Unbecoming

by Jenny Downham

  A woman flung it open. ‘Thank goodness. Where was she?’

  ‘By the gate. Not far.’

  Mary was pulled inside. There was a coat rack, a fish tank, a pile of boots and shoes. The door was shut behind her. The world got smaller.

  ‘Kitchen,’ the woman said, pointing the way.

  Mary was invited to sit. The girl was invited to leave. The woman sat behind a table strewn with papers and put her fingers in a pyramid under her chin. ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘I needed something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I needed …’

  But it had gone. It was like trying to catch light in her fist. Damn!

  The woman frowned. ‘I know being under the same roof is uncomfortable for both of us, but you can’t run off. There are roads and cars out there. It’s dangerous. Also, my daughter’s got better things to do than chase after you.’

  They gazed at each other in silence. Mary had no clue what was expected of her.

  The woman said, ‘You never could stay in one place longer than five minutes, so I don’t know why I’m surprised.’ Then she said, ‘When that social worker told me you’d been at the same address with Jack for thirteen years, I thought you might have changed.’

  Jack? The name hurt. Mary shrugged it away.

  ‘That’s a world record for you,’ the woman said. ‘Thirteen whole years.’

  Was this an interview? It was most disconcerting.

  The woman said, ‘Yesterday, you said you sent a man out to find me. Why did you say that?’

  Mary thought about that. It certainly had the ring of truth. ‘Perhaps you were lost?’

  The woman sighed. ‘Never mind.’

  Mary was taken to the lounge and put in a chair by the window. She was ordered to, ‘Stay there.’ She was commanded not to ‘even think about moving’. A boy was set up as a guard. The girl was instructed to go upstairs and look over some blinking maths papers. The woman went away.

  It was just a few minutes later when Mary sat up with the shock of remembering. So stupid to have forgotten, when it was as sharp and clean as a knife to her now. Victory Avenue. That was it. It’s all that she wanted. Number twenty-three – with its blue gate, its neat front garden, the tiled steps leading up to the door. She’d count them as she crept up to the window to peek in and count them again as she tiptoed away. Eight steps in all. Each one embedded in her brain.

  She got out of the chair and walked to the door. She wouldn’t forget this time. She’d say it over and over until she got there. But the boy who took her arm said she’d better sit back down or she’d be in trouble.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You’re not allowed.’

  Allowed? Was this child in charge? He was young, with red hair and pyjamas. He stood there with his hands on his hips and insisted she sit.

  ‘Please get me a paper and pen most urgently,’ she told him.

  ‘You want to write a letter?’

  ‘Never mind what I want,’ Mary said. ‘Just get me a pen.’

  He picked up a little black bag with a zip and handed it to her.

  ‘Here. I have to go to my room to get paper though.’ He jogged to the door. ‘Don’t go away,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘or I’ll get bollocked.’

  Mary wrote 23 on the sofa and drew a line underneath it. Then she drew another line under the first one and ran her finger along them. They were like two golden streams of water – one going forwards and the other back. When she pushed them, they came together and intertwined, and when she took her finger away, they sprang apart. It was entrancing. She did it several times. She didn’t know they made golden ink. Had they always done that? Was it real gold? Such a thing must be expensive, surely?

  The boy who appeared in front of her said, ‘Mum’s going to go nuts when she sees that.’

  Mary smiled up at him. Such a fierce and lovely face he had. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Where did you come from?’

  He stepped closer. ‘Serious. You’re going to be in real trouble.’

  ‘Stop worrying!’ She tapped the seat next to her. ‘Sit here next to me and we’ll have a cigarette together.’

  ‘I’m a child!’

  ‘Are you sure? You’re pretty big for a child.’

  ‘I have a thyroid complaint.’

  ‘Perhaps you eat too much?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with eating, it’s to do with my metabolic rate.’ He folded his arms at her. ‘I have special needs.’

  ‘We all have those. I especially need to leave, for instance, but you’re not letting me.’

  He frowned at her. ‘That’s my pencil case. Can I have it back, please?’

  He held out his hand. She wasn’t quite ready to give it up, but he snatched it from her anyway.

  ‘Manners!’ she said.

  He stuck his tongue out, squatted on the carpet with his back to her and emptied the pens onto the floor.

  Mary turned her attention to the window. Ragged clouds shifted above the tops of two trees – an ash and a sycamore by the look of their leaves. Beyond them was the pointy tip of a tower with ropes stretched tight from its ramparts and dozens of flags flapping in the wind. Had they just appeared? Her heart thrilled.

  ‘Is that a boat?’

  The boy didn’t look up.

  She struggled to stand, but the chair was deep and her legs didn’t obey her. She slumped back down exasperated. ‘Please could you answer me. There’s a mast and rigging out there. Are we near the sea?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just buildings.’

  ‘Why does it look like water rippling?’

  The boy stood up and pressed his nose against the window. ‘It does a bit.’

  ‘But is it?’

  ‘It’s the sky and the flats opposite and a bit of the church behind that, nothing else.’

  ‘What about the flags?’

  ‘They’re for decoration.’ The boy craned his neck. ‘I wish it was the sea though, that’d be cool.’ He turned to her. ‘Mum said this town would make us happy. She said when she lived here it was brilliant, but me and Katie think it’s rubbish. It was better living with Dad.’

  Mary swallowed her disappointment. No sea then. And she’d been so certain of it. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘What exactly should I be doing?’

  ‘No idea.’ He stared at her, unblinking. ‘Mum said it was only for one night.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘You being here. But it’s been two nights already because there’s nowhere else for you to go. Do you know all this?’

  ‘Of course.’ She peered at him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Chris.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘That’s a good age.’

  He smiled. ‘Is it? Why?’

  ‘It’s the age of adventure.’ She returned his smile, feeling suddenly fond of him. ‘I always wanted a brother. I would’ve called him Nemo.’

  ‘That’s the name of my goldfish.’

  Which is, she realized, where she’d got the name from, because hadn’t she been introduced to some creature in a tank? The simplicity of her imagination shamed her. There was no stretch to it any more, it had become domestic, parochial. But the boy didn’t seem to notice, was back counting his pens, putting them into colour-matched piles.

  Someone else used to do that. Some other child. Ah, how slow her brain was. Think now, think. Not pens but buttons – poured onto newspaper from Pat’s jar and picked out one by one – the biggest, the smallest, the prettiest – each held to the window by a child with red, red hair.

  Caroline!

  She was startled to find the word laid out in the real world. Startled to find a girl kneeling in front of her.

  ‘She’s making phone calls,’ the girl said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘She drew on the sofa,’ the boy said.

  ‘Serious?’

  The boy pointed. ‘There, look! And Mum’s goi
ng to think it was me because she used my pen.’

  The girl peered over to see. ‘Twenty-three?’

  Mary slapped her hand over it, suddenly ashamed. She’d done this! What had she been thinking? She pulled her hankie from her sleeve and gave the sofa a rub.

  ‘It won’t come off,’ the boy said. ‘It’s a permanent marker.’

  She licked her hankie, dabbed more vigorously. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain it. I know the people who run the place.’

  The girl said soothing things about Googling a cure instead, which was kind of her. She got a gadget from her pocket and slid it open. She sat opposite Mary in the armchair, her hair shining copper.

  ‘You look like someone,’ she told the girl.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘She went missing, so I hired a fellow to find her.’

  The boy sat up. ‘A detective?’

  ‘Charged a fortune. I had to take a smaller room just to pay the fees.’

  The boy looked thrilled. ‘We could hire a detective to find Dad.’

  ‘He’s not lost,’ the girl said. ‘We know exactly where he is – playing happy families in our old house.’

  ‘But a detective would make him talk to us.’

  ‘That’s not what detectives do, Chris.’

  ‘They might. You don’t know.’

  ‘Just leave it,’ the girl warned.

  ‘The detective would go to our old house and knock on the door and find out Dad’s desperate to talk to us, but his girlfriend won’t let him.’

  ‘Christopher Baxter!’ the girl snapped. ‘Would you just stop!’

  He rammed his foot at her and she slapped it away.

  ‘Get dressed,’ the girl said. ‘You’re going to the shop. We need hairspray or insect repellent to clean the sofa.’ She switched her gadget off and pocketed it. ‘So, you better hurry up, before Mum sees it and blames you.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to the shop on my own. And anyway, I’m on guard duty.’

  ‘I’m taking over.’

  The boy shook his head very slowly. ‘You’re not the boss of me.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Mary said. ‘It’s too hot in here anyway. Just point me in the right direction.’

  The children exchanged glances and Mary understood exactly what they meant. They meant: No, Never, No Way! They meant: You’re crazy and you’d get it all wrong and why would we ever let you?

  The girl said, ‘Mum doesn’t want you to go out.’

  ‘Do we have to tell her?’

  The girl looked at her long and hard, as if working out the right answer. Finally, ‘I think she might notice.’

  ‘She could come too. We could all go. We could have a little sit somewhere and watch the world go by.’

  ‘Mum’s busy,’ the boy said as he stuffed his pens back into their case. ‘And Katie’s got to go to school, even though no one’s talking to her.’

  ‘Shut up, Chris,’ the girl said. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘You told me that!’

  ‘Well, I’m untelling you. And anyway, I’m on study leave. What’s your excuse? How come you get another day off?’

  He paused in his pen stuffing and grinned at the girl. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Mum fell for that?’

  ‘We could drive!’ Mary said.

  Both children laughed again. The girl was extraordinarily pretty suddenly. It was quite shocking. Mary wanted to tell her that happiness suited her, but was dazzled by how his girl stirred memories in her. It was as if electrons in her head were firing for the first time in ages, light jumping into dark and making tentative connection.

  ‘Neither of us know how to drive, Mary.’

  Mary rootled about on the floor for her handbag because she certainly knew how, and adventure was calling. ‘I have keys somewhere, and a driving qualification. We’ll zoom right past your school and cock a snook at the lot of them, eh?’

  The boy looked delighted. ‘How do we do that?’

  Mary showed him by thumbing her nose, wiggling her fingers and sticking her tongue out. ‘Like this. It’s a derisive gesture, as you can see.’

  The boy fell backwards on the carpet and stuck his feet in the air. ‘Can we drive past my school and do it too?’

  ‘One may also cross one’s eyes,’ Mary said. ‘If one really wants to make a point. The trick is never to let them know you’re afraid.’

  The boy laughed even harder, but the girl stood up and looked disdainfully down at him. ‘I’m going upstairs to do a practice paper,’ she said. ‘Don’t let Mum see the sofa and I’ll get stuff to clean it later.’

  1948 – how it began

  Clamped under her father’s arm, Mary’s dragged sideways along the garden path. She slaps at his thighs to be let go. She pummels at his hip, his arm, but he takes no notice. Norman comes trotting behind, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘What are you going to do to her?’

  ‘Scram,’ Dad tells him, ‘if you know what’s good for you.’

  Norman backs away as Dad kicks the door. It swings on its hinges. Mary grabs the frame with both hands, but her fingers slide off with the force of her father’s stride.

  Pat, writing her diary at the kitchen table, looks up, dismayed. ‘What’s happened? What did she do?’

  Mary twists and pushes at her father, but his grip only tightens as he hauls her across to the sink. ‘Now wash your face,’ he roars.

  It’s like looking at a stranger. A stranger with eyes the colour of stone. Mary wonders where the laughing father of that morning has gone, for she can’t see any trace of him. This can’t be my father, she thinks. I helped him bank the fire. He told me I was an angel. He had a smile that loved me. Now here is a man whose eyes are cold.

  ‘Use soap,’ he snaps. ‘And a cloth. Or should I do it for you?’

  Mary picks up the flannel and dabs at her face.

  ‘Kissing boys,’ shouts this strange father. ‘Wearing lipstick! You’re twelve years old!’

  ‘Nearly thirteen,’ Mary whispers.

  ‘I swear if I ever see you near that lad next door again, I’ll knock you into Kingdom Come.’

  ‘Daddy,’ Pat says, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You’re frightening her.’

  He pushes Pat off, his eyes furious. ‘Did you know what she was up to out there? Bold as brass the two of them.’

  ‘She didn’t mean it,’ Pat says. ‘She doesn’t understand. It’ll be Norman chasing her. Let me speak to his mother.’

  But Mary can’t let Norman be blamed for what she’d begun. ‘I dared him.’

  Dad glares at her. ‘To kiss you?’

  She nods very slowly. ‘I was up the tree spying and he was fixing his bike and I wanted to know what it felt like.’

  Dad shakes his head as if trying to make the picture disappear. Then he tells her that she’s cheapened herself, that there are names for girls like her, that from now on she’s banned from talking to Norman and banned from climbing trees, and that unless she’s running an errand, she’s to stay indoors. Pat will find her jobs to do, starting with polishing everyone’s shoes.

  Pat quietly offers Dad some tea, but he ignores her and goes back outside, slamming the door behind him.

  Mary leans against the sink as air from outside shifts the air inside, stirring the heat from the oven.

  Pat turns to her. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  A small sound escapes from the back of Mary’s throat. It’s odd because it seems not to come from her at all. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘You never do.’

  ‘It was only Norman. Why’s he so furious?’

  ‘Because you’re his precious girl. He wants to keep you safe.’

  Mary closes her eyes because she wants Pat to go away. She wants the whole house to go away, in fact. The street can go too if it wants. And the town and all of the people. She knows what Pat means by ‘safe’ and she doesn’t want it. ‘Safe’ means spending her life doing nothing but going to school an
d then, when school’s done, doing nothing but typing and shorthand lessons, just so she can work in an office and stay living at home. Then it means finding a nice man to marry and having his babies and doing his washing and ironing and scrubbing his steps and polishing his banisters. Mary shivers at the horror of it. ‘You know,’ she says, opening her eyes. ‘As soon as I get my school certificate, I’m off to London.’

  Pat actually laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m being perfectly serious.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere. When you finish school, you’ll be fifteen and still a child and you’ll do what Dad tells you. What on earth do you want to go to London for? Most of it’s bombed out.’

  ‘I want to get into acting. All the top producers are in London.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve been copying silly accents from the wireless? You plan to be a movie star?’ Pat’s still chuckling as she scoops her cigarettes from the counter. Her fingers are yellow. Dad told her about it yesterday, said she shouldn’t serve food like that because it put him off, made her go to the bathroom and scrape at her skin with a pumice stone.

  ‘I was in the school play. The teacher said I had perfect diction.’

  ‘You think that counts? Don’t be silly. Everything’s just a fad with you. You like the thrill of saying ridiculous things out loud and seeing the shock on people’s faces.’ Pat inhaled deeply and blew the smoke right at Mary. ‘You’ll grow out of it one day, I expect.’

  Mary’s belly churns with something deep and furious. ‘Stop it, Pat. Stop taking all my possibilities away. Why do you always make everything sound so dreary?’

  ‘I’m going to ignore that comment, Mary Todd.’ Pat brings the cigarette to her lips and takes a long pull. All the skin around her mouth wrinkles like a drawstring on a purse. ‘Now, how about you stop being such a drama queen and get on with polishing those shoes?’

  Two days later, Dad comes back from work with a length of silk – dark as thunder and shot through with emerald green. As he flutters it from the paper, it’s as if he’s smuggled an exotic bird home and set it free in the dining room.

  ‘For you,’ he says as he settles it on Mary’s lap.