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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Homework
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“Good. It looks really nice on you.” She smiled at me. She swung back and forth on the door handle, watching while I put the pullover in the appropriate drawer, then left the room.
When I came into the living room a few minutes later, she was lying on the floor, watching a program about Whipsnade Zoo. Tobias lay stretched out beside her. “Tobias recognises the lions,” she said. “Watch.” A few minutes later, when a lion roared, he did indeed seem to glance at the screen. “There,” said Jenny triumphantly.
“You're right,” I said. “Did you know it was eight-thirty?”
She stood up and went off to her room without a single protest. I heard her moving around, going to brush her teeth, then she reappeared in the living room. To my surprise, she came over and kissed my cheek. I could smell the warmth of her body.
After a suitable interval, I returned to the bedroom. I did succeed in rescuing a few items from the pile of condemned clothing, but not as many as I expected. Even my favourite shirt seemed tainted by her disapproval, and when I tried it on, I was forced to acknowledge the justice of her criticism. As I folded the clothes into carrier bags, I thought of the summer my mother had given half her wardrobe to Oxfam.
For weeks the hall had been crowded with bags, each one, I later understood, another step in her preparations to leave my father and me. I had always held this careful planning against her. Now it occurred to me that she and Harry had probably wanted to live together for years and had refrained from doing so only on my account. Maybe some day I could ask her about the ins and outs of her decision.
On Saturday afternoon Jenny asked if we could go to Victoria Park so that she could try out her new roller skates. They had been a birthday present from Helen, but with all her travelling over the summer, Jenny had scarcely had an opportunity to use them. The sun was shining, and not until I stepped outside did I realise that there was a nip in the air. I told Stephen and Jenny to go on ahead, and let myself back into the house. When I opened the drawer where I kept my woolens, I saw my new pullover lying on top. For a moment I hesitated. Then I thought that I was long past the age when I was going to climb trees, and hastily put it on.
Stephen and Jenny were waiting for me at the corner. Jenny held a roller skate in either hand. She was swinging them back and forth, banging them together like cymbals. “You're wearing your new pullover,” Stephen said, as I drew close.
“It was the first thing I saw.”
Jenny had paused while I spoke; now she spread her arms and brought the skates together with a furious bang.
“Careful,” said Stephen. “You might bend them out of alignment. It looks very nice.”
“Thank you.” I took his hand, and we turned down Craighall Road. Jenny ran ahead.
“I can scarcely believe that two weeks ago we were walking in the Chilterns,” I said.
“God, is it only two weeks? That's amazing,” said Stephen. “I know with six weeks holiday I can't complain, but I feel as
if I've never been away from school. Even the kids in my new class are already distressingly familiar. This is the time of year I always think about quitting.”
“What would you do instead?”
“Live off you,” he said, smiling. “I do enjoy teaching, but so many of the children are in trouble of one sort or another, and algebra doesn't necessarily seem like the solution. Sometimes I think I'd like to do social work, be able to help in a more direct way.”
“Maybe you should look into it,” I suggested.
He shrugged. “I'm afraid any career change is out of the question until Jenny is older. Besides, you remember what Julius said: everything is being cut back except for the problems.”
There were several benches just inside the entrance to the park. Jenny sat down on one of them and with Stephen's help began to put on her skates. I wandered off across the grass in the direction of the playground. Two grown men were playing football with a group of small boys, and I stopped to watch. One of the men almost scored a goal but was foiled by a chubby, sandy-haired boy who intercepted the ball with surprising speed.
For a Saturday the playground was fairly quiet. A line of children stood at the bottom of the slide, waiting to go down, and two girls in skirts were exhorting their father to play on the seesaw. I sat down on the swing nearest to the slide. As I pushed myself idly back and forth I watched Stephen and Jenny on the far side of the park. Jenny was dressed as usual in dark colours, and at this distance it was Stephen's bright red pullover that made them vivid. She held his hand, and they began to move along the tarmac path which ran round the perimeter of the park. The leaves were just beginning to turn, and the air was exceptionally clear. I felt as if I could suddenly see twice as far.
Jenny was gathering speed, and by the time they reached
the playground Stephen was jogging briskly to keep up. “You go round by yourself,” he said, and walked over to the swings. “Like a push?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” I raised my feet off the ground and held my legs straight out in front. Stephen took hold of the swing and pulled me backwards as high as he could. He let go, and I swooped forward. He kept pushing me, higher, higher: the sky, the grass, the tarmac, the football players, the distant figure of Jenny, all swung back and forth, until I said, “Enough.” Stephen sat down on the swing next to mine. When I was at a standstill he said, “Did you know that there was a hole in your pullover?”
“A hole? How can there be?”
Jenny approached unsteadily on her roller skates, her arms outstretched for balance. She paused, holding on to one of the supports of the swings. “Will you run with me, Daddy?”
“Okay,” said Stephen, sliding off the swing. “We won't be long.”
Jenny took his hand, put her feet together, and crouched down. “Run, Daddy. Run,” she said. Obediently Stephen set off at a slow trot down the path, towing Jenny behind him. I stood up and removed the pullover. In the back was a hole the size of my fist.
“Excuse me,” said a voice. “Are you using this swing?” A woman and a small boy stood before me.
I shook my head and went to sit on the low wall that surrounded the sand pit. I peered at the edges of the hole; perhaps there had been a weakness in the wool and it had snapped, or a knot had come undone and the wool had unravelled, but where the wool itself had gone I could not imagine. I remembered the many physics lessons in which we had chanted, over and over, “Matter is neither created nor destroyed.” On the far side of the park Jenny and Stephen had stopped; Jenny was doubled over, presumably
to adjust her skates, and Stephen was standing beside her. It was a beautiful day.
I set out to meet them, carrying the pullover as if it were now unwearable. They were moving again, although more slowly than before, and our mutual progress brought us quickly together. Stephen's cheeks were flushed, and his glasses were sliding down his nose. He released Jenny, and she continued to skate along in the same direction. We followed slowly.
“This is great exercise,” he said, breathing hard.
“I can tell. What am I going to do with my pullover?” I asked.
“You got it at that shop on Saint Stephen Street, didn't you? Why don't we walk over there and ask them to exchange it?”
“But I don't have the receipt.”
“I'm sure that doesn't matter. It's obviously brand new.” He sounded so calm and reasonable that I at once felt better. Order was about to be restored. He called to Jenny, and she stopped and waited for us to catch up with her. Stephen explained our plan.
“I thought you just got it,” she said.
“I know. The hole must have been there all along. When you look at the front, you don't notice it.”
“Can I see?” she asked. I held up the pullover, and on her skates she moved cautiously forward. She lifted her hand and ran her finger round the edge of the hole. Her cheeks, like Stephen's, were flushed, and her eyes were dark. “Why are we going to the shop?”
“Because I'm hoping that they'll exchange it.”
“Oh,” she said. It was hard to tell if she was on the verge of smiling or pouting. She moved off towards the nearest bench and sat down to unlace her skates.
 
 
As we turned the corner into Saint Stephen Street the shop was immediately in view. Several striped pullovers hung next to the open door, swinging back and forth in the breeze. Inside, the shelves brimmed with brightly coloured objects—socks, gloves, scarves, wooden toys, hand-dipped candles—and the air smelled of sandalwood and lanolin. There was a knitting machine in the back, and as I approached the counter I heard the soft clicking of the needles. Suzie, who lived round the corner, had told me that the shop was run by a collective of women.
Jenny and Stephen disappeared behind the central display. The woman at the counter smiled and asked if she could help me. I remembered her from the day when I had bought the pullover. Her fair hair was braided into a single pigtail, which hung almost to her waist. I told her what was wrong. As I spoke, the smooth openness of her face contracted into a frown. She took the pullover out of my hands and examined it. “I don't understand how this could have happened,” she said. She went to show the pullover to the woman who was operating the machine. Together they scrutinised the hole.
Both women looked up, and the woman from behind the counter pointed to me. I went over. “I'm sorry that I didn't notice sooner,” I said. “The hole's at the back, so even when you're wearing the pullover, you don't see it.”
“We don't make clothes with holes in,” said the woman at the machine. Her face was shadowed by unruly hair, and it was hard to detect her expression, but her tone conveyed ample disapproval.
“Perhaps a customer damaged it, here in the shop,” the fair woman said doubtfully.
“They'd have to have been trying pretty hard. As far as I can see,” the other woman said, “the only way this could have happened is if someone took a pair of scissors and cut out a piece.”
Stephen had left Jenny examining the toys and come up behind me. “Who would do that except a manic tourist?” he asked. I wondered if he too understood that I was being accused.
“Sometimes people do strange things,” said the machinist, staring at me.
“This is exactly the pullover I want,” I said. “If there's any way you can repair it, I'd be perfectly happy.”
The two woman exchanged glances. “I believe we have a very similar one on the shelf over there,” said the first woman. She spoke with grudging resignation. Some customers approached the counter, and she went to serve them. The machinist did not take her eyes off me.
“Let's have a look,” said Stephen. He seemed oblivious to the tensions of the situation.
The second pullover was a richer, deeper shade of blue than the previous one and fitted perfectly. As Stephen was praising it, the woman from the machine approached. “Suppose you give us fifteen pounds for the new pullover, to defray some of our costs,” she said. “And suppose we all check it together very carefully to be sure that it's in perfect condition before you leave the shop.”
Fifteen pounds seemed a small price to restore good will, but as I got out my purse Stephen said, “That doesn't seem fair. Celia bought the pullover in good faith. It isn't her fault if there's a problem. If you bought a new camera, and the first time you tried to use it the shutter jammed, would you think you were to blame? No, you'd blame the manufacturer, and you'd expect the shopkeeper to assume responsibility.”
“And what if you were the shopkeeper and you were sure that the camera had been in perfect condition when it left your shop, and that for whatever reasons the customer had damaged it herself?” the woman asked. She folded her arms and frowned up at Stephen.
“Stephen,” I said, “I didn't check the pullover properly.” I would have given any amount of money to get out of the shop without further argument.
The woman turned away without looking at me. As I stood at the counter writing out a cheque, the knitting machine started up again, and now the needles seemed to make a fierce, admonitory sound. I hurried out into the street. Stephen and Jenny joined me. “That woman behaved like we were criminals,” Stephen said. “Doesn't she know it's bad for business to accuse your customers of lying?”
“It is puzzling, though,” I said. “The hole was so large, and I'm claiming that I didn't see it when I bought the pullover.” Jenny was walking between us, trying not to tread on the cracks between the paving stones. Suddenly I noticed that there was something different about her. “What happened to your skates?” I asked.
“Oh.” She raised her hands and examined them, as if surprised to find them empty. “I must have left them in the shop.”
While Stephen and Jenny went to retrieve the skates, I sat down on a wide flight of stone steps in front of an antique shop. In the window a row of Victorian dolls, their eyes fixed in wide china stares, ignored me. It would be a long time, I thought, before I would be able to go into the knitwear shop without feeling embarrassed.
Jenny and Stephen were coming down the street. Jenny was swinging her skates, looking up at her father. He was talking, pointing to something I could not see on the far side of the road. A black dog, which was tied to the railings, began to wag its tail as they approached. They stopped to pet it, and I stood up and went to join them. We bought ice creams and walked home, talking about other matters.
 
Later, when I was in our bedroom, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Without doubt the new pullover was
more becoming than the old one, but I did not take as much pleasure in it. Although Stephen and I were about to go out alone together for the first time since Jenny moved in, I felt a kind of heaviness descend upon me. I wished that we could spend a quiet evening at home, but it would be almost as hard to cancel our plans as it had been to make them. Charlotte would be arriving shortly to baby-sit, we had tickets for a play at the Traverse Theatre, and besides, there was Jenny. She had greeted the news of our absence with an enthusiasm that made Stephen's earlier anxiety seem absurd; she would clearly be disappointed if we were to stay at home. I picked up my hairbrush and began to brush my hair, stroke after stroke, until my scalp tingled.
Stephen and I were watching the news on television when Jenny ushered Charlotte into the living room. We said hello. Charlotte smiled shyly and muttered something. I had rarely heard her speak, but Jenny, who had met her a couple of times in the corner shop, assured us that when we were not around Charlotte chattered nineteen to the dozen. She had answered our advertisement for someone to look after Selina and Tobias while we were away, and, as Stephen remarked, it would be hard to find a teenager with better credentials; her mother was a nurse, her father a policeman, and she lived only a few houses away.

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