I’d love to effect some political change, she bitterly replied.Sadly, I have the girls and a full-time job.
•••
May won the electionbut lost her majority. It was a huge embarrassment for her (and, by extension, all women—or maybe only Coralie felt that). Jeremy Corbyn was jubilant, and so were all his supporters. So close—they wereso close. If the campaign had run one week longer, they would have won.
Tom lost his seat to his Lib Dem rival. One day he was an MP; the next day he wasn’t. “I keep thinking WhatsApp’s broken,” he marveled. “But I’ve just been kicked off the groups.”
For the rest of the UK, at least those who visitedThe Guardian’s website compulsively, there was no post-electionexhale. The shocking closeness of the result meant nobody could relax. At fever pitch since the Brexit referendum, at fever pitch they remained. The days were boiling, too—record high temperatures for June. Heat shimmered from the pavements, and even people with seats stood up on the bus to suck in air from the windows. Reaching for her phone one morning, Coralie discovered that a large tower block in one of London’s richest areas had been entirely consumed by a fire. Residents had foreseen the disaster; no one had listened. People callingfor help had been told to stay inside. Twelve people died, no, a hundred; actually, no one knew. Theresa May didn’t dare visit the homeless and bereaved. (“In office,” Adam said in his quoting voice, “but not in power.”)
Whatever “the room” was, it was clear there were no adults in it. It wasn’t a safe way to live.
One Saturday, waiting at the bus stop after circus school, the back of Coralie’s throat ached from pollution while Zora visibly wilted. In the buggy, Florence was down to her nappy, passed out beneath a muslin shroud. At Greenwood Road shop, Coralie bought juice boxes and ice lollies. Back home in the garden, she dragged the paddling pool into the shade of the bay tree and filled it with the hose. She achieved five minutes of peace, sitting on the back steps, scrolling her phone, before Adam appeared, stirred up the girls with horseplay, stole an ice lolly, and returned to work upstairs.
“Girls? Zora?” Coralie said. “Could you sit back down in the pool?”
“Cara Lee?” A voice came from the garden next door.
She got to her feet. “Hello, Miss Mavis. Are the girls disturbing you?”
Shrewd eyes were visible through the fence slats. “Aren’t you worried they’ll burn themselves up?”
“They’ve got sun cream on, and they’re in the shade, but you’re right, it’s time to go in soon.”
“Miss Mavis?” Zora had known their elderly neighbor since she was little. “Can I have a Jammie Dodger?”
“I’ve just seen you have two ice lollies, am I right?”
“Sheisright,” Coralie told Zora.
“That baby’s going to slip on the pavers,” Miss Mavis observed, as Florence did indeed slip, landing hard on her little bum. Herappalled cries brought down Adam, who scooped her up, but not before giving a baleful look at Coralie.
“You fucking do it, then,” she hissed, and stomped off.
She’d just locked the door, sat down on the loo, and mindlessly reopened Instagram when a text popped up from Daniel. He was at Glastonbury and had filmed a clip from deep within a crowd. “Oh,JeremyCorbyn,” everyone roared over and over. After a bit, before she’d decided on her reply, he sent another. This time his camera was focused on a huge screen next to the festival’s biggest stage. The Labour leader looked spritely in a blue open-necked shirt. His snaggletooth and lopsided eyes lent him a friendly vibe, like one of Jim Henson’s Muppets, or more specifically (and showing her age) a Fraggle. “If I may, I’d like to quote one of my favorite poets, Percy Bysshe Shelley,” Corbyn said.
A shadow appeared below the door. “Mama, Mama.” Florence rattled the handle. Had Coralie forgotten to close the stair gate? Had Adam just let her roam free?
Back on the screen, the Labour leader was reciting:
“Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number—
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.”
Another world is possible, Daniel wrote.
Still on the toilet, her beloved daughter wailing outside, Coralie broke down and sobbed. How could the world with all its inequalities be made fair—when two people who loved each other couldn’t even manage alife?
•••
Adam submitted thefirst draft of his manuscript one Friday in late July. They spent the weekend with Zora as usual, circus school (together this time) and two drop-off parties. On Sunday afternoon, Marina came to collect her. “How’s the book? Finished?”
“Done!” Adam said. “Exhausting—insane deadlines. But now I’m a free man!”
