The Water Tower - Books 1-3

Chapter 2-4

When they hadn’t felt like riding into Bassington, they’d congregated in the grounds of the Water Tower; sometimes sharing cigs and drinking, but mostly laughing about the lads from the estate, or telling each other who they’d sleep with if they could. Charlene Conroy swore that Russ Gregory had shown her his d**k and he wasn’t as big as everyone thought he was. That was the trouble with Russ; he was just another mediocre man living a big pretence.

Most of the time, though, town was where they’d travelled to. It was only a short bus ride through Little Bassington, up the hill and into the centre; they’d dismount somewhere along the High Street (usually outside Dawn’s hair salon by Central Square) and walk the rest of the way. When the weather was kind, they’d spend their afternoons in the park opposite the Town Hall, killing time by curling blades of grass around their fingers and snapping them, watching as the men and women who worked in the grand Victorian-era building ate their lunches on the benches outside, or shook hands with a visitor in a pristinely cut suit, before heading back up the flight of steps to the stone portico, with its Corinthian columns, then disappearing through the door beneath the arch and into the corridors of power.

They’d venture down the High Street sometimes, daring each other into shops to see what they could lift without getting caught, or setting each other challenges to find out who was the most audacious. Charlene and Nikki had stolen a bottle of rum from the off license once, but when they’d tried to drink it, they’d found it tasted too sweet for them, too grassy. Madison had spat her own mouthful out onto the pavement, earning herself a look of contempt from a woman passing by. Kieran had taken chocolate from the newsagents; Aaron a packet of condoms and a can of deodorant from the chemist. They’d even gotten away with a new game for his brother’s PlayStation once; Aaron had stuck two fingers up behind him as they’d escaped down the street, laughing at the stocky lad who’d been looking after the shop while his cousin was away calling after them.

PlayStationMore than any other though, Madison remembered the day that Ryan had come up with the idea of trying to steal a car from the back of the Town Hall. Gaz had thought it was a bad idea, but no one had really listened; his words had been drowned out by the bravado of the others. They’d climbed over the wall that partitioned the car park from the street and set their sights on a black Ford that looked like it had just been cleaned. “That’s the one,” Ryan had grinned. He’d known a little himself, but he’d relied mostly on Gaz’s aptitude for anything mechanical once he’d picked the lock. They’d all bolted when the owner had come thundering round the corner, red faced and running straight at them.

Ford“What do you think you’re doing! Get away from my f*****g car!”

fucking carGaz had urged her to run too. He’d tried to pull her away by her sleeve but, in the end, he’d had to let her go. She’d been the closest; she’d been holding the driver’s side open. It might have been a moment of indecisiveness that had cost her, or perhaps it had been something intuitive that had compelled her to stay, but the owner had grabbed her arm before she’d had a chance to think twice. The rest of them had been cowards. She’d stayed and taken the punishment.

Gaz had checked in on her the next day. The other runners had been too busy laughing, back-slapping and ribbing each other to have bothered about her. They were just glad to have gotten clean away. No one else had known he’d come round, but Gaz had wanted to make sure that she was alright. That was him, when you stripped away the tough man routine. Always that bit more caring than anyone had given him credit for.

When she’d told the others she was pregnant, they’d wanted less and less to do with her. She’d supposed it was only to be expected. They hadn’t shunned her exactly; they’d just kept their distance. They’d eyed her cynically, directed knowing looks at Gaz whenever they’d seen him. She’d stuck to her silence; kept everything bottled up inside, refusing to acknowledge the sly grins or the dirty remarks they levelled at her. But she’d heard them. Heard the whispers. She’d heard it all.

Gary Henshaw. Gaz. Vince’s rough and tough little brother. The lad who worked for sleazy Owen Porter at the garage in town. Who’d left school at 16 with a D in Maths. Who’d knocked up little Maddy Carter.

Maddy. They’d called her that, some of them. She couldn’t begin to describe how much she’d hated it. To her, it had sounded childlike, the kind of name only worthy of the weak and feeble, the naïve or the innocent. Now, whenever she thought about that pet name, she thought about all the people who had used it, and how much she hated them too.

Maddy* * *

She bought the sketchpad from the corner shop, which she was always surprised to find was better stocked than she’d expected. Behind the aisles of everyday essentials – coffee, tinned fruit, bread and soft drinks – there was a modest display of newspapers and magazines, which segued into an offering of stationery that Old Man Singh had obviously hoped would spare the parents of Bell Heath the trouble of having to journey into the village, or even further afield into town. She always found it remarkable that he sold the sketchpads; she couldn’t think of anyone else who’d buy them.

Madison lifted the pad down from the shelf. To her right, along the row of open fridge units that lined the back wall of the shop, a woman was ferreting amongst the microwave meals whilst trying to force the strap of her handbag back into place over her shoulder. She watched the woman for a moment, taking in the sculpture of her curves and the velvet smoothness of her hair. Briefly, Madison considered how easily the woman would lend herself to being recreated in a pencil sketch, or even something with acrylics. The woman’s face seemed bright, despite the indifference brought about by the weather since that the sun had taken refuge behind the clouds earlier that afternoon. She’s not from round here, Madison thought. Not enough scars behind her smile. The woman’s ruffled white blouse was tucked into her dark blue jeans and, as she pivoted on her heel, she noticed Madison standing there, contemplating the sketchpad, entangled within a web of her own thoughts.

She’s not from round here,Not enough scars behind her smile. “Meal for one,” the woman said cheerily, motioning with the plastic tray wrapped in its cardboard sleeve which she had pulled from one of the fridges, as if she owed Madison an explanation. “Some days, you just don’t feel like cooking, right?”

“Right,” Madison muttered.

The woman nodded at the sketchpad that Madison was still holding, almost absently now, in front of her. “Budding artist?” the woman asked.

“It’s… i’s fer my daughter,” Madison replied, not sure why she was stumbling over her words, but telling the woman the first thing that came into her head.

“Ahh well,” the woman smiled, demurely, “I hope she enjoys it.”

Madison tried to smile back as the woman turned and walked away, down the aisle that led towards the counter. Dimly, she heard her exchanging pleasantries with Old Man Singh, her mind instinctively processing the sound of the woman rummaging in her handbag for the coins that would pay for her microwave meal. Then she was gone.

Quickly, Madison grabbed a fresh packet of pencils from the meagre offering of stationery; a set of different grades that she could use for shading and applying darker lines. She threw the money from her duffel coat pocket at Old Man Singh, barely offering him a word as she did so, before stepping out to embrace the last embers of warmth that the afternoon had to offer. The sun was trying to climb out from behind a cloud bank again, offering a milder taste of the bright, breathless heat that had coated the morning. She rubbed the unopened packet of pencils idly between her fingers, caressing the thin wood, feeling the bumps as they met the sides of the graphite’s hexagonal surround.

She found her way to the low wall on the junction of Fletcher Street and Anchor Court. She sat there for hours, under the watchful gaze of the Water Tower, sketching in pencil the focal point of all her dreams. The shading was almost perfect; a blend of dense blocking and half-tones. Occasionally, a tear would escape her eye; a glassy embodiment of one of her inner angels rushing to its release. Before long, it was dusk. Her arms ached. She held the drawing of Alice and turned her head towards the sky. The girl with the sketchpad and scars, beneath the light of the summer moon.