Porky (29 page)

He's been drunk most of this week, my Dad. He says my face upsets him, but I've told him it's not hurting nearly as much, now, as when I arrived. He hasn't seen under the plasters, and I don't dare look either. Tomorrow I'm going to Ashford General, to have the stitches taken out, but I'll keep my eyes shut.

My eye, by the way, is going to be all right. I can open it now, just a glimmer. Black eyes look worse than they feel; in fact, I've been quite detached, watching its colour changes: plum to reddish-green, like the lightening sky. Teddy's fascinated by it; he wants one too. Now it's fading to an unhealthy yellow.

It hurts when I yawn, my face does, and when I sneeze. It would probably hurt if I laughed, but I haven't yet. The cuts must be healing now, because while I've been sitting here they've started to itch.

Ali's ring did them. I forgot to tell you that he wore a signet ring; his father had given it to him. He must have forgotten too, because after he'd been hitting me for a bit he saw what damage he'd done. I felt quite sorry for him then.

My Mum was upset too, of course. But you know how she hates anything sticky and emotional; she's always steered clear of that. She didn't ask me many questions about Ali. Soon she was moaning about men in general, how stupid they were, what beasts.
Brutes
, she said.

‘You've learned the hard way,' she said. ‘Oh yes, you've had a lesson and a half.'

It was almost as if she blamed me – as if I'd brought it upon myself. There was a note of satisfaction in her voice. And she's been so ashamed of me. On Tuesday a man was coming to look at the land and she told me to stay in my room, as if I had leprosy.

‘Think this is my fault?' I asked, pointing to my bandages. But she just looked pursed.

In fact, neither of them asked many questions. When you haven't for years – when you've closed your eyes to what's going on you're not going to change that suddenly. You're not used to it. Teddy's the only one who goes on at me; when we're alone, and I'm more relaxed, I might tell him some of the gruesome details.

Dad, when he's had a few, he gets all worked up and tries to get me to tell him Ali's name so he can go and beat him up, but when he's sobered down he turns back into a coward.

Besides, I've no idea where Ali is now. When he ran downstairs to phone for an ambulance, I bolted myself into the flat and packed my suitcases. When the ambulance men arrived they behaved like my big brothers, they were so protective with me, and they wouldn't let him near. He was hysterical by then, so they probably thought he was still dangerous. I knew he wasn't, of course; he was wild with grief. But it looked the same to them, so I didn't say anything. At that point, anyway, I couldn't talk.

No, most of the questioning was in Casualty. The doctor was ever so young and earnest. You should have seen his reaction when he saw my face: him and the two nurses, bending over me. I heard the whispers, ‘permanent scarring' and ‘disfigurement'.

After they'd done the stitching and the dressings he came back for a little chat and that's when he said that in cases like mine, when the looks are affected, it was usual to refer the patient for counselling. I wouldn't go. He said I was still in shock, that's why I was behaving like this. In his gentle voice he asked several times how it had happened.

I didn't tell him the truth, of course. I could hardly say, ‘I fed pork to my boyfriend.' I'd be carted straight to the shrink. So I just said it was a quarrel, I was trying to give my boyfriend the push and he got wild. Hurt pride, all that.

But he went on and on. He said that my attitude worried him. Did I realize (clearing his throat, his Adam's apple sliding up and down) – did I realize that I would be scarred for life, down my cheek and probably on my forehead too? He went on like that.

Another person joined him, an ugly girl wearing glasses. She went on about how many cases she'd seen; all women, she said.

‘Knocked about,' she said. ‘Knocked up.' She gazed at me with a little, pitying smile. ‘Victims of men.'

The doctor replied, ‘Let's just call it victims of circumstance.'

I'll tell you how it happened. It sounds so stupid, now.

I was going to cook us seekh kebabs for dinner. They're like little minced patties, highly spiced. I went to the butcher, along the Earl's Court Road. The butcher was a big, belligerent man with a line in heavily suggestive remarks. I didn't like him – in fact I was nervous of him, he was built as powerfully as my Dad and he had an uncertain temper – but we always had these flirtatious conversations as he slapped the meat about, preparing to chop.

That day I asked for mince, but it turned out that he hadn't any left. He just had some sausage meat. He started going on about ‘my sausages not big enough for you?' so I cut him short by asking for a pound of the stuff.

Outside, blushing, I hesitated with my package. I didn't want to go back in there and ask for something else. I stood there in the sunshine. Then I thought: what the hell; Ali won't know it's pork. And I started back to the flat.

So you see it wasn't planned. I can promise you that. But as I walked home I wasn't simply feeling
what the hell.
Not if I'm going to be truthful. It was more a tingling, uneasy, queasy feeling of anticipation. I'd felt it often before – a sort of shameful, sexual feeling.

Ali came home from work. I cooked them, using a lot of chilli powder. I cooked rice as well, and popadums. After we'd taken a few bites we started snuffling with tears.

‘Delicious,' he said. In the candlelight he looked foolish and young. He blew his nose. ‘Honestly, you could've been cooking this sort of food all your life.'

‘I haven't.' I wiped my eyes. ‘I've spent my life frying sausages.' I said that to settle my conscience; I wasn't going to say any more.

He paused, munching. ‘Do you know, you put on this flat voice when you talk about your home. A flat, complaining voice.'

‘I don't.'

‘Your face closes up. You should see yourself.' He paused. ‘I wish I could meet your parents.' He went on quickly, ‘Are you ashamed of me – is that it?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Then why can't we go? I won't let you down . . . I'll be terribly polite.' He looked at me, his eyes damp. ‘Is there something you're keeping from me?'

‘Of course not. They're just – very ordinary.'

‘You despise them for that?
I
won't, I promise you. There're worse things than being ordinary.'

‘Terribly ordinary and boring. I had a terribly ordinary childhood . . . You know, friends round to play, lots of toys.' I took a breath. ‘Want to know? Really? I'll tell you . . . Lots of pets, kittens, dogs . . . rabbits, guinea pigs.' I remembered Gwen's. ‘My guinea pig was called Tosca.'

‘Tosca? How highbrow!'

I hated him for making these words come pouring out of me.

‘My Mum made me á lovely party dress. Know what it was made of?'

‘What?'

‘Pink taffeta,' I said, my voice rising. ‘Oh yes, and long white socks. And a ballet dress – yes, she made me that too! In fact, we made it together.' I was shouting now. ‘In fact Dad helped too!'

Ali tried to interrupt me, but I went on recklessly. ‘And he used to drive me to ballet classes – he did! He took me. I went to them, and I'd meet all my friends there.'

‘Darling –'

I stopped him. ‘I had another little bed in my room, there was always somebody staying the night with us.' I blurted it out, my voice high and cracked. ‘They did! And you know what?'

‘What?'

‘They put Smarties on our pillows, just for us! Little tubes of Smarties!' I tried to catch my breath, and hurried on. ‘I had lovely birthday parties, you should've seen them! Oh, I was famous for that . . . Games in the lounge . . .' My voice shrieked it out. ‘Jellies! Jellies and trifles! Then there'd be a knock at the door and it was my Dad, dressed up as Father Christmas –'

‘On your
birthday?'

I sat slumped in my chair. ‘Oh, I don't know. What does it matter?'

‘Stop it, Heather! Don't cry!'

‘I'm not. It's these blasted chillies.'

‘Heather . . .' He leaned across the table.

‘Shut up!'

‘Here, have my handkerchief.'

Shuddering, I grabbed it and blew my nose.

‘Please – stop crying,' he said.

‘I told you, I'm not!' My voice was ugly and shrill. I hated him seeing me crying, I couldn't bear it. Why did he have to be here?

I looked at him across the table, his eyebrows raised, his hand out, ready to touch me.

‘Don't touch me!'

‘Darling . . .'

I longed for him to disappear, to snap into the empty air. I hated him looking at me.

‘Heather . . .'

He'd
made me say all that. Wasn't that hateful of him? He'd forced it out . . . all my words, pouring out.

‘Darling . . .'

Suddenly I felt terribly tired – never, in my life, had I felt so exhausted. I felt as if I'd been vomiting for hours, and there was nothing left.

I looked at him. I felt entirely empty . . . Nothing left at all. After a moment I said flatly,

‘Know what you've just eaten?'

‘Pardon?'

‘Know what those stupid kebab things are made of?'

‘What?'

I paused. ‘Pig meat. Pork.'

There was a long silence. I heard the drip of our bathroom tap.

At last he whispered,

‘What did you just say?'

‘I told you. Pork.'

His mouth dropped open. Then the table banged against me as he got to his feet. He stood there a moment. Either he was swaying or I was dizzy. I focused on his shirt.

‘Why?' His voice sounded weirdly conversational.

‘Why not? It's all the same, really.'

He stayed standing. He said lightly, ‘You went out and bought it?'

‘Didn't have anything else in the shop.'

He moved to the side, around the table. I shut my eyes.

‘Ouch!'

He grabbed my hair.

‘
Why?
' His voice soared up like a soprano.

‘Let go!'

‘How could you?' his voice shrieked. ‘How
could
you?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Have you . . .' he paused. ‘Done it before?'

I tried to shake my head, but my hair was pulled tight.

‘Liar!'

‘I haven't –'

‘Liar! Little bitch!'

‘I
haven't
–'

‘Oh yes, and what about those men? You lied about them –'

‘I didn't!' I was sweating.

He pulled me to my feet, dragging me upwards.

‘Look at me!' he screeched. He jerked my head back. His skin had grown darker.

I was frightened now. I wished I hadn't spoken. His fingers dug into my arms.

‘Stop it!' I shouted.

He shook me, like a dog ‘How many has it been – since you met me?'

‘None!'

‘Liar!'

‘Hardly any – you're hurting!'

‘Come on – who's – got his end about?' He corrected himself. ‘Got his end away?' He was crying now.

‘That's a crude way of putting it.'

‘Crude? Call
me
crude? Come on, Heather –' His grip tightened. ‘Start counting.' His voice choked with his sobs.

‘Oh, I don't know . . . one or two.'

‘I want the numbers.'

‘Give me a moment . . .'

‘Got to tot them all up?'

If I yelled, perhaps someone would hear. But in that house, nobody would come. I'd better tell him, quietly . . . First I had to work it out. Scenes grinded and clanked around my brain.

‘Come on!'

‘Six – no, seven –'

It was then that he started hitting me.

I FEEL EXHAUSTED
, telling you that . . . Clammy . . . I'll just wait until my heart stops thudding . . .

Now I've told you, I won't tell anyone else. I shouldn't think Ali will, either. I expect he's gone back to Pakistan – after all, it was over a week ago and he hasn't turned up here, thank goodness.

I hope he's gone back. I hope he's all right. Believe me. I don't want any harm to come to him, now . . . After all, he was only trying to love me – the only person who's ever tried.

I just didn't seem to be able to love him back. Poor Ali . . . he didn't deserve any of it. But it was inevitable . . . Can you see that? Do you understand?

Poor, innocent Ali . . . the only person I've ever been able to hurt.

I'm not staying around here. When the stitches are removed I won't need the doctors any more. I've phoned Am-Air and told them I'm ill, but soon they'll want to know more. When I was talking about the butcher just now, I suddenly remembered: this morning I should be flying to Berlin.

I won't be flying again, that's for sure. You can see why they won't have me back. The passengers wouldn't find my face very reassuring.

I don't feel as sad about my job as I'd expected. It had never been the same as my dreams of it. In fact, in the future I'll probably remember my daydreams more vividly.

None of us will be staying, because the land's going to be sold. Dad's getting some big offers. Soon we'll be moving out, and I can tell myself that my childhood is over, at last. I tell myself that I'll be rid of it, when they move to their new house. They're looking at places in the Staines and Maidenhead area. They actually drive off side by side in the van; it looks companionable but they're already quarrelling about what they want . . . They've never agreed about what they're looking for, in life, and they won't change.