The Casual Vacancy

around the toaster, talking all the while.
    ‘He’ll have had a massive cerebral haemorrhage. His poor, poor wife … she’s absolutely devastated …’
    Momentarily stricken, Ruth gazed out of her kitchen window over the crisp whiteness of her frost-crusted lawn, at the abbey across the valley, stark and skeletal against the pale pink and grey sky, and the panoramic view that was the glory of Hilltop House. Pagford, which by night was no more than a cluster of twinkling lights in a dark hollow far below, was emerging into chilly sunlight. Ruth saw none of it: her mind was still at the hospital, watching Mary emerge from the room where Barry lay, all futile aids to life removed. Ruth Price’s pity flowed most freely and sincerely for those whom she believed to be like herself. ‘No, no, no, no,’ Mary had moaned, and that instinctive denial had reverberated inside Ruth, because she had been afforded a glimpse of herself in an identical situation …
    Hardly able to bear the thought, she turned to look at Simon. His light-brown hair was still thick, his frame was almost as wiry as it had been in his twenties and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were merely attractive, but Ruth’s return to nursing after a long break had confronted her anew with the million and one ways the human body could malfunction. She had had more detachment when she was young; now she realized how lucky they all were to be alive.
    ‘Couldn’t they do anything for him?’ asked Simon. ‘Couldn’t they plug it up?’
    He sounded frustrated, as though the medical profession had, yet again, bungled the business by refusing to do the simple and obvious thing.
    Andrew thrilled with savage pleasure. He had noticed lately thathis father had developed a habit of countering his mother’s use of medical terms with crude, ignorant suggestions.
Cerebral haemorrhage. Plug it up.
His mother didn’t realize what his father was up to. She never did. Andrew ate his Weetabix and burned with hatred.
    ‘It was too late to do anything by the time they got him out to us,’ said Ruth, dropping teabags into the pot. ‘He died in the ambulance, right before they arrived.’
    ‘Bloody hell,’ said Simon. ‘What was he, forty?’
    But Ruth was distracted.
    ‘Paul, your hair’s completely matted at the back. Have you brushed it at all?’
    She pulled a hairbrush from her handbag and pushed it into her younger son’s hand.
    ‘No warning signs or anything?’ asked Simon, as Paul dragged the brush through the thick mop of his hair.
    ‘He’d had a bad headache for a couple of days, apparently.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Simon, chewing toast. ‘And he ignored it?’
    ‘Oh, yes, he didn’t think anything of it.’
    Simon swallowed.
    ‘Goes to show, doesn’t it?’ he said portentously. ‘Got to watch yourself.’
    That’s wise
, thought Andrew, with furious contempt;
that’s profound
. So it was Barry Fairbrother’s own fault his brain had burst open.
You self-satisfied fucker
, Andrew told his father, loudly, inside his own head.
    Simon pointed his knife at his elder son and said, ‘Oh, and by the way.
He’s
going to be getting a job. Old Pizza Face there.’
    Startled, Ruth turned from her husband to her son. Andrew’s acne stood out, livid and shiny, from his empurpling cheek, as he stared down into his bowl of beige mush.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Simon. ‘Lazy little shit’s going to start earning some money. If he wants to smoke, he can pay for it out of his own wages. No more pocket money.’
    ‘
Andrew!
’ wailed Ruth. ‘You haven’t been—?’
    ‘Oh, yes, he has. I caught him in the woodshed,’ said Simon, his expression a distillation of spite.
    ‘
Andrew!
’
    ‘No more money from us. You want fags, you buy ’em,’ said Simon.
    ‘But we said,’ whimpered Ruth, ‘we said, with his exams coming—’
    ‘Judging by the way he fucked up his mocks, we’ll be lucky if he gets any qualifications. He can get himself out to McDonald’s early, get some experience,’ said Simon, standing up and pushing in his chair, relishing the sight of Andrew’s hanging head, the dark pimpled edge of his face. ‘Because we’re not supporting you through any resits, pal. It’s now or never.’
    ‘Oh, Simon,’ said Ruth reproachfully.
    ‘
What?
’
    Simon took two stamping steps towards his wife. Ruth shrank back against the sink. The pink plastic brush fell out of Paul’s hand.
    ‘I’m not going to fund the little fucker’s filthy