The Pools
Bethan Roberts was born in Oxford and brought up in nearby Abingdon. She teaches creative writing at the University of Chichester and for the Open University. Bethan Roberts was awarded a Jerwood/ Arvon Young Writers’ Prize for The Pools. She lives in Brighton.
the pools
Bethan Roberts
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by
SERPENT’S TAIL
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
www.serpentstail.com
This eBook edition first published in 2009
Copyright © Bethan Roberts, 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Designed and typeset by Sue Lamble
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN 978-1-84765-148-8
For Mum and Dad, with love
Contents
prologue
Howard
Christmas, 1985
Joanna
Christmas, 1985
part one
Howard
one
Summer, 1965
two
Spring, 1966
three
Autumn, 1968
four
April, 1969
five
Summer, 1974
six
1976
seven
Summer, 1979
eight
January, 1982
part two
Joanna
one
Summer, 1984
two
Spring, 1985
three
Spring, 1985
four
August, 1985
five
August, 1985
six
August, 1985
seven
September, 1985
eight
September, 1985
part three
one
Howard
September, 1985
two
Joanna October, 1985
three
Howard
November, 1985
four
Joanna
November, 1985
five
Howard
November, 1985
six
Joanna
November, 1985
seven
Howard
November, 1985
eight
Joanna
November, 1985
nine
Howard
November, 1985
ten
Joanna
November, 1985
eleven
Howard
December, 1985
twelve
Joanna
December, 1985
thirteen
Howard
December, 1985
fourteen
Joanna
December, 1985
fifteen
Howard
December, 1985
sixteen
Joanna
December, 1985
seventeen
Howard
December, 1985
eighteen
Joanna
December, 1985
epilogue
Joanna
Christmas, 1985
Howard
January, 1986
acknowledgements
prologue
Howard
Christmas, 1985
Since the night he disappeared, she’s kept her hands to herself. No fingers stray towards me as we lie together, not sleeping. At seven o’clock I shake her shoulder. The brushed cotton of her nightie is soft against the rough skin of my fingertips. I know it’s rough because she used to tell me, in bed. If I stroked her back she would say, ‘Howard. Skin’s catching.’
I shake her shoulder and she ignores me. So I speak. ‘Time to get up, Kathryn. Come on now, time to get up.’
Her arm twitches, but there’s no sound. So I try again, a bit sterner. ‘Come on, now. You have to get up. This morning you have to get up.’
Neither of us has slept, of course. For the last hour I’ve been watching the blue-grey light push through the curtains, listening to her breathe. From her shallow, quiet breaths, I knew she was awake, too; probably her mind was stuck, like mine, on that moment when we saw the policewoman opening the front gate, carefully closing it again, and taking off her hat as she walked down our path. Then we knew they’d found his body.