Porky

  All I felt, that afternoon, was that I’d stopped knowing him quite so well.

  Chapter Four

  NOTHING MUCH HAPPENED the rest of the time Mum was in hospital. At least, nothing much that an outsider would notice. It was cool and showery; I spent most of the time in my bedroom. The day after the one I’ve described my Dad went into West Drayton and he came back with a bumper colouring and puzzle book, the best I’d ever seen. It had its own Cellophane bag of crayons too. They were too blunt for the join-the-numbers so I used my pencil for those pages. Hours of Fun, it was called; and I did spend hours lying on my bed, Kanga within reach. It was too young for me; I was ten after all, I could do all the puzzles easily. He often misjudged my age. But I liked that; it made me feel secure, it made me feel in control of things. And I didn’t have to ask my Dad about any of the brainteasers. Before, I’d enjoyed plonking myself on the settee beside him. We’d ponder together, him gnawing my pencil until it was damp and frayed. But now I preferred my room, with its glass animals all attentive on the shelf and the door closed.

  Nobody came into my room, you see. It might have been out of shyness – after all, I never went into their bedroom either. We were a modest family, I’ve told you that. On the other hand, perhaps they just weren’t bothered to visit my arrangements. My Mum and Dad always said goodnight in the lounge – they were usually in position by then, in front of the telly; often it was late because I didn’t really have a bedtime.

  It meant everything to me, my bedroom. It was small and narrow, but that made it safer. My Dad had put up a shelf; then there was the bed, of course, and my furry lion called Leo, with a zipped tummy with my nightie inside. I’d sorted my toys into different cardboard boxes which I’d covered with Christmas wrapping paper. I had several books; my favourite at that time was Gaye is a Ballerina, though I already knew I was too big to become a ballet dancer like Gaye. At night I closed the curtains. They were too short; from my bed I could see the black night beneath them. But I kept my eyes away from that before I went to sleep, and gripped Kanga instead.

  No, nothing could have looked much different. Dad behaved quite normally. A gale had blown down some corrugated iron; that was how the pigs’ field was fenced. My window looked out that side. I watched Dad stomping through the mud, wedging the gaps with planks and bits of rusty machinery. Around our place, things were always collapsing, or just about to. You couldn’t trust the floors not to give under your weight. He would have been pleased if I was out there helping him. But I stayed indoors, setting out the fences of my model farm. I only had six bits but they all slotted together and stood upright. I had two cows, a lamb and a carthorse with a harness on. It was satisfying, fencing them in. Outside it looked grey and treacherous.

  I did go and look for the piglets’ grave. I found a patch of lumpy clay, behind the caravan. This was a shame as the caravan was my special place. And I was anxious in case Rinty dug them up. But he was usually chained in the shed, or outside in the yard; he didn’t run loose like a pet. I went and sat in the caravan for a bit; I think it was still the Rosy Arms, that spring. It started raining again, pattering on the roof. I watched Dad come home. He stood at the porch, his jacket hunched round his head, banging first one boot and then the other to knock the mud off. Then he went inside.

  I remained sitting on the pile of sacks. I wanted my Mum to be home. I didn’t know why, but things had changed. In a word: I felt cautious. For instance, I didn’t want to go back indoors now, all wet, because then he might try to dry me. I wanted him to hug me, but I was frightened that he’d get upset. Over the next months I learned never to come in looking wet or shivery. I stopped saying I was cold, because then he might jump to his feet, all affectionate. I learned how to be clever and get myself indoors when he wasn’t there. Or else, whatever the weather, to come in all insouciante – a word I heard years later, and whose meaning was then horribly familiar.

  I stayed in the Rosy Arms some time, hoping the rain would stop. I was anxious about him coming out and finding me doing nothing. That would make us both uneasy. On the other hand, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do. This was the sort of thing that happened – or didn’t happen. As I said, it was nothing dramatic.

  What happened next may not seem dramatic either. It was a couple of days later and I’d gone along the main road to see my friend. I didn’t know her name; she was a grown-up. We often had a chat together; she was always kind to me. She sat at a lay-by not far from our gate, selling flowers. She had beautiful flowers, in buckets, and she sold them to the passing motorists. The blooms came from the market garden farther down the road. I suppose people bought the flowers on their way to the airport to greet their nearest and dearest. Then there were the businessmen flying home; perhaps they bought a bouquet for their wives as a peace offering. She was always well buttoned-up, because of the wind and the traffic, and she had a tiny dog, which was her pride and joy; he had a jewelled collar and I used to play with him.

  Anyway, that day I’d told my Dad I was going for a walk. I must have been away about an hour. My friend chatted, as usual, about her boys and how well they were doing. They were both grown-up now. She said she lived for them and for her little Shoo-Shoo or something, I could never understand her dog’s name. In the end I wandered back home. There were bangings from the shed, where my Dad must be busy. I went indoors.

  I stopped at my bedroom door. I’d left it closed, and now it was open. Inside, there was a stale smell. I knew exactly how I’d left it. Now I saw that the eiderdown had been sat on: the sateen had sunk in the middle. My Girl annual, which I’d left shut on my pillow, now lay open. And on the floor was a saucer with two cigarette stubs in it.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. Outside, the hens were clucking. I’d always felt reassured by the hens; they seemed like aunties, comfortable and gossipy. But today they didn’t sound like that; they knew what had happened, they were clucking amongst themselves, they were keeping it from me. I kept looking at the stubs. He must have sat there a long time, to smoke two.

  Teddy was born in the middle of the night. Next day we went to see him. I couldn’t believe he belonged to us, with his red face and his froggy legs jerking. He didn’t have a name yet. I didn’t dare touch him.

  Dad laughed at me, but then I could see him hardly daring either. He sat there, pushing his hand through his hair over and over again; he was as silent as when he saw the piglets. Then he said, ‘Well I’ll be buggered.’ Dad’s fingers were so big, and stiff from working outdoors. He’d cleaned his nails specially but the cracks in his skin were always black, he couldn’t do anything about them. He leaned over and, very carefully, pulled down Teddy’s nightie so his mauve feet were covered. Mum was telling us about the trials she’d been through, the agonies, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the baby. Just then he sneezed – a tiny, wet, human noise, and I knew that I would love him always.

  They were both ever so pleased, of course, that he was a boy. My Dad was so proud he behaved as if it was him who’d given birth, not Mum. It was Tuesday, the day we did the bins at the Skyscape Hotel. We drove round the rear as usual, the empty bins banging in the back of the truck. One of the waiters was out there having a smoke. You know what the Spanish are like about babies. He put his arms around my Dad and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘A son!’ he shouted. ‘You dirty sod!’

  Then the maintenance man came out. His name was Frank, like my Dad.

  ‘I have to say it, Frank,’ repeated Dad. ‘I’m over the moon.’

  Frank wiped his hand on his overalls and pumped my Dad’s arm up and down.

  ‘Over the moon,’ my Dad said again.

  Then the waiter fetched a bottle of green stuff and four little glasses. I tasted it, and they laughed when I winced. Dad offered round the fags. There was a festive mood in the yard, which smelt of everybody else’s rotting dinners. Then a man in a black suit came out and shouted something Spanish at the waiter. By now Dad and Frank look
ed as if they were jointly responsible for Teddy’s birth. They heaved the pig bins into the truck.

  There was a festive mood at home too. Dad went out to the pub that night, and when he returned I heard shouts in the yard and Rinty’s hysterical barks. We hardly ever had people in. I was in bed.

  When I heard them I got up and put on my dressing gown. I knew all the men. Dad carried in a crate of bottles which rattled when he banged against the table. They sat around being very friendly with me. Archie, from the pub, kept talking about the gooseberry bush and winking at the others. Of course, I knew perfectly well that babies came out of people’s bottoms because I’d seen the kittens being born. Dad must know that I knew, too, but he kept making jokes about the stork and how the stork had a job of it, what with the aeroplanes. Then they all had a laugh about flight arrivals and – because Teddy was overdue – about flight delays.

  It was then that it hit me. I can remember every detail, even now, nine years later. I was sitting on the floor between Dad’s feet; he liked me sitting there. There were his boots, one on each side, and the carpet. Glasses stood on the carpet, and an empty Cellophane square from a packet of cigarettes. Our single lampshade hung from the ceiling, casting a dim yellow light; ahead of me the telly was a grey blank. I concentrated on the carpet. My cheeks and my scalp were prickling hot.

  You see, I knew how babies came out, but I also knew how they got in. With saliva. Nobody had told me in so many words, but I knew about a seed being passed from the man to the woman, once they were married, and I’d worked out how it happened. It could only happen during the long, uncomfortable kissing at the end of TV films. They had to keep glued like that to give it time.

  My Dad and I had done that. It had lasted too long, hadn’t it, and all the time his big wet tongue had been pushing the seed in.

  I kept my eyes on the carpet. It was dark red, and dirty, with a swirly black pattern like smouldering fireworks. The laughter echoed miles above me, from a canyon. Why hadn’t I realized this before? Had I been deliberately putting it out of my mind? I sat with my knees hunched up, pressing my face into my dressing gown. I’d never seen my Mum and Dad kissing but then I knew they did that in their bedroom. After all, my Mum had made those stifled noises, as if she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Look at her, then,’ said a voice. ‘Popped off.’

  ‘Don’t she look peaceful?’

  ‘Should be tucked up safe and sound.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we all?’

  I sat very still. I didn’t want them to leave.

  Dad’s boots moved. ‘Upsy-daisy, Podge,’ said his voice. ‘Action stations.’

  I made myself go limp as he lifted me up and carried me into my room. He didn’t attempt to undo my dressing-gown buttons, thank goodness. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t manage the sheets so he laid me on them and put the eiderdown on top. He sat down heavily for a moment, catching his breath; then he climbed to his feet and I heard him tiptoe out and shut the door.

  Next morning he slept until midday. I’d already let the hens out. I could tell the time by the animals’ noises – noon: the hens standing around the back porch making enquiring sounds in their throats; Rinty stirring in the shed and rattling his chain. I was usually right, because then the hooter sounded in the depot.

  I stood in the lounge. I’d drawn the curtains and opened the windows. I looked at the bottles, and the saucers full of ash. How could my baby brother survive in a house like ours? My Mum had been given a plant once, when she’d left a job. It was a big glossy one. She’d watered it all right but the leaves went mottled, then crinkled brown, as I knew they would. It died, still wrapped in its ribbon. It was too new for the place we lived. Wouldn’t the same thing happen to our baby?

  I was worried about myself too. I cleared up the lounge and emptied the ashtrays. I tried to concentrate on what I was doing. In the kitchen I stopped and felt my tummy. It was the usual firm bulge. I knew I’d get fatter, of course, but surely you had to be grown-up, and married, and wearing a bra, to start a baby?

  I couldn’t think who to ask. Not Dad, for a start, and certainly not Mum. I wouldn’t be seeing my two friends at primary school, Nancy and Debbie, until next term, and anyway I had a feeling they didn’t even know as much as I did. I needed an adult. The ones I knew were mostly men, Dad’s mates, which ruled them out. Oonagh, who’d minded me when I was little, was also no good because she was my Mum’s friend; they talked together in a hushed, significant way. I’d chatted to some of the ladies who picked the cabbages in the field behind us, but they weren’t around now because it was spring.

  I decided to ask my friend with the flowers. She was kind and I felt, because she was always going on about her boys and her cruel kidneys, that she wouldn’t be too nosey about why I wanted to know.

  I went down the drive and out along the road. Cars roared past. I’d brought along Kanga for security. Her neck was getting thin and her grey head nodded as we walked. If only I could ask her; after all, she was a mum. Roo’s head poked out, with his dear glassy eyes. They both looked wise but I knew by then that I could no longer ask them questions.

  The lady wasn’t there. Beside the lay-by was the bald patch of earth where she usually put her chair. Some days she didn’t turn up. She’d told me she was a happy-go-lucky soul, despite her complaints, and life wasn’t going to get her down. She must be off somewhere, gadding about.

  I walked slowly home, Kanga’s head lolling. I went into our garage, where my old pram was stored. Dad had removed the heap of plastic sacks and newspapers, in preparation. I looked inside it, for the first time in years. There was the rubber mattress where I had lain, once; there was the tear in the lining where I had liked inserting my forefinger, wriggling it to and fro. How snug I must have been, tucked up, with nothing on my mind. I shivered; the garage, being concrete, was always chilly. It was full of junk; there had never been room for our truck. I wanted to pull out the pram and wash it for my new-born brother, but I couldn’t move all the stuff without Dad.

  Mum had given him a list for Woolies. We drove there that afternoon. I followed Dad down the aisles. He kept pausing with his piece of paper and rubbing his nose. I usually loved shopping with him, and today should have been the best day of all. Soon he gave up and I took over the list, collecting the terry nappies and the bags of cotton wool. I felt light-headed and queasy, both at the same time; I couldn’t catch up with what we were doing. How soon before I had a baby too? I found a packet of bootees: cream knitted ones. ‘Birth – 6 months’, said the label. It was six whole days since that thing had happened in the armchair. He hadn’t said a word about it; all I knew was that later he’d sat in my bedroom.

  Today, since he’d woken up he’d been more silent than ever, and his eyes were rimmed pink. I dreaded him saying something, of course; I felt sick at the possibility. But there we were, choosing baby clothes together. I should be thinking about my baby brother, not myself. Was Dad ever going to tell me the truth? I must be too young to have a baby, with my flat chest. I would have to ask a stranger.

  I inspected the check-out lady . . . Someone like her, who I might not see again. But I couldn’t just blurt it out while she pinged the till, could I? And with him there.

  On the way back he put his hand on my knee.

  ‘Sorry, Podge. Not quite myself today.’

  Silently I pleaded with him not to explain why, and it worked. He didn’t.

  Mum’s bandages made it all more confusing. I’d noticed them, of course, but I pretended not to see. I thought I knew how babies were born, but there she was, trussed up half-way to her collar bone. She’d buttoned up her nightie but you could see gaps when she moved. There was woolly bandage in there, wrapped round and round and fastened with safety pins. I made sure on my second visit. Was this part of the Complications? I must have got it wrong, this baby business. I’d thought you had to have bosoms, but now she’d bandaged hers flat. They looked as flat as mine. So did that mean I could ha
ve one too?

  That visit I had to go to the toilet. I was just washing my hands when a nurse came through the door. She stood beside me, filling a vase with water. If she hadn’t smiled at me, and if we weren’t alone, I would never have dared.

  I just turned to her, calm as calm, and asked, ‘Do you know why my Mum’s wearing bandages?’

  ‘What – here?’ She indicated her chest. I nodded. My courage was draining away now.

  ‘It’s Mrs Mercer, isn’t it?’ she said.

  I nodded again.

  ‘They’re to help stop lactation. You see, she doesn’t want to feed baby herself. Some of our mums don’t.’ She paused, smiling kindly. ‘That answered it?’

  I nodded, of course. She went away. I stood there, rigid. There was a roaring in my ears.

  Acting as if nothing had happened, I made my way back to her bedside. Dad was standing, jiggling the baby. Mewling hiccups came from the bundle. No wonder the little thing was crying.

  I said quickly, ‘Can we take him home now?’

  Dad stopped. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can we bring him home?’

  Dad burst out laughing. Even my Mum smiled. There were some other babies crying, I could hear them now. They must be the other ones who weren’t going to be fed.

  ‘I’ll feed him.’ I looked desperately from Mum to Dad. ‘I promise.’

  ‘You’re an odd little thing.’ My Dad smiled. ‘Aren’t you just?’

  ‘He’s staying here with me,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the rules.’

  ‘Go on, give him a cuddle.’ Dad passed him to me. The bundle felt so light – I knew it would, he must be getting thinner by the minute. I touched his mouth with my little finger. He opened his mouth and my finger slid in.

  ‘That washed?’ demanded Mum.

  ‘In the toilets.’ His gums gripped me. He was sucking so hard I had to stop it showing on my face. I felt a sharp ridge where his teeth would be, if he lived to grow any.

  ‘Greedy little bugger, isn’t he?’ said Dad, with a stupid grin.