No Place For a Man

by Judy Astley

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ He took her hand and led her back up to their room, sitting her on the bed carefully as if she was injured.

  Jess, sobbing, pointed out of the door. ‘That boy, Tom – he’s in bed with Natasha. He climbed in through her window!’

  Matt, unforgivably, chuckled. ‘Oh very Romeo and Juliet,’ he said.

  Jess glared at him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Natasha and that boy are in her bed, neither of them apparently with a stitch on and all you can do is laugh?’

  Matthew recomposed his face. ‘Sorry, but well, as you said, fifteen is the new eighteen. And at least she’s on the premises, not in the back of some car down a dark alley.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’re saying this.’ Jess felt genuinely puzzled. ‘Are you saying it’s OK? We had that boy in the house as a guest, fed him, felt sorry for him, all that, and this is what he does, he climbs in through the window and sleeps with our daughter?’

  ‘Now you’re overreacting. You’re making too much of a drama out of it. Sure, it was a shock. And for double sure it mustn’t happen again. But …’

  Jess got up and went into the bathroom to run the shower. She felt the need to be covered in soap, to wash away last night’s sex that now just made her feel sick, picturing Natasha with Tom.

  ‘I can’t think where “but” comes in,’ she said. ‘You might not feel betrayed, by both of them, but I do.’ She shut the door, and, unusually, locked it. From the other side of the door, just before she turned the taps on to ‘full’ and drowned out both thoughts and words, she heard him say, ‘Oh, it’s all about you is it?’

  Zoe stayed in the bath till the water went cold. She hardly dared move. So they knew now. Once she’d thought that might be a relief but it wasn’t at all. The good thing, the end of her having to keep their lousy secret, was ruined by her mother’s anger. She’d heard how much hurt there was in her voice. Natasha had wounded their mum by having Tom in just as much as if she’d punched her in the stomach. Mum being a bit cross about stuff she was well used to – but only the usual small things like not getting up early enough for school in the mornings and having to race around, or not putting stuff away in the kitchen. It occurred to her that this wasn’t at all a house where there were regular major rows. Sometimes girls at school came in in the mornings and sat around in the cloakroom saying things like ‘Jesus you should have heard the olds last night!’ gathering an enthralled crowd as they described earth-shattering quarrels, doors slamming, plates being broken. Sometimes they’d cry and tell about divorce or a parent who’d packed their bags and walked out.

  Zoe had marvelled at the tempestuous atmospheres some of her friends lived in, had even wondered if it would be fun to exist in the brittle air of high drama like a soap opera full of disasters. It was probably why she hadn’t resisted all that much when Emily had dragged her into the non-pregnancy thing. Once or twice she’d even longed for something a bit more lively to happen than the contented day-to-day existence her family seemed to plod along with. When her dad had lost his job, then she’d had something to tell them at school but no-one was very interested. When they’d asked if that meant there’d been a big row and would they be broke and have to move house, all she’d been able to do was shrug and admit that so far, no, nothing had changed. No-one had asked about it again. It really was just like television: only the worst that could happen was of interest to anyone.

  Scared of the noise it would make, Zoe pulled the plug and let the water go. She shivered as she climbed out. The skin on her fingers was all puckery from being in the water too long. A girl at school had told her that dead bodies found in rivers or the sea look like that all over and she’d had dreams about that, about skin so wrinkled it resembled the texture of a pale brain. She dried herself slowly and thoroughly, delaying the moment when she’d have to come out and join in with the family. It might have been Tash who’d done the bad thing, but she was sure to cop for some of the fallout, even if it was just in terms of a horrible atmosphere. She stroked some of Natasha’s favourite coconut body lotion over her legs and then sloshed an overgenerous amount into her palms to anoint the rest of her body: Tash owed her for keeping the secret, and for being so stupid as to let Tom oversleep. The loss of a bit of body lotion was only a teeny part of what she deserved.

  Natasha slammed around her room looking for the right things to wear, opening and shutting drawers and her wardrobe too fast and furiously to be able to concentrate properly. Her mum had gone well over the top and the horrible thing was that deep inside she didn’t really blame her. She felt angry with everyone. She felt like crying. She probably wouldn’t see Tom again – he’d be out there looking for someone else with a comfortable bed and a more reliable alarm clock. The battery had gone on hers, she’d realized as soon as Tom had given her that accusing look and pointed to the clock. No lights had showed on it. It just sat there, dead, almost asking her to hurl it out of the window.

  She was hungry. It would take a lot of nerve to go down and face her mother over the kitchen table but she was going to have to do it or she’d collapse. She couldn’t understand how people like Emily could go without food; she couldn’t even sulk her way past breakfast. At last, dressed in suitably sober grey trousers and a comfortingly warm hooded black top, she quietly opened her door and looked out. There was no sound from up in the attic, which was bad news and meant both her parents had to be downstairs. Zoe’s door was closed, but Natasha realized it was unfair to expect her to back her up, be on her side and do whatever it took to defend her. Zoe was just a kid. She hadn’t wanted to know about her and Tom and Natasha hadn’t wanted to tell her. She hadn’t been showing off or anything, it was just that sliding a big sash window up and down and helping Tom climb in was quite noisy and with her alarm going off every morning before seven, Zoe would have been sure to suspect something.

  One thing was definite, she thought as she tried to creep down to the kitchen without the stairs creaking, if Oliver had still been at home she wouldn’t even have thought about letting Tom in to sleep with her. Oliver was so much the bloody Perfect Son, he’d probably have beaten Tom up for molesting his little sister. And of course, he’d never do anything like break into someone’s house and share a girl’s bed. But then he didn’t need to: he had a perfectly good, warm, comfortable bed of his own. He didn’t have to sleep in a broken-down car. Natasha looked out of the window, down towards the railway. She half-expected, certainly fully hoped, that Tom would be there, watching from the edge of the line and waiting to send her some sort of signal that he was thinking about her. There was no sign of him. Of course it was raining, the kind of day when no-one in their right mind would hang about outside if they didn’t have to. It would have made her feel better though, to know he cared enough to make sure she was OK.

  Matthew and Jess were sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. For a second Natasha thought that perhaps it was all over, the outburst upstairs, the ordering Tom out of the house was all there was going to be to it. Her parents looked so normal, just sitting there, reading about Saturday stuff in the paper. As quietly and unobtrusively as she could Natasha made her way into the kitchen, almost sliding, catlike, along the units.

  ‘It’s all right, you’re allowed food you know,’ Jess said to her over the top of the Times magazine. ‘There’s some bread cut if you want toast.’ Natasha mumbled, ‘Thanks,’ and went to put bread into the toaster. She really wanted Alpen, but felt that refusing the offered toast might be construed as impudent, challenging. Her mother was still looking cross and sort of miserable as well. Natasha felt bad. She’d rather, on balance, her mum had just walloped her. Anything would be better than this wounded look.

  ‘Do you want more tea?’ she asked, filling the kettle.

  ‘Not for me,’ Jess said.

  ‘Oh, yeah, thanks I will.’ Matt smiled at Natasha who almost cried with relief. Her dad still loved her. Her dad didn’t think she was the worst, most wicked
person on earth.

  She took the toast to the table and sat down as far away from her mother as she could. She could hear the toast crunching into the room’s silence. Now the food was in her mouth it was hard to swallow it, as if there was already a lump of something blocking the way. She couldn’t bear Jess not speaking. It was way too soon to hope that everything was all right, but she needed very much to get things going that way.

  ‘Mum?’ Jess looked up and waited. It was impossible to read anything in her expression. Her eyes looked all dead, as if she didn’t recognize her.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mum,’ Natasha began. Any other words she’d been hoping to say trailed away as big tears started to tumble down her cheeks. Miserably, she went on chewing her toast.

  ‘Sorry? Yes I expect you are, now you’ve been caught.’ It wasn’t going to be easy. This had never happened before. In this house you apologized and it was all over – there was a kind of rule about not bearing grudges. But her mum looked hard and cold as if she’d run out of patience and forgiveness for ever. Surely she couldn’t have used it all up on this one thing?

  Natasha felt a flash of anger; after all what else could she say? Some of her usual spirit rallied itself. ‘Look, Tom hasn’t got anywhere to, like, live. It’s still cold at night. How would you like it if it was Oliver out there living in a car? Wouldn’t you want someone to take him in?’ Her voice was rising now and Matt flashed her a warning look which she ignored. ‘I mean, I did ask you if he could stay in Oliver’s room but you said no!’

  ‘Oh so it’s all my fault is it? My fault that you, under age, are letting a complete stranger climb over the conservatory roof and into the house and then sleeping with him?’

  ‘Jess, can’t we talk about this later? Tash’s upset,’ Matt ventured, putting an arm round the girl and pulling her against him.

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping with him! Not like that …’ Natasha wailed. ‘Not like that! And now I might not see him ever again!’

  ‘I don’t care whether it’s “like that” or not,’ Jess said coldly. ‘And as for seeing him again, well you’re right there, you won’t be. You’re grounded till I decide I can trust you again.’

  ‘What? That’s not fair!’

  ‘Well it’s not unfair,’ Matt said. ‘You must admit you can’t expect just to get clean away with this kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh you’re just like Mum!’ Natasha roared, getting up and stamping out of the kitchen. At the door she turned back and smirked defiantly at her parents, throwing them one last bone to chew on. ‘Why don’t you ground Zoe too, while you’re at it? She knew all about it!’

  Zoe, hanging about outside the door hoping the battle level would fall enough for her to feel safe to get some breakfast, heard her sister shop her to her parents.

  ‘You spiteful cow! I wish I had bloody told them now,’ she hissed at Natasha as she hurtled past her towards the stairs. ‘Don’t ever ask me to cover up for you again.’

  Eleven

  ‘I handled that about as badly as it’s possible to,’ Jess said to Matt after Zoe had grabbed a piece of toast and left to meet Emily.

  ‘Hmm, you could be right.’ There was amusement in his voice, though for the life of her Jess couldn’t think what there was to laugh about. He went on, ‘I guess you could have approached Natasha with the talking option rather than the shouting one.’ He was infuriating, she thought. He’d gone back to studying England’s prospective test match team for that summer. He was, she thought, more concerned with whether Ramprakash would be fit enough than with whether his daughter was turning into a complete little tart.

  ‘It’s difficult to talk rationally when you’re this angry. How could she do this? I thought we’d brought her up to be straight with us. Oliver worked out all right, I mean what went wrong? Or is it girls? I really don’t want to think it is …’

  ‘Well you’re the expert,’ Matt pointed out. ‘You’re the one who writes about the delights of family life. And aren’t you always telling me about the disasters people write to you about?’ Oh thanks so much, Jess thought, go ahead, remind me I’m supposed to know all this stuff.

  ‘From my point of view though, I’d say nothing went wrong.’ Matthew folded the paper and drank the last of his tea. ‘Natasha genuinely thinks she was doing the right thing. He hasn’t got anywhere to live.’

  ‘Well she didn’t have to move him into her bed. And anyway, why didn’t she say?’ Jess started loading the dishwasher. ‘We might have been able to help him find somewhere. And what about these foster people he’s supposed to be with? He’s only young, I realized when I saw him with her this morning, he can’t be much older than she is.’ She felt herself shiver at the thought of her child in bed with the boy. Natasha was still a child in many ways. And so were her friends. If you looked past the tummy-revealing little tops they wore, the trousers slung so low on their hips you could see the lacy edges of their minimal knickers, they were still barely touched by life’s deeper and more dangerous dramas. Natasha was nothing like some of the schoolgirls you saw at the bus stops, smoking and snogging and swearing and trading flirting obscenities with undeserving, unappealing and barely coordinated boys.

  ‘Things go wrong with foster people,’ Matt said. ‘You read about it all the time. And she says she did tell you. She says she asked you if he could have Oliver’s room.’

  ‘Oh on the Selfridge’s day. I didn’t take her that seriously. You can bet your life if he’d moved in she’d have gone off him in about twenty-four hours and then we’d have had to think about how to get him out again. Surely even you can see that was never going to be a goer?’

  Matt sighed and picked up the pile of paper. ‘Yeah well. It’s all done with now. He’s gone and she’s angry but she’ll get over it.’ He frowned at Jess. ‘The point is, will you? Are you going to keep beating yourself up for being a less than perfect parent or are you going to let it drop? Because I know which we’d all prefer.’

  From the back of her wardrobe, Natasha pulled out her Reef backpack that she’d used for school books till Claire had hinted (very gently but acutely) that surfer stuff wasn’t too cool in London any more, and crammed in a few pairs of knickers, spare trousers, a couple of extra tops and her sponge bag. She added her make-up bag and a hairbrush and her old pink fluffy rabbit that was still good for cuddling on a thundery night or when stuff was going wrong. There was no way she wasn’t going to see Tom again. No way she was staying in this house with its horrid new layer of atmosphere hanging around like a thick November fog. Being grounded was for kids Zoe’s age. You couldn’t keep a fifteen-year-old in, it wasn’t natural. And they were about to find out it wasn’t even possible. She opened her bedroom door and looked back into her room. Something wasn’t right. She shut the door again, put down her bag and went to make her bed and put all her books back on the desk. It was a gesture, quite a clever one she thought, her mother would get it, even if Dad and Zoe didn’t notice.

  She could hear them in the kitchen, talking quite loudly which meant they were still going on about her. The door was still shut. Zoe must have closed it after her when she went to get ready to go out with Emily. She felt bad about Zoe – she shouldn’t have dropped her in it – none of this was her fault. After all, she had kept the secret, she hadn’t actually dobbed her in to the parents.

  It was easy, just walking quite normally, though perhaps a bit more consciously quietly, down the stairs and out through the front door. It wasn’t as if her parents were actually going to lock her in: if they said she was grounded it meant they had to trust her a bit – otherwise she’d just walk out when she felt like it, like this, wouldn’t she? Working this out, she felt a small twinge of guilt: if the idea was for them to trust her again then even she, even in this pent-up fury, could see this wasn’t the way to do it. So that the door wouldn’t bang she left it slightly ajar, wedging it, to stop it slamming shut, with the free paper full of ads for in-your-dreams-priced property and visiting massage women t
hat a year-seven kid from Briar’s Lane chucked through the door every Saturday morning. This wasn’t really running away, she thought, as she sprinted down the path and along the road towards the square. It was just putting a bit of space between her and the parents for a while. When you cared about someone you had to make a stand. All the same, she had to try quite hard not to feel tearful. She also wished she’d brought her big snuggly old puffa jacket with her. It might be horribly dated and Claire would pull that face she did but it would at least keep her warmer and dryer than her fleece.

  She increased her pace almost to a run as she passed Eddy’s house. Fearfully, as if he was about to rush out and accuse her of taking men in, of lying on his bed with Tom and creasing his duvet cover, she glanced at his window. It hadn’t mattered the evening before when she’d seen him on home ground, but out here in the Grove she had that feeling that all the blank house windows knew and told all that went on. Eddy’s house, having no curtains or blinds, could see more than most. At the end of the road she crossed the square and slowed her pace a little. No-one had followed her. Her dad hadn’t come racing down the road ordering her to stay in her bedroom till she promised eternal celibacy, or until she was twenty-one, whichever was sooner. Nor was her mum magically waiting there to trap her and look disappointed and tell her how much she’d let them down and how bloody perfect Oliver would never have behaved like that. How would they know? she thought, Oliver was a bloke – they communicated mostly in grunts and the parents were grateful for each precious whole word. For all they knew he might have been chucked out of more girls’ beds by more parents than any of them had had burnt barbecue sausages. She was almost at the allotments now. Tom would have gone back there: he’d be waiting for her. She passed the row of shops, turned the corner by the bus stop and opened the allotment gate. There was the Sierra.

  ‘… looking for surf that has no bluebottles (Portuguese men-of-war). They are everywhere, even the little ones give a bad sting and a rash … Off for three-day surf camp in Straddie with Canadians & couple of English tomorrow. Must go, it’s sangria night at the hostel again and a didgeridoo lesson. Love (I suppose) to Girls, tell them to mail me with any goss. Ol.’