Hostel Girl

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘No.’

  Ailsa crossed the tracks. The unit from Woburn had stopped at Waterloo, where one from up the line was pulling out. ‘You’d better hurry. Take off your shoes.’

  ‘I’ll run my stockings.’

  ‘Serves you right for wearing them. Come on.’

  Gloria wobbled up the stones flanking the rails and slid awkwardly down the other side. They climbed the second fence. The unit driver shouted at them.

  ‘Drop dead,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Kids play chicken here,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Good on them.’ They crossed Oxford Terrace to the footpath. ‘Because he’s a bully,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father. He gave us hidings.’

  ‘Everyone gets hidings.’

  ‘Not like us. He made us take our pants down. On the bum. With a belt.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Ailsa said. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘It used to bleed. I used to get blood on my pants. The doctor had to tell him to stop.’

  ‘He’d have to,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Do you still think you want to have a father?’

  ‘Mine wouldn’t be like that.’

  ‘Who says? He made us write out things we’d done wrong and give us a hit for each one. And he tried to make us tell what we’d said in confession. The priest stopped him that time. He used to look at our fingernails and teeth, he used to lift my lip up like a horse. And twist my jaw round looking for wax in my ears.’

  ‘He sounds horrible.’

  ‘My sister ran away when she was 17.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. We had to forget her. Not say her name. Mum and me still don’t know where she is.’

  They walked around the block near the Pages’ house and came back to the overbridge.

  ‘I can take all these stupid hostel rules after that,’ Gloria said.

  ‘I bet you can.’

  ‘But I’m not going to take them lying down.’

  ‘They’ll kick you out. Mum won’t but some of the others will.’

  ‘They can try if they like,’ Gloria said.

  They climbed the bridge and Gloria stopped halfway across. She lit another cigarette and offered the packet to Ailsa. ‘Have one. Grow up.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I promised mummy.’

  ‘You’d better shut up,’ Ailsa said. ‘If you want to be friends.’

  ‘Who said I do?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me. I’ve got plenty.’

  ‘Willowbank girls. La-de-das.’

  ‘Some of them are all right. Well, I’m off.’

  ‘No. Stay. I know I’m a pain.’

  ‘You are a bit,’ Ailsa said.

  A man wheeled his bike up the bridge and passed behind them as they looked down the railway lines towards the harbour. His wheels made a ticking sound and the legs of his trousers went whish, like brushing dust. Along at the hostel girls were coming out and heading for the pictures at the Prince Edward.

  ‘It’s Brigadoon. Have you seen it?’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Who’d want to?’

  Ailsa sighed. Gloria was hard work all right, but somehow she liked her; and somehow too Gloria made her sad — which was an interesting feeling. Sad and curious, protective in a way. She didn’t want more bad things to happen to her.

  ‘Are you going out with someone?’ she asked.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well, a boy.’ She thought of Calum Page when she said that; his face, wet with rain, came into her mind.

  ‘I don’t go with boys. I prefer men,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘There’s one who’s after me. He says he’s a lawyer but I don’t believe him. He’s got a car.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘It’s a Jaguar. It’s brand new.’ Gloria laughed. ‘I’ll make him buy me dinners in hotels. What about you? Got a boyfriend yet?’

  ‘No.’ (Calum Page, in her mind again.)

  ‘You’re a bit late starting. When you do …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t let them try anything.’

  ‘Course not,’ Ailsa said. She wanted Gloria to go on, and after a minute said, ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if you don’t know. I never let any of them try any-thing with me.’ She grinned. ‘The boys used to call me Gloria Woodn’t.’

  She threw her cigarette on to the line, a falling star. ‘He would have killed me.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah, him. And don’t look now but someone’s watching us.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t look, I said. That geezer with the bike who passed. He’s over there under the tree, between the lights.’

  Ailsa pretended to look over the houses at Lower Hutt.

  ‘See him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s been there ever since he came down.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  The man was squat and bulgy, like a sack. Black branches hung over him, umbrella-like. His bike wheels gleamed. Was there a gleam of spectacles too?

  ‘We’re up here like the pictures. We should put on a show,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ailsa said, thinking Gloria might dance. The man was so still, so powerful. She felt he might reach out his arm, pull her from the bridge and ride away with her into the dark. ‘I’m going,’ she said.

  ‘Guys like that don’t scare me,’ Gloria said. ‘Hey, we can see you,’ she yelled.

  The man nodded at them, as if satisfied.

  ‘Go home to your fat old wife,’ Gloria yelled.

  He raised his hat politely, like a man greeting women in the street. His black hair gleamed in stray light passing through the leaves. He mounted the bicycle and pedalled along the footpath with his raincoat flapping round the rear wheel.

  ‘That got rid of him,’ Gloria said.

  Ailsa wasn’t so sure. He was riding away with one arm raised, as if to say, I’ll see you again.

  ‘He might come back.’

  ‘I’ll sool Bevan on him,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Who’s Bevan?’

  ‘My Jaguar man. He’s six foot two. He’s a footy player.’ Gloria seemed to sparkle. She laughed. ‘That was good. Better than mashed potatoes.’ She grinned at the hostels, where half a dozen women, attracted by her shout, were leaning out the windows. ‘This place must be a honeypot for guys like that.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Ailsa said. She was nervous that her mother had heard the shouting. But Gloria went down from the bridge with all the poise of an actress descending stairs. She ignored the hostellers at the windows; and somehow she seemed as powerful as the man had been. Ailsa’s fear went away and she grew buoyant. The walk had been an adventure, and Gloria was going to be her friend.

  She must try to make sure that her mother did not force her to change rooms again.

  Chapter 3

  ERROL

  ‘Calum says he’ll coach you for tennis,’ Helen said.

  ‘Me? When?’

  ‘Saturday morning if you like.’

  ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me.’ Helen laughed and Ailsa heard something nasty in it.

  ‘How can he coach me if he’s in a wheelchair?’

  ‘He’s not. He wears callipers. He’ll show you how to hold your racket, only stuff like that.’

  ‘All right,’ Ailsa said. It might not be all right though, it might be some sort of trick. The only time she’d seen him he had told her she was fat. ‘What time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ten o’clock?’

  ‘What does your mother say?’

  ‘She says it’s the first time he’s shown any interest.’

  ‘In girls?’

  ‘In anything.’ Helen smirked. ‘She says he might as well start with you.’

  ‘And then get someone better? Well, I’m not going.’

  ‘Relax,’
Helen said. ‘He’s not asking you to be his girlfriend.’

  ‘I wouldn’t anyhow,’ Ailsa said.

  But she went, on her bike, dressed as before, riding past the tree where the man had watched her and Gloria (watched Gloria, most likely) and along the quiet back streets to the Pages’ house.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mr Page, washing his car in the drive. ‘Calum’s in his room.’

  ‘Is Helen here?’

  ‘She’s gone to town with her mother. Go through the lounge and down the hall.’

  Ailsa didn’t want to. She felt she had been manoeuvred and she wanted to go home.

  ‘He’s a bit of an oaf,’ Mr Page said. ‘Don’t let him give you any lip.’ He winked at her: a square-built man with horn-rimmed glasses and red spots — drinking spots? — on his cheeks. He could easily be the one who had watched from under the tree.

  Ailsa went into the lounge. Nothing would make her go to Calum’s room. She sat down in one of the fat frilly chairs and looked around. Thingy things were everywhere — Mrs Nimmo’s description: porcelain figures and wired-up plates that were neither beautiful nor useful. Ailsa felt like someone who had come to do the dusting. She sighed and waited. Outside, Mr Page whistled as he worked. Then he was quiet. Water dribbled from his hose. ‘Well, dumb-ox, you married her,’ he said; then glanced quickly round and started humming to make it seem his words were part of a song. Ailsa grinned. She was ready for Calum when he limped in, wearing callipers.

  ‘Gidday,’ she said.

  ‘Hello.’ He was carrying two tennis rackets and a hatbox full of balls. ‘Let’s go out, eh?’

  They stopped by the net and Calum said, ‘Here, before we start, try this.’ He handed her a racket. ‘That’s my one from when I was a kid. It shouldn’t be too heavy.’

  ‘I like heavy rackets,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘You can keep it and throw yours away. It looks like you got it in a second-hand shop.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Now, do what I do. Take the handle as though you’re shaking hands.’

  She did as she was told, although as far as she could tell her grip was exactly the same as before.

  ‘Does that feel comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’ She did not like the self-importance in his voice.

  ‘Now swing it. Get a free movement in your arm. Keep the racket head up, not down like that.’

  ‘Sorry. Can we hit some balls?’

  ‘When I’m ready. Hold your arm out more, not bent in at your side.’

  Some fun, Ailsa thought. They practised for 10 minutes. He made her move her hips, not hold them stiff. He gripped them like two arms of a chair and swivelled them.

  ‘Lay off,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what my coach did with me.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t want to learn …’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I want you to beat Helen. OK? We made a bet.’

  ‘What bet?’

  ‘That you could beat her in three months. I suppose you’re going to lose your temper now?’

  Ailsa laughed. She rather liked it — Calum using her in a bet. It made her feel comfortable, knowing why she was here.

  ‘How do you play with that thing on your leg?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ll just stand still. You hit to me. That way you’ll get used to placing the ball.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘For your backhand shift your grip like this.’ He showed her without touching, turning his racket in his hand. ‘But I’ll keep it on your forehand for a start.’ He limped away, then stopped. ‘Hey, Ailsa. I didn’t mean it when I called you fat. I was only trying to make you mad.’

  ‘I knew that,’ she lied; and would have liked to say something nice about his leg, but couldn’t think of anything. She watched him go past the net, with an exaggerated lifting of his hip and a slapping down of his foot like a dinner plate. He can’t play like that, she thought. What if I hit where he can’t reach? If he falls over do I have to pick him up?

  He took balls out of the box and stuffed them in his shirt. Painfully — she could see how it hurt — he took his place on the baseline. He did not try to serve but hit the first ball underhand, a lob. She hit it back — and had to cry ‘Sorry’.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He hit another ball. Ailsa concentrated and grew more accurate. She put most of her shots within his reach. Behind them, Mr Page polished his car. When it was done he drove away. The only sounds were her grunting — she wished she didn’t make that noise but couldn’t stop — the pok of racket strings on the ball and, far off, like a turned-down radio, a brass band practising at the Hutt Recreation Ground. Ailsa began to enjoy herself. She liked the way he said ‘OK’ and ‘Good’ and didn’t seem to mind when she hit the ball out of his reach. She sent one over the wire on to the lawn and, swinging wildly, another over the back wall into someone’s garden. All he said was, ‘Hey, calm down.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be Little Mo.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘There’s an Alsatian that’ll eat you over there.’

  Balls were scattered on the court, an archipelago of balls. She walked about with the box collecting them and took them to Calum.

  ‘Do you need a rest?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ he said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to get one. We’ll change ends if you like.’

  ‘No need.’ She did not want to see him limping down the court.

  They played some more. She liked being with him, and the way he had to concentrate on her, but found it boring hitting on her forehand all the time. She wanted to try volleying and smashing. When she suggested it he said, ‘Baseline shots today. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll get it. You stay here.’

  Calum tossed his racket against the wire — his first sign of bad temper. ‘Do you think I’m a cripple or something?’

  The answer was yes, but she kept quiet, watching him struggle to the house. She guessed he was hurting but couldn’t tell how much and wanted to ask. Was it like a headache, sort of dull, or something sharper like the nerve in a broken tooth? She supposed it was only fair that he should get bad-tempered but thought he was stupid for pretending. It worried her too that he might be doing more than he was allowed.

  She fetched the ball from the lawn and put it in the box, then decided to look for the one that had gone over the wall. Dogs, even Alsatians, didn’t scare her — and Calum had probably made it up to frighten her. That could be a kind of flirting, which she liked.

  The rock garden rose in shallow steps. Little wooden seats stood here and there, but she didn’t think people were meant to sit on them. The back wall was built from creosoted timber. She looked over, standing on tiptoe, and found that the neighbour’s lawn lay on another level, deeper down. A vegetable garden grew on one side, with a compost bin at the back and a shrubbery half hiding a lattice-work summerhouse on the other. A closely mown lawn took up the rest of the space.

  The tennis ball lay in the centre, a tiny moon in a green sky; making her, for a moment, feel strange, as though things went wrong on the far side of the wall. She looked at the back of the house. Kitchen windows, a porch with a yard broom standing in it. Nothing unusual — but the place was too quiet. There was no dog kennel, no sign of a dog.

  She saw how she could back down from the wall and jump from the compost bin on to the ground. But it wasn’t worth the trouble for one ball and she turned away. Calum was coming out of the house with a glass of cordial in each hand. His limping walk made one of them slop. She hurried down the steps and met him outside the court. He looked sour and tired. She thought he looked sick.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Orange,’ he said. ‘It’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘I like orange.’

  ‘You don’t have to be polite.’

  ‘OK. But I still like it.’
/>   ‘Dad’s got some beer. We should drink that.’

  He looked at her sideways to see if she was impressed. She wasn’t. He would have done better just to bring the beer out. But she felt sorry for him and she said, ‘How long did you stay in hospital?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you have to do schoolwork in there?’

  ‘Yeah. We had a teacher. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’ve never known anyone with polio.’

  ‘We’re not freaks.’

  ‘I’m sitting down,’ Ailsa said. She sat on the bench at the court entrance. He took a long drink from his glass, then limped to join her. The leather on his callipers creaked like a door.

  ‘What does that thing do?’

  ‘Makes the tendons stretch.’

  ‘What’s polio?’

  ‘Are you dumb or something? It makes your muscles waste and the tendons stop working. So you have to try and make them work again.’

  ‘I suppose it hurts?’

  ‘Yeah, like I told you.’

  ‘So what about iron lungs? Stuff like that?’

  ‘I didn’t have it. That’s for breathing when your chest won’t work. I had the Kenny treatment. It’s new. Trying to make your muscles work again. And that bloody hurts.’

  ‘I bet it does. How long before you’re better?’

  ‘Never. I’m the Page that got ripped out.’

  Ailsa tried to grin. She guessed it was a joke he often used — if it was a joke.

  ‘And don’t try to tell me there’s plenty of things I can do. I’m sick of that.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘That’s Mum and Dad’s line.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Not play tennis, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Have we finished?’

  ‘Sorry. Yeah. I’ve done too much.’

  She was alarmed. ‘What’ll they say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your parents.’

  ‘I don’t care about them. I do what I like.’

  That was probably a lie, although she guessed he got away with as much as he could, and gave his parents a hard time, and other people hard times too. She was pleased he was trying to be a bit nice to her — and thought how good-looking he would be except for his leg. It was probably the hurting that made his mouth so thin and put an almost permanent frown on his face. She had not seen him smile yet — really smile. She wondered if he could.