‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘Talk to Macy, see what happens then. Because, unlike me, Macy will go straight to my father, who will engage a solicitor to stop you. And as you no longer work for the police, you can’t hide behind them any longer … well, I guess we’ll all have to see how it pans out. Good luck with that.’
I felt him sag a little in his seat – he’d played his trump card and it had turned out to be a dud. I, on the other hand, had bluffed him and won. It probably wouldn’t work again, but it had this time, and that was a small victory worth celebrating when I was far, far away from him.
I stood up, ready to carry on with my journey to Brighton. My mind was buzzing. I was older now; I had learnt how to research in college. I could afford a computer, and I could learn to find people. I could find Jude, find a name for the Brighton Mermaid. I could do this now.
Yes , I thought, I can do this. No matter how long it takes, I can do this .
‘You will help me, Nell,’ John Pope said as I began to walk away. ‘I promise you, I will find a way to make you help me.’
Now
Nell
Saturday, 31 March
Shane opens the front door and we both miss a beat, stare at each other awkwardly, then avert our eyes. Then: ‘Hi,’ we both mumble, clear our throats and then say ‘Hi’ in a normalish voice. Every time we do this. Every. Single. Time.
Macy has lived with him for five years now, they’ve been together for nearly seven years, and we still do it.
‘Who is it?’ Macy calls, coming out of the kitchen and into the corridor. I can hear the children in the house – the TV is on in the lounge; sounds of a games console drift down from upstairs.
‘Oh. Hi.’ Macy says this like it’s a surprise for me to be here. She called me at five-seventeen this morning as usual and told me what I had to do today: help Willow with her maths homework; wash Clara’s hair; beat Aubrey at chess. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ I almost said to her. Almost, then I remembered that last weekend I didn’t answer the phone, which meant she was going to punish me this week. Not that spending time with the children was a punishment, it was just that her way of making me pay for ignoring her last Saturday was to immerse me in the realities of family life. So I agreed to everything, then made sure on the way over I picked up Easter eggs for everyone, even Shane.
‘Are you coming in then?’ Macy asks.
Thankfully she didn’t see how Shane and I greeted each other. It’s all the more mortifying for the fact we actually do it.
Shane, still with his eyes averted, steps aside to let me in and I try – and fail – to smile at him as I enter.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Macy snaps, ‘are you two still doing this? You had sex, get over it.’ She rolls her eyes and turns to go back the way she came, flicking her tea towel over her shoulder as she goes.
I can’t believe she said that so loudly with the children around. Even if Aubrey doesn’t have a clue what sex is (unlikely), Willow does, as does Clara. There are some things children don’t need to know. One of them is that Shane was my first. My first boyfriend, my first kiss, my first go at sex …
1994
Nell
Wednesday, 15 June
‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen,’ the old man said to me as I approached the counter at the post office. He was holding his pension book and probably didn’t understand why anyone could look miserable when the sun was shining outside and he had money in his pocket.
I pulled a smile across my face and kept it wedged in place until he had passed me by.
‘I hate it when people say that,’ the man behind me said.
I groaned inside. It was clearly a ‘talk to Nell’ day, which meant I’d spend the whole day on edge, wondering if I needed to run.
Today had already not been a good day. It’d taken me three goes to get my passport photos right. Three lots of two pounds had disappeared into the machine and only one set was useable. I’d had to wait an age before my head teacher would sign the back of them – she was the only person who could do it, since I couldn’t ask neighbours and the Daltons had distanced themselves since Dad’s first arrest.
Our house had been searched multiple times by the police and after each time, not only did they leave in their wake devastation that we had to clear up, we’d often find – weeks later – that things had gone missing. All our passports had disappeared, probably in one such search. (It was never revealed what they were looking for, but judging by the amount of times they came back, they clearly never found it.) I wasn’t going to go anywhere, I just wanted a passport because it gave me the impression that I could go abroad if I wanted; that I was a normal girl with normal options.
As someone concluded their business at the two-window counter of the small, crowded post office, on Blatchington Road and everyone edged forwards, the man behind me in the queue said, ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have spoken to you.’ I sighed, quietly, and looked down at the white trainers on my feet. I was definitely going to be running today.
‘I’m making it worse,’ the man said. ‘I really need to shut up. Sorry, sorry, I will stop talking to you. Right now. Well, now.’
As I left the post office, I chanced a look at the man who had been behind me – I needed to find out what he looked like in case he approached me again. I was surprised at how young he was – he must have been about twenty-five at the very most, probably a bit younger. He had shaggy brown hair and a neat beard that emphasised his mouth when he smiled at me. I couldn’t help but smile back at him because he seemed nice. And nowadays, I didn’t meet many nice people.
Wednesday, 15 June
I sat in my seat with an empty popcorn carton until the last credit meandered its way up the screen and the lights came up like a flare being thrown in my face. There’d been five other people in the cinema, and three of them had left as soon as the credits started. The remaining two, like me, blinked and cringed when the lights flooded the place and one of them left. The man sitting three rows from the front stood up, threw his arms out and stretched before he spun slightly to see who was left. He froze when saw me, just like I froze when I saw him. The guy from the post office. I’d seen him on George Street a bit later, sitting outside one of the cafés that I was going to go to. And then he’d been on the bus to come here. I’d got off in case he tried to talk to me. And now he was here. John Pope was still following me – was this man doing it as well?
I didn’t really see people during the day now I’d finished my exams and was waiting for my results. I would be going to sixth form at the same school to do my A levels, but had to wait a few more weeks to see what my actual marks were. Other people in my class had got jobs, and I’d always spent summers working in Dad’s shops, but after the journalist had come in and questioned me, I couldn’t do that any more.
‘Are you following me?’ I asked him. I was sick of this now. Being followed, not feeling safe … watching the devastation continue to roll on over our lives. When they arrested that man two weeks ago, this was all meant to be over: Mum was supposed to spend less time in bed and more time with us; Dad was meant to smile and laugh and joke again; Macy was meant to stop wringing her hands; and I was meant to feel normal again. Safe again. Not so guilty all the time. None of that had happened. Our family’s life hadn’t been magically transformed by Dad being exonerated and I was fed up with it, especially if someone else was going to insert himself into our lives.
‘I’ve been wondering if you’ve been following me ,’ he replied. He looked up at me. ‘Are you?’
I shook my head. All the righteous indignation was gone, and suddenly I was shy; I was an uncool teenager talking to an extremely handsome stranger.
‘I’m Shane,’ he said. ‘And I am not following you. Far from it. But I’m guessing since you’re in the cinema in the middle of the day like me, that you’re between jobs like I am? Seeing as we’re bound to end up in the same place anyway, can I convince you to come for a drink with me and not just in
the same place as me?’
‘I’m fifteen,’ I blurted out.
‘Ahhh, OK. You really don’t look it. So, are you waiting for your exam results?’
I nodded.
‘How about a coffee, then? I presume you’re not too young to drink coffee?’
I shook my head again.
‘Is that no, you’re not too young for a coffee, or no, you don’t want to come for a coffee?’
‘No, I’m not too young for a coffee,’ I said.
He grinned at me and my stomach went all funny, like it was jelly; like all of me was jelly. ‘You’ve got an amazing smile,’ he said.
I glanced down at my trainers, knowing we were not going to be just friends. Not at all.
Friday, 21 October
‘You really are a virgin, aren’t you?’ Shane said. He’d asked me to put the condom on him seconds earlier and I hadn’t known what to do. I’d stared at the brightly coloured square in my hands and had been baffled. I’d been taught the mechanics and biology of sex at school with a heavy dose of ‘woe betide you if you get pregnant’, but never things like how to put a condom on an erect penis.
He was twenty-three, so not that much older than me, and we’d been seeing each other for four months now. When I went back to sixth form I’d come to his flat near London Road during free periods. Today was the first day that I had skipped a whole afternoon because he’d asked me to.
In his bedroom he had a large love seat in the window bay, it was made of the softest light brown leather, and we often kissed and touched there. Sometimes we’d progress to the bed, but often we’d sit there curled up together, talking in between kissing. Today we’d moved on from the love seat to the bed, and from a few clothes taken off to being completely naked.
Today was going to be the first time I had sex and I’d shown him how inadequate I was at it by not knowing how to put a condom on him. The first time he’d kissed me, he’d had to keep stopping to tell me to relax; the first time he’d put my hand on his erection to show me how hard I made him, I’d snatched my hand away because it hadn’t felt hard, it was sort of squidgy and blobby. And now he’d asked me to put on the condom and I didn’t know what to do.
Despite what John Pope had said, I was completely inexperienced, and I was still surprised that Shane hadn’t dumped me for that yet.
‘Yes, I really am a virgin,’ I said.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said quickly. ‘I like it, I’m glad that I’m your first.’
I was glad he was my first, too, because it would make the whole sex thing a bit easier. I’d overheard other girls talking about how it hurt first time, how you might bleed a little, and how you had to make lots of noise and tell him how much you enjoyed it even if it hurt and you didn’t really like it at all.
‘Hey,’ he whispered as he sorted out the condom. ‘Relax.’
I closed my eyes and lay back on the bed, tried to relax as I waited for the moment of pain when he put it in. Instead, Shane planted a kiss right in the middle of my chest, between my breasts. I gasped – I hadn’t been expecting that. Slowly he kissed just below that, then lower and lower, down and down until he reached the wildness of my black wiry pubic hair. I expected him to stop then, to come back up to my face and kiss my mouth.
‘I know how to make you relax,’ he said, and kissed me between my legs. I gasped again, louder this time, as feelings I’d never known existed burst through me. Shane’s hands grabbed my hips to stop me wriggling away, from unintentionally trying to escape from the pure rush of what was coursing through me.
I arched my back as he pushed his face harder between my legs. I gritted my teeth but I couldn’t stop myself almost sobbing out loud as Shane’s tongue teased at me. I was making noises, but they weren’t planned and they weren’t recognisable words, they were just outpourings of the pleasure avalanching through me. I clutched at the white bed sheet, my body convulsing with flood after flood of ecstasy that went on and on and on until I froze and allowed the sheer, bright emotion of what Shane was doing to me to overwhelm me. When it was over, I collapsed on the bed, quivering with what I realised was probably the afterglow of an orgasm. I’d heard of them, but none of the conversations I’d overheard had mentioned having one your first time.
Shane was suddenly over me again, smiling while I became more and more embarrassed. I was sure girls weren’t meant to do that. They weren’t supposed to be loud and uncontrolled. They weren’t meant to experience so much pleasure. In fact, no one who’d talked about their first time had mentioned any of this: enjoying it, or having orgasms.
I think that was why I’d always been a bit suspicious and – I admit it – scared of sex. No one had ever talked about it like it was something the girl was meant to enjoy; it was all about doing it so the guy would stay with you, the guy would like you, the guy got something special. It’s about me as well , I thought as Shane continued to smile at me. Sex is about me, too .
‘You know what I love more than seeing you enjoying yourself ?’ he asked.
I shook my head, blissed out and slightly sleepy now.
‘You,’ he said, and pushed into me. ‘I love you.’
He didn’t speak again as he lay fully on top of me, laced his fingers into my hair and began thrusting. I didn’t think about what he said, I just gave myself up to the moment, the pleasure he was creating again.
‘I do, you know?’ Shane said as he flopped down onto the bed afterwards. He was breathing as hard as I was – again. I felt a bit bad: I’d had two orgasms and he’d only had one.
‘I like seeing you enjoying yourself, too,’ I said, feeling floaty and light; as though I could be carried away on the slightest breeze.
‘No, I mean, I do love you.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
Shane grinned. He rolled towards me. ‘That’s my girl. I say something meaningful and she replies with “oh”.’ He brushed his fingers across my cheek.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I replied honestly.
‘Just say what you feel, Nell. It’s not hard.’
I didn’t know how I felt. Shane was incredible: he had changed my life, he had made everything more than bearable, I loved to see him smile, I adored the flip in my stomach I got when I thought about him. I’d had sex with him . Was that what love was? Was it about having sex and funny feelings inside and the particular shape of your lover’s smile? But shouldn’t love be more than that? Or did all of those things add up to that big thing they called love?
I saw how Dad and Mum looked at each other and I seemed to just know that was what people talked about when they talked about love.
That type of love wasn’t only about sex and orgasms and smiles and stomach-flipping. Or maybe it was and, at my age, with my first boyfriend and first orgasms, I hadn’t reached that point yet. I didn’t know what love was, when it came down to it. The simpler the better, I supposed. Other things conspired to make love difficult and complicated and painful. Maybe, without all the complex stuff, this was what love was all about.
I reached up and brushed at his fringe with my fingers. ‘How I feel is that I love you,’ I said.
His face creased into his most wonderful smile yet. I’d said and done the right thing. And I just had to keep on saying it for it to feel like I actually, truly meant it.
Now
Nell
Saturday, 31 March
Macy’s ability to get over the fact that I had sex with her significant other has always baffled and impressed me in equal proportions. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to dwell. It genuinely doesn’t seem to bother her. Me? I’d always be wondering if he compared the two of us, if he was hankering after my sister.
‘You two are meant to be adults. You’re both older than me and you still act like two teenagers who just looked at each other’s bits for the first time.’
Shane looks at me briefly, attempting to be adult about this like Macy said we should, but he can’t manage it. He turns his
back on me and strides across the kitchen to start filling the kettle.
My sister’s three children – Willow, twelve, Clara eleven, and Aubrey, ten – were all fathered by a man called Clyde Higgson, who she was with for nearly eight years. He left when Aubrey had turned one and he hasn’t looked back since. It took me no time to find him, but Macy didn’t want to know.
After he walked out on them Macy was devastated, so broken by it that I moved in to helped her out. It was then that I saw the reality of what Macy was battling – her anxiety, the thin line of normality and illness that she walks almost every day.
She washed her hands. She straightened and re-straightened anything that was even a millimetre out of place. She did certain things at the same time every week to make sure the following seven days went according to plan. I accept how Macy is sometimes, how sharp and dismissive and bossy she can be, because I know how she battles every day trying to control everything so the children are all right and their world is safe. Macy works hard at creating a stable life by skipping along the edges of normality and pretending she can cope.
Seven years ago Shane walked into Macy’s life when she met him on a training course. They hit it off and became an item. When she finally let him come to her home, he saw a picture of me with the children and had to tell her that he knew me, and how.
‘Are you two going to be like this for the rest of our lives?’ Macy says now we’re all in the kitchen. She snatches up her rolling pin. ‘Shane and I have been together seven years. Seven years. And, what is it, twenty-two years since you two split up. Why can’t you act like normal people?’ She turns her rolling pin on me. ‘Yes, all right, you lost your virginity to him, but it kind of fizzled out just before you went to uni, didn’t it?’
The Brighton Mermaid Page 10
