Porky (20 page)

I worked at the counter in the middle of the room. We did snacks and light meals. I think I was the only one who read the orders; the others weren't interested. When the supervisor was out of sight I'd go over to her desk, where the forms were pinned. The destinations were written there, with the flight number and the quantity of meals needed. As I wedged in the sandwiches, I knew where they were going. Sausage roll, sealed orange juice and a Jacob's Chocolate Club . . . I thought myself into their flight . . . to Istambul, then to Bahrein. Beef sausage roll, because they were Muslims.

Next counter was desserts. There was an Indian girl there; she wasn't as shy as most of the others and she was a wonderful mimic. She hated the First Class Chef and copied his Manchester accent.

‘Call that a roody radish flower!' she boomed. ‘You nincompoop!'

We became friends that winter and sometimes went out together on Friday nights, to that disco I told you about. Naz said her family was very strict and they didn't know what to do with her. She pretended to be her father, with his sing-song Indian voice:

‘What are we deserving, that you behave like this? Why are you running wild all over town, giving heartache to your mother?'

She wriggled the straw in her Coke, and resumed her normal voice: ‘You're so lucky, Heather. You don't know how lucky you are.' She looked at her watch. ‘Ten-thirty. Half an hour before he's picking me up. God it's so claustrophobic.'

In my bones I felt the old longing. I was used to it by now. I told myself over again: poor Naz, what a drag. That usually did the trick.

‘Poor Naz,' I said.

In fact she wasn't that wild; just cheeky and a bit rebellious. In other words, quite normal. Just like that social worker recommended me to be. It was all talk, like it was with Gwen. All bravado.

She didn't know anything about me and I never talked about my home, or took her there. I wanted her to be separate from all that; I was trying to add more and more things to my life which home couldn't spoil. One night we were down at the Crown, for Golden Oldies' Nite.

‘Time's up,' she said. Her Dad was waiting outside, as per usual. ‘Want a lift?'

I didn't want them to see my bungalow, even in the dark. I could walk back; it was only a mile.

‘Oh no,' I said quickly. ‘I'm waiting for Tim.'

‘Who's Tim?'

‘He's my steady.'

‘You never told!' She stared. ‘You're a sly one! Are you engaged?'

I looked serene, and decided to nod.

‘A whole month, and you never let on! I'm hurt.'

‘He's a pilot,' I said quickly. ‘He's often away, you see. In the States.'

Her Dad loomed out of the cigarette smoke then, so she had to leave.

Dear God, what had I said? Who was this Tim? I'd never lied to anyone I liked before, only to people I hoped never to see again.

I panicked at myself. Sometimes these surprises seeped out, vapours from doorways in my heart that I thought I kept closed.

The next day, to make matters worse, we bumped into Jock outside the gents'.

‘Well, well, it's Heth,' he said, buttoning up his trousers. He turned to Naz. ‘You looking after our girl, then?'

‘She doesn't need looking after. Not Heather.'

‘I've been told to keep an eye on her.' Jock winked. ‘By someone.'

He meant Dad, of course. But Naz meant Tim. ‘Did he?' she said, looking interested.

‘See she don't get into no mischief.'

Naz smiled. ‘The possessive type, is he?' She turned to me. ‘Ah . . . I'm knowing him better every minute . . . our mystery man.'

‘She knows him?' Jock turned to me.

I looked longingly at the door of the ladies'.

‘It's because he's away a lot, I expect,' said Naz. ‘On his flights.'

‘Oh yep,' said Jock vaguely. ‘Always off, here and there.'

‘Heather told me. I'm dying to know more.'

‘It's the nature of his business, see,' said Jock. ‘The travelling. That's the haulage trade for you.'

‘Haulage!' said Naz. ‘Yes, it must seem like that sometimes . . . Jumbos full of bodies.'

‘Poor little buggers.' Jock was picturing Dad's piglets. ‘Off to meet their maker.'

Naz burst into laughter. ‘Some pilot! I should hope not!'

This had got out of control. Luckily, Jock ambled off then.

As we went downstairs she linked my arm.

‘A hoot, isn't he,' she said. ‘Your friend.'

I didn't want a Tim, did I? That was what made it so ridiculous. I didn't want anybody. Not Jonathan, not anybody. I imagined this Tim. He was no spectre now, he'd grown solid. He had a sense of responsibility, and he wanted two kids. He had the scentless good looks of an American TV actor. Mum would be overwhelmed at my luck. I didn't want to put a face to any man and here was Tim, risen from nowhere.

That afternoon I promoted him and sent him away on a training course. States-side, I told Naz. Six months. And I didn't want to talk about it, I was too sad.

Work was easy. ‘Always a smile,' said my supervisor, ‘from our Heather.'

It's simple, isn't it: the jokes, the clatter. I wonder if my Mum felt the same way. Walking in there each morning, I felt lighter.

You live for the brisk present, your fingers busy. You can push everything else aside. I thought I could, anyway. The things I was ashamed of – I closed them away, like the junk in Dad's sheds. It was important to keep work separate; at work, at least, I wouldn't have anything to make me feel confused.

That's why it was such a mistake, the business with the chef.

It was a rainy lunch-time in January that the First Class Chef sat down beside me. With his fork he pointed at my lettuce leaves.

‘That keep body and soul together?'

‘I'm watching my weight.'

He cut his sausage. It spurted. ‘You must be joking.' His voice lowered. ‘You might be watching your weight, love, but I've been watching something else.'

A year ago I might have asked: watching what? Now I said languidly, ‘Oh yeah?'

The old war machinery clanked into action.

‘Looks nice enough to me, the shape you are.' The egg spilled out. ‘Not offending you, am I? They tell me I'm blunt.'

‘You're from Manchester,' I said, all pert. ‘That explains it.'

He laughed. ‘I like that. Know something? I think I like you.' He swabbed his bacon in the yolk. ‘What else've they told you?'

‘Nothing. They're all too frightened.'

‘Of little me?' He looked pleased. ‘And yourself?'

‘Oh no,' I lied. ‘I'm not.'

‘Good for you, love. Know something?'

‘What?'

‘That's a girl with spirit. That's what I said to myself, first time I clapped eyes on you.' He slewed his chip in the ketchup, just like my Dad did. He was a big, florid, handsome man. ‘Know when it was? When our Eric was showing you round. You stopped him. You put your hand on his arm, like this.' He touched my arm and gave me a squeeze. ‘You asked him some question.'

I remembered. It was about night flights, what they ate then, but I didn't feel like telling this man. I wanted to keep him out of all that. I smiled warmly.

‘. . . And I thought, here's a lass who won't take yea or nay for an answer.'

The fat had whitened round his plate. I waited, half hoping that he wouldn't say it, but he did.

‘Care to join me in a drink?'

I paused, knowing this was a mistake. But I felt stupidly flattered too. ‘OK,' I said.

He glanced round. We were yards from the nearest member of staff but his voice dropped.

‘Wait outside, love. The red Ford Granada.'

I waited for his sauntering exit; after all, the vans loaded here and he was a married man. We drove down the dual carriageway and stopped at a pub. Along our nowhere roads, pubs have an olde-worlde flimsiness, like stage sets: beams and warming pans and such. I had a Bacardi and he had a double Scotch. In his overcoat, with his greased grey hair, I had to get used to him all over again; without his chef's hat he looked shrunk and ordinary. Perhaps he, too, was adjusting to my outdoors self: my mauve hands and pom-pom beret. We looked so different that neither of us could think of anything to say.

But in the car, on the return journey, he stroked my knee. People do all sorts of things in cars, I've noticed, that they'd never do on dry land. It's a voyage, isn't it – disconnected. It releases you. And you don't have to look at the other person, which makes it simpler.

He rubbed my kneebone. As we drew into JT, however, he removed his hand. He was trying to be reassuring; after all, he was twice my age. I think he was trying to seem fatherly.

I kept him off me for two months. He put my reluctance down to my innocence, as I was only seventeen. He had a terrible temper, worse than my Dad. When he spoke to me he used an intimate, soapy voice but underneath it I could hear the irritation held down . . . It was a strain, being nice to me for so long.

One day he called me into the First Class Cold Room. This was where they kept the seafood and the hors-d'oeuvres' platters. The door clanged shut behind us. In the chill air, his breath was hot on my face.

‘Close your eyes, love, and open your mouth.' Something small and rubbery was put on my tongue. I chewed it.

‘Ever tasted that before, Heather?'

I shook my head.

‘Quail's egg.'

He touched my nose with his finger. ‘Know something?'

‘What?'

‘I thought you and me liked each other. Am I right or am I right?'

I shrugged, pretending to be casual, but I felt nervous. He was such a big man, in his uniform. I looked bold enough, with my eyeliner and pert remarks; I wasn't really, I was helpless. I wished I hadn't come.

‘Had a nice chin-wag, the other week. How about a drink tomorrow?'

I paused. ‘I'm having lunch with Naz.'

‘What, that Paki? Next week, then?'

He moved away. I heard the rustle of paper. He put a package into my overall pocket, and patted it. He gave my waist a squeeze.

‘Little prezzie,' he whispered. ‘From Cliff.'

At tea Teddy spat it out.

‘Ugh! All salty.'

‘It's smoked salmon,' I said. Strings of dribble hung from his chin. I wiped his mouth. ‘It's ever so posh.'

‘It's pooey. It's pooey and salty and wee-wee.' Pleased with himself, he bounced up and down. ‘Poo-poos,' he sang, ‘wee-wees.'

I kept Cliff at arm's length because he was there. Every day. I couldn't cope with people when they stayed around, getting to know me. That leather man, Walter; I could just about cope with him because his cases were already packed. Next day I pretended it had never happened. The same with that man at the Holiday Inn.

You could do this in our area because nobody stopped for long. Down the verges was all this litter that people threw out of their cars. What did they care? They would never see it again. Teddy used to scavenge round the lay-bys. Once he came home with a dusty thing that he called a balloon; he got such a slap from our Mum for that. Down in the bus shelter someone had chalked up MARION WASN'T HERE. I knew how she felt.

But I finally gave in to Cliff. He wanted me, he was so persistent. I was flattered and helpless, but through it I felt, rising up, that familiar, prickling sense of power. I was learning how to use that. Oh, I was worthless – nobody in their right mind could ever really want me. But he didn't seem to realize that. It was surprising, how nobody could tell.

He took me for dinner at the Skyscape Hotel Roof Restaurant. Gone up in the world, hadn't I, since those days in the yard with the bins. Nobody recognized me, thank goodness, but then staff were always changing in those hotels. I nearly choked on my pheasant bone, though, when I realized that our own pigs would be gobbling our leavings.

‘Something funny, love?'

I shook my head.

‘Not something Cliff can share?'

‘Later,' I lied, smiling across at him.

Underneath the table our knees were touching. The dim light hid my blushes. You wouldn't have recognized me, if you'd known me as a little girl. You wouldn't have liked me. But Cliff wanted me. And once I'd decided it, once I'd changed into this bold gear, with the momentum up . . . Then I could will myself into wanting most men. Things about Cliff that might have put me off – his pompous monologues about himself, his bossiness with the waiters – I blocked them away. I willed them to freeze, just as I'd willed myself, all those years, to numb myself to what was happening.

This large, married man was in my power. During dessert I smiled at him. I moved my knee and slotted it between his legs, pressing it there. His fork shook and the cream slid down to his plate.

What if Dad saw me now? His own little Heth? I avoided Cliff's eye, urging him to hurry up. He'd be too drunk to notice my heavy thighs; he wouldn't notice anything about me. In the dark, we wouldn't even have to talk.

We stumbled into the car. I felt intensely alive; alive down to my toes and my fingertips. He swerved away from the car park, his hand up my skirt. The engine shrieked because he wasn't changing gear.

‘We're going for a drive, right?' he muttered. I nodded, dumbly.

We didn't get far. I saw the glaring headlights . . . We were on the dual carriageway. Then we veered off, bumping up a lane. We jerked to a halt in front of a gate. My legs were apart; his fingers were inside my knickers. The headlights shone on a sign: Thames Water Authority: No Entry.

He managed to switch off the lights and then we were out of the car. He pulled a rug from the back seat and I helped him, hopping off-balance because of his hand.

I fumbled at his trousers, pulling him down on top of me. Our breath gasped out grey in the dark. In fact it was freezing, but I didn't notice that until we were finished.