Porky (16 page)

We went outside. In the bright corridor he looked older. The pink skin hung on his face. He looked terribly tired. I wondered what his polished head would feel like under my fingers.

‘Er, let's take the stairs.' He led me that way. By avoiding the lift, I saw, we also avoided passing the lounge, where his boss might still be sitting.

We walked along the carpet. Two hours ago I'd been scrunching along a garden path. Hard to believe, really, that it had happened at all.

‘Bit of a pigsty, I'm afraid.' He was fiddling with the keys. ‘Wasn't expecting . . .' He cleared his throat, ‘er, such charming company.'

‘It doesn't matter,' I said politely. ‘Honestly.'

He opened the door. I went over to the window while he shuffled behind me, humming determinedly, pulling suitcases off the bed and doing something furtive with the underwear on the chair. He must have had a shower, all unsuspecting, when he'd arrived. Outside lay the airport, twinkling, and black office blocks. I suddenly thought: from Sue's upstairs windows they could read
I LUV HEVER
on the garage roof.

No doubt it would soon rain; it was a filthy winter. I pulled the curtains closed; they hissed like indrawn breath.

The chair was ready now. He pulled it out for me to sit down. He'd switched off the main light and put on the bedside one, with its tasselled shade.

‘Nice and cosy,' he said, rubbing his hands and trying to sound happy. The poor man just wanted to get to sleep. ‘Afraid I can't offer us a nightcap.'

He sat down on the bed, which creaked. ‘Phew,' he said. ‘Hot, isn't it?' He jumped up and took off his jacket. ‘Shall I help you off with that, Heather?'

I unbuckled my coat and he took it.

‘Nice piece of skin, this.' He was feeling the suede. ‘How much did this set you back? No, wait, I'll hazard a guess . . . Thirty-five?'

‘Thirty-seven.'

‘I'm in the leather business myself, Heather. The skin trade, ho ho . . . On the wholesale side.' He hung my coat behind the door. ‘Shame I didn't know you sooner. Could've got it at cost.'

‘Thank you.'

‘No trouble.'

He sat down on the bed again. There was a silence.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘nice piece of skin.'

‘My boyfriend bought it for my birthday.'

At once the atmosphere eased.

‘Boyfriend, eh?' He patted the counterpane. ‘Come and tell me about him, Heather.'

I went over and sat beside him.

‘What's he doing, letting a lovely girl like yourself out on her ownsome?' I felt an arm slide round my shoulder.

‘He doesn't know.'

‘Naughty naughty. You're how old? Sorry, I know ladies don't like to –'

‘Eighteen,' I lied.

‘A lovely, well-built girl like yourself.' He kneaded my woolly red shoulder. ‘When you sat beside me, Heather, I can tell you now, yours truly couldn't believe his luck.'

We sat side by side in silence, gazing at his suitcases. They must be full of skins. I imagined them packed away there: bald brown skins, tan skins, blue skins, folded on top of each other.

‘Shy, are we?' he murmured. ‘Let me tell you something, Heather; I'll be frank. I'm not really in the habit of doing this either . . .'

He turned my face, to kiss me, and paused. ‘Something's caught in your dress.'

I helped him pull out the cabbage-leaf. It tore, and the stalk stayed stuck in my buttonhole.

‘Fancied a bit of gardening, did you?' he said, smiling.

I scrunched up the leaf and leaned forward to throw it in the bin. Behind me the bed creaked as he moved back, at long last, to switch off the light.

I shifted back, close to him. It was dark now. The one thing I didn't want was him to kiss me, so I started stroking his thigh.

‘You do that to your boyfriend?' he murmured. ‘Like that?'

I shrugged, pretending to be casual. His hand was round me, stroking my woolly breast.

‘I'll be gentle, Heather . . . If this is what you want . . . If you're sure . . .' His voice was shaking now. ‘Trust me . . . you can trust me . . . I won't take advantage –'

I moved my hand up his thigh. He gasped. My bold hand worked on. I felt for a button but he wore different trousers, proper tailored ones, with a metal clip. He was breathing hoarsely.

‘Hey . . . Heather . . .'

My hand worked swiftly. I slid open the clip and pulled at the zip. It grated down. His underpants felt big and straining. I was breathing heavily too; for the first time in my life, I wanted it. He was shaking and very hot. Perhaps he'd get a coronary – salesmen did, didn't they?'

He shifted his position and I pulled down his trousers and underpants, right down to his ankles. I think both of us wanted to get it over quick. I kicked off my shoes and we keeled over. He pulled up my dress and I wrenched down my tights and knickers, dragging them off my feet.

‘Jesus . . .' he muttered.

I was still sore from my Dad, that afternoon, but I wanted this so much I didn't care. I took it in my hand and it slid in easily. My face was burning and my mouth was full of saliva. He was trying to kiss me but I twisted my head away. I didn't want to touch any of him; I kept my hands on his clenched, surprisingly smooth buttocks, pressing him in. He was a short man and not as heavy as my Dad, on top of me. His stomach was soft and he smelt of perfume. My Dad just pushed in and out but I knew what I wanted now. I gripped this body against me, wrapping my legs around him, and ground him into me, backwards and forwards. Heat was spreading through me, hotter each time, right up to my scalp. He was trapped around the ankles, his trousers hobbling him; up above, his shirt rubbed against my bunched dress. He pushed inside me harder now and then suddenly he cried out, a high, dying wail like a cat – a weirder sound than I was used to.

He lay panting, and much heavier.

I tried to nudge him on; I tried to keep grinding him against me. He mustn't stop. But he didn't seem to notice.

He stroked my hair. At last his breathing settled.

‘Well, well,' he said, ‘you're a hot little number, aren't you . . .'

He couldn't stop like this.

‘. . . super little mover.'

I lay under him, rigid. He planted a kiss on my forehead.

‘I don't think I'm flattering myself,' he murmured, ‘if I said that you seemed to enjoy it too . . .'

I remained silent and in a moment his breathing grew deep and regular. In the pillow, his lips made a rubbery noise as the air blew out.

I offloaded him. We both grunted but he stayed asleep. I lay there, gazing into the blackness.

At some point during the night I think I slept a little. The room smelt stuffily perfumed, and sour. It seemed an age before the light showed dully behind the curtains. I climbed up and went into the bathroom. Then I came back and pulled on my tights. The room was growing visible. One of my shoes was kicked under the table. As I knelt down, I saw his order forms on the table; I'd jogged the leg and they'd shifted. Underneath lay his wallet.

He must have hidden it when I stood at the window. I looked at the plump little man lying there, curled up, his trousers round his feet. He'd actually hidden his wallet, just in case.

I opened the wallet. No, he needn't have worried, I wasn't going to pinch his money. I found his business cards and held one to the light.

Walter, he was called. Not Jim. South Midlands Sales Representative for El-Dee-Kay Modern Leathers.

I pulled out a photo and went to the window. It was a colour snap. He wore a paper hat, and on his knee sat a little girl as plain as himself. They were both smiling, their eyes red as rabbits in the flashlight.

I put it back, put on my shoes and took one last look at him. Not Jim, but Walter. He hadn't even told me his name. I didn't feel anything; just numb.

As I tiptoed out, I wondered idly if he'd remembered to set his alarm. He did have to be bushy-tailed, next day.

I didn't really mind; it was no concern of mine.

I bet he had set it, though. He was that sort.

The rest of term I avoided Jonathan. He tried to stop me in the corridor.

‘What did I do wrong?' he cried, in front of the whole Lower Sixth too.

I just shook my head and pushed past, holding my books like a shield. He sent me notes; I read them and hid them in my bedroom. Once he actually came to our home. I saw him, tall and sudden in his black school blazer, walking up our drive. I ran to the caravan and crouched amongst Teddy's sweet wrappers. My Dad bellowed for me but I stayed there in the rubbish.

In the end Jonathan had to give up, and I learned where not to look in morning assembly. Summer came. In June I passed four O-levels and left school, and left those friends I had long outgrown. Or who had outgrown me.

YOU'RE PROBABLY FEELING
less sorry for me by now. I can't help that. In fact I couldn't help anything. When you're young it's obvious that you're helpless, isn't it? But when you're older it doesn't show, and people don't know how to be sorry for you because you don't let them. By the time I was sixteen you wouldn't have liked me so much, not if you'd met me. Somebody said I had a ‘blank look'; this was helped by the thick black eyeliner I used then. Another man, who I met at the Holiday Inn, said I was dead from the waist up . . . But then his pride was hurt and he was saying all sorts of things. None of them guessed that I was so young. Most people took me for twenty-one, which is what I told them if they asked.

If I'd had a stronger personality, who knows, I might have overcome my past. But misfortune doesn't just happen to people like that; it doesn't choose people who can cope. In my
Golden Book of Bible Stories
there was a tale about a man who'd lost his sheep, and his ass, and his children, and his house, and still managed to forgive everyone and become a nicer person. He knew that God was waiting to reward him. On the opposite page there was this beautiful painting of a staircase into the sky and masses of clouds, all molten, with the steps leading up through them, through a golden gap. When I was small I loved that picture. But soon I stopped believing in God, and later I even stopped believing the picture, which was more of a wrench. Unlike that man, I didn't become a nicer person.

By now I was clued-up, of course. I'd read magazine articles and I knew it was called incest, and I knew that it happened to other people too. This was the most wonderful relief, you can imagine, as if doors inside me had opened to let in the fresh air. But it was also disturbing, because the people were described as ‘cases'; they were separated off from the human race. Even more worrying, they'd all gone to court to tell the grisly details. I read those details, you bet, with an echoing sense of belonging. But what happened if someone found me out? In the photos their faces were blocked out, like criminals.

Things with my Dad had changed. I wasn't so frightened of him now, you've probably seen that. I knew he couldn't hurt me any more than he'd already done, it wasn't possible, and I knew that he wouldn't tell. But he was never sure about me, so I grew more powerful. There was this uneasy conspiracy between us, though we never put it into words. I'd realized by now that he was stupid, and pitiful – oh, I'd come to see so many things about him – but I was in too deep to stop it.

In too deep.
Can you understand what I mean? That's the only way I can describe it.
Entangled
sounds lightweight, as simple as string. Snip, snip and you're out.

I was bound to him, I was in there with him, body and soul. I told myself that he meant nothing to me, that he was crude and inadequate, that he'd not treated me as a father should. But deep down I knew we were still bound together. We'd opened up our raw insides, the place nobody else would ever see, and what had happened would affect us until the day we died. Remember, he'd never had to force me to do anything, ever.

The sexual side was different, now. Mum had chronic stomach trouble; she knew when the pains were coming on, and how to lie hunched until they passed. It had been like that, for me; a series of episodes that I learned to expect, from the gathering signs, and to bear until they were over. I bore them because I loved Dad and wanted him to love me. But that leather man changed this. I learned soon enough that he'd been no great lover, compared to some other people, but his body had given me pleasure. Men could do that. Dad must have done that, to Mum. I felt this wonder about them, and the dark core of their marriage: the closed place I should be forbidden to touch. He said she'd never been interested, but I suspected he was lying, to make me sorry for him. Perhaps he'd forgotten; he had no powers of memory, he just went sentimental about chosen moments; most of the time he just lived in the present, like one of his animals.

I didn't let Dad give me pleasure; I didn't give him that power. I had some instinct of self-preservation, you see. I had to keep something separate and intact. Oh yes, I wasn't that stupid.

I had to get away. That's why I left school, though they told me I was fairly bright and might get an A-level if I stayed, like Jonathan stayed, into the Sixth Form. I didn't want any of that. I wanted to get work for myself, instead of dawdling at home, smelling the pigs when the wind blew from the west. I wanted a place of my own, oh so badly; a place where I'd never have to feel guilty . . . Where I'd feel my right age. I'd sit and watch the planes slicing up into the sky, the molten clouds opening for them just like the clouds in my Bible book. I suppose I felt like my Mum, pausing in the drive; but I didn't dare compare my feelings with hers; I shut my mind to that.

I was younger than Mum; I could do it if I tried. We'd had another offer for the land. Remember how anxious I'd been, years ago? This time I urged Dad to sell, telling him about all the possibilities that money would bring. I wanted my childhood home to be bulldozed into the mud. But he wouldn't budge; he was that obstinate.