Blacklands by Belinda Bauer Page A

Avery’s letter was a good introduction to the subject and Mrs. O’Leary would have been impressed by his deductions.

    Steven lived in Somerset, but he was no bumpkin. He had an Eminem CD and had seen any number of loud and bullet-riddled Hollywood gangsta movies. Drawing on the experiences of those strange people in a strange land, he figured that a flat-out rejection would have looked something like this: “Don’t write to me again, shitbag.” Or “Fuck you and your mother.” Steven didn’t know what irony was either, but he could feel
something
coming off the page at him. He knew the four words did not mean what they claimed to. By day three, “Have a nice day” had become a code in Steven’s mind for “You’re a brave kid.” By day five it seemed to be saying: “I admire your attempt to get this information.”

    By day seven he was pretty convinced it meant: “Better luck next time...”

Chapter 9

    S PRING HAD TAKEN THE DAY OFF AND B ARNSTAPLE IN THE RAIN was something even the most enlightened town planner had no solution to.

    A blustery wind threw rain into faces, and raised a million ripples on the wide, mud brown surface of the Taw.

    Even the high-street chain stores looked besieged by the weather, huddled in the shelter of the battered Victorian buildings above them. Marks & Spencer was temporary home to this year’s strappy fashions and, in its doorway, an angry one-legged drunk shouting, “Fuck the
Big Issue.”

    Hanging baskets dripped miserably onto wet shoppers—the petals of the primroses and winter pansies plastered against their own leaves, or drooping, heads heavy with water.

    Steven knew how they felt. Rain stuck his hair to his forehead and trickled under his collar. Nan didn’t agree with baseball caps and Steven declined to wear the laughable yellow sou’wester type of hat that Davey was too young to refuse. Now and then he tried to edge under Lettie’s umbrella without making it obvious.

    Nan wore a see-through plastic headscarf that tied under her chin. It was the kind of thing that most people would have worn a couple of times, then thrown away or lost; Nan had had hers for as long as Steven had been alive—at least. He knew that when they got home she would lay it over a radiator to dry, then fold it like a fan into a ruler-sized strip. Then she’d roll it up and put an elastic band around it to keep it neat in her bag.

    When Steven’s last trainers had been put out with the bins after two years of constant hard labor, she had been sour for a week because he hadn’t removed the “perfectly good” laces.

    Now Lettie rummaged through her purse and brought out a list which she frowned at as people jostled past them.

    “Right,” she said. “I’ve got to go to Butchers Row, the market, and Banburys.”

    Tiverton was easier and closer, but Barnstaple had Banburys.

    “What do you need in Banburys?” said Nan suspiciously.

    “Just some undies.” Steven heard the brittle tone in her voice—stretching it to keep it light.

    “What’s wrong with your old ones?”

    “I don’t really want to discuss it here, Mum!” She smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes. The lighter her voice got, the thinner it got; more likely to crack.

    Nan shrugged to show it was no concern of hers if Lettie wanted to waste money on underwear.

    Lettie put her shopping list away and turned to Steven. “You take Davey to spend his birthday money and we’ll all meet at twelve thirty.”

    Davey brightened. “In the cake place?”

    “Yes, in the cake place.”

    Behind Lettie, Nan decided to air her views after all and said quite loudly: “It’s not as if anyone’s going to see your knickers.”

    Lettie didn’t turn away from the boys, but Steven saw her lips tighten across her teeth. Davey’s excitement became anxiety in an instant as he looked from his mother to his grandmother, not understanding the words, only their effect.

    Lettie gripped Steven’s light jacket