Will let you know when his tan fades.
Meanwhile, I must leave you for a while to turn my attention to the question of British Constitution and the fascinating question What is the role of the House of Lords? Thank your Canadian soul that such matters no longer engage you.
What’s going on in Toronto? How was the reunion with your old sweetheart, Tony? Rawther short next to his English competition? Tell me all. Write back, you slag, or I will tie your knickers in a knot around your kneck.…
From the incomparable Oona-licious
xxooxxoo
* * *
A WEEK LATER
Oops, just found this in my binder.
Will now continue …
Your (first? of many?) letter has finally arrived from Toronto, apparently overland via the Arctic Circle, considering how long it took to get here. Life is barren without you. But there are a few little scraps of gossip to pass along.…
Remember Jasper, the English master? He has become a total psuede, growing a straggly little goatee. Penelope had a blazing row with Adrian in the middle of tea and threw a cup at him. Esther supposedly got lost on the moors during half-day last Wednesday and wangled a lift home with a shepherd. Caroline was FINALLY blessed with her period. Percy continues his efforts to appear mysterious by scribbling away in his journal. Luke is as delicious and as cold as ever.
Food is still inedible. Speaking of which … must go scrounge some coffee from somewhere … Will I approach Nico the Great to borrow sugar? Stay tuned.…
Back. No coffee. Got sidetracked witnessing a morbidly embarrassing incident. A crowd of boys in the courtyard were teasing your beloved Nico because apparently there was a review on the BBC at the weekend about his mother’s most recent book and then some panel discussion about some of the more lurid scenes. Out of nowhere, Percy pipes up and says, “Yeah, I get what you mean about seeing your own mum through other people’s eyes. My dad’s a bit famous too.”
“Who’s your dad?” asks Nico. Percy flushes seven shades of crimson and mumbles, “Mick Malloy.”
So Adrian quacks out a nasty laugh. “Dangerous stuff you’re sniffing, mate. Mick Malloy is, like, thirty-two years old! And famous!”
“He is pretty young,” Percy says, not backing down, but looking as if he’d welcome the flagstones parting for his exit through to the centre of the earth. What a daft delusion! No one knew what to say.
LATER …
Last night was the Autumn Follies, aka the night where we are herded into the theatre to stand around listening to somebody’s idea of young people’s music while streamers dangle from the ceiling and the lights flicker from behind red and amber gels. I think five people danced: Billings, by himself, Susan Splat and the other weirdo in second form, and, of course, the exhibitionist Penelope with her current drooling sex toy, Adrian.
Attendance was mandatory. Anyone with a grain of self-respect headed to the top of the theatre seats and crouched as far into the shadows as possible to avoid the notice of the staff. Thus I found myself next to His Royal Highness, Nico.
After some wry witticisms, we strayed over to the topic that most consumes us both.
YOU.
“Have you heard from her?” he said.
“Only once! Today! How about you?”
“She’s written a few letters.”
“And have you answered?”
“I will.”
You can put aside your worries right now because it would be hard to call a winner in the Who Misses Sarah Most Sweepstakes. I believe I still have a slight edge.
There goes the bell for tea. Fried Spam today.
That’s all for now my dearest one,
Oona Ultimata
film titles
THE TERRIBLE SECRET HISTORY OF ILLINGTON HALL
by Percy Graham
HOW THE COOK KILLED THEM ALL
by Percy Malloy
CANNON FODDER
by Percy Graham Malloy
NEW-GIRL FIXATION
by Percy Graham
VISITING DAY MASSACRE
by P. G. Malloy
WHAT WE HIDE
by Percy Graham
penelope
Worst weekend ever.
It started out worst for different reasons from why it ended up worst, but it basically sucked eggs. Happened like this …
I’m down the Cellar with Adrian, Henry, Oona, a couple of other nobodies. Adrian and me, we both came to Illington on the same day when we were eleven. We’ve been friends, we’ve been enemies, we’ve had a few snog-fests, and we’ve gone weeks without speaking. He even knows bits about my family, which is saying a lot.
The Cellar, which in the olden days was the wine cave for this big old manor house, is for fifth form and up, to smoke and get away from the prats in lower forms. It’s nearly pitch dark, so there’s plenty beside smoking going on.
Oona has got the silliest jeans, her pride and joy. They’ve got a Velcro fly, swear to god, meaning it’s public knowledge every time she performs any fly-opening activity. We’re down there, and I’m snogging with Adrian, since no one better is offering. Oona is tucked into a corner with Henry. Suddenly there’s this ripping noise and it’s Henry getting his hands into Oona’s knickers.
Adrian stops the kiss and says, “What the hell?”
I laugh. “You’ve never met Oona’s jeans? Oy, Henry! Having fun over there?”
“Piss off,” mumbles Oona. Henry is huffing and scrumbling about like a great bear.
“Possibly you should take this somewhere else,” I say. “The sound effects are a little much.”
“Possibly you should get busy on your own side of the room,” says Oona. “That being what you’re good at.”
“Piss off.” Where does Velcro Access get the nerve to make comments to me?
“You piss off.”
“Can we get back to it?” Henry grumbles.
“Penelope.” Adrian slips a hand under my top.
“Not in the mood now.” I pull his paw off my tit.
“Oh come on,” he says. “I’m … you know …” He rams my hand on his stiffy.
“Too bad.” I stand up, out of reach. “That slag is pissing me off.”
“Tease,” says Adrian.
“Slag?” says Oona. “That’s a laugh, coming from you.”
“The air in this cellar is making me sick,” I say.
“You are sick, full stop,” says Oona.
“Ha,” I say. “And you’ve got a total genital fixation, with a side order of narcissism.”
Oona is quiet for a moment while she tries to figure out what I said.
“You’re an authority?” says Adrian. “Because your mother’s in the nuthouse?”
That was low, very low. I shove his face into the smelly purple corduroy sofa cushion.
“Wait,” Oona pipes up. “Your mother’s in the nuthouse?”
“No surprise,” says Henry. “Oona, can we get back to business?”
I’m boiling. I burst out of the Cellar and up the stairs. I punch the wall along the kitchen corridor maybe twenty times, scaring the crap out of Vera, the cook. I get to the Girls’ Changing Room, sag onto a bench, and start to boohoohoo.
That’s when Kirsten comes along. Kirsten has never seen me cry, so she’s a tad surprised. I’ve never seen her cry either and if that day ever comes I’ll be gobsmacked. What would she have to cry about? She’s the coolest girl in school. The only thing wrong with her is that sometimes she knows it. I tell her I had a row with Adrian, but I don’t mention the nuthouse. I want to kill Adrian.
“Why don’t you come home with me tomorrow?” says Kurse. “My mum’s coming to fetch us. She’ll be thrilled to have an extra, she’s always going on about meeting my mates. It’s my birthday Saturday. Perfect timing.”
Get away from this dump for a couple of nights? Eat some decent food?
“That’d be so nice, Kurse. Ta.”
“I’ll go ring her now, shall I?”
&nbs
p; “Your brother won’t mind, will he?”
She laughs. “Luke won’t even notice.”
Their mum, Ann, picks us up Friday after lessons. She’s got a Range Rover that’s a few years old but still a bloody nice car. Luke dives into the back, clutching a tattered copy of Prince Caspian and the bag of crisps his mum hands over. I’m beside him, bunching my knees behind the driver’s seat. Kirsten sits up front with her mum, rolling her eyes at me, you know, gotta-keep-the-old-cow-company kind of thing. She’s a lovely mum, though, not a cow. Her hair is kind of ruffled-Twiggy, only grey. Makeup is Mary Quant—dark liner, smoky lids—and you can see she shops at Biba, not Marks and Spencer. But she doesn’t push it by trying to be cool.
“Thought I’d come before tea,” she says. “Give you one extra plate of edible food.”
“What are we having?” asks Kirsten.
“Whatever you like. Tomorrow’s the birthday, so you’ll get the menu you ordered, but tonight you can each vote.”
“Fish-and-chips,” says Luke.
“Pizza.” Kirsten, one second behind.
“Up to you, then.” Ann looks at me in the mirror.
“No fair,” I say.
“That means she wants fish-and-chips,” says Luke. “Otherwise she’d just say pizza with Kirsten.”
“Aren’t you clever,” says Ann. “Fish-and-chips, then.”
Kirsten sticks out her tongue at me, but she’s only fooling.
The house is massive compared with mine. Kirsten gives me a tour while Luke goes to the chip shop. The kids have the upper floor all for themselves—a huge room each with slanted ceilings because it used to be the attic. They’ve got their own loo and shower up there too, only Kirsten says she uses her mother’s bath because Luke is a nasty-hairy-smelly member of the male species. “Doesn’t the phrase hair follicle just make you cringe?”
The parents have got a suite on the ground level, the bathroom and this other room that’s called a closet, but some gizmo on the door lights it up when you walk in. It’s the size of my bedroom at home, with just clothes in it. One side is for their dad’s suits, with stacks of shirts all folded on shelves like in a department store. The other, messier side is Ann’s stuff, mostly black. There’s the faintest perfume, like “Hey, remember last night? Remember the moon and the silvery stars?” I know it sounds queer, but I’m almost not breathing in there, looking at the row of polished shoes on a tilted rack for easy viewing.
“Where’s your dad?” I say.
“Dunno,” says Kirsten. “He’ll be here tomorrow, though, for my birthday. He shags off all the time, working or who knows, but he’s good about birthdays.”
“I … I just realized …” We leave the closet and the light goes out. “I don’t have a present for you.”
Kirsten laughs. “Please! It’s just great that you’re here.” Perfect answer, as usual.
Ann’s made a table cover out of newspaper and we dump all the chips and all the fish into a huge steaming mountain in the middle.
“Medieval,” says Luke. We sprinkle on vinegar and salt, with mounds of ketchup dotting the foothills. We use the wooden spears from the chip shop.
“Good thing you got a big order,” says Ann. “You’re eating like it’s the first food you’ve seen this month.”
“It is,” says Kirsten, blowing on a lump of cod. Ann peels off the crispy parts and just eats the fish inside. “You really wouldn’t believe school food, Mum. You think we’re joking.”
“We’re not joking,” Luke and I say together. We laugh and tap spears. It’s so bloody jolly I almost can’t stand it.
“Where does your family live, Penelope?” says Ann.
“Bradford.” I eat a chip. “A mum, a stepdad, an old cat, and no sibs. Unless you count Barney, who’s the son of my stepdad. I’m not lucky that way, like Kurse and Luke.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her Curse,” says Ann.
“Your fault, Mum,” says Kirsten. “You picked a name with no short form.”
“Plus,” says Luke, “it suits her.” Kirsten rolls her eyes.
“Great name for a skinhead rocker,” I say.
“But she is not a skinhead rocker,” says Ann.
“Yet,” says Kirsten.
I’d expected the kitchen to be all shiny, like in a magazine, but it’s the opposite and even better. The cupboard doors are glass, with stacks of pretty plates and cups peeking through. There’s an armchair in a nook by the window, covered in faded sunflower fabric, with a book open on the seat. The table was probably built by peasants in the twelfth century, and the cooker is one of those huge black things that you can practically drive. The floor is painted a glowing red, the colour of apple skins in an advertisement. It’s all so bleeding pleasant that I’m dying to steal their vodka or take off my shirt, just to shake it up a bit.
After the newspapers get bundled and stashed in the bin, Ann puts the kettle on. “Fish-and-chips is the best,” she says. “No washing up after.”
“What’s for dessert?” asks Luke.
“Ice cream,” says Ann. “With chocolate syrup to pour over.” She puts out these crystal cup things that she claims are especially for sundaes.
“I bought them in New York last year,” she says. “Aren’t they so American?”
“Were you there on holiday? Did you go too?” I ask Kirsten.
“My parents went without us,” she says. “Romantic getaway or some rubbish. They brought good presents, though.”
There are three flavours to choose from. I have coffee, Kurse has chocolate, Luke has both, and Ann has none. We pour on fudge sauce, slurp it up.
I run my finger around the inside of the scalloped rim, because Luke is doing it too. I get every last smear before I stand up to clear. I cradle the crystal cup for one second and then purposely drop it. The floor is wood, so the glass doesn’t shatter, but it bounces and cracks, a couple of chips flying off. Good sound effect. Ann stares, first down at the glass and then at me. I smack my hands to my mouth. “Oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry-I-can’t-believe-I-just-did-that-oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry.”
“That’s okay,” says Ann. She folds her napkin.
Kirsten’s got a telly in her room, so we watch for a bit and then natter and then go to sleep like two teddy bears on a great big pillow.
“Ohhh, best part of being home,” says Kirsten, when we wake up. “No bell for breakfast. Missing Saturday classes. No freezing floor between us and the toilet.”
“No squishy Susan masturbating,” I say.
“No Oona rattling on about Nico.”
“No spongy eggs waiting in a tub on the table.”
“I heard you talking,” says Ann, coming in. “Breakfast in bed?”
“Yes, please!” I say, just as Kurse says, “No, we’ll come down, Mum.”
“Which?” says Ann.
“I hate bacon in my bed,” says Kirsten.
“Right, then, how about I bring just tea and you come downstairs for food?”
“Ohmygod, Kurse, you have the nicest mother.” I burrow into my warm tunnel of duvet. “I feel like a princess. And it’s not even my birthday.” I punch Kirsten’s shoulder.
“Owww!”
“That’s one,” I say. “Fifteen more for sweet sixteen.”
She flips over. “Don’t you dare!”
“Not telling you when, though. I’ll get you as the day wears on.”
“I love being home for my birthday,” she says.
“I’m always home for birthdays,” I say. “August fourth. I’d rather be at school.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“You have no idea.” She has no idea.
Fourteenth Birthday, by Penelope Fforde
Wake up on school time even without bells.
Go to the loo. Flush toilet before use. Flush toilet after use.
Listen to snoring in parents’ room.
Go to living room, see useless oaf Barney on sofa, too lazy to go four steps to his bed at three in the
morning.
Look in refrigerator, note emptiness on both sides of milk bottle.
Think, Hmmm, maybe they’re planning a smash-up surprise party for later.
Right.
Pull out milk. Find a bowl. Grab CocoNuts.
Fill bowl, pour on milk, push Silky off chair, sit at table, take a spoonful.
Scream. Milk’s gone off.
Dump cereal in bin. Kick chair.
Feed Silky.
Get dressed, white shorts and blue cami.
Lie on bed listening to Procol Harum, “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” Wait for thumps telling me to turn down the record.
Thumps. Turn down record.
Put on trainers. Comb hair. Pause to notice hair as one blessing in life.
Enter Mum.
Hallo, sweetheart, happy birthday. Did you make a cuppa?
Milk’s off.
Oh dear. Would you mind going down to the shop? Dave’ll be in a mood if there’s no milk.
And we’re off to a roaring start.…
I didn’t have my fifteenth birthday at home. Mum was in the bin by then. I lasted three days last summer, alone with Dave and Barney (the Oaf), before I hitched a lift back up here and worked for Mr. Danforth on the farm one over from school. Prime bleeding stall-mucker I turned out to be. August fourth came and went.
Kirsten’s family has endless birthday traditions.
“We’re going to the seaside,” she says.
“You’re joking,” I say. It’s nearly October, for Chrissake. But after breakfast we bundle into the car and toddle off to Scarborough, to the boardwalk.
Jolly jolly jolly, is the theme of the day. Most of the shops along the beach have their shutters shut, but Luke brought a jolly ball that we kick around till his foot goes through it. We paddle, screaming, in the icy swirls that swamp our jolly bare feet. I give Kirsten nine more jolly birthday punches. Luke likes this activity and starts his own series, so she’s getting it now from both sides. We eat jolly wieners on sticks and have jolly lemonades.
What We Hide Page 6
