Porky

by Deborah Moggach

  So I shouldn’t have been so shocked in the post office. But I was: I was terrified. Did Teddy know? Did Mum? As I said, I made myself go blank when I was expecting something to happen; I locked myself, inside. But I could still be caught unawares, at the stupidest moment.

  The week after Teddy and the egg I stayed the night with Gwen. She called it a sleepover, because she was pen-pals with a girl in Detroit. We’d never mentioned it, but it was understood that these sleepovers took place at her home and not at mine. She obviously preferred that too. I felt secure in her house, but lonely as well.

  Gwen pulled out the rubber band and brushed her long, brown hair. We were going to the pictures with her Dad. We’d planned in advance both to wear our frilly blouses. They were from C & A; we’d bought them together in Staines. Hers was yellow and mine was blue, on account of my blue eyes.

  ‘Two little twinnies,’ said her Dad as we sat in the car.

  ‘Big,’ corrected Gwen.

  ‘Big. Aren’t I the lucky one tonight, with two young ladies to escort?’

  ‘We’re sisters,’ said Gwen. ‘Go on, we’re pretending.’

  They had a lovely car, it was spotlessly clean. Her Dad worked at the airport. In the cinema foyer there was a shop.

  ‘Please can we have some chocolate?’ asked Gwen.

  ‘Gwen!’ he said. ‘You know you’re not allowed it.’

  ‘Please. For a treat.’

  ‘Your teeth. You know the rules.’

  ‘Porky’s allowed sweets all the time,’ she sighed. ‘She’s so lucky.’

  ‘She’s with us now. Aren’t you, Heather?’

  He bought us some peanuts.

  In the cinema he sat in the middle and put his arm round each of us, giving us a squeeze. The film was The Railway Children; I’d thought it sounded babyish but Gwen had insisted. She ate her peanuts with one hand; with the other she held his. Up on the screen, the father of the Railway Children was being taken away; two men in hats ushered him out of his front door. Now the children were crying.

  Gwen was sobbing, too, noisily. Her Dad passed her his hanky and held it while she blew her nose. He put his arm around her and she buried her face in his jacket, keeping an eye on the screen. Gwen was a great sobber. Up there, the children were exploring their gaunt new home. Gwen had both her arms flung around her Dad now and he was patting her shoulder, gently, and mopping her with his hanky.

  ‘Daddy!’ she moaned.

  ‘There, there,’ he said in a smiling voice. ‘Silly billy.’

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she croaked. ‘Hug me tighter.’

  He hugged her tighter. ‘Funny way of enjoying yourself,’ he said.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she squeaked, ‘it’s so sad.’

  They sat there, Gwen clutched round him as if she were drowning.

  ‘You OK?’ He leaned over. It was too dark to see me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You’re far too sensible,’ he said, and went back to Gwen.

  It was only when the lights came on that they saw my face. Gwen stared.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  Her Dad looked at me. ‘You poor thing. My handkerchief’s sopping wet, thanks to this silly girl here.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, hiccuping, trying to stop. I couldn’t. He put his arm round me and wiped my face with the back of his hand.

  Gwen had recovered the moment the lights came on.

  ‘It’s only a story,’ she said. ‘It’s only a film.’

  People were standing up along the row, waiting to pass. I could get to my feet but I couldn’t stop sobbing. We shuffled out, bumped by the other children. I was making a horrible noise, like an animal, I was frightened by it myself; I was usually so controlled.

  ‘Poor old thing,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘It’s not real – it’s not true.’

  I thanked him and agreed. But that wasn’t the point, of course. I wasn’t crying about the film. I was crying about Gwen and her Dad.

  Afterwards Gwen was sitting at her dressing table. She’d taken off her blouse and was looking at herself in her white bra – she wore one now.

  ‘Kevin almost kissed me, you know,’ she sighed. ‘He was going to. I could tell.’

  Kevin was in the next class. This event, which I’d heard a lot about, happened at the monthly disco.

  ‘Wonder what it’s like, Porks. When they do.’

  I was sitting on the bed behind her. My throat was sore.

  ‘Where will I put my nose? Wouldn’t it get in the way?’

  Some answer was required by now, even for Gwen.

  ‘I suppose it fits somewhere,’ I said.

  ‘Wonder who’ll be first.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘To have it done to them, dum-dum. We’re lagging behind.’ She pushed back her fringe and smiled at herself, like that, then let the hair fall across her forehead. Then she pushed it back again. ‘Sandra has, Yvonne has, all that lot has. Betty let Dave put his hands on her bra. On the inside.’ She looked at me in the mirror. ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  I nodded.

  ‘She says you can tell they love you when they kiss your eyes.’ She closed hers. ‘Ever so gently . . . Strong and gentle. I shall shut my eyes and lift my head and see if Kevin does.’

  ‘Do they have to?’ I asked urgently. ‘What if they don’t?’

  ‘It’s the test, I’m afraid.’ She pursed her lips in the mirror. ‘Betty knows, you see.’ She turned her head sideways, her lips still pursed, and kept her eyes on her face. ‘My olive complexion – know what it shows?’

  She paused and turned round.

  ‘I said, know what it shows?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘That I’m highly sexed. I look a bit like Jenny Agutter, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘This greasy panel won’t last long. It’s only down the middle, you see. It’s not real acne, that’s what Dr Moss told me. Just a greasy panel.’ She swung her head back, tossing her hair. Then she turned and swung round again, watching her hair settle. ‘Betty said her nipples tingled.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Do stop blushing, Porks. Nobody can hear.’ She moved her eyes back to herself. ‘I won’t let Kevin do that. Not until we’re going steady. I’ll just let him kiss me, and kiss my eyes, and tell me that he’s mine and I’m his.’

  She padded off to the bathroom, then, to do her teeth and put on her pimple ointment. I sat down on the dressing table stool. Its warmed plastic sighed beneath my weight. Behind me stood the shelf of dolls Gwen’s Dad had given her; his friends the pilots brought them back from all over the world.

  I gazed at my wide, pink face, still blotchy from crying. I’d worn mascara this evening but it had all washed off. My eyes looked piggier than ever. Actually my features were more regular than Gwen’s; her mouth was too small and she had a receding chin. If I lost weight I might look all right. But that wasn’t the point.

  I’d dressed nicely for this evening. Below my face was the blue nylon flounce of my blouse, with the dear little buttons done up. I’d set my hair yesterday, to give it height; it was naturally fine and flat, like blonde hair often is, but it looked quite pretty tonight. It was held in place by my matching alice band.

  I sat there, gazing at my face. Boys were supposed to be kissing it soon, cradling it in their hands. They should be looking into my eyes, unable to speak, and then kissing my closed eyelids, one then the other. They should be tracing round my lips, too moved for words. This face, my face, the only one for them. I want you here in my arms, for ever. There must be someone, somewhere, who would want to say that. For every girl, there’s someone.

  Quite often, spurred on by conversations with Gwen and the others, I found myself thinking like this. Thinking just like they did; joining in. ‘Is my hair better up?’ they’d say. ‘Like this? Or like this? Don’t I look nice with it parted on the side?’

  Just for a moment I’d be swept along.
Will they love me if I look like this? Will they?

  Until suddenly I’d realize: nobody will, ever.

  Gwen came in from the bathroom. She stopped when she saw my face.

  ‘Gawd, she’s off again,’ she said. ‘Niagara Falls.’

  Chapter Eight

  IT’S DARK OUTSIDE now. It has been for some time. Heaven knows what o’clock it is; I haven’t switched on the light. I don’t like to catch sight of myself in the mirror over there. Besides, if I turn on the light I’ll have to get up and start some sort of evening. I’d rather stay here, in the dark. The only thing I’ve done is switch on the electric fire. It takes ages; the bar’s just reddening now.

  I must have been fifteen before I stopped trusting my Dad. Trusting him meant loving him, and some time during that year my love was at last extinguished. It had taken a long time, hadn’t it? I’ve told you how stubborn and stupidly persevering it was.

  Gwen had a Saturday job at a kennels. You know how our place was surrounded by hotels. More were built each year . . . By the time I was fifteen, along our road you could walk to the Skyscape, the Excelsior, the Heathrow, the Sheraton . . . Flags fluttered in front of them like some celebration that nobody had told me about. Signs said: ‘Heathrow Hotel Welcomes Glaxo International’; the letters were changed daily, like menus. Along our road, nowadays, you saw more courtesy coaches than Green Line buses. And far behind us stood the Post House Hotel, a block in the fog.

  It wasn’t just the humans who were temporary, it was animals too. They stayed at the Orbital Boarding Kennels. It was out beyond West Drayton, beyond Gwen’s house, and next to the Orbital Trading Estate. Gwen was potty about cats and dogs and she earned £5 a Saturday. I knew what she was saving up for, because she never stopped talking about it: a tan suede coat with a fake-fur collar. Poor cows had died to make that coat, I told her, but she didn’t see it that way. Cows weren’t pets. I didn’t see it that way either, but then I wasn’t animal-mad. The coat was in the new boutique called Poppets, it cost £37.95, and I wanted one too – more than I remember wanting anything from a shop. This was OK with Gwen – as I said, we liked wearing the same things, it was one of our pacts. £37.95 was far beyond my reach, of course; nobody in my family had that sort of money. If Dad had it, and he was in the right mood, he would have bought the coat; he was indulgent like that. But he hadn’t. On the other hand, Gwen’s father could buy it easily, they had plenty of money, but he’d told her she must save the pennies herself.

  ‘Old fogey.’ Her crimson mouth was pursed; she’d just replenished her lipstick. ‘He said, “I love you too much to buy it for you.” I ask you!’

  I decided on a plan. I’d get a Saturday job too, at the Skyscape’s staff cafeteria. There was a vacancy, Betty’s friend said so, because someone had just been sacked. If I had a job, I could save up for one of the coats myself.

  So far so good. Simple, you’d think. But you must remember that during this time, when I was fifteen, Mum was working daytimes. Each day except Sunday she was back at four. This only left Saturday when my Dad and I were alone. By this time the physical thing was taking place regularly, and it was on a Saturday. Teddy would trot across to the garden centre where his friend Ross lived, who had more weapons and a bigger TV than ours. Dad would come into the house, where I was dressmaking, and say he was shagged out and what a thirst he had on him. I’d make us some tea.

  I told him I was going up to the Skyscape, to ask about a job. I told him when we were alone; see, I was learning a little more each day.

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Just the Saturdays,’ I said. ‘It’s seven pounds.’

  ‘The Saturdays?’ He busied himself with his baccy tin. He rolled his own fags now because it was cheaper.

  ‘Then I can pay my way.’

  His eyes slid up to mine, then down again. ‘You’re needed here.’

  ‘Why?’

  He wiped his nose, and mumbled at the carpet. ‘You’re needed, aren’t you? Let’s say no more about it, eh, girl?’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Yes, who? Who am I needed for?’

  His big, stiffened fingers held the Rizla packet. He turned it over and back again in his palm. The paper poked from the slit. ‘Your little brother . . . The house, and such.’

  ‘Teddy’s off all day now.’ I paused. ‘Look, I’ll ask Mum. She’ll agree.’

  The packet stilled. ‘Leave her out of this. She’s got a lot on her plate at present.’

  ‘I need money of my own. I can’t ask you for it, you haven’t got any. There’s this beautiful coat, for £37.95. All the girls do it.’

  ‘Not my girl.’

  ‘Why not? Why am I so different?’

  He kept his eyes down. ‘I’m not having it, that’s why.’

  ‘Why am I different, Dad?’

  A pause. ‘Need someone around . . . To get the dinner . . . watch the car park.’

  At the feebleness of this even he stopped. If we were lucky there was one car a week in the field, due to the increased competition. Three more hotels had built off-airport parking lots.

  There was a silence. We both knew what we were talking about; what was really at stake. During these months there was a growing air of conspiracy about what we were doing. We never spoke of it, of course, but it had become so regular that neither of us could pretend it wasn’t planned to time with Mum’s absences. Never mentioning her was a conspiracy too.

  Both of us were thinking hard. I wanted that job badly. Any job, to be out of the house on a Saturday, with a proper excuse. And I needed the money, of course – not just for the coat, but for the reason everyone needs it: independence. Gwen and Co were always going on about independence nowadays, too, but I couldn’t tell if the word meant quite the same to them. As usual, I didn’t feel in step.

  On the other hand, I felt anxious about what Dad would do if I took away our Saturdays.

  At this moment he might have leaned towards me, his voice softening, and said what was poor old Dad going to do without his girl, didn’t she love him? But I’d planned this talk for when Teddy was around. We could hear him in the yard, being a police siren.

  ‘Mum would be glad of the money,’ I repeated.

  ‘Da-daa, da-daa . . .’ wailed Teddy.

  ‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ I asked.

  He didn’t answer. For the first time in my life I was feeling a tingling in my scalp, a quickening of my pulse. What I was feeling was the beginnings of power.

  ‘Got to push off,’ he said. ‘Got to fetch that big end.’

  ‘Da-da, da-da,’ wailed Teddy.

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ He laid his hand on my arm. ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves. Right?’

  The next day he took the lorry out and he wasn’t back until evening. Mum was in the bedroom. He shuffled around for a bit, taking off his jacket and blowing his nose. I was stretched out on the settee pretending to do my homework. In front of me lay my geography book.

  ‘“Eighty per cent of the population”’, I read out, ‘“don’t know which state the Grand Canyon’s in.”’

  A clump as he took off his boot.

  ‘Go on, guess,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Another clump.

  ‘Which state it’s in.’

  ‘In America, isn’t it?’

  ‘Arizona. Most people say Colorado.’

  His feet, in their socks, came nearer. For a wild moment I thought he was going to look at my book and actually ask me more. He’d never done anything like that. But he leaned down and put something on the page. It was four ten-pound notes.

  ‘That’ll do you?’

  I didn’t speak. Just then the door opened and Teddy rushed in. In the draught, the notes floated to the floor. I grabbed them but too late.

  ‘What’s them?’ he shouted. ‘What’s Hevver got?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, snatching them up.

  ‘You’ve given ’em her. Wh
y’s she got ’em?’

  ‘Shh!’ I hissed, looking at the bedroom door.

  ‘Gimme some too!’ he shouted.

  Dad slapped him across the face. Teddy burst into tears.

  ‘It’s not a present!’ I said. ‘Don’t cry. I was owed it.’

  ‘You wasn’t!’

  ‘I was. Shut up, Teddy. I did something and he paid me.’

  I stopped. I looked at Dad . . . His mouth hung open.

  Teddy went snuffling into the kitchen. I hadn’t even comforted him. But Dad followed him. His voice was high and strained.

  ‘Didn’t mean to do that,’ he was saying. ‘Didn’t mean to hit you, boyo.’

  I hid the notes in my geography book. Looking back now, I realize: it wasn’t just me who’d been losing my innocence. In a strange way, Dad had been losing his.

  As I said, it was such a gradual process that I can’t pin-point one occasion. But that winter’s day I first felt the stirrings of power . . . the realization of what I could do.

  Corrupt, see? Oh yes, I’d been a victim, but nobody stays a victim for ever. They learn. That little girl was older and wiser now.

  Around that time I started looking clearly at my father. I never had before. One thing I saw, with surprise: he was as confused as I’d been, by all this. He wasn’t a bad man, you see. If they found him out, people would say he was bad, but they didn’t know him like I did. Another thing I allowed myself to admit: he was a big, blundering, inadequate person. His body was harmful but inside he was as weak as a baby. He was the laziest person I’d ever known. A jolting thought: perhaps it wasn’t love for me that had made him do those things – perhaps he was just too lazy to get up and find somebody else. I shut this one off.