I leant forward.
‘The card?’
He rolled his eyes.
‘The credit card,’ he said. ‘It fell down the back of my rucksack.’
I sighed; at least Jules hadn’t borrowed that. Luca put his finger over his lips again.
‘It means we can leave,’ he said. His hands drummed on the table top. ‘The sooner the better.’
‘You’re leaving?’ said Cora. She looked at me accusingly, as though this was my idea.
I tried to keep my voice low.
‘We don’t need to rush off so quick, do we?’ I said.
Luca opened his mouth but he was all agitated so just sat there puffing.
‘I mean, shouldn’t we wait for Jules?’ I asked.
‘Why would we wait for her?’
Stu came into the conservatory with the cast-iron pot, sweat dappled across his forehead. He hadn’t heard Luca, but Joyce had; I could see it in her forced smile.
‘Couldn’t find the serving spoon,’ she said, and then looked at me. ‘I hope you like porridge.’
Stu dropped the pot in the middle of the table. Joyce rearranged it so it sat symmetrically on the heat mat. Steam was flowing out, the thick smell of oats floating out with it. I looked at Stu.
‘I love porridge,’ I said. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’
Luca looked at me sharply like I was a traitor, but I wasn’t even lying. When I was little I went through a phase of eating porridge for breakfast and lunch. My mother thought it was a punishment but I’d have had it for dinner if she’d let me.
Stu sat down, rubbing his hands together. He didn’t notice Boy jump on to one of the spare chairs.
‘Best thing for keeping you regular,’ he said.
Joyce rolled her eyes.
‘Oh, rarely, Stu,’ she said. ‘Not at breakfast.’
She began spooning out the porridge. It was thick and gloopy. There were strawberries and raspberries heaped in bowls. They looked proper lush. I felt bad for Jules and then remembered she always found something to keep her going.
‘Can dogs eat fruit?’ Cora asked.
Boy had somehow managed to get her head in the bowl of strawberries.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Stu said. But he didn’t stop her.
Joyce gave me her sun-goddess smile. It was all you could see; the rest of her face was covered by her big tinted lenses.
‘So, Molly,’ she said. ‘Where’s your friend Jules today?’
‘She’s popped out for a bit,’ I said. ‘She has friends in the area.’
Joyce frowned.
‘In Bingham?’
Luca put his mug down.
‘You’re right, Mother, you can’t possibly have friends in Bingham unless you have a four-by-four and live within a three-mile radius.’
Joyce raised an eyebrow.
‘Where you got this sarcasm from, I don’t know.’
I looked up at the conservatory ceiling. Komorebi was seeping through the palm leaves.
‘What a lovely day,’ I said.
Cora grinned at me, two teeth missing from the top row of her gums.
‘I’m going on a bike ride,’ she said.
I squeezed my shoulders up tight, stretching my eyes wide.
‘Ah, that sounds brilliant,’ I said.
Joyce tucked in the edges of her headdress.
‘I like to sketch in the countryside. Luca’s told you I’m an artist?’
Luca rolled his eyes. Stu was trying not to roll his.
‘Of course,’ I said.
She looked all pleased, as though I’d let out some secret. I’m a great liar if it’s for the right reasons.
‘Can Luca and Molly come with us?’ Cora asked.
Joyce’s smile faltered for a second and then eased back into a curve.
‘Why not?’ she said. ‘I have a spare bike I never use. Luca, you could use your dad’s fold-up.’
‘I’ve no intention of going,’ he said.
Joyce tensed. ‘Molly?’
My mouth was filled with porridge. I tried not to look at Luca as I replied.
‘Tha woo be lub-ley,’ I said.
Everyone laughed but Luca.
After saving the fiery-haired boy from drowning, I wouldn’t swim again. Every week my parents would take me to the swimming pool and I would stand at the edge, looking down at the water. Instead of blue and white tiles at the bottom I saw reeds and old ropes ready to entangle my legs.
My parents would stand behind me in full swimming gear, waiting for me to dive in.
‘She won’t do it,’ Mother would say.
I heard him sigh.
‘Give her a chance.’
‘She’s had lots of chances. All you ever do is give her chances.’
I looked to the other side of the water. On the bench, my swimming bag was wiggling.
‘You give her too much attention,’ my mother said.
‘And you don’t give her enough. Which is how we ended up here, isn’t it?’
I watched as a hand pushed itself out of the swimming bag, followed by a head with plaits. Then another head, followed by another. A team of Rubberband Girls stood on the bench and raised their arms in a cheer.
‘Let’s go home,’ Mother said.
I jumped in.
Joyce decided we should use the BMW. The inside of the car was cream with leather seats, an integrated satnav on the dashboard. It smelt of shoe polish and excess. Cora insisted I sit in the back with her and Boy so she could tell me about her school friends, what she wanted for her birthday and why she didn’t like butterflies. She even sneaked one of her bracelets into my hand when Joyce wasn’t looking. It had bright plastic beads, all different shapes and colours, with the word ‘L-O-V-E’ spelt out on four cubed beads. I pulled out the Rubberband Girl I’d started making under the Buttercross. I weaved more bands into its body to make arms. Cora watched me as though I was doing a magic trick. When I passed it to her, her eyes were round with excitement. She held it like treasure. We spent the rest of the journey grinning at each other.
Luca had stayed at the house to go through his things in the garage. He was cross that they’d been moved in the first place and also cross with me for agreeing to go with Joyce and Cora. He wouldn’t look at me before we left.
Here’s my rule: if someone doesn’t tell you they’ve got a problem with you then you should act like they don’t until (a) they get round to telling you, or (b) they get over it. You’d be surprised how many times the result is (b). Now, Jules always tells you if she’s got a problem so you don’t have to wait for either option. I like that about her because things get dealt with quickly. But I could tell Luca kept things buried deep down. The problem with people like that is they only get things out by exploding.
Joyce pulled up by a bunch of wheat fields with trees dotted like lampposts alongside the hedges. She took a while to decide where to set up her easel. Eventually she propped it on a mound by a big oak and sat down on a camping stool. Then she listed a set of rules for Cora and Cora kept nodding her head without listening, waiting for Joyce to finish so we could set off.
I put Boy in the basket on the front of Joyce’s bike. I was worried she’d jump straight out but she put her front paws over the edge and looked ahead expectantly.
‘How did she lose her leg?’ Cora asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But she does fine without it.’
Cora nodded.
‘It’s our differences that make us interesting,’ she said. ‘Luca told me that.’
I smiled, trying to remember that for the next time he made a quip about Jules.
The bike was a bit stiff and Cora was way faster than me. But after a while we found a few dirt tracks and rode at the same pace. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I’d left home (there was no point having one on the streets; they only got nicked). It was nice to be moving all smooth and effortless, the breeze in my hair, the wheat sheaves glowing in the sun like they were abl
aze.
We had a couple of races. Boy’s ears flapped back in the wind. Sunrays shone warm on our back as we sailed through the wheat, the wind blowing our clothes, plastic beads glinting on our wrists. It sort of felt like my own little girl was riding beside me, that if I closed my eyes and opened them she’d be right there, copper-red pigtails sailing behind her, nose covered in freckles.
Then I saw a figure.
He stood in the distance, a tall dark thing, hands shoved in his pockets. I hit the brakes.
‘Who’s that?’ I said.
Cora stopped ahead of me. She looked across the landscape, caught sight of the tall thin man and shrugged. I tried to focus, to see how he was holding himself. The clothes on his body billowed in and out. It was Rusby.
‘I’ll go check,’ Cora said.
I gripped the handlebars.
‘No, Cora!’
But she’d already started. I began to pedal. He must have been following us all this time, waiting to get me alone.
Except I wasn’t alone. I was with Cora.
Rusby’s arm reached up as if waving. It looked like a friendly wave but nothing stayed friendly with Rusby for long. Above me the birds were gathering in a big black cluster. They created a whirlpool in the sky. Boy began barking.
‘Wait!’ I screamed.
I could hear Cora laughing as she pedalled ahead. She thought it was a game. The noise of the birds grew louder, as if they were warning her to stop. I squeezed the brakes, tipped the bike to its side and rested a foot on the ground. Boy leapt out, running straight after Cora. I leant forwards.
‘CORA! STOP!’
Her back tyres spat out a cloud of dust. She put her feet on the ground and came to a halt. Boy ran straight past her, then circled back as I caught up. Cora’s expression was wrinkled with confusion.
‘It’s all right, Molly,’ she said. ‘It’s not real.’
I looked down the field. The fabric was still billowing in and out but I could see now that it was nailed to a pole. Above me the birds scattered.
It was just a scarecrow.
Molly Becomes King of the Beasts
I see the things no one else sees: fireworks exploding in a crowded living room, grey wings sprouting from the back of an ordinary man, scarecrows that look like an enemy. They’re real to me, but not to others, so I try not to tell anyone about them. Except, of course, Rusby. I told him the first time I met him.
It was in the queue outside the old church building where we got free lunches. It was a popular place to go for a hot meal, a pudding and a friendly face. Usually Jules would be there, chatting away to whoever would listen, but she’d made amends with her mum and they were on a shopping trip. No matter how hard her mum tried, they always ended up at the army surplus store.
I’d been queuing for about five minutes when the man in front, dressed in a green raincoat and a pair of yellow wellingtons with faces drawn on the toes, began mumbling and laughing and wagging his finger up and down. I didn’t realize he was talking to me until he spun around and grabbed my shoulders with his thick fingers. He put his face close to mine and shouted like an evangelical preacher, ‘You are the devil and you will not tempt me!’
I can’t remember much about his face other than his eyes, so wide you could see red veins weaving through the white. That’s when Rusby stepped from the back of the line, taking the man by his arm, twisting it behind his back and shoving him against the wall. The man struggled at first, still spouting about temptation and the devil, but then two charity workers came out of the church, split them up and took the man to the side. Rusby stood by me, tall and broad, twice the man he’d be a few years later.
‘You all right, sweetheart?’ he said. Then, before I had a chance to reply, ‘Don’t mind if I nip in here, do you?’
He pointed to the space in front of me and slipped straight in. I looked back at the man as he brought a crucifix out of his pocket and started pointing it at the sky. Rusby rubbed his hands together and shook his head.
‘Bloody nutter,’ he said. ‘Thinking you were the devil.’
I crossed my arms and shrugged.
‘Everybody sees things, I guess.’
He froze, but then smiled, front tooth crooked in an otherwise perfect set.
‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘What is it you see, darling?’
I shrugged, feeling my cheeks burn.
‘All sorts.’
He nudged me on the arm.
‘I bet you do.’
I didn’t know what he meant. I don’t think he did either. But the comment made us both laugh. As the doors opened he followed the queue as it shuffled forwards.
‘This is the thing,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘A man should never put his hands on a woman … Unless it’s consensual, of course.’
My cheeks were burning again.
‘But nah, seriously,’ he said. ‘I would never let a man disrespect a woman. Stick with me, sweetheart, and I’ll make sure nobody touches a hair on your pretty little head.’
I was young. I believed him.
When we got back from the wheat field, Joyce made us all lunch. I sat on a chrome stool by the marble island in the kitchen, watching her toss olives and feta and salad leaves into a mixing bowl. She did it real elegant, splashing vinaigrette and sprinkling in bright peppers from jars as she went along. It was kind of relaxing watching her do it. I got to thinking that maybe I should tell Joyce about the whole Rusby situation, that maybe she could give me some sage advice. She seemed the type to give sage advice, like she knew about the world, not in the streetwise-survival way me and Jules did, but in the reads-thick-books-and-knows-stuff way. But, before I could say anything, she was washing her hands and calling for Luca.
I took the salad and went to the living room where Luca’s dad was sitting with the Financial Times in front of his face again. I thought it best to leave him to it and sat down in the armchair opposite. Cora wasn’t hungry and had gone upstairs to watch an episode of Doctor Who online, taking Boy with her. She hadn’t told anyone about the scarecrow.
When Luca came into the living room he was covered in dust. Joyce strolled in with ceramic dishes full of bread rolls and began pouring us all a glass of red wine. People look down on the homeless for drinking during the day but it was OK there in the living room. Perhaps it’s where you drink that matters. I thought I’d tell Jules that later.
Luca gave me a half-smile, which I was glad about because it meant he wasn’t cross any more.
Joyce leant back in her chair, folding one leg beneath her bottom and holding her glass like a goblet. She started talking about a ‘breakthrough’ on her painting – something to do with contrast and lines. She talked non-stop and with such intensity it didn’t matter if I concentrated or joined in.
‘Enough about me,’ she said eventually. ‘Tell me more about you, Molly.’
I shrugged slowly.
‘What do you want to know?’ I said.
‘Oh, the usual,’ she said. ‘Where you’re from, what your parents do.’
She leant back as though waiting for a big long yarn. Luca stiffened in his seat but didn’t say anything. I kind of wished he would because I hadn’t talked about that stuff for a while. Nobody really asks about your family when you’re on the streets. They know it’s dodgy ground.
‘I was born in Nottingham,’ I said. ‘My mother works in PR. My dad’s a policeman.’
I don’t know how I did it, telling the truth all smooth and easy when just saying the words felt like pins were being pushed into my windpipe.
‘A policeman,’ Joyce said, looking over at Stu with raised eyebrows.
As soon as she said that I knew I should have lied. This was the whole problem, people being impressed with job titles, people thinking it defined a person.
‘And what type of work do you do?’
I wrapped my palms around the head of the wine glass. It was such a big glass that my fingers didn’t even meet. I looked down
at the burgundy pool.
‘I’m not working at the minute,’ I said.
I took a gulp of wine, hoping that’d be the end of it.
‘Studying?’ Joyce said.
Luca was poking his salad, pulling out the pieces of feta and pushing them into his cheek.
‘Give it a break, Mother,’ he said.
Joyce raised her eyebrows, ready to object, but when she looked at me she must have seen how awkward I was feeling. She lowered her glass.
‘I’m sorry, Molly, I wasn’t trying to be nosey.’
Luca stuffed another piece of feta into his mouth.
‘Yes, you were.’
I held the glass tighter in my hand. I felt guilty being so cagey. Joyce had been so nice, giving me a bed, food, the dress, taking me to the wheat field, letting me borrow her bike. It seemed the least I could do was to tell her the truth.
‘I used to work on the streets,’ I said.
Her expression blossomed with hope.
‘Performance?’ she said.
I looked at Luca. I hadn’t told him yet. I hadn’t told him anything really. If he’d asked I would have. I really would have. I pulled the rubber bands on my wrist, feeling the sting as they smacked my skin.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sex work.’
Stu lowered his paper. He did it the way an actor might in a spy film, all slow, eyes peeking over the top. I looked down at my glass as the room went dark. People expect you to look a certain way when you’re a sex worker. Six-inch heels, fishnet tights, rouged lips and mini-skirts: the ultimate fancy-dress prostitute. Some of the parlour girls dressed that way but when you work on the streets you just want to keep warm. Denim jeans, a thick coat and canvas shoes were my uniform. The men never seemed to mind.
I kept looking at the glass in my hands, red droplets sitting along the rim like blood. I didn’t want to see the expressions on their faces.
I should have explained it better. How I’d never planned it. How when me and Rusby got together and into the habit it was the only way. Better that than him robbing and getting put in the nick again. At least this way he wouldn’t be hurting anyone else. Just me, if things went wrong. I opened my mouth to explain but then I closed it again. It’s not unique, my story. Plenty of girls did it, lads too, though I never saw much of them. Yasmin from Glasgow had worked in a massage parlour, which she said was better because you got protection, but they would never let someone like me in. The problem with parlour girls is they look down on the streetwalkers because they themselves have better working conditions and better pay. Of course, the high-end lasses look down on the parlour girls for the same reasons. Truth is, to most people we’re the same no matter how much we get paid – a bunch of sluts, slags, hookers and whores.
How to Find Home Page 13
