by Dawn French
But I’m not young any more, and I started to tire and gasp for breath. I wanted to recover and rally, but I needed a few seconds to just breathe. Stupid old unfit man that I am. In the time it took me to stagger upright, he got up and stumbled away. I chased after him, but somehow he jumped over the fence and disappeared into the trees. I knew I couldn’t catch him. He was fit, and I was winded. I collapsed down on to the swing and I could feel, then, a pain near my right eye and a throbbing in the knuckles of both hands. I tasted metal in my mouth and I felt my bleeding split lip with my tongue.
When had that happened? Somewhere in the scrapping I had actually lost all sense. How long had it all taken? Five minutes? Thirty minutes? Two days? I sat on the swing as the night crept in on me. I was hurting, just as I had hurt when I occasionally scrapped as a lad of five. And here I was, back again, sitting in a swing park. The same arena. Fifty years later. I was glad to be emerging from the fog of the blind rage. I’ve lived with the knowledge of it within me for a long time. I have feared it. Been ashamed of it. Of the ugly violence of it. But today, I’m glad it’s there. To ward off any predators. Get away from my family. Get away or I will kill you. I have no control in the matter once the trigger is pulled.
My phone rang. I felt my trousers – not there. Where was it? I followed the ring to find it on the ground under the bench. It was Oscar. No, it was Dora. Furious. Hates me. I don’t mind. Feel free to be angry, Dora. Because you are free. And that’s how it should be. Beware anyone who attempts to take away your freedom, my little girl. They’ll have to deal with me, yer ol’ dad. And the beast in him. In me.
Then, the beast limped off to see his mother-in-law to get a plaster and some whisky cake, before returning to his cave.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Dora
Monday. Most embarrassing day of my bloody life. I now hate Dad even more than I hate Mum, which I thought would be impossible. I double hate them both and I’m just so bloody glad I’m eighteen now so I don’t have to stay here in this prison house with either of them any more. I’m never going to have a life if they don’t stop like bloody interfering!! I’m not a kid any more, why can’t they see that? And leave me a bloody lone.
The first part of the day was fine. I slept in ’til like two o’clock or something? Then, when I got up, the whole house was empty coz everyone was at work or out and I love that when I am on my own. I put my iPod into the dock, and had my music like really loud. I found the Pop Tarts where Dad hides them for me behind his supplement drinks where he knows Mum will never look. Me and Poo and Elvis had one each and I laid on the floor with them so’s we could eat all together, and like, play for ages.
I love pretending to be a dog, and they love it too. It makes Poo laugh. I can always tell when she’s laughing. Why do people say dogs don’t laugh, when they like, so def do? Well, she does. She got a bit confused when I was drinking water from their bowl. Both of them tipped their heads to the side trying to understand it. Even I didn’t really understand why I did it except I got carried away and it seemed like a cool idea. It wasn’t. It totally grossed me out. And I had to go and brush my teeth after.
Then I got dressed and went to my appointment at the hairdressers to get my extensions sorted out coz they’re so like minging now. I was, like so devastated when the girl said I needed to cut them out coz they’ve gone all ragged and like mouldy an’ stuff? I can’t afford to put new ones in coz my bloody monster mother won’t bloody pay for it so I just had to go back to my normal hair length which is like bloody pathetic. It only just reaches my shoulders now, I look like a bloody pageboy from olden times or something. At least I got my roots done so I’m still blonde thank God coz I was meeting up with X-Man later, and I’ve never met him before and I didn’t want him to think I had brown hair or something. How would he ever fancy me then? He just wouldn’t and that’s a fact. It actually hurts quite a lot getting the blonde roots done coz the bleach sort of burns your scalp. I’ve even had blisters from it before but it’s like so worth it.
Then I went home and had a cold bath coz I didn’t want the steam to make my hair go frizzy. I only had two hours left then to get ready. I heard Pete come in and I shouted down to him to make me a cup of tea. He took bloody ages but he brought it upstairs and sat on my bed to chat while I was getting ready. He loves doing that, watching me do make-up. I think he would so love to wear some himself, and I have seen him try with a bit of Mum’s tinted moisturizer and even some mascara but I just know he’d love to go further if school would let him. Is he a ladyboy or something? I don’t really care actually so long as he doesn’t nick any of my stuff.
Anyway, he was yapping away about Luke and Luke and more about Luke and really getting on my tits. I told him I was actually dying, because I haven’t been able to get on the computer for like three days now coz it’s broken, and on top of that, Dad has taken my iPhone coz apparently there is a fault on it so they have all been recalled or something so he’s sorting it out for me? So I haven’t been able to talk to any of my friends or anything or like anyone. It’s just lucky I already made my date with X-Man.
Then Pete suddenly pipes up with ‘Or so you think …’ which was well annoying. He tried to leave the room with like, a big dramatic toss of his scarf, well, Mum’s scarf, but I got hold of him and threw him on the bed and like, sat on him. He got all pathetic, wriggling about and refusing to tell me what was up. I can’t bear it when he does that, so I had to like dribble on to him to get him to explain. Eventually, just as the drool was about to land on his face, he yelled, ‘OK, OK, get off me you oafish wretch and I’ll tell you!’ So I sucked it all back up again.
‘The computer isn’t broken, you hell-born changeling. The Pater said it was because he doesn’t want you on there, on Facebook. That’s why he has also confiscated your phone. He doesn’t want you to contact your friend X-Man. He is concerned that you are meeting someone you don’t know. So he went on Facebook himself, pretending to be you, and changed the meeting time, to two hours earlier. He will have met your chum X-man by now.’
‘Whaaaaat?!!’
‘Yes. Deal with it, sister. After all, he’s only making sure the chap isn’t a scoundrel.’
‘Whaaaaat?!!!?’
‘Try to find an alternative reaction, there’s a dear. That screechy one is becoming tiresomely repetitive now.’
I started racing around the room pulling on my clothes and grabbing my shoes.
‘Give me your phone, Peter. Now!’
‘I certainly will not. It contains my dearest information trinkets …’
‘NOW!!’
He handed it over and I speed-dialled Dad, who answered immediately.
‘Hello, Oscar.’
‘No Dad, it’s me. What the hell are you doing? Where are you? How could you?’
‘Slow down, Dora.’
‘No, you bloody slow down! What’s going on?’
‘I came to meet your friend, Dora.’
‘Yes, MY friend. That’s the whole bloody point, MY friend!!’
‘Steady on. Calm down.’
‘No, you bloody calm down.’
‘Listen, I’m your dad. I had to check him out. And I’m glad I did.’
‘Whaaaat?!!’
‘He’s not who you think he is, sweetheart. He’s much older. It’s not right. Trust me. I’ve had a word and he’s pushed off now. You won’t be hearing from him again. Sorry, hon, but I had to check him out. I just had a hunch …’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Dora? You OK?’
‘How old? What do you mean? He told me he was eighteen, like me.’
‘Exactly. Well, he isn’t. He’s closer to forty, love. He’s not a nice man. Not honest.’
I sat down on the bed, completely stunned.
‘Listen, Dora, I’m popping in on Nana Pamela for a while but I’ll be back later, OK? Mum should be home soon. We’ll have a proper chat then. I’m so sorry, princess. Let’s order pizza, eh?’
> ‘Yea … thanks Dad … thanks.’
‘It’s OK, Dora, I love you, puddin’. It’s my job to look out for you. More than my job, to be honest, it’s my, well, it’s my … you know, whole purpose.’
‘Er … OK.’
So. X-Man is a bloody perv or something! Some old man who goes around trying to meet up with eighteen-year-olds? Oh my actual God! How could I make such a bloody stupid mistake? Why do all the weirdos come to me? He was going to help me with my audition and everything. I told him things, secret things. No wonder he didn’t come to my party. Bloody twatting bloody perv. Oh my complete and utter actual God. He saw my tits! Oh bloody God. The shame. Not going to tell Dad that bit. How did Dad manage to get into my Facebook? Is he some kind of spy from the government or something? A hacker or something? He shouldn’t really do that really – nose about in other people’s stuff. But I’m glad he did. But I wish he hadn’t. Did Dad see the pic of my tits too??! Oh God. Please not! Thank God Dad did what he did today tho. But, y’know, how dare he? I bloody hate him for that, nosing about in my private business. Not as much as I hate Mum. Where the cock is she when I really need her? She’s never here. I hate them both equally. But her more. No, him. Oh God I don’t know, I’m so confused.
Pete made me a big sugary (eight teaspoons) hot chocolate and we sat on my bed and he put his arm around me. That made me cry. All over his shoulder. It’s even his favourite top and he really tried hard to pretend not to mind. Glad I’ve got him at least. Will I ever get my bloody life right?!
SEVENTY-SIX
Mo
I sat in the room, in the very red, overtly carnal room. It seemed remarkably different without him there. It was too ordinary and badly lit. I wondered whether he would have set up all the candles again, brought the nigella, and made it as sensual? Maybe I should have done that? I didn’t think to. I imagined he would be there, waiting patiently, waiting for me to come to him.
I had indeed come to him. I was sitting on a seat in a room, in a hotel, all set to alter my life. Outside, in the boot of my car, was a suitcase, packed with everything I might need to flee. I couldn’t be entirely sure it really contained what I might truly need to start up a new life with this fabulous exciting new person, because I had packed it in a frenetic blur of impetuosity. I knew it contained plenty of new underwear and three tubes of hair-removal cream along with perfume and Nurofen and toothpaste and tights. But that’s all I thought I might need. Because love will plug all the gaps, won’t it? Any oversights, big or small, important or trivial, will fade into insignificance because I will have the strength of my new exciting love wrapped around me, to ward off any shortcomings or any doubt. I will have romance as my protector against reality.
Yes, I will have … but at that precise moment, I was sitting in a … frankly rather tawdry small red room. On my OWN. He was late. I didn’t expect that. After all, I am the one with a big, full hectic family life to organize and abandon. He is a single guy with absolutely no responsibilities whatsoever. He should, by rights, definitely be here first. I felt the distinct frustrated rumble of disappointment. I was starting to find him wanting, and I did not like it. I didn’t want anything to hinder this remarkable night … and his tardiness was annoying.
I looked around. The room was still irrefutably cheerless, and growing more ordinary with every passing minute. Without the candlelight, I could see that the furniture was rather cheap reproduction and it was chipped and repainted badly. I could see unpleasant stains on the cushions that set my imagination wandering down sordid alleys I didn’t want to travel. I could see how worn the rugs were and I could see scruffy handmarks on the paintwork of the walls. All of this, and the time I unexpectedly had to think, served to remind me what a hotel bedroom actually is. A rented space for countless people to taint with their various and sundry base needs. Far from being the magical place I remembered it as from only a few days ago, it was suddenly polluted, and such a disappointingly obvious choice for seduction. The thought of the many who had been there before was starting to defile its beauty for me. The gap between my memory, full desire and fantasy, and this rather inferior reality, was beginning to widen. The lacunae were appearing, but if I stopped to acknowledge them, I knew that would be the end of it all. I didn’t want it to end. It had only just begun, I had only just surrendered, I couldn’t possibly entertain doubt at this crucial moment.
Besides which, in my handbag sitting on the table were the brochures for the cottages I was given weeks ago when I lied to the young estate liar about wanting to buy. I had brought them with me. Perhaps we might look at them, my lover and I, and dream? Or, even better, look at them and plan? Either way I knew that bringing them was a sure-fire signal. I am leaving my old life. I won’t be that wife, that mother any more. I will be whatever I see myself to be, reflected in your eyes, Noel, my gorgeous, intoxicating, breathtaking young lover. In order for you to be my flattering mirror though, my darling … you have to … essentially … TURN UP!
I waited over an hour and travelled through a litany of emotions ranging from excitement to despair, stopping at doubt and humiliation en route. Where was he? I was gripped by a terrible unfeasible fear that he might have been in a car crash or murdered by a psychotic patient. I couldn’t pretend not to mind any longer. I called his mobile, which just kept ringing and ringing. No answer. I clung on to any possible reasons and rattled through them in my head.
He was trapped in a wrecked car?
He had fallen mysteriously unconscious?
Been hypnotized maybe?
Been arrested?
He was a top-class spy who had been called away on a vital mission? Yes, I investigated that more absurd one at length. Perhaps Mr Tracy had let him use Thunderbird 3 or ‘Q’ had given him a new car that turned into a gun and he had shot himself? …
All of these increasingly ridiculous reasons were a small distraction from allowing myself to entertain the more likely reasons for his no-show. It was eminently more believable that he had simply got cold feet, or that he had met someone ravishing, his own age, and he had suddenly woken up to the ludicrous implications of a lifetime ahead with a middle-aged grey woman he hardly knew. Well, half a lifetime really, because she is already over halfway through hers. Isn’t she? Aren’t I?
I made a cup of tea using the ludicrously hobbit-sized kettle with water from the splashy tap in the lavender-toilet-duck-smelling bathroom. In with the tea bag. In with two sachets of white sugar. One is never enough, and it takes too much willpower to staunch the flow of the second. Dunk dunk. Out with the tea bag. In with the dreaded UHT milk from the tiny capsule with the reluctant lid. Stir. Sip. Disgusting.
As I sat there, clutching the tea cup with the revolting greasy tea in it, the hopelessness of the situation gradually began to fill me up. I didn’t know why he wasn’t there, but the fact that he wasn’t, was the only vaguely right thing in a very definitely wrong situation. Everything about it was amiss. The tea, the room, the ill-packed bag, the cottage details, the whole silly, damaging, utterly ruinous thing. I felt stupid … and I felt gutted. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I emptied out the dregs of the undrinkable brew. I looked haunted and shaken, like a person trapped in a hurricane. That was me at that moment, the storm-rider.
He was by then nearly two hours late. I felt the first stirring of scorned resolve start to build in the pit of my stomach. It was proper old-school Mo resolve. It wasn’t fully formed yet, but even in this embryonic state, it was eloquent, and I heard it. I decided in that crashing moment that this whole thing was over. So over, as Dora would say.
Dora! Oh Dora. And Oscar … My kids. Why would I ever want to flee from my kids? They are what make my heart work. They are the point of me. They are where I start and end. However dysfunctional or irritating or plain bonkers, they are my family, and they are who I matter to. Not Noel. Who doesn’t even turn up. They turn up every day. So does Husband. Every day. For years. They are there. Really there.
‘Everything all right with the room?’ said little miss nosey.
‘Yes. It was lovely. I’ve had a really good … nap. Just what I … (fake yawning) … needed. I’ve been, y’know, working so hard …’
Why did I bother to peddle bad excuses? The shame of it all was dripping off me on to the counter of the reception as I signed the bill and removed my credit card from the machine. ‘Transaction complete,’ it announced. Yes. That’s right. It is.
I virtually ran to the car, and I raced home. Home. To my real life. Past those same houses and shops. Left, right, right again, left. All familiar, all normal. There it was, my house. My normal old unchanged house containing my normal old unchanged family. Normal. Correct. Right. Natural. Normal. Good.
As I approached the front door, I could hear loud sobbing coming from inside. I walked in to find no sign of Husband, and Dora crying uncontrollably in Oscar’s arms.
Initially, she wouldn’t tell me what had upset her so much, she just yelled at me, ‘Thanks a lot for never bloody being here!’
‘I’m sorry, Dora. You’re right, I haven’t been here, I know that. But I am here now, OK? Tell me what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘None of your bloody business since you don’t care so much. Thank God there’s Dad, at least he cares … even though I am really like, pissed off with him as well.’
I called Husband who was, apparently, round at Mum’s. Again. He explained what had happened, and how the guy Dora had arranged to meet was not who he’d said he was. And not eighteen.
‘Oh my God, poor Dora. Who was he then?’
‘I … er … didn’t really ask, to be honest. I … er … just made it clear that he should, y’know, go right away. Far away. Soon as.’
