Porky

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Deborah Moggach

Title Page

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Read on for an extract from
Something to Hide

Copyright

Deborah Moggach is one of four daughters in a writing family. She is the prize-winning author of numerous TV screenplays, including
Goggle-Eyes, Seesaw, Close Relations
and
Final Demand.
Her novels include
The Stand-In, The Ex-Wives
and
Tulip Fever
, which is shortly to be filmed by Steven Spielberg's DreamWorks and, most recently,
These Foolish Things.
She has also written two books of short stories. She has a son and a daughter, and lives in north London.

You Must be Sisters

Close to Home

A Quiet Drink

Hot Water Man

Driving in the Dark

To Have and To Hold

Smile and Other Stories

Stolen

The Stand-In

The Ex-Wives

Changing Babies

Seesaw

Close Relations

Tulip Fever

Final Demand

These Foolish Things

AT SCHOOL THEY
called me Porky, on account of the pigs. They hadn't learnt to at primary school. When you're small you just talk about yourself all the time; your little doings. You don't have the interest in anyone else, do you, so you can't work out how to hurt them.

But when I moved into the big school they were older and they'd kept their eyes open. They'd driven past our place often enough, with their Mums and Dads. Our bungalow, it's right there on the A4. You probably know the road, it's the main one running past Heathrow Airport. You might have seen our place, in fact. It's the one with the pig field in front. I had no idea, then, that it was different.

That's where we lived. Not far from the runway, us and the pigs, and you might ask: was it noisy? If we'd had visitors they'd have shouted that question, politely, over the roar. But we never had any visitors. And because nobody did much talking at home, nobody had to shout. The planes interfered with the telly, of course, you couldn't hear the jingles, but then they always kept the telly on loud, my Mum and Dad. Was that noisy? Yes.

Girls are meanest. It was the girls who stood in a huddle, holding their noses. They didn't do it, you bet, where our teacher could see; they did it in the cloakroom. ‘Now Wash Your Hands', it said on the toilet paper. I'd hear them scuffling outside. I could see their sandals under the door, waiting. I prayed for the bell to ring. But if it didn't, I had to go to the basins.

Then the chorus would start. ‘Poo-ee', honking because they'd pinched in their nostrils. Maureen, the biggest, once bent down to inspect my shoes. For manure, she said. Sometimes they crooned a song, swaying, linking arms:

It wouldn't have lasted so long if I hadn't blushed. They would have got bored with that Porky business. It was my blush that told them I minded. I have this fair complexion, pink and white. People liked it later; Arabs liked it all right. But then I hated the blush creeping up and my face swelling.

At school you see yourself for the first time. You're not really born until then. Gwen, who became my friend, she pinched a charcoal stick from the art room to draw eyelashes on our faces. She said to me ever so kindly, I remember the exact words, she said,

‘Does wonders for little piggy eyes.'

It was a moment later that I realized she meant me. Her smudged, spider eyes gazed at my face.

That night I shut myself in the bathroom for a good look. They were. My eyelashes were so pale, you see. We just had a single light bulb and I turned my head this way and that . . . The light shone through them; my face got redder. I blushed for every reason, even when I was alone. I blushed at the fact I was blushing. Years later somebody called me shameless. They hadn't the first idea . . . Nobody had.

Anyway, the name stuck. I got to know the other girls, and the boys. They forgot about holding their noses; they lost the interest. But the name stayed. The teachers were the only ones who called me Heather – in fact, sometimes even the teachers let a ‘Porky' slip out. I was a lump of a girl then, before I slimmed down. A big girl, with my pink face and my blonde hair; no wonder the piggy name stuck.

But they should never have sniffed the air like that. I was one of the cleanest people in the school. If I ponged of anything, it was talc. I used to bring the tin in with me. I'd go into the toilet and take off my socks and sprinkle my feet.

No, I was always scrubbing. My face felt starched from washing. Nobody knew, of course. I didn't tell anyone, not Gwen, not my Mum. How it was on the inside that I was dirty. I didn't tell anyone later, when I was older. Once or twice I nearly spoke. Just once or twice, sitting on some bar stool somewhere, thousands of miles away from here, I nearly did, just to see the expression on some stranger's face. As long as it was someone I'd never see again.

But I never told. I'm nineteen now. I don't know why I'm telling it tonight, except that I can't go out. I haven't gone out for a week. Nowadays I've got all the time in the world.

I'm sitting at the window; outside the sky is flushed. Swallows are sitting on the telegraph wires; each evening there's more of them, as if someone's stringing beads. Soon they'll be flying south, like I used to do. We used to take off in the evening and fly right over the sunset, right over the end of the horizon and never meet the night at all. We'd fly round into the next day. None of the passengers would see it because they were asleep, heads lolling, the portholes shut. But I did. Weird things happened inside me; I didn't have a regular period for a year.

It's easiest telling like this, to nobody. I couldn't tell it to a person. He's asleep. I can hear snores through the wall. I have all night . . . So I might be able to tell you, as long as I don't know who you are.

There were four of us, when my Mum was around. She wasn't, much. It was years later that I discovered why. At the time I thought all parents were like them. You think that when you're little . . . No, you don't even think. They're yours; you can't see any different. They're all you've got.

My Mum's name was Coral and she'd once been good-looking, before she wore herself out. Blonde, like me. She'd met my Dad in Ipswich long ago, when he was working on the fairground. It travelled all over the south of England. The Mercers, that's my Dad's family, in those days they owned four rides, ‘Mercer' lit up in the electric lights. People called them travellers.

But when she got married my Mum wasn't having any of that, on account of the mud, and the moving from place to place. Even more, there was the lack of privacy. You'd hang up your washing, she'd say, and half the town would be counting your socks. (She wasn't the type to mention the other items.) I'd picture her, the pale bride. At night she never budged. She'd sit in the trailer, behind a nylon curtain, the lights flashing on and off against her cheek. At midnight they were switched off and there was no sound except the local girls squealing.

Years later, in the hen-house, my Dad told me it was because he'd been such a naughty boy. That's why she'd objected. I didn't try to believe him; I was just trying not to listen. Whatever the reason, they had some money saved and my Mum had her way, as she did in most things, and they moved into the bungalow where I was born.

My Dad said it broke him, settling down; he said he was a broken man. His eyes would grow moist at this point. He said you couldn't get a bloke like him to stay put for the rest of his natural days. He usually said this when Mum was telling him to get up and do something. He was a heavy smoker. He'd sit there in the haze, looking out of the window. We had a concrete yard. Beyond the railway carriage where the hens lived, there was this old caravan. It didn't have any wheels; it stood on blocks. The windows were rusted shut and the door was rusted open, hanging on one hinge. Nettles grew around it, and long, dead grass, like blonde hair. Indoors the haze hung, dimming the furniture, but outside the wind blew the pale grass flat. And every two minutes, overhead, came the roar of the planes.

So it was my Dad who stayed put, in home sweet home. He had the pigs, of course. They were in the field between our bungalow and the main road. Then there were his schemes. There was always some business project on the go. We had one other field, next to the pigs' field, adjoining the road. He'd painted this sign outside saying ‘Long Term Car Park 50p a Day'. A lad he knew from West Drayton, the son of one of his mates, he was supposed to be there standing guard, but then it turned out he was still supposed to be at school, so the council took him away. Then Dad persuaded this old bloke Paddy to do it. But Pad was always complaining about his bad back, and the damp, he had the same problems as my Dad, so he'd pop off to warm himself at the café down the road, just beyond the roundabout. He warmed himself for days.

So it was left to my Dad. He'd keep watch at the front window, waiting for custom; on fine days he'd sit outside on the veranda, growing ruddier in the sun. That's why he stayed there, to watch for business. There wasn't a lot of it about. The airport authorities had an off-airport parking lot with a connecting bus service. The Excelsior Hotel had built another one, just down the road. And folk got fed up with being stuck in our mud. But there were sometimes four or five cars sitting there amongst the thistles. That meant money to collect, if he could catch them before they raced off.

Then he had his deals. He never spoke of them, he preferred to keep the mystery, but they meant driving along to the Two Magpies, or the haulage depot, or his mates in the airport taxi rank. This was a wire compound where they parked until the light flashed with their number. He knew a lot of cabbies. Years later, when I'd left home and I took taxis for granted, I chatted with a cabbie called, would you believe it, Bernie, and he said that down at the airport were the hottest poker games around. He said they'd sit in each other's cabs; their numbers would flash up on the board but they played on like the blind. They gambled away their cabs and had to start from scratch, hiring another one from the big boys and working up from the bottom again. I don't know what my Dad gambled away. All I know is that we never had any money coming in, apart from what my Mum earned.

Dad's other business was haulage. He had a truck that he used to transport the pigs; also a lorry. But we didn't have a phone and usually one or the other was broken, its pistons or its big end gone, something impossible like that. He'd lie underneath, fiddling and cursing. But sometimes, just sometimes, he had to make a delivery. And then he would be gone, to Nottingham or to Hull. When I was young I didn't want him to leave. But when I was older, those were the best days.

Sooner or later I'll have to describe him. But I'd rather wait. First I'll tell you what my Mum did. There was no shortage of jobs round our way, what with the airport, and all the hotels coming up. You must know our area. Not so many people live there but the whole world seems to be passing through. As fast as they can, too, in order to reach somewhere else. Nobody stopped longer than a night at one of the hotels, and that's if they had a flight to catch. What would they stop for? Whoever stood guard at our car park, they were buffeted by the passing traffic. Old Pad couldn't keep his hat on. Apart from him, you'd be lucky to see another human being walking along the verge. They all whizzed by in cars. It was this one great transit area, catering for people who were going somewhere else . . . With us in the middle.