What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Well, your pup Simon didn’t get stuck his first time, did he? With that lass who works at Bigelow’s and her young ’un.”

  “There is a God after all,” said Dad. “But the little boy is bright as a button and twice as clever, I’ll say that. A scrap of sunshine in a dark room.”

  “That’s a grandpa talking!” Mr. Darrow shuffled off to find his wife.

  Surprised as hell, I asked Dad. “Have you seen him?”

  “Seen who?”

  “Little Jerry. That Kath has. Didn’t know you’d ever met him.”

  Dad glanced around like a thief checking for coppers. “You won’t say to Simon?”

  I shook my head, not a bleeding chance.

  “I pop by some Sundays,” he said. “Take the boys in the road to kick the ball while Kath has her tea. She’s a snapping turtle, that one. But Jerry …” He got quite a foolish look on his old face. “He’s a corker.” Nice for him, I thought. There wouldn’t be grandkids from any time I spent in the sack.

  “Mum’s the word, eh?”

  “Secret’s safe with me.”

  Second Dad shock of the day, he said, “You’ve got a hairy handful of secrets, haven’t you?” He laid a palm on my sleeve, patting ever so gently. “Does it hurt, lad?”

  He’d never said a word about what happened, not one. Not while he rolled cigarettes beside my hospital bed, or when he fetched me home, or anytime since. He picked a crowded pub on his son’s wedding day?

  “Not anymore.” My scabs were instantly itchy, but scratching would mean blood. No way would I cough up extra cash for the rental shirt.

  Dad waggled his empty glass at me and toddled to the bar for another drink.

  “Here you are!” Lanny pounced. “This is Elaine! My cousin from Scunthorpe, I was telling you about?”

  Elaine from Scunthorpe was a bridesmaid, livid purple from titline down. She was endowed as roundly as Lanny, honey-coloured ringlets fixed on the side of her head with a violet paper blossom as big as a turnip.

  “Hallo,” I said.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Lanny gushed to her cousin. “Even dishier than Simon! Go on, get cozy! See you later!”

  I was stuck. Elaine was a grinner. I’d’ve sidled off, only I spotted Banger and Alec watching me over their pints.

  “Well, darlin’,” I said. “Think you’ve got a dance in you?”

  My timing was terrible. The Beatles had just started “The Long and Winding Road,” an eternal three minutes and thirty-eight seconds with my arms around Elaine from Scunthorpe, my nose itching in her sticky curls, my hips bumping close enough to hers to seem randy and keen.

  The song finally ended. “That was … lovely.” She sighed. Her eyes slid over to catch Lanny’s, the bride perched on her husband’s knee. The cousins would be off to the loo, if I played it right, girls always needing to discuss events as they unfold.

  “Nice locket.” I tapped the crap charm that rested on the doughy swell of her tits, running my fingers up her neck for the benefit of Banger, who had such an ugly mug he probably bonked his bulldog.

  “Eeep!” squealed Elaine.

  “Fancy a bite?” I tipped my head at the food table.

  “I’m on a diet,” she said.

  Was I meant to say You look fine to me?

  “Robbie, may I borrow Elaine for a mo?” Lanny, about ruddy time. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right back.”

  I’d’ve nipped out and gone home, only a hand cupped my bum just long enough to show it meant to be there.

  “Buy you a pint?” said Felix. He didn’t need to be standing so close. “If you’re done with the lady-killing portion of the afternoon?”

  I laughed. Felix had always been a star at noticing. We stepped into an alcove by the coat stand, letting the girls go right past when they came out of the ladies’. They’d found another purple girl, so Elaine was occupied for a minute or two.

  “What the hell, eh?” Felix meant Simon and Lanny.

  The Beatles were strumming “Let It Be,” the speaker right over my head. Lanny got Simon up to sway with her where tables were pushed aside. We leaned against the wall, watching. Lanny stopped dancing to tug at the crown-thing in her fancy updo. Simon tipped a paper cup to his mouth, while his new mother-in-law helped the bride.

  “Ow!” Lanny pulled away. “Leave off!” But her mum unhooked the little tiara, along with only a few strands of Lanny’s hair. Simon drained the cup and smashed it flat between his palms.

  “You couldn’t pay me enough,” I said. “You couldn’t buy me a van or a house or a holiday in …” I tried to think of the craziest destination. “In Morocco.”

  Felix grinned. “Me neither.”

  He was so close I could smell him. I nearly teared up, thinking how I had Luke because of him. This was Felix. If anyone knew me, he did. Better than Luke, even, because how could Luke ever suss what my house was like, what an arse of a brother I’d had me whole life?

  “Was it Simon?” I said. “Was it him, told them to do it?”

  Felix put his empty pint glass on a table. “Smoke?”

  “No, ta. I’ve stopped for a bit.”

  He lit one for himself. “Step outside?”

  Yeah, better outside, despite the chill.

  “What I heard …,” he began.

  “Yeah, what did you hear?” I rolled my shoulders.

  “What I heard,” said Felix, “is that no one knew about you.”

  “No one did? I’m baffled.”

  “Until,” said Felix.

  He took a pull and spoke as smoke streamed out. “Until a girl from that school told Alec, and Alec asked your brother was it on to show you what’s what.”

  “A girl?”

  “Some bird out to get you?”

  Only one bird at Ill Hall who even knew me, apart from Brenda. I pictured Penelope with her hand on Alec’s zipper, calling me queer last time I’d said no.

  I wished I’d taken a smoke.

  “You’ve got someone, haven’t you?” said Felix. “A boyfriend.”

  “Yes.”

  He dropped his fag and crushed it under his heel. “In London,” he said, “it’s like a different bleeding planet. No questions asked. Just be who you are.”

  I checked his face. Was he joking?

  “You’ll get there,” he said. “Or somewhere else that’s not here.”

  “Not until I’ve mashed my brother like an old banana.”

  “And what would be the point of that?”

  No point, I knew. Simon had more friends than I did.

  “Just to hit him,” I said. “Break something, maybe.”

  Felix had a pencil out, writing his London number on a scrap. “Use it,” he said. “Whenever you need to. You ready for that pint yet?”

  “Hallo.” Brenda slapped a slice of pork pie on a paper plate and added a pickle. “You hungry?”

  “No. Ta.”

  “Getting rowdy, eh?” She passed the plate to the next person in line. The music was louder, now that she mentioned it. The room had got smoky, more people dancing, including Elaine, thank god, with Alec, poor seconds. Raucous laughter hooted from the darts room.

  I’d’ve liked to ask Brenda about Penelope. But what exactly? And how would Brenda know anything?

  “My dad,” I said.

  “Eh?”

  “He visits?”

  “My sister, you mean?” She reached around my shoulder, handing over another plate. “Yeah, well, Jerry, more like.”

  “I didn’t realize,” I said.

  Brenda gave a big, smiling sigh. “He’s dead sweet, is Jerry. Calls me Auntie Bren.”

  “I’m Uncle Robber,” I told her. “They’re the cops and I’m the Robber.”

  Felix came back with two pints. “Cheers.” He knocked his glass against mine, a wee clink.

  “One of the boys from my school is here,” said Brenda. “Will it matter he sneaked in to use the loo?” She jerked her thumb toward the end of the bar.
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br />   I just about pissed my drawers. Luke. I did a stupid dance step, toward him, back again, sideways away from Brenda. Felix caught on in less than a second, giving Luke the up and down. “Are you begging to have your nuts severed? Letting him in here?”

  I quick-scanned the pub to see where Simon was. Must be in the darts room. I slid up next to Luke, his face sweet and sly, full of surprising me. But I wrecked it, didn’t I?

  “What are you thinking?” I touched my hand to his hip, fingers reaching skin under his jersey. “You can’t be here.” His crazy hair tickling my cheek. “You’ve got to go.” Moving my hand away felt like tearing off a plaster. “You could get hurt.” Hurt. Too small a word to sum it up, a lifetime of pinches and jabs, being shoved against every wall you ever passed, hair lit by matches, bangs to the ears, spag down the neck. Knuckles cracking against jawbone, the heel of a hand ramming an eye socket, the point of a knife slicing so slickly the skin doesn’t bleed or yelp with pain for several seconds until so many cuts up the arm are running with blood and spelling out who you are. Which is hurt.

  “Is it because of him?” Luke was looking at Felix. “Is he …?”

  He was jealous! “No, really,” I said. “Thinking of you.”

  His eyes shifted just before a body pressed into me from behind. Something hard jabbed at my bum. Luke’s face went scared as hell.

  Alec’s voice growled, “You like it this way, pricklicker?”

  Banger’s goofy hiccup of a laugh. “Up the arse!”

  I wrenched myself around, brought my knee up fast. Alec dropped the bottle he’d been poking at me as my blow caught him precisely in the knackers and sent him straight to the floor amidst the shattered glass. My kneecap glowed with the sting of excellent impact. Banger backed right off. The party went hush, apart from the Beatles strumming away and the crackle of a Christmas bulb giving up its last light.

  “Excuse us.”

  I spun around to see Felix moving Luke toward the door.

  “Show’s over,” called Harry from behind the bar. “Plenty of beer still in the taps.”

  Alec was crawling to his feet, using Banger as a ladder.

  “Take it outside, lads.” Harry handed a broom to Aunt Pat, for the broken glass.

  Alec spat on the floor, tried to straighten himself. No way was I stepping into the alley with this lot. They’d cream me. Felix hadn’t come back. I’d go out the front, find him and Luke.

  But, “Hey, poofter.”

  I paused half a second.

  “I’m looking at a dead faggot,” said Alec behind me. Banger hiccupped.

  Time to leave the party. Time to leave the village.

  The door opened and in rolled Felix. How had he done it, all these years? None of them had a clue. Harry turned up the music, the din was on again.

  “Oy!” The groom himself. “Haven’t you pissed off yet?” He stank of whisky, head on a tilt like it was too loose to hold upright.

  “Just leaving,” I said.

  Simon blinked at Alec. “Whatsa matter? You look like you’ve been kicked in the nuts.”

  Banger laughed like it was the funniest thing ever. “Your brother bolloxed him!”

  Felix slung an arm around Simon, dragging him away from his sidekicks.

  “A toast!” he called out. “To Mr. and Mrs. Muldoon!”

  A faint cheer went up, mostly drowned out by the Beatles.

  “And all the baby Muldoons!” said Felix. “May they keep on coming! Lanny! Bring that baby belly over here!”

  “You!” Simon pointed at me. “Don’t talk to my wife. And stay clear of my kids. You hear? No son of mine is having a queer boy for an uncle.”

  “Oh, Jerry’s yours now, is he?” Brenda jumped in before I could even open my mouth. “After four years of pretending he doesn’t exist? I’ll tell my sister you’ve said as much. Ready to kick in a few quid for his Wheaties, are you?”

  “You fat, stupid cow—” Simon swayed in front of Brenda. “You keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.” One of his hands tipped a bowl of dip, mucking up his cuff, leaving a puddle on the table.

  “Simon?” Lanny tugged on Simon’s jacket, her creamy tits nearly spilling out of their basket. “Steady on. Let’s not get rowdy, right? Robbie!” she said. “Elaine’s been looking for you!”

  “Elaine. Her dress was purple, right?” Where had Felix put Luke?

  “Oh you!” Lanny gave me a push, gleefully tipping me against a chair. “I was hoping she’d be your type!”

  “My type?” I said.

  Felix looked sharp my way, warning me not to say what I was thinking. My type is the boy who just left the bar. I wasn’t quite so daft as that, pinning a target on Luke’s back.

  But I wouldn’t insult the bride either.

  “I’ve learnt a lesson from my brother,” I said. “Leave the pretty girls alone, unless you’re ready to play papa.”

  Simon swung hard, but it was an easy duck. I’d have loved to thump him, I really would. Only it couldn’t end well, him having a pub full of yobby mates ready to do battle. And like Felix had said, what for? Simon was about to fall down all by himself.

  “He’s all yours,” I said to Lanny. “An empty bleeding handbag.”

  Brenda came around the food table to slip an arm about my shoulders.

  “Ta,” I said.

  Felix was there, and Brenda. Aunt Pat sidled over, broom in hand. Even Dad, nearby.

  I had my own ragged army.

  And something worth fighting for.

  jenny

  At home, it was the day after Thanksgiving. Usually there’d be platters of leftovers, except … I wondered who Mom cooked for, if not for us? No Thanksgiving in England. The Pilgrims escaped this country! They were giving thanks for landing somewhere that promised liberty for all, currently upheld by the United States Armed Forces. Was Matt having turkey in Vietnam?

  My mother’s method of roasting a turkey is to wrap it in bacon like an Egyptian mummy. The oven would be on from before breakfast until we were driven insane by the smell, midafternoon when people arrived for the feast. But Tom and I, we always tried to outsneak each other, nabbing the strips of bacon before anyone else had a chance.

  No smell of turkey bacon came out of the tubs delivered from the kitchen of Ill Hall at Friday dinner. Meat loaf again, boiled spuds, wizened peas. In the dorm afterward, I sat on my bed, crazy homesick. Not for my parents. They’d just been here for the whole of Visiting Day weekend. And I’d be home in only three weeks! My semester abroad, already over! So what was missing? My bedroom? My Philly friends?

  I pictured the reunion with Becca and Kelly, each of us draped over an armchair in Kelly’s rec room. What would I tell them? The food was terrible! Even worse than we ever guessed. Living in a dorm was awesome, friends day and night. The teachers, we called them by their first names, it was so evolved and cool. In the summer, there’ll be skinny-dipping in the pond. This one guy, Nico, you wouldn’t believe the color of his eyes! And my best friend of the boys, his dad is a Hollywood movie director, I’m not kidding. I made friends that I’ll keep for the rest of my life.…

  What was wrong with me? Now I was lying in my imagination.

  I hadn’t spoken to Penelope since the day that neither of us explained why I was crying. She didn’t accuse me and I didn’t confess. Kirsten and Percy patted my back and felt sorry for me and the master plan worked. Matt had broken up with me. They were sympathetic and no one asked awkward questions. But how could they be my friends—for the rest of my life—if the only me they knew was a fake?

  Tom knew who I was. Possibly the only person in the world. But I’d stopped calling him because he was never there. How many messages had I left with roommates? And he’d never called back. What happened to my promised weekend at Sheffield? Never the right time. Was it Tom I missed?

  Tom. And Matt. Home the way it was supposed to be. Thanksgiving after the meal, when Matt came over and we stayed up later than late, joking around, play
ing charades, eating leftovers at two in the morning. It wouldn’t be like that, not anymore, maybe not ever.… Tom would be in England until the war was over, and Matt … Would Matt come home?

  And now I was going back, without them, and without … Maybe I’d been hoping for a miracle, but I thought I’d be someone else by now. I thought at least that I’d be … someone.

  I lifted the lid of my trunk. Nothing ever got folded unless it had just come back from the laundry, where fairies packed it all in a tidy net bag every other Monday. Each week, there were more clumps missing from the fringes on my sweaters and T-shirts, probably clogging the pipes of the washing machines.

  I scooped everything out and dumped it on my bed. The trunk bottom was dusted with sweater lint and a pinkish stain from where my hair conditioner had leaked. I began to sort and fold. The checklist, sent to Philadelphia by Isobel—before I knew who she was—was taped to the inside of the lid, each item carefully marked off to show what I’d brought so I’d be certain to take the right things home again. Vests, V-neck sweaters, dark skirts, collared blouses. Tatters at this point. Useless, really, anywhere else.

  I’d arrived with high hopes, my trunk bursting with the ingredients to become a new person. A person who—I ran my fingers over the cut edges of the skirt nearest me—who didn’t need parents or a brother telling her what to think. A person who was daring and intriguing. Funny and carefree. Sure of herself.

  What a bleeding joke, as Penelope would say.

  Don’t think about Penelope.

  If I were lucky, the next three weeks would pass with no more Penelope drama.

  The Austen door banged open, Kirsten and Brenda bustling in.

  “Off-day with Penelope?” Brenda was saying. “She can be a bit of a cow, just like my sister, Kath.”

  “This is more than a bit,” said Kirsten. “She did something so stupid it was evil.”

  “What did I miss?” I said.

  “Penelope and Kirsten,” said Brenda. “Hammer and tongs on trolley duty.”

  “Not open for discussion,” said Kirsten. “Brenda, stick your bag on Caroline’s bed.”

  Brenda had a paper bag, its top folded over a bulging middle.

  “We don’t have an overnight case at our house.” Brenda laughed, cheeks pink. She didn’t seem embarrassed to carry her belongings in a grocery sack. “We’ve never been anywhere, my old dad or me.”