Porky (15 page)

‘No, let's get out.'

‘What a relief!' He started edging through the bodies, towards the french window. ‘Hold on tight. I don't want to lose you.'

I gripped his hand as we felt our way round the armchairs, and the warm bulk of the humans in them.

‘Whoops,' said Jonathan. ‘Sorry.'

We arrived; it was easier to see here, because of the street lights beyond the gardens. He fiddled with the catch and opened the french window. We stepped out. We stood on the chill, dewy lawn. He breathed deeply, then he whispered,

‘Blessed is thy silence, oh night, after all that snapping elastic.'

The garden was bathed in a dim, white light. Behind us stood the house, packed with people; music thumped, as if its heart were beating. We stood silently, breathing the sharp winter air, then he crooked his arm.

‘Ready, darling?' he drawled. ‘Let's inspect the dahlias.'

I put my arm through his and we scrunched slowly down the path.

‘Useful chappies, gardeners,' I said. ‘What ho.'

‘What ho indeed.'

He stopped, and plucked something from the wall. ‘Have a peach.'

I opened my mouth and he pretended to pop something in. My lips brushed his fingers.

‘Scrumptious?' he asked. ‘Spiffing?'

‘Sooper-dooper, darling. Here.' I copied him, plucking air from the wall. Against my fingertips his mouth felt warm.

I put my arm back into his. We proceeded around the garden. It was so small we had to go slowly, or we'd arrive back at the french windows.

We stopped at a row of canes, with dead stalks still clinging.

I touched them. ‘Not quite ripe.'

‘You mean the grapes?' he drawled.

‘Quite so.'

‘Do hope they'll be ready for when the Duchess comes to dine.'

I sighed. ‘Oh, this social whirl.'

He stopped and picked a cabbage leaf, rolling it up and slotting it into the buttonhole of my dress. I did the same for him, poking one into his jacket.

‘Let's give them the slip,' he said. ‘What a spiffing wheeze. Let's hop on the yacht.'

‘Madeira, yet again? . . . What about Majoorca?'

He squeezed my arm.

Suddenly he lunged off to the bottom of the garden. A garage stood there. Against its wall was a heap of bricks. He climbed to the top and held out his hand. I climbed up. He hauled himself on to the garage roof and sat there, panting. Then he hauled me up. In his normal voice he asked,

‘You all right? Tights OK?'

I nodded.

‘My little sister climbs like a monkey, you should see her. She's only eight.'

‘What's she called?' I asked.

‘Maxine. Awful name, isn't it? She hates it too. You'd like her.'

‘Do you climb with her?'

‘When nobody's looking. Are you freezing?'

I nodded and he put his arm round me. We sat hunched, looking at the lighted windows of the houses.

‘Have you ever had an Advent calendar?' he asked.

‘No. What is it?'

‘Little windows and doors; you open each one and it's the most magical sight . . .'

We gazed at the assorted yellow windows.

‘I'll buy you one before Christmas,' he said. ‘It's not too late to catch up.'

We sat there in silence. I hardly dared breathe, in case I let out my joy. He touched my nose.

‘Hmm, as I thought: icy.'

I touched his. ‘So's yours.'

He tilted my head round and kissed me, terribly gently. I don't know how long it lasted. I heard the wind soughing through the garden trees, miles below.

Finally he drew back.

He said shakily, ‘I've been longing to do that for two terms.'

I couldn't reply straight away. I said, ‘Have you?'

‘Haven't had much practice, though.'

‘Haven't you?'

‘In fact, none at all.' He rested his head on my shoulder. ‘Zero.'

‘Why not?'

‘Never met anybody else I wanted.'

There was a long silence.

‘Girls are more experienced than boys, aren't they?' he said. ‘I mean, being mature earlier . . .'

I stayed rigid. I couldn't reply.

‘One of the things about you . . .' he began, and stopped.

He wanted me to speak. At last I whispered, ‘What things?'

‘You don't seem like most of them . . . sort of brash and giggly . . . pretending to be all experienced.'

At last I said, ‘Don't I?'

‘No. You seem – well, innocent.
Proper.
Just right . . . as if you don't have to pretend anything.' He stopped. ‘You're shaking. Here.'

He was struggling out of his jacket.

‘Don't!' I said sharply.

He stopped, one arm in and one out. ‘But your poor teeth are chattering. Listen.'

‘Please don't!'

He stood up. ‘I'd hate it if you caught pneumonia. Your parents would never let me see you again.'

I stood up too. Inside me, something screamed:
stop this! I can't bear it!
It made me desperate, hearing him talk this way. Didn't he understand . . . couldn't he
see
? Couldn't he tell that underneath my clothes my nipples were sore from my Dad rubbing them?

Just then he took something from his pocket and knelt down. It was a piece of chalk. On the garage roof he wrote, swiftly, in huge childish letters:
I LUV HEVER
. He stood up, then he dropped to his knees again and added:
FOR EVER AND EVER
.

Back in the house I told him that I was going to powder my nose. He said he'd make me a hot rum, and went into the kitchen. Perhaps he just thought I was too frozen to speak. I paused for a moment, looking back.

‘Wotcha, Jon,' said Terry, nudging him. ‘You been somewhere?'

But Jonathan ignored the remark, and eased his way through the crowd.

More people were dancing now. I found Gwen glued to Nick. Her father was going to pick us up; we'd arranged a sleepover at her house.

I grabbed her arm.

‘What's the matter?' she asked. ‘What's the hurry?'

‘My Dad's turned up,' I hissed. ‘I'm going home with him.'

‘OK.' She closed her eyes again, in bliss.

I snatched my coat and was out of the house before the record finished. Clutching my fur collar I started running, clattering along the street. Tears were streaming down my face. I had no idea where I was going. My heart bumped against my ribs.

I left the houses behind. I couldn't run any more; my shoes were crippling me. Now I was walking fast along the lane, with bare hedgerows either side. It was foggy out here. In the orange sodium mist the lane looked like some nightmare when you can't close your eyes. Eventually I reached the main road. Headlights swung round; I was at the big roundabout two miles from home, right the other end of the airport.

It would only take half an hour to walk down this road, our own A4, back home; but home was the last place I could face. Opposite stood the Cosmos Hotel. It's built like a concrete tower; you've seen it if you've been down here. I looked at my watch. I thought it had stopped and held it to my ear. It was still ticking. Amazingly enough, it was only 10.45.

I crossed over the road. Inside the foyer there were plenty of people milling around, and suitcases stuck with airline stickers. It was too big and anonymous for the reception men to catch my eye, thank goodness. On the walls hung lights like slabs of rock. I found my way to the ladies', to calm down. Two women stood at the mirror, painting their lips.

‘I could tell he was mad at me,' said one, ‘because he started picking on Barbara.'

Sitting in the lavatory, I inspected my tights. There was a hole on the thigh, where I'd grazed it climbing down from the roof. My high heels were streaked with mud; I spat on some toilet paper and rubbed it off. My heart would not stop thudding.

The women had gone. My hair was flattened, damply, from the fog. I brushed it. Jonathan had kissed away my lipstick so I renewed it, painting a crimson mouth. I kept on my coat, as security I suppose.

The bar was dimly-lit. Some people sat at a table, roaring with laughter. Otherwise the customers, mostly men, were scattered here and there. I looked so adult, in my suede coat, that the barman scarcely paused.

‘Rum and Coke, please.'

Beside me, two men turned back to their conversation.

‘It was Wolverhampton.'

‘Should've told me. I have influence in Wolverhampton.'

A snort of laughter. ‘I was under the influence in Wolverhampton.'

The other one patted him on the back. ‘Must toddle. Patrick's waiting in the lounge.'

He left. There was a silence. The barman brought my drink. The only money in my purse was a ten-pound note – if you remember, my dad had given me twenty pounds recently.

On the next stool the remaining man watched the transaction. His eyebrows rose.

‘Ah . . . a kept woman.'

A pause. I could think of no reply to this.

He leaned over and patted my shoulder. ‘Only my little joke. Don't mind me.'

I put all the change, all the crumpled notes, back into my purse.

‘Drives my friends bananas,' he said.

I looked at him for the first time. He was nearly bald. In the dim light his face was as round as a moon. He had loosened his tie.

‘All forgiven?' He must be waiting for a response. ‘Shake hands and kissy-kissy?'

He held out his hand. I shook it, and turned back to sip my drink. Trouble was, I had difficulty lifting the glass. I don't think anyone noticed.

‘Now we've got that straight, may I introduce myself? Name's Jim.'

‘Hello.'

‘And who do I have the pleasure . . .?'

‘Heather.'

‘Heather . . . lovely name for a lovely girl. Use these, Heather?' He offered a cigarette.

‘No thanks.'

‘And what's a girl like you,' he flicked his lighter, ‘doing in this den of iniquity?'

I shrugged.

‘Don't tell me, Heather – you knew I'd be here.' He snorted with laughter.

‘I live down the road.'

‘Do you, Heather? Can't say I know this area myself. Pass through it often enough.'

‘Where are you going now?'

‘Well, Heather, as my Nan would say, I'll be popping up to Bedfordshire.'

‘Bedfordshire?'

‘Beddy-byes, for my beauty sleep.'

‘I thought you meant you were going there . . .' I gulped down my drink.

‘What, me?' He snorted with laughter – it was a snort, I can't think how else to describe it. I told myself it was jolly. ‘No, no, I'm off to Eytie-land. Six-thirty at the airport.' He looked anxious, but added, ‘Still, always time for a drink with such a charming young lady. That need freshening?'

He swung round on his stool and clicked his fingers. From the side I saw his stomach, plump in the white shirt.

‘Rum and Coke for the young lady, and a tonic water.' He turned back, tapping his head. ‘Got to keep my facilities, as they say. Big day tomorrow.'

He took the tonic. I'd hoped he was going to be drunker than this.

‘Big day, Heather. Got to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.'

‘Why?'

‘Heard of Milan, Heather?'

I nodded.

‘That's where our fair's held. Bang in the middle of pastaland.' He paused, his voice sombre. ‘Seriously, Heather, that man you saw me with just now – that man is Bernard Goodall, our vice-chairman.' He paused. ‘Bernard and I get along fine, you might have noticed that. I think he enjoys my little jokes . . . Know why you have to have a few jokes, Heather?' He paused. ‘So you'll be remembered.'

I glanced around the room. The barman was clearing the tables now. There were only two other men left; I couldn't start all over again. In the corner of my eye, I saw this man looking at his watch. How many months ago had Jonathan pinched his watch, to look at its light?

‘I'm a lucky man, Heather. Bernard usually stays at the Sheraton, but there was some balls-up – pardon my French. Double-booking I expect. So he's here. As you saw, Heather, we had the opportunity for a good chin-wag. On a social, relaxed, level. That's very important, you know. I always say: one hour in the bar's worth eight hours in an office situation.'

I drained my drink. Thank goodness my head was starting to feel swimmy. It had taken long enough.

With a clunk the grid crashed down. There was a silence. I gazed at the caged bottles. Sue's parents would be home soon. What would he be doing?

‘And what do you do with yourself, Heather?'

‘Oh, this and that.'

‘Well well.' There was another long silence.

‘You're staying here?' I asked.

‘For my sins.'

‘Are the rooms nice?'

‘Sure. All mod cons. Oh yes, Bernard appeared satisfied. May not be the Sheraton, I told him, but what can you expect for twenty quid a night?'

‘I don't mind.'

There was a dead silence. As Gwen would say, you could hear the dandruff fall. This man was too bald for that. For some reason, I suddenly started giggling. I couldn't control it; I clutched my fur collar, juddering.

A hand touched my shoulder. ‘I say, are you all right? Did I say something funny?'

My giggles had gone as fast as they'd come. ‘Can I see it?' I said this quickly. If he didn't reply, I'd make a getaway.

‘Sure, Heather. Sure, if . . . er, that's what you'd like.'

‘Oh yes please.'

‘Fine, fine . . .'

‘What floor is it?' I asked wildly, for something to say.

‘The third . . . Now where are those keys?'

He rummaged around, fiddling with this and that. He spent some time searching for his cigarettes. ‘Where are the blighters . . .' he said.