The History of Us by Jonathan Harvey

Author:Jonathan Harvey [Harvey, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781447298212
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

London, 1995

It was a nice feeling, knowing no-one could hurt you. You could feel protected, that no-one could ever, ever get to you, no matter how hard they tried. But it was a hard-won feeling, one that had taken years of practice to perfect. I was proud that I’d finally achieved it, but it hadn’t always been easy. I’d look around at other people, I’d see people crying in the street, people rowing and think . . . why? Why should they care? There was another way. My way.

It had all started when I was a teenager, when bad things had happened to me, when I felt there was no control in my life, pushed pillar to post by a mother who wanted me more than anything to achieve, ACHIEVE, goddammit, to fill a hollow in her life, do the things she could never do. The academic version of the pushy showbiz mum. Not so much Sing out, Louise! as Work hard, Jocelyn! Moving me from the Wirral to Liverpool on her next big whim, or little whim, rather; teasmade company here, cleaning empire there. All of them doomed to failure. And all the time I knew. I knew that each time she let a new boyfriend through the door, I was destined for better than that. It was not the life I wanted.

Maybe it’s because my mum always taught me that at school, and in life, if I wanted to get on I had to be twice as good as the white girls. I never quite believed I was. But Mum seemed to have that belief intrinsically, so we had to be. No say in the matter, we HAD TO BE. And so maybe it rubbed off. And as bad things happened, so it became easier, in fact somewhat necessary possibly, to close myself off and stop myself from being hurt by the world. And it was possible. Look at me now. And that’s where it started. With my mum. She pushed me so hard that it felt like she’d pushed me away, somewhere where normal people didn’t exist. In a hinterland that had stood me in good stead for now. Apart from the world, not part of it. An observer rather than a participant.

There was something rather delicious about lying in a bed, stretching out your legs and arms as far as they would go, really pointing your toes out, and still feeling the bed just went on forever. Not so much a bed, but a country. And God, these sheets were clean. Even though I’d spent a night in them, getting up to all sorts with Mr Love, they still smelt Lenor summer meadows fresh.

The other good thing about this particular bed was the view. OK, so looking up at the ceiling was like looking at any other ceiling, but if I crooked my head down and stared out beyond the rise in the duvet where my feet were . . . that view. That VIEW!

Mr Love’s

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