine, Martin was clattering along the hallway. The plastic bases of his cycling shoes clacked on the hardwood floor. He stopped by the front door, lifted his cycling helmet from the coat stand, patted it on then clicked the clasp shut under his chin. He looked up; Bridget was carrying a bundle of washing down the stairs. She didn’t acknowledge him.

Watching her walk through to the kitchen, he bent his knees slightly, reached down and plucked at his Lycra cycling shorts, repositioning a grating seam. He’d hardly seen her yesterday; he’d had a late meeting at work, savaging the copywriters. And she’d been out early with her horse this morning.

‘What have you got on today?’ he called, tottering after her.

She leaned her head out from the utility room. ‘I wish you wouldn’t walk through the house in those, Martin.’ She disappeared again; the washing machine door clicked shut.

He surveyed the kitchen: the polished granite worksurfaces, the breakfast bar, the brushed-steel stove with suspended extractor cowl. It had all been new six months ago.

‘Isn’t there something civic?’

‘Re-opening the community centre café?’ she called.

‘Mmm…’ Out through the kitchen window, there was a thick mist hazing the garden, obscuring the fence down at the end.

‘That was yesterday.’ The washing machine was already filling as Bridget moved out into the kitchen. She stalled. ‘Have you decided what you’re doing about this campaign?’

‘What campaign?’

‘Fight for Sudleigh.’

Martin plucked at his shorts again. ‘Come on, Bridget. You know I can’t just let it happen. It’ll change everything.’

She was walking towards him, shaking her head. ‘Change has to happen sometime.’ She brushed past him, swept into the hallway. ‘It’s how things stay alive.’

He sensed that, somehow, she wasn’t actually talking about the housing estate. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on a low step. He teetered towards her.

‘I’m asking you not to get involved,’ she said.

‘Will you stop going on about it?’ he said, advancing. ‘I only asked what you’re doing this afternoon.’

‘Going out with Ginny.’ She began her ascent. ‘And I’ll stop going on about it when you stop being so selfish.’

Martin lurched towards the door.

Outside, the grey mist scarcely stirred. The branches overhanging the driveway were rime-coated; the spiders’ webs on the conifer hedge had thickened, crystallised. Martin stepped across to the garage. He stooped and unlocked the door, then raised it, the steel springs twanging. How could she call him selfish? He wheeled the bike onto the driveway, propped it against his hip and pulled down the garage door. For a moment he gazed down through the thin cloud of his sinking breath. She was the one being unreasonable.

He walked his bike to the end of the driveway, mounted stiffly then bobbled out across the root-cracked pavement and onto the road. Accelerating, he passed the detached houses, half-hidden behind their silvered hedges. He rounded the bend at the top of the road, and settled into an easy, rolling rhythm. He looked right, across the doomed field. It was already staked in preparation; the hedgerows ripped out. How could they build all those houses here? It wouldn’t be the same any more. It would shift the boundaries. He had to fight it. What choice did he have? Bridget would understand.

At the junction, he heaved onto the narrow country road, then pushed beyond the town’s farthest reach. Beneath the threadbare arch of naked branches, he wound up the long hill. The golf club slipped past, its car park full, and on he pressed, out into the country.

Martin kicked off his shoes. He was sweating torrentially; his legs felt alien, like they were someone else’s. As he hobbled towards the kitchen, he heard Bridget’s voice. ‘You’re absolutely right…’ Was she on the phone?

There was a man by the breakfast bar; Bridget was standing over by the kettle in the corner.

‘Hello, Martin,’ Brian said.

Brian was the longest-serving town councillor. Martin had met him a few times at the Conservative Club during Bridget’s election campaign.

‘Brian,’ Martin said, approaching the sink. He picked a glass from the draining board, filled it under the tap, then gulped down the water and turned.

Bridget stared across at him. ‘Brian was just saying how development is a good thing.’

‘Was he?’ Martin dragged his wrist across his mouth. He studied Brian briefly; the sparse slicked-back hair, the pencil-thin moustache. Awful man.

‘It lets young people get on the housing ladder, brings people into the town…’ Brian raised his mug, swilled back the last of its contents and thoughtfully puckered his lips.

Martin watched the loose flesh swing under Brian’s chin. A wattle, he decided.

‘There are lots of benefits,’ Bridget said, widening her eyes at Martin.

‘I’m not sure the people round here would agree.’

Bridget shook her head at him.

Brian sniffed. ‘You see, Martin, you’ve got to look at the bigger picture.’

‘Ah, the bigger picture.’ He didn’t need a lecture from this man.

‘The developers are going to contribute a million pounds to the council’s coffers.’

Martin pulled a face at Bridget but she ignored him.

‘It’s a goodwill gesture,’ Brian explained. ‘And that money can do a lot of good.’

Bridget nodded enthusiastically. ‘It would make a huge difference, Brian.’

‘Sounds like a bung to me,’ Martin said. Bridget was glaring at him.

‘It’ll go a long way towards refurbishing the Sports Centre,’ Brian continued. ‘And it’ll re-roof the Scout Hut. The whole town’ll benefit.’

‘Will it?’ Martin scoffed.

‘Anyway,’ Brian said, fingering back his sleeve, checking his watch, ‘I should go. I only called in to see how you’re getting on.’ He placed his cup on the breakfast bar. ‘I’m supposed to be teeing off at twelve.’

‘Thanks so much for coming, Brian.’ Bridget breezed towards him.

‘Brian,’ Martin said flatly.

Bridget followed Brian into the hall. ‘I think it’s so important that we work…’

‘Christ,’ Martin muttered as he turned and refilled his glass. He drank then skidded the empty glass across the worktop. Outside, the mist had thickened.

‘What were you thinking,’ Bridget said, ‘calling it a bung?’

He turned, shrugged at her. ‘It’s what it sounded like.’

‘Do you know how influential he is?’ She collected Brian’s cup as she crossed the kitchen.

‘He’s a pig farmer.’

Bridget paused over by the kettle, gathered her cup. ‘You really are a snob, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know why you let him in the house.’ Martin retreated a couple of steps, rested his hip against the dishwasher.

She moved towards the sink. ‘Because he’s worried you’re going to sabotage this development.’

‘It’s an objection,’ Martin corrected.

‘Have you any idea how you’re making me look?’

He smiled. The drying sweat was gummy in the creases of his skin.

She deposited the mugs in the washing up bowl. ‘Like I’m married to an idiot.’

Martin snorted. ‘I’m hardly an idiot.’

‘Well, you’re acting like one.’ She pivoted towards him, planted her hands on her hips.

He leaned his elbow onto the cool stone worktop. ‘Did you invite him?’

She pointed towards the hallway. ‘He came to find out which side I’m on.’ Her voice had risen now.

‘Ah, laying down the party line.’ Martin barked a derisive laugh.

‘No.’

‘I mean, do you actually believe all that bullshit?’

Someone was knocking at the front door, the sound hollowing as it echoed along the hallway.

‘It made perfect sense to me,’ she said, setting off across the kitchen.

‘Jesus, Bridget. Have you listened to yourself lately?’ he called after her.

He heard the front door open, heard the voice. ‘Sorry I’m late, Mum.’ It was Virginia, their younger daughter. He stood straight then waded, stiff-legged, across the room.

‘Come in a second,’ Bridget said. The front door closed.

Martin arrived in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hello, Ginny.’

Virginia was tall, blond, had her mother’s features. She walked towards him then stopped short. ‘Good god, Dad,’ she said, surveying him. ‘What are you wearing?’ Behind her, Bridget perched on a low stair.

‘Been out on the bike.’

‘You should talk to him about this, Mum,’ Ginny said, laughing.

Bridget was hauling on a boot. ‘Unfortunately, your father doesn’t listen to my opinions any more, Ginny.’

‘Not when she wants ninety houses at the top of the road.’

‘Are you two arguing?’ Ginny asked, glancing back at Bridget.

‘Just a little dispute about my right to protest,’ Martin explained.

Bridget pulled on her other boot. ‘Don’t drag Virginia into this.’ She stood and yanked her jacket from the coat stand.

‘So, where are you two going?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Fitting for my wedding dress,’ Ginny said. ‘And going for lunch after. Come if you want.’

Bridget pushed her arm into her coat. ‘I’m sure your dad’s far too busy.’

‘I’d love to, but...’ Martin began.

‘Right,’ Bridget said, wrenching the door open. ‘Are we ready?’

Virginia stepped forward and kissed Martin lightly on the cheek. ‘You’re very sticky, Dad.’ She stepped back and looked him over again, grinning. ‘I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to go out like that.’

He tracked her along the hall. ‘Drive carefully,’ he said, as she crossed the threshold. Bridget was already outside, striding towards the Range Rover parked across the end of the driveway. He watched her for a moment, the chill air wrapping around him, then he closed the door.

Once he’d showered, Martin settled to work.

He was sitting at the dining-room table, the laptop in front of him. A grey, muffled light was leaking in through the window. The mist hadn’t lifted all day.

He stared at the screen. Was ‘Bruised Mint’ actually suitable? And was ‘Bruised Mint’ really any different from ‘Almost Jade 4’? He looked out through the window. Bridget wasn’t back yet. What was happening to her? He used to know how she thought; he’d understood her. She would never have tolerated someone like Brian Nash in the past. And she’d become argumentative. She was changing. It was all changing, somehow.

*

He took a bite of his cheese on toast, wiped the grease from his fingers onto the leg of his tracksuit bottoms, then typed.

‘…the paint range becomes part of a lifestyle choice. It makes your brand vibrant, reaching out to millennials and those in middle-age who want to stay on-trend. The names are an extension of…’ What were they an extension of?

There was a diffuse red flare at the top of the drive, a car door slammed. He took another bite of cheese on toast, pushed the crust into his mouth. The car blipped its horn as it pulled away. A key grated in the lock; the door opened; closed.

He leaned back. ‘How did it go?’ As he spoke, a morsel of cheese shot from his mouth, landed on the table. He pinched it up, sucked it from his finger. He stood, wandered into the hallway. Bridget was already at the top of the stairs.

‘How was the fitting, Bridget?’ he called.

Taps were being cranked; water was rattling in the bath. Martin ascended.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom. She was bending, pushing the plug into its hole, then she reached for the decanter of bath foam and poured some into the water. The sound of running water reverberated around the tiled walls, steam billowed, the lime scent rising.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

She re-stoppered the decanter, replaced it, then wheeled to face him. ‘Apparently, my beliefs are bullshit.’

Martin laughed nervously. ‘I didn’t actually say that.’

‘It’s what you implied.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ He stepped forward, draped an arm across her shoulders. ‘Sorry, Bridget. It was…’

She writhed free and exited the bathroom. He followed her through to the bedroom. She was facing the long mirror on the wardrobe, pulling off her sweater.

‘What’s really going on?’ he asked, softly.

She shook her head at his reflection and began unbuttoning her shirt. ‘I asked you not to get involved with this Fight for Sudleigh thing. You know what this place is like.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Brian must have heard something. He was checking up on me.’

‘So?’ Martin flared his nostrils dismissively.

She snapped round, her shirt hanging open. ‘You’re making me look stupid.’

‘Are you sure you want to be involved in this local politics stuff?’

‘This is important to me, Martin.’ She peeled off her shirt, threw it at the wicker basket in the corner.

‘But people like Brian are dangerous. They drag you in, compromise you.’

‘What is it you don’t understand? It’s a job I actually want to do. It means something.’ She unfastened the top button of her trousers.

‘I wouldn’t call it a job, Bridget,’ he sneered.

She released a strange strangled scream, then rushed towards him, barged past. The bathroom door slammed.

He rocked back his head, stared at the ceiling briefly, then trudged out of the room and across the landing. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said, easing open the bathroom door.

She’d taken off her trousers, was bending over the bath, stirring the water with a hand.

‘You don’t really want all those houses at the top of the road, do you?’

Straightening, she reached behind her, unfastened her bra and removed it, then dropped it onto the toilet lid. ‘This isn’t just about houses,’ she said, sliding down her briefs.

‘Of course it is.’

She shook her head at him then turned away. ‘I think you need to work out what this is really about.’ She lifted a foot over the edge of the bath, sank it into the water. ‘You need to make a choice.’ Leaning a hand on the wall, she raised her other foot.

‘What choice? You’re not making any sense.’

She squatted down into the water then, holding onto the bath’s sides, lowered herself into the foam. ‘Work it out, Martin.’ She bent forward, cranked off the taps, then settled back.

‘But it’ll ruin the neighbourhood.’

She slid down into the suds, her flesh skidding across the bottom of the bath.

‘Come on, Bridget. Can’t we even talk about this?’

‘What else is there to say?’ She wiggled her toes.

‘I don’t see why I’m the bad guy.’

She slipped down and submerged her head beneath the water.

‘You’re being impossible,’ he said, but she didn’t resurface. He slammed the door behind him and stood for a moment on the landing. ‘Fucking ridiculous,’ he shouted, hoping Bridget could hear.

The next day, Martin was sitting at the dinner table. He was trying to develop the social media pitch, but found himself, instead, staring out of the window, watching the thickening fog. He’d tried to talk to her again this morning when she came back from the stables.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you...’

She hadn’t even looked at him; she’d just carried her riding boots through to the utility room.

He’d stood in the doorway. ‘You know I completely support you with this district councillor thing…’ She’d pushed past him, crossed the kitchen. ‘But it’s ninety houses,’ he’d said towards her receding back.

He’d hurried through to the hallway as she climbed the stairs. ‘Can’t we even have a civilised conversation, now?’ he called.

The bedroom door had clicked shut.

Martin looked at the computer screen. If this carried on, he’d sleep in one of the girls’ old rooms tonight. He slouched back in his chair. For some reason, he thought about the suicide on the train the other day, the sudden sharp impact, the choice. He shuddered, rolled his shoulders then tried to reread the last unfinished sentence. But his mind wouldn’t fix on it. Was that what it was, the suicide? A protest against the impossibility of it all? He couldn’t think about that.

He tried to force his mind back to the social media campaign.

He returned home late on the Monday evening. He had another headache building, deep behind his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before, in the unfamiliar bed.

He closed the front door behind him and trailed the smell of cooking into the kitchen. Bridget was placing her plate in the dishwasher.

‘I’ve left you some sauce in the pan,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to do your own pasta.’ She crossed the kitchen, walked past him and out into the hallway, her head bowed, her eyes down.

He raised a hand and massaged his forehead. ‘How long is this…’ he started, but fell silent. As he walked across to the hob, he heard the front door shut. He stepped into the middle of the kitchen, rested his palms on the cool granite work surface of the breakfast bar and hung his head.

*

‘You look tired, Martin,’ Dr Hugh said.

Thursday had come round again. The Fight for Sudleigh group had re-convened.

‘Not sleeping, Hugh.’ Martin smiled faintly, the creases round his eyes deeper than usual, the bags beneath a purplish-black.

‘So does everyone know what to put in their objections?’ Phil checked.

There were murmurs.

‘Now, I’ve put this leaflet together,’ he went on. ‘I think it’s essential we mobilise the whole neighbourhood.’ He passed copies of the leaflet around.

Martin left his copy flat on the table, untouched.

‘The more of us there are, the stronger our voice,’ Phil said. Martin glanced across at him. There was a manic fervour about Phil, the way he was staring and prodding the table. ‘We need a coordinated resistance.’

Martin lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘It’s very good, Phil,’ Susan said. ‘But isn’t it a little strong?’

‘I don’t think we should call them ‘corrupt butchers of community,’ Hugh said.

‘But I’ve printed them now. They were 5p a copy.’

‘I’m just not entirely sure I’m happy being connected to this,’ Hugh said.

Martin looked around the group. He drew a deep breath, released it. ‘Are we even sure that the development is such a bad thing?’ he said, slowly, regretfully.

There was a cool silence.

‘I mean,’ he pressed on, ‘people have to live somewhere, don’t they?’

‘What are you saying, Martin?’ Phil asked.

‘It’s just that, perhaps, we have to accept that progress is going to happen.’

‘This is Bridget talking, isn’t it?’ Phil said.

‘Really,’ Dr Hugh interjected mildly. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that.’

‘Well?’ Phil insisted, glaring across the table.

‘No, it’s not Bridget. It’s just that, you know, the town’s got to grow, hasn’t it? Should we stand in the way of that?’

‘Of course we should. I’ve never heard such nonsense.’ Phil threw a hand in the air, landed it heavily on the table.

‘Watch the wine, Phil,’ Jacqui said.

Lydia was half-smiling, uncertain, looking from face to face.

‘They’re going to build houses, whether we like it or not,’ Martin said.

‘Motion to rescind Martin’s election as representative at the planning meeting,’ Phil said loudly, slapping the table.

‘There’s no need to be such an arse, Phil,’ Clive said.

A squabble broke out.

Beneath the table, Jacqui placed a hand on Martin’s sleeve. ‘Is everything OK, Martin?’

Martin smiled sadly, hung his head. ‘I’m just tired.’

Bridget was snoring beside him. It was more a low snuffle than a full, rasping snore. Martin lay on his back, staring up at the wedge of amber light across the ceiling that crept in through a crack in the curtains. He twisted his neck and looked at the alarm clock. The red-lit numbers told 3.15. He had to be up in less than four hours. He was replaying the meeting in his mind. Phil had cut up nasty.

‘You’re an absolute charlatan,’ he’d said.

A snore caught in Bridget’s throat. As though accidentally, Martin kicked her leg. She shifted, groaned, fell quiet. He traced a crack in the ceiling, buried beneath the wallpaper. And tonight she’d started on about having the bedrooms re-carpeted. But he’d put a stop to that; he had to draw the line somewhere. Rolling on to his side, he punched a fresh dent into his pillow and lowered his head. The alarm clock told 3.22 already.