"I Believe"

The air felt thick, as if the whole town had been wrapped in damp cloth. Rain had hammered down in the night — one of those sudden August cloudbursts that woke half the street — and now the morning smelled of wet brick, coal dust and warm earth.

Nora sat on the lino in the kitchenette, tying the lace of her left shoe for the third time. The knot kept slipping loose. Her mother said it was because she tied them “like someone in a hurry,” which was true.

From the wireless on the table came the tail-end of the Light Programme news, then a burst of music: bright, brassy and impossible to ignore.

Helen reached over and turned it down. “That’s enough of that.”

“It’s not loud,” Nora said.

“It’s enough.”

Nora stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “Can I go to the market with Billy?”

“Not today.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said.”

There was no point arguing; not when her mother’s voice had that flat edge to it. The heat made everyone short-tempered. Even the baby upstairs had been crying more.

Nora left the kitchen and slipped out of the flat, across the landing and down the narrow back stairs, through the back door into the yard. The concrete was still damp from the night’s rain; puddles gathered in the dips. The washing lines hung empty, the pegs left clipped on from earlier in the week. A thin film of soot clung to the brick walls, darkened by the wet.

Billy was already there, kicking a ball against the wall of the coal shed. The thud echoed from the back of the house, bouncing between the high walls that boxed in the yard.

“You coming?” he asked.

“Mum said no.”

He kicked the ball again. “She always says no.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does.”

Nora didn’t answer. She watched the ball bounce, watched Billy chase it, watched the sky shift from grey to a strange pale yellow. The air felt like it might rain again, or thunder, or do nothing at all.

“I’ve got fourpence,” Billy said. “We could get the new Topper.”

“I can’t.”

“You could come halfway.”

“No.”

He kicked the ball harder. It hit the wall with a crack. A sash window slid up on the top floor. Billy’s aunt leaned out, hair in rollers, apron tied tight.

“Not against the wall, Billy! How many times?”

Billy muttered something and trapped the ball under his foot.

“Want to play something else?” Nora asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to do.”

They stood in silence for a moment. A dog trotted in through the open service gate: the same scruffy mongrel that always got out from somewhere up the road. Its fur was ruffled from the rain. It sniffed at a puddle, then shook itself, sending droplets everywhere.

Billy grinned. “Bet that’s why your mum won’t let you have one.”

“She wouldn’t anyway.”

“Mine neither.”

The dog wandered off toward the bins. A woman from the ground-floor flat stepped around it without looking down, carrying a shopping bag that clinked faintly with empty bottles to be returned.

Nora sat on the low wall by the empty drying lines. The concrete was warm through her skirt. She picked at a bit of moss growing in a crack.

“Do you believe things?” she asked suddenly.

Billy frowned. “What things?”

“Just… things.”

He thought about it. “I believe it’s going to rain again.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A gust of wind rattled the coal shed door. Somewhere above, the sound of a wireless drifted out of an open window: not loud, not clear, just a thread of music carried on the thick air.

I believe…

Billy groaned. “Not that again.”

“It’s everywhere,” Nora said.

“’Cos people keep playing it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Grown-ups like boring things.”

Nora didn’t argue. She watched the dog disappear behind the shed; watched a woman shake crumbs from a tablecloth out of a window; watched the sky turn the colour of old pewter.

The first drops of rain fell: fat, slow ones that left dark circles on the concrete.

Billy picked up his ball. “I’m going in.”

“Me too.”

They headed towards the back door. The rain began properly: a steady and warm shower that would soak everything in minutes. Billy ran ahead and clumped up the stairs.

Nora reached the back step. The yard smelled of wet dust again, the same smell it had had almost every day since Spring and probably always would. She looked up at the sky, then at the puddles forming on the path, then at the window where her mother stood, shaking out a dishcloth.

“Mum?” she called.

“Yes?”

“Do you believe things?”

Helen paused, cloth in hand. The rain pattered against the casement.

“I believe,” she said, “that you’re getting soaked. Come inside.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Nora went in. The stairwell smelled of damp coats and boiled vegetables. The wireless upstairs was still playing, the song fading in and out as she climbed.

She didn’t hum the tune; she just listened to the rain.