The Bone Clocks

HEIDI’S BUNGALOW’S SURROUNDED by fields and isn’t what I’d imagine as Kent’s HQ for a socialist revolution, with its net curtains, cushion covers, porcelain figurines, and Flower Fairies. There’s even carpet on the bathroom floor. Heidi told me it was her gran’s house before she died, but her mum and stepfather live in France somewhere so Ian and she come here most weekends to make sure squatters haven’t moved in and to distribute the magazine. Heidi shows me how to lock the bathroom from the inside and makes a joke about the Norman Bates Motel, which I pretend to get. I’ve never used a shower before—we only have a bath at the Captain Marlow—so I freeze myself and boil myself before I get the water right. Heidi has a whole shelf of shampoos, conditioners, and soaps with labels written all in foreign, but I try a bit of everything till I smell like the ground floor of a department store. When I get out, I see the ghost of letters written in last time’s steam: WHO’S A PRETTY BOY THEN? Did Heidi write it for Ian? Wish I hadn’t lied ’bout my name, now; I’d really like to be friends with Heidi. I smear a bit of Woods of Windsor moisturizer on my suntanned skin, thinking how easily Heidi might have been born in a grotty Gravesend pub, and me the one who’s clever and confident and studying politics in London, and who has French shampoo, and a kind, funny, caring, and loyal boyfriend who leaves messages on the mirror and cooks a five-star English breakfast. Being born’s a hell of a lottery.

“THEY’VE GOT THIS bridge in Turkey,” I harpoon a sausage and juice dribbles from the prong holes, “with Europe on one side and Asia on the other. I’m going there. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. And I love Switzerland. Well, I love the idea of Switzerland, though the closest I’ve ever been is eating a bar of Toblerone …”

“You’ll adore it.” Heidi swallows her toast and dabs her lips with a tissue. “La Fontaine Saint-Agnиs is one of my favorite places on Earth, nestled up near Mont Blanc. My mother’s second husband had a lodge there so we’d go skiing most Christmases. Switzerland’s pricey, that’s the only thing.”

“Then I’ll drink snow and eat Ritz biscuits. And thanks again for breakfast, Ian. These sausages are incredible.”

He shrugs modestly. “I’m from three generations of Lincolnshire butchers, so I ought to know my stuff. Will your Grand Tour be a solo expedition, Tracy, or will you take a traveling companion?”

“The poor lass’s love life is none of your business,” Heidi tells him, “Captain Snoop. Ignore him, Tracy.”

“It’s okay,” I say, swallowing. “Actually I don’t have a boyfriend right now. I—I—I did up till recently, but …” My throat sort of closes.

“Any brothers and sisters?” As Heidi changes the subject I can tell she’s kicked Ian under the table.

“One sister, Sharon, and my brother Jacko.” I slurp some tea and leave Brendan out of it. “But they’re both a few years younger so, yeah, it’ll be a solo expedition. How ’bout you two? Any holidays planned?”

“Well, between the Party conference and helping the miners,” says Heidi, “we’ll try to get to Bordeaux in August. Visit my mother.”

“Can’t wait,” Ian mimes being hanged, “I don’tthink. I’ve used my wicked wiles to seduce Heidi into an evil cult of lefty loonies, you see.”

“The joke is that Ian’s parents are sure I’ve done the same to him,” says Heidi. “We should have an anti-wedding and split up.” She dabs her lips. “Is Corcoran an Irish name, Tracy?”

I nod and fork a tomato. “Mum’s from West Cork.”

“Whatever the rights and wrongs of the Troubles,” Ian reaches for the ketchup, “every post-1920 revolution owes a debt to the Irish. The English reckon they handed Ireland over out of magnanimity, but no; the Irish wonit back, by inventing modern guerrilla warfare.”

“My aunt Roisнn,” I reply, “says the English never remember and the Irish never forget.”

Ian’s still slapping the bottom of the ketchup bottle, but nothing’s coming out. “I despair of humanity. We can put a man on the moon but can’t invent a way of getting tomato sauce out of a bottle without—” A huge dollop glollops out, smothering his bacon.