Free England and Other Stories by Graham Swift Page A

again, dominantly, her hips. Both this time.
    As she turned back there was a flustered smile on her face at her own agility. It made her look younger and even less like a mother, certainly not the thirty-five or more she must have been.
    She came right up close to where he still stood compliantly. The scent and breath of Mrs Shield were suddenly all over him. There was no trace of drink that he could detect.
    ‘So, Sean, how long have you been friends with Karen? I mean, friends, not just at school with her?’
    But once again she didn’t wait for him to answer. With one hand she pulled down his fly zip, then slipped the other hand inside, like a pickpocket stealing a wallet.
    ‘Have you got an erection, Sean? Do you have one all the time?’
    Then he was, in all senses, in her hands.
    Silent seconds passed. There was the technical consideration: suppose Karen were to come home any moment now. But that seemed somehow irrelevant, or dealt with. Mrs Shield plainly knew what she was doing, even as she deferentially asked him, ‘So what do you think we should do now, Sean? What do you think we should do? Perhaps you should put those bags down.’
    She kept her hand where it was while he did what she suggested.
    ‘I think we should do the whole thing, don’t you? The whole thing. Can you hang on?’
    Hang on!
    She took her hand away and, as nimbly as she’d managed the curtains, she left the room, then returned with a large white bath towel. She spread it on the sofa.
    It was all done quickly. How could it not have been? Hang on!
    But afterwards she’d had the goodness—if that was the right word—just to lie with him for a while, her arms round him, or perhaps it was more that his were round her. He’d felt his own slightness and her bigness—if that too was the right word. She was a fully formed complete woman, like no schoolgirl could ever be. He’d wanted to tell her this, but didn’t know how, or if it would be wise. He’d wanted to thank her, to praise her, to express all his grateful amazement, but hadn’t a clue how to do it. What he should have said—he knew it now, standing outside St Luke’s—was that she was lovely.
    In the glow from the window he tried absurdly to work out his bearings. Which was east, which was west? Which way did the window face? Where was Craig Road, where he lived? Where was Holmgate School, the Town Hall, Tesco’s, Skelby Moor? Minutes ago he’d been standing on a front doorstep, holding a leopard-skin bag. Less than an hour ago he’d been sitting on a number six bus.
    Finally, as if a timer had registered the appropriate interval, she moved, loosened their mutual grip, kissed him, just a peck, on the cheek and made it clear they should tidy themselves up.
    Had she done this before? Was she in the habit of doing it? It was certain that she knew he’d never done anything like it before, just as it was certain that he’d never do, at least in one sense, anything like it again.
    ‘Now,’ she said before he left, her stern face back again, ‘you don’t breathe a word of this.’ And while he gravely nodded and she looked into his depths, she added, ‘More than your life’s worth if you do.’
    Then she said, ‘Don’t forget
your
bag. The name’s Deborah, by the way. Since you ask.’
    He realised later that she’d effectively vetoed his going any further with Karen. She’d simultaneously equipped and unequipped him. He looked at Karen now with something like pity.
    The sun shone on the wet driveway. That fourth person, whoever he was, seemed to be moving on. The remaining three now turned to look around and a hand suddenly went to cover the daughter’s mouth in a show of recognition and surprise. Her eyes widened. She took away the hand and, at that distance, they half heard, half lip-read her words.
    ‘Well, well, look who’s here!’
    She was making such a thing of it that he didn’t notice the look on the mother’s face. Or he didn’t want to look at the