Kate Rigby - Down the Tubes

by

Kate Rigby

Copyright 2011 Kate Rigby

Cover Design Ann & KateRigby

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All characters are fictional,and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental

Cheryl's allpoints and angles. You can see it in the crisp cut of her redlapel, the black cube of her heel, the sharp corners of herhandbag, shining like rain. She splashed out on the suit especiallyfor the interview and now she waits for her Surrey-bound train torock her home. She pulls a couple of hairgrips from her tight bun,lets it unwind. But drugs . What was she thinking of? It'shardly what you'd call a glamorous job, but when you haven't workedfor years you have to take what's going. She smiles the thornysmile. Glorified secretary she'd call it, no matter how theydressed it up with the Team Assistant name.

The doors slam, the trainlurches. Its getting too dark to see out unless she presses herface up close to the window, beneath the No Smoking sign, and seesbeyond her faded lipstick. But if she lets her head roll back inher seat she can only see the dim reflections of other passengers.Over on the other side of the train is a mother with a little boysleeping up against her. They've got a table on their side, withhalf a mushy biscuit on it. That's just what Michael would havedone as a boy, sucked at some of his biscuit and then just left itthere. Michael will be twenty now, wherever he is.

One day Michael might turn upand surprise her. In a suit or something. She can't ever imaginehim in a suit. She can't see him in anything but the vague mid-teenclothes she last saw him in, his body thin and stooping, hunched ina chair like a shell. But his disappearance had nothing to do withher leaving home and going to live in Bournemouth. He was simply afunny kid. That's all there is to it.

She looks further down thecarriage at the businessmen and women in their suits. She wantssome of what they're having. She wants to feel zonked after a hardday's work, to fall asleep on her hand or keel over sideways intothe aisles or pull out files on tables or fold her newspaper intofour so she can attempt a couple of crossword clues and look likean executive.

The train bellows as it speedsalong, and she turns her mind to the interview at the drugsproject. It was in an old narrow building, that 484 place - boththe name of the centre and the number of the road. The interviewswere running late so she sat in the waiting area pretending to reada magazine.

"Nicola Stack?" the secretarycalled.

A pretty girlwith bottle-blond hair and a leather jacket - some neolithic stonespainted on the back - went to the desk. "It's Nicky . I've got my wee in here."Nicky unzipped pockets inside her jacket and pulled out a specimenjar, full of golden liquid. "Here it is. It's been warming me baccyand chewie."

The secretary lookedunimpressed. "You'll have to do another one, here on thepremises."

"What's wrong with thisthen?"

"It's standard procedure.People have been known to bring in someone else's specimen."

"Thats taking the fuckin'piss." Nicky seemed wholly unaware of her double entendre. "I cantpee to order."

Another memberof staff with a more conciliatory tone offered Nicky a drink ofwater and escorted her off to a private cubicle. Without Nicky'sprotests to mask it, the sounds of a gruff male voice could beheard leaking through flimsy walls - something about cooking it up . Cookingwhat up? Cheryl stared through pages of mouth-watering recipes. Hemust mean drugs .Shit, she thought, am I really cut out for this caper, even if itis only office work? Drug addicts are a frightening, aggressivebunch, aren't they? Drug addicts are weak people too, she's heard,and she isnt very tolerant of human weakness.

But the interview panel lookedfavourably on her Life Experience and rusty secretarial experience.They seemed confident in her ability to Refresh Existing Skills andlearn new ones: database, computer, statistics, and any otheropportunities which might arise.

It's over four years since shelast lived in London, south of the river. That's why she stoodoutside Camden Town tube, before her interview, waving herphotocopied map at passers-by who said, Sorry, I'm only a visitortoo, or Sorry, I speak not much English. That's the moment shemight have turned back, because she felt this little shiver. Notjust the December wind, but the draughty space all around her wherefamily have always been, crowding her out. Family, kids,clutter.

Kids, she thinks. How do theycome about anyway? By default, usually. It was Andrew who wantedthem in the first place, wasn't it? Or, rather, he didn't not wantthem. Children are the next progression after your wedding, aren'tthey?

It was Diana, her nextdoorneighbour in Tooting, who started her on this whole baby thing. Shecan still picture Diana's baby, fresh from hospital, its miniaturefingers curling round her own tentative trunk of finger. Fingers socold. "I thought babies were meant to be piping hot," Cheryl said,and Diana parcelled up the baby Viola and handed her over. "Youbetter get some practise in, Cheryl. It'll be your turn next."

"Oh blimey, I wouldn't be seen dead upthe spout, me." Besides, she didn't have the knack of holdingbabies. This one was wriggling about with all her tiny might,howling her head off.

Terrified she was too, thatfirst time she had to babysit Viola. She couldn't settle to Diana'stelevision with its different picture and knobs. Or to thatslightly skewed view from the window - streetlamp and silver birchall shunted to the left, or to that uninspiring decor, all plainand muted. Then there were the pictures on the wall painted byDiana's husband, Iain. The bookshelves stuffed with text books andfiles and paperbacks by unknown authors. Well, she hadn't heard ofthem, anyway. She preferred her own bright house, all new andspirally with its modern lights and electric rings and snazzywallpaper. Its blue hatch. Even Andrew's gun hanging over thegrey-brick fireplace looked more homely. It was only an ornament,that gun. Because Andrew was a gentle, nervous sort who blinked alot and hummed tunes to cover silences.

Where was all Dianas ruby nailpolish, the spidery eyelashes in their plastic boxes, the 15 deniernylons that your nails sometimes snagged as you bunched themtogether for each partying foot? Diana didn't know anything aboutthe bitter after-taste of Silvikrin hairspray on her way out tosinging bluesy songs at the club with Peter de Cruz. Diana was abit strange with her college ideas and loopy stare and enormousfeet. That journal said it all. Cheryl fell upon it accidentally,creeping about the house as you do when you're babysitting, tryingnot to disturb the baby, thinking of things to do. She opened thatdiary with the sticker on the front saying Viola's Book andstarted reading.

Iain planted the seed. Iimagine the slow swelling, like apples plumping on the branch,round and luscious. The full-term dome of my belly. Firm, bronzed,fat as a pumpkin.

Now I'm always unalone. Thereis someone with me. We are one but two.

And then came those threeimmortal words - It's a girl. A beautiful daughter! I knew it. Wombof my womb. So big inside and so very tiny out here on my chest.Face all crinkled and stained with plum juice and little mouth allbubbles and gum or open-wide in a quivered cry. All wrapped up andsnug in mounds of violet-white blanket with only her purplewomb-moist visible. And she's all mine! A beautiful girl, whatelse? We're floating off like an island, Viola and I. Theres apink mist all around us and I don't even hear Iain half thetime.