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by Michelle Magorian

  As soon as she had closed the bathroom door behind her, she noticed that the pants, bra and bobby socks she had washed the previous night had been removed from the towel rail. She stood naked on the bare wooden floor and washed at the sink with a bar of soap that smelled of nothing and refused to lather. After dressing, she brushed her hair well back from a central parting and slid two grips in at the sides to keep it back. No ringlets!

  This’ll do, Janey,’ she said to her face in the mirror. ‘It’s neat and off my face.’

  Not good enough, said the imaginary Janey, and you’re wearing your jeans again.

  ‘It’s no fun if you dress up every day. It doesn’t make it special. And anyway,’ she added, ‘they didn’t even notice.’

  As she scooped up her pyjamas, she glanced at the bathtub. It was large and white, with claw-shaped feet. A line had been painted five inches from the base. Even the water was rationed! It was going to be difficult managing with only one bath a week, after having been used to showers every day. Lucky it was summer and she could take a sponge bath without freezing to death. Even so, she had broken out in goose-pimples.

  She opened the door and moved swiftly out on to the landing.

  The living room was almost bare but for a long sofa and an armchair by the fireplace. An old carpet covered the floor, and along the wall stood a large bookcase. Black curtains hung from the bay window which overlooked the front garden. Rusty went over to the bookcase and picked out the thickest book there. Hearing footsteps, she turned to find Beatie standing in the doorway. ‘I thought I heard you up,’ she said.

  ‘How come you have black curtains everywhere?’ asked Rusty.

  ‘They’re blackout curtains. We had to have them to keep the light from showing.’

  ‘But you don’t still have to have them, do you?’

  ‘No, but I gave all my other curtains to the W.V.S. Theyare gloomy, I agree.’

  ‘I didn’t say they were gloomy.’

  ‘But you think so, don’t you?’

  Rusty grinned and nodded.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s either black curtains or nothing.’

  ‘Why don’t you dye them?’

  ‘I don’t think black takes to dyes.’

  ‘You could bleach ‘em first.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Beatie. ‘Of course I could. That’s a fearfully good idea. Absolutely splendid.’

  Rusty laughed. ‘I love your English accent.’

  Beatie smiled.

  ‘What accent is Ivy’s?’ asked Rusty. ‘It sounds like a Maine accent. Charlie and Susan have it a little bit too, don’t they?’

  ‘Devonshire.’

  ‘Are they awake yet?’

  ‘Up long ago. I let you lie in. I thought you could do with the sleep. The others are all out finding clothes they can borrow for the wedding.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Rusty, ‘Ivy’U be wearing someone else’s wedding dress?’

  ‘Yes. It’s impossible to get hold of material. Even if you could, you couldn’t afford to waste clothing coupons on it.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid all yours and most of your mother’s will be going towards some ridiculous school uniform.’

  Beatie gave a loud ‘Hmph!’ and strode out through the door. Rusty followed.

  The dining-room table had one place set. Breakfast, alas, did not consist of orange juice and rolled oats with hominy grits, or corncakes with butter, or waffles and pancakes with maple syrup. Hunger made Rusty able to eat the scrambled dried eggs on toast, but she made do with a glass of water rather than face the powdered milk again.

  Beatie joined her at the table. ‘That’s a hefty-looking tome,’ she remarked, indicating the book Rusty had chosen.

  ‘It’s not for reading,’ Rusty explained. ‘It’s so I can have good posture. My friend Janey is always talking about it. Look, I’ll show you.’

  She sprang up from the table, placed the book on her head, and glided gracefully around the room.

  ‘It’s a dumb way of learning to walk right, though, ‘cause you can still walk badly and balance the book on your head.’

  She proceeded to walk with exaggerated bow-legs as if she had been born in a saddle, then stuck her behind out so that she was S-shaped. Beatie threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Rusty, sliding back into her chair.

  ‘I do. Is Janey your best friend?’

  ‘Best girl friend. I guess Skeet’s my best friend. He’s the youngest Omsk.’

  ‘Tell me about the others in the family,’ said Beatie.

  Rusty cupped her chin in her hands and leaned towards her.

  ‘Didn’t Mother tell you about them?’

  ‘A little, but you weren’t exactly the most wonderful of letter writers, you know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rusty. She twirled a piece of her hair into a hoop and stroked it. Aunt Hannah was always having to nag her to write those letters, but it was difficult, because her mother didn’t seem real. Nor her father, and he never wrote to her except at birthdays.

  ‘You were the youngest. I know that.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Now I’m the oldest. I guess I’ll have to be a little more grown-up.’

  ‘How old are the others?’

  ‘There’s Jinkie, she’s twenty-one. She got married last year. Ted, that’s her husband, he’s in the army. They got a little apartment downtown. She just had a baby. Then there’s Alice. She’s the smart one. She’s been working all summer so she can pay for her wardrobe and books for college. She’s just about good at everything. She’ll be a freshman in the fall.’

  ‘A freshman? That’s a first-year student?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Eighteen. She’s the tops. She’s even good at softball and basketball, ice hockey, tennis, you name it. So’s her steady.’

  ‘Her “steady”?’

  ‘Uh-huh. We call him Bo the Beau.’

  Beatie looked blank.

  ‘Get it?’

  Beatie shook her head.

  ‘His name is Bo and he’s her Beau. Bo the Beau.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh well, I guess it’s not that funny. They’re nuts about each other. They saved up for an old car together, and sometimes they take it for weekends up by one of the lakes.’

  Beatie looked surprised. ‘On their own?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What do Mr and Mrs Omsk think about that?’

  ‘They think it’s great. They worked hard to buy that car.’

  ‘I meant about them not having an adult with them.’

  ‘But they’re in love!’ said Rusty, amazed. ‘They gotta be able to spend some time alone.’

  Beatie cleared her throat. ‘I think you’ll find it different here.’

  ‘Oh, it’s different back home, too! Not everyone likes the Omsks. They call us “that Bohemian crowd”.’

  Just then Rusty thought of Aunt Hannah sitting in her old shirt, in the studio, scraping away at a piece of wood or chipping pieces out of stone. Rusty would be sitting in a corner with paint and charcoal, and Uncle Bruno would come in with cookies and milk, and whisper, ‘We gotta keep these artists from starvin’.’

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Beatie.

  ‘What?’ said Rusty, startled.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking of Uncle Bruno. Wondering if he was coming into the studio with cookies for Aunt Hannah.’

  ‘He sounds very kind.’

  ‘Oh, he’s about the kindest person I know. He’s like a big bear.’ She paused. ‘Sometimes he’s awful mean, though. Sometimes when Aunt Hannah has her hands full of clay, he’ll try and pinch her rear, and she goes leaping around the studio telling him to look out for the statues. So then she runs outside and he chases her around the lawn, but if he catches her she covers his face with clay. Sometimes if she does that, he picks her up and carries her into the sprinkler.’ She began to giggle. ‘Only then he gets
wet, too. If they do it at night when it’s hot and me and Skeet are in bed, we peek through the screens and watch. But if it’s daytime we try and get hold of the hose so we can aim it at Uncle Bruno, but we have to be quick, ‘cause he’ll just sneak around a corner and grab it first and chase us. Once he hosed Aunt Hannah through the kitchen window. She’d just made her hair nice because the Hodgkinses were coming over for drinks. She yelled and yelled and called him everything. She went storming upstairs, and Uncle Bruno sat in the kitchen and got real quiet and said it was kind of a dumb thing to do and we all sat in the kitchen with him. Then he said, ‘S’pose I’d better go apologize.’ So he got up and was just heading for the door when there was this loud shriek.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Beatie.

  ‘Aunt Hannah saw herself in the mirror all wet and angry and just started laughing like a hyena. Uncle Bruno said sorry and she said no she was sorry for not being a good sport and Uncle Bruno said no it was his fault for being so inconsiderate, and then Aunt Hannah started getting angry again and saying it was her fault. And then we all groaned and they looked at us and started laughing.’

  Beatie picked up Rusty’s plate.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Let me help with the chores. Makes me feel more at home.’

  Beatie watched Rusty as she bustled around the dining-room table. She appreciated the effort the girl had made at the supper table the previous evening, trying to keep the conversation going. Rusty had asked Ivy questions about her wedding arrangements, attempted to be kind to Charlie who obviously resented her presence, and all the while her own mother had seemed tongue-tied.

  Beatie had been surprised by Rusty, too. Peggy’s description of her daughter bore no relation to the lively young girl who had arrived. If only she could find something that mother and daughter could do together to help break the ice.

  ‘What about the others in the family?’ asked Beatie.

  Rusty pushed the plates through the hatchway.

  ‘There’s Kathryn,’ she said, leaning against the wall. ‘She’s fifteen. I think she’s going to be an actress. She got offered a part in two of the plays in our University Little Theatre Stock Company, so she’s been rehearsing and performing most of the summer. She’s awfully quiet, but when she’s onstage, it’s like someone turned the lights on. And she makes the best ice-cream ever, with chocolate and melted peppermints added.’

  ‘And Skeet?’

  ‘Oh, Skeet- he makes me laugh. I make him laugh too. We go everywhere together.’

  They made their way to the kitchen, Beatie washing the dishes at the sink, Rusty drying. As Rusty stared out of the window, she remembered the conversation she had heard between Beatie and her mother.

  ‘That school,’ she blurted out. ‘The one near here, what’s it like?’

  ‘Marvellous, but terribly disapproved of.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The children are too happy there, I suppose. Children in English schools are supposed to suffer in order to develop good characters.’ Beatie beamed at her. ‘I have a feeling that you’ll survive, though.’

  ‘I guess it’ll be fun at boarding school, won’t it?’ said Rusty, wondering why she felt that lump in her throat again. ‘I’ve read stories about them. Living in dormitories and finding secret passages and having midnight feasts.’ She looked anxiously at Beatie. ‘I mean, do you think Mother is sending me away again because she thinks I’ll have a good time there?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘Because when you started talking about it yesterday in front of me, she didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Is that why you eavesdropped from behind the woodshed?’

  Rusty reddened. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I saw your shadow.’

  Rusty slapped her forehead with her hand. ‘After all I learned about stalking, I go do a dumb thing like that! What a goop! Did Mother notice?’

  ‘No, but I think if you want to know something, it’s better to ask.’

  ‘I didn’ t mean to listen, but I heard my name mentioned so I figured it was O.K.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I heard you say I’d be miserable at boarding school and that Mother doesn’t want to leave here.’

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’

  Rusty laughed. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Want to help me feed the chickens?’

  ‘You bet.’

  They stepped over the clutter of tools and boots in the conservatory and headed for the chicken coop. Hanging from a line between two trees were Rusty’s socks, bra and pants.

  ‘Who put my laundry on the line?’ she asked. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘No,’ said Beatie, who was crouching down in her tweed skirt, stroking a chicken’s neck. ‘Your mother thought they would dry more quickly outside.’

  Rusty squatted down beside her.

  ‘Don’t you feel terrible eating the chickens if you make friends with them?’

  ‘I just keep them for eggs. There’s a woman who lives near here who also keeps chickens, and whenever we’re desperate for a bit of poultry, say at Christmas, we exchange a couple.’

  ‘How come I had dried egg this morning, then?’

  ‘They don’t always lay.’

  They strolled over to the jetty and sat at the edge. Rusty asked about the War, chatted aimlessly about her American family, and lay on her stomach so that she could look underneath the jetty at all the plants under the water. And all the while, Beatie listened and observed her, for every now and then she heard Peggy’s voice when she was at her happiest.

  It was almost teatime when Peggy, accompanied by Ivy, Charlie and Susan, drove into the front garden. The exhaust gave a loud bang before the Bomb steamed to a halt. Peggy and Ivy leaned out of the windows, while Charlie and Susan stood on the back seat to get a better view.

  ‘What’s ‘appened to the curtains?’ said Ivy.

  ‘They’re gone,’ said Charlie.

  Everyone clambered hastily out of the car. The dining-room windows were flung open. Rusty was up a step-ladder, which was being steadied by Beatie.

  ‘It’s all Rusty’s idea,’ said Beatie. ‘We’re going to bleach and dye the curtains.’

  To Rusty’s surprise her mother hauled herself up to the window and swung her legs inside. She was still in her overalls and turban.

  ‘What a marvellous idea,’ she said. ‘Anything’s better than black.’

  ‘Only snag is,’ said Rusty, grinning, ‘that some of them are falling to pieces.’

  Charlie and Susan peered inside.

  ‘Doesn’t it make a difference,’ said Peggy, ‘just having them down? It’s so light and cheery without them. I never want to see black again.’

  Charlie, who was watching Rusty, scowled.

  ‘She’s stupid,’ he said. And he stepped back from the window and headed for the tree with the tyre. Susan ran after him.

  Ivy hitched herself up on to the windowsill to have a look. Beatie had asked Peggy to hold the stepladder while she went and prepared tea. As they exchanged places, Beatie gave Ivy a wink.

  Crafty old Beatie, Ivy thought, throwing them together. Oh, how she’d miss her.

  5

  ‘Every spider in the neighbourhood must be living in here,’ said Rusty, throwing down the last curtain. As it landed on the floor, a large cloud of dust burst into the air. ‘See what I mean?’ she spluttered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy. ‘They’re going to need an awful lot of washing.’

  Rusty rested her elbows on her knees, thinking. ‘I got it!’ she yelled. ‘The river! We can wash ‘em in the river.’

  ‘Well, we could certainly try.’ Peggy glanced at Rusty’s grubby T-shirt and jeans. ‘You haven’t any older clothes to work in, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, these wash easy. Thanks for hanging my stuff out on the line.’

  Peggy looked up awkwardly. ‘That’s all right.’

  She didn’t mention how surprised and disturbed she
had been to discover that her daughter wore a brassiere.

  ‘I looked in the bathroom closet and the John for sanitary pads,’ said Rusty, ‘but I couldn’t find them anywhere. Where do you keep them?’

  Peggy blushed. ‘You haven’t started, have you?’ she began.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Rusty cheerily. ‘But I’d like to know where they are when I do.’

  ‘Well,’ said her mother, relieved, ‘you can always tell me, and then I’ll give you some.’

  ‘Oh sure, I will,’ said Rusty, scrambling down the ladder. ‘I don’t want to miss the celebration.’

  ‘Celebration?’

  ‘You know,’ said Rusty. ‘The celebration dinner for when you start your period. I missed Jinkie’s, but I was there for Alice’s and Kathryn’s.’

  ‘And do all American girls have this?’ said Peggy slowly.

  Rusty shrugged. ‘They do at the OmsksV She looked down at her jeans. ‘Boy, I’m just a dust pile. I better go wash.’

  As they reached the door, Peggy found herself reaching out for her daughter’s shoulder.

  ‘This celebration dinner,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Was it just you girls and Aunt Hannah?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rusty. ‘Uncle Bruno and Skeet get invited, too. Skeet says it’s not fair that girls get to have periods and he doesn’t, so he’s going to have a celebration dinner either when his voice breaks or he grows a hair on his face, whichever comes first.’ She looked down at her hands and brushed them hastily against each other. ‘I guess I’ll miss that one.’

  There was an awkward silence. Rusty could feel the tears in her eyes. Peggy couldn’t speak. She felt hurt that she hadn’t been able to tell her own daughter about periods, and yet she knew from her upbringing that she would have found it impossible to broach the subject.

  Rusty faked a smile. ‘I guess they’ll write and tell me, though.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Peggy. ‘Come on. It’s time for tea.’

  For the next few days it rained. Rusty stayed in the house and watched it through the curtainless windows. The telephone rang constantly for her mother, who was always out fixing someone’s car. Sometimes when Beatie had one of her bouts of’ruddy indigestion’ and had gone upstairs to rest, and Ivy, Charlie and Susan were out getting fitted up for the wedding, Rusty was left alone to answer the phone and take messages.