The Cement Garden by Ian Mcewan
“I like reading,” Sue said, “and there’s nothing else to do.”
I said, “There’s all kinds of things to do,” simply to hear Sue say again that there was nothing to do.
But she sucked her thin pale lips into her mouth, the way women do after they put lipstick on their lips, and said, “I don’t feel like doing anything else.”
After this we sat in silence for rather a long time. Sue whistled, and I sensed she was waiting for me to leave. We heard the back door open downstairs and the voices of Julie and her boyfriend. I wished that Sue disliked Derek the way I did; then we would have all sorts of things to talk about. She raised her faint eyebrows and said, “That will be them,” and I said, “So?” and felt isolated from everyone I knew.
Sue resumed her whistling and I turned the pages of a magazine, but we were both listening carefully. They were not coming upstairs. I heard the sound of running water and the rattle of teacups. I said to Sue, “But you still write in that book, don’t you?”
She said, “A bit,” and looked toward her pillow as if she was prepared to stop me snatching it.
I waited a moment, and then I said in a very sad voice, “I wish you’d let me see the bits about Mum, just those bits. You could read them to me if you like.” Downstairs the radio came on at full volume. “If you ever plan to motor west, take my way, that’s the highway that’s the best….” The song irritated me but I remained looking sadly at my sister.
“You wouldn’t understand any of it.”
“Why not?”
Sue spoke quickly. “You never understood anything about her. You were always horrible to her.”
“That’s a lie,” I said loudly, and after a few seconds I repeated, “That’s a lie.” Sue sat on the edge of her bed, her back straight and one hand resting on the pillow. When she spoke she stared mournfully in front of her.
“You never did anything she asked you. You never did anything to help. You were always too full of yourself, just like you are now.”
I said, “I wouldn’t have dreamed about her like that if I didn’t care about her.”
“You didn’t dream about her,” Sue said, “you dreamed about yourself. That’s why you want to look in my diary, to see if there’s anything about you in it.”
“Do you go down to the cellar,” I said through my laughs, “and sit on that stool and write about us all in your little black book?”
I forced myself to go on laughing. I felt troubled and I needed to make a lot of noise. As I laughed I put my hands on my knees, but I could not quite feel them. Sue watched me as if she was remembering rather than seeing me. She took the book from under her pillow, opened it and looked for a page. I stopped laughing and waited.
“August the ninth…. You’ve been dead nineteen days. No one mentioned you today.” She paused, and her eyes ran down several lines. “Jack was in a horrible mood. He hurt Tom on the stairs for making a noise. He made a great scratch across his head and there was quite a lot of blood. At lunch we mixed together two tins of soup. Jack did not talk to anyone. Julie talked about her bloke who is called Derek. She said she might bring him home one time and did we mind. I said no. Jack pretended he didn’t hear and went upstairs.” Sue found another page and went on reading with more expression. “He has not changed his clothes since you died. He does not wash his hands or anything and he smells horrible. We hate it when he touches a loaf of bread. You can’t say anything to him in case he hits you. He’s always about to hit someone, but Julie knows how to deal with him….” Sue paused, and seemed about to go on, but changed her mind and snapped the book shut.
“There,” she said. For several minutes after we argued wearily about what Julie had said at lunchtime.
“She didn’t mention bringing anyone home,” I said.
“She did!”
“She didn’t.” Sue squatted on the floor in front of one of her books and pretended not to notice when I left.
Downstairs the radio was playing louder than I had ever heard it. A man was shouting wildly about a competition. I found Tom sitting at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a blue and white frock which tied up in a bow behind. But his wig was somewhere else. As I sat down beside him I was aware briefly of a faint, unpleasant smell. Tom was crying. He put his knuckles in his eyes the way little girls do on biscuit tin lids. A large tube of green snot hung out of one nostril, and when he sniffed it bobbed out of sight. I watched it for a while. Beyond the sound of the radio I thought I could hear other voices but I was not certain. When I asked Tom why he was crying he cried louder. Then he recovered and whined, “Julie hit me and shouted at me,” and he began to cry again.
I left him and went downstairs. The radio was on loud because Julie and Derek were having an argument. I stopped short of the door and tried to listen. Derek seemed to be pleading with Julie; his voice had a whining note. They were both talking, almost shouting, as I came in and they both stopped immediately. Derek leaned against the table, his hands in his pockets and his ankles crossed. He wore a dark green suit and a cravat which was knotted through a gold clasp. Julie stood by the window. I walked between them toward the radio and switched it off. Then I turned and waited for one of them to speak first. I wondered why they did not go out into the garden to shout at each other. Julie said, “What do you want?” She was not dressed up like Derek. She wore plastic sandals and jeans, and had tied her shirt in a knot under her breasts.
“Just came down to see what all the noise was, and who,” I said, glancing at Derek, “hit Tom.”
Julie tapped her foot slowly to make it clear she was waiting for me to leave.
I walked back between them slowly, putting my heel down just in front of my toes the way people do when they measure a distance without a ruler. Derek cleared his throat very softly and pulled out his watch on the end of its chain. I watched him snap it open, close it and put it away. I had not seen him since the first time he had visited the house over a week ago. But several times now he had called for Julie in his car. I had heard its engine outside and Julie running down the front path but I never looked out the window at them the way Sue and Tom did. Two or three times now Julie had stayed out all night. She never told me where she went but she did tell Sue. The morning after, the two of them would sit in the kitchen for hours, talking and drinking tea. Perhaps Sue wrote it all down in her book without Julie knowing.
Suddenly Derek smiled at me and said, “How are you, Jack?”
Julie sighed noisily. “Don’t,” she said to him, and I said very coolly, “All right.”
“What are you up to these days?” he said. I looked at Julie as I spoke.
“Nothing much.” I could see it irritated her that I was talking to her Derek.
I said, “What about you?”
Derek paused before he spoke and then he sighed, “Practicing. A few small games. Nothing big, you know….”
I nodded.
Derek and Julie were staring at each other. I looked from one to the other and tried to think of something else to say. Without taking his eyes off Julie, Derek said, “Ever played the game yourself?”
If she had not been there I would have said yes. I had watched a game once, and I knew the rules. I said, “Not really.”
Derek pulled out his watch again.
“You should come down and have a game.”
Julie unfolded her arms and walked quickly out of the room. She gave a little sigh as she went.
Derek watched her go and said, “I mean, are you busy now?”
I thought hard and said, “I’m not all that busy.”
Derek stood up and dusted his suit down with his hands which were very small and pale. He went into the hallway to adjust his cravat in the mirror. He called over his shoulder, “You should get a light for out here.”
We left by the back and as we were going through the kitchen I noticed that the cellar door was wide open. I hesitated. I wanted to go upstairs and ask Julie about it. But Derek pushed the door shut with
I was surprised that Derek drove so slowly. He sat upright in his seat and held the wheel at arm’s length and between finger and thumb, as if the touch of it disgusted him. He did not speak to me. There were two rows of black dials on the instrument panel, each with a flickering white needle. I watched these for most of the journey. None of the needles really moved its position except those on the clock. We drove for a quarter of an hour. We turned off a main road and went down a narrow street with vegetable warehouses on either side. In some places there were rotting vegetables piled in the gutter. A man in a crumpled suit stood on the pavement staring at us blankly. He had oily hair and a folded newspaper stuck out of his pocket. Derek stopped the car by him and climbed out, leaving the engine running. Behind the man was an alleyway. As we passed him to go down it Derek said to the man, “Park the car and see me inside.” At the end of the alley were green swing doors with “Oswald’s Hall” scratched into the paint. Derek went in first and held the door open for me with one finger and without turning round. Two games were being played on the tables farthest from us, but nearly all the tables were empty and dark. There was one table in the center of the hall that was all lit up. It seemed brighter than the other two, and the brightly colored balls were set out ready for a game. Someone was leaning against this table with his back to us smoking a cigarette. Cut into the wall behind us was a bright square hole, and through it an old man in a white jacket was looking at us. On a narrow shelf in front of him there were cups and saucers with blue edges and a plastic bowl with one bun inside. Derek stooped down to speak to the man and I walked a few steps away toward one of the tables. I read the name of the maker and his town on a brass plate screwed to the edge right behind the center pocket.
Derek made a clicking sound at me with his tongue. He held a cup of tea in each hand and he jerked his head to make me follow him. With his foot he pushed open a door in the same wall. Next to the door I noticed for the first time a window with one pane of glass missing. A woman with thick glasses sat behind a desk writing in an accounts book and on the other side of the tiny room a man sat in an armchair holding a packet of cigarettes. The smoke made it hard to see. There was just one dim lamp on the edge of the desk. Derek set down the teacups by the lamp and pretended to punch the man on the chin. The man and the woman made a lot of fuss over Derek. They called him “son,” but he introduced them to me as “Mr. and Mrs. O for Oswald.”
“And this is Julie’s brother,” Derek said, but he did not tell them my name.
There was nowhere to sit down. Derek took a cigarette from Mr. O’s packet. Mrs. O kicked her legs and made a whimpering sound and held up her mouth like a baby bird in a nest. Derek took another cigarette and put it in her mouth and she and Mr. O laughed. Mr. O gestured toward the tables.
“Greg’s been out there waiting almost an hour, son.”
Derek nodded. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, and I was standing by the door. Mrs. O wagged her finger in Derek’s face.
“Who’s a naughty boy?”
He moved a little farther away from her and reached for his tea. He did not pass me mine.
Mrs. O said carefully, “You didn’t come in yesterday then, son.”
Mr. O winked at me and said, “He’s got other fish to fry.”
Derek sipped his tea and said nothing.
Mr. O went on, “But there was quite a crowd in here waiting for you to show up.”
Derek nodded and said, “Yeah? Good.”
Mrs. O said to me, “He’s been coming in here since he was twelve, and we never charge him for a table. Do we son?”
Derek finished his tea and stood up. He said to Mr. O, “Cue, please.”
Mr. O stood up and put his slippers on. Along the wall behind him was a rack of cues, and padlocked to one end was a long, tapering leather case. Mr. O wiped his hands on a yellow cloth, unlocked the case and drew the cue out. It was a very dark brown, almost black. Before giving it to Derek he said to me, “I’m the only one he lets touch his cues.”
Mrs. O said, “And me,” but Mr. O smiled at me and shook his head.
The man who had parked the car was waiting outside the office.
“This is Chas,” Derek said, “this is Julie’s brother.”
Chas and I did not look at each other. As Derek walked slowly toward the center table with his cue, Chas walked on tiptoe beside him, talking quickly into his ear. I walked right behind them. I felt like leaving. Chas was saying something about a horse but Derek did not reply or even turn his head to look at him. As soon as Derek was near the table Greg bent down low to aim his opening shot. He had a brown leather jacket with a big tear in one arm and his hair was tied at the back in a ponytail. I wanted him to win. The white ball drifted the length of the table, dislodged one of the reds and returned to its starting point. Derek took off his jacket and gave it to Chas to hold. He fixed silver bands round his arms to keep his cuffs clear of his wrists. Chas turned the jacket inside out and folded it over his arm and opened his paper to the racing page. Derek ducked down and hit the white ball without appearing to aim. When the dislodged red ball smacked into the bottom pocket, players on the other two tables looked up and walked toward us. Derek’s heels made a sharp clicking sound as he strode to the other end of the table. The white had broken up all the reds and was lined up with the black. Before he took his shot Derek glanced up at me to see if I was watching and I looked away.
For the next few minutes he hit reds and the black into the bottom pockets. Between each shot he walked quickly from one side of the table to the other and talked to me in a quiet voice, without looking in my direction, as if he was talking to himself.
“Funny setup in your house,” he said as the first black went down. Greg and the other players watched and listened to our conversation.
I said, “I dunno.”
“The parents are both dead,” Derek said to Chas, “and the four of them looking after themselves.”
“Orphans like,” Chas said, not looking up from his paper.
“It’s a big house,” Derek said as he brushed past me to get to the white again.
“Pretty big,” I said.
“It must be worth quite a bit.” A red disappeared slowly over the lip of a pocket and he was able to aim for a black without changing his position. “All those rooms,” he said, “you could turn it into flats.”
I said, “We’re not thinking of that.”
Derek watched Greg pick the black out of the pocket and set it down on its spot.
“And that cellar, not many houses have cellars like that…”
He walked around the table the long way, and Chas sighed at something he was reading. Another red went down. “You could….” Derek was watching to see where the white ball was going to stop. “You could do something with that cellar.”
“Like what?” I said, but Derek shrugged and hit the black hard into the pocket.
When finally Derek missed a black he made a sharp, hissing sound between his teeth.
Chas looked from his paper and said, “Forty-nine.”
I said to Derek, “I’m going now,” but he had turned away to get a cigarette from one of the other players. Then he walked to the other end of the table to watch Greg.
I felt sick. I leaned back against a pillar and looked up at the ceiling. There were iron girders and beyond them, set in the roof, panes of glass smeared with yellowish brown paint. I looked down and Derek was playing again with only a few balls left on the table. When the game was over Derek came up to me from behind and gripped my elbow and said, “Want a game?” I told him no and pulled away.
I said, “I’m going back home now.”
Derek stood in front of me and laughed. He rested the thick end of his cue against his foot and jigged it up and down.
“You’re a queer one,” he said. “Why don’t you relax a bit, why don’t you eve
I leaned right back against the pillar. Something heavy and dark was pressing down on me and I stared up at the ceiling again, half expecting to see it.
Derek went on jigging his cue, and then he had an idea. He drew in his breath sharply and called over his shoulder, “Hey Chas! Greg! Come and help me make this miserable bugger laugh.” He smiled and winked at me as he said this, as if I should be in on the joke too. Chas and Greg appeared on either side of Derek and slightly behind him. “Come on,” Derek said, “a big laugh or I’ll tell your sister.” Their faces grew larger. “Or I’ll make Greg tell you one of his jokes.” Chas and Greg laughed. Everyone wanted to be on the right side of Derek.
“Fuck off!” I said.
Chas said, “Ah, leave the lad alone,” and walked away.
The way he said this made me want to cry and so to show them that this was the last thing I was going to do I stared at Derek fiercely and without blinking. But water was collecting in one eye, and though I snatched at the tear as soon as it rolled out, I knew they had seen it. Greg held out his hand for me to shake.
“No harm meant me old mate,” he said. I did not shake it because my hand was wet. Greg walked off, and it was just Derek and me again.
I turned and walked toward the door. Derek left his cue on a table and came with me. We walked so close we could have been handcuffed.
“You’re really just like your sister, you are,” he said.
Because I could not get by Derek I had to head to the left of the door, toward the tea hatch. As soon as he saw us coming, the old man there took up his big steel teapot and filled two cups. He had a very high-pitched voice.
“You can have these ones on me,” he said, “for your forty-nine points.” He said it to me as much as to Derek and I had to pick up one of the cups. Derek picked up his too and we leaned against the wall facing each other. For several minutes he seemed about to say something, but he remained silent. I tried to drink the tea quickly and that made me feel hot and sick. Under my shirt my skin prickled and itched, my feet sweated and my toes were slippery against one another. I leaned my head against the wall.