Porky (8 page)

‘Oh, there's plenty of reasons for that one. For leaving yours truly.'

‘She couldn't do it.
Why
?'

The hands squeezed my shoulders. ‘Glad I've got one fan. You still love me, after what you heard?'

‘Of course I do,' I sobbed. ‘Why shouldn't I?'

‘For ever and ever?'

‘Ever and ever.'

He moved and sat close behind me. I had my arms round Teddy and Dad had his arms around me, all squeezing each other in a row.

I bent over Teddy's hot head. My mouth spoke into his hair; it was fine, and damp. ‘What if Mum doesn't come back?'

‘She'll be home, you bet.' His voice rumbled against my backbone. ‘She's been away before, remember? Couple of days.'

I nodded. But this time it was worse. ‘What if she doesn't want us any more?' I took a breath. ‘She doesn't seem to want us, sometimes.'

‘Don't take no notice of her.' He pressed his nose into the back of my head.

I took another breath and said slowly, ‘What happens if she's gone off to sell our home?'

I felt his body jerk with laughter. ‘Heatherbell, she can't do that.' He turned my head. Gently, he pushed the hair from my face. ‘Honest.'

I couldn't say: I don't quite trust you any more, when you say
honest.
So I said, ‘What if she tries to sell it?'

‘Over my dead body.'

‘Don't die, Dad! You won't, will you?'

‘Hey!' He pressed my head against his chest. My neck was twisted but I wanted him to keep me there, without moving.

‘Let's you and me make a pact,' he whispered. Why did he whisper? There was nobody who could hear.

He smiled. ‘Let's you and me see she doesn't. Right? Signed and sealed in blood.'

I should have felt better but I felt just as frightened. It was wrong that we should have to make a pact, against Mum. It was wrong that she wanted to leave us. It was all far too wrong for jokes.

‘I must change Teddy. He's soaking.' I tried to get up. Dad was sitting on my nightie. ‘So am I.'

He shifted, and we all got up and went into the bathroom. Dad was wearing his vest, and his underpants which were like shorts. In the light, I felt shy. I also felt terribly tired – more tired than I'd ever felt in my life. This night would never end. I felt as if big rocks had been dragged through my insides and left me as empty as a sausage skin. Teddy was laid on the floor. My hands, which did not seem to belong to me, were lifting his damp legs and pulling off his nappy. My hands got slower and slower. Dimly, I heard the cock crowing. The frosted window was still black, but it must be nearly dawn.

Dad was lifting me up in his arms and carrying me out of the bathroom. He laid me on my bed, and I could hear him opening my chest of drawers. I heard Teddy squalling in the bathroom, all alone.

I managed to say, ‘There aren't any more nighties.'

Hands lifted me, and I was carried back into his room. I was laid on the bed. The cupboard was opened, with a wheezing creak.

‘Looking for a shirt,' I heard, miles away. I wanted to tell him where Teddy's nappies were, and Teddy's clean nightie, but my head felt too heavy to raise. I didn't want him to undress me; I didn't have the energy for all that embarrassment.

‘I'm all right in my nightie,' I said. ‘Do Teddy.'

Thumps and murmurs from the bathroom. He must be in there now, doing Teddy. At last he must have managed it; dimly, I saw him carrying Teddy in, blocking the light at the door. He lowered Teddy into the cot but Teddy started yelling, perhaps at meeting that wet sheet.

‘Teddy-weddy, wettee-bedee,' he murmured, and he put Teddy into my arms. My nightie must have dried by now, or perhaps Teddy and I were past minding. I was snuggling down between the sheets, and the bed was sinking as Dad climbed in beside us. The door was open and light shafted into the room. I wasn't exactly asleep, as I held Teddy, but I was too exhausted to do anything except lie still and be pleased that Dad wasn't going to change my nightie.

Teddy kicked my stomach.

‘Ouch!' said Dad. He'd kicked him too. Teddy lay between us, spreadeagled like a starfish. Between my heavy eyelids I could see that these curtains were too short as well. I'd never noticed that. Grey glimmered beneath them; the cock crowed again.

Dad's breath on my face . . . ‘Night, night.' His moustache pressed against me; his lips touched mine, which were closed and dry. I remember feeling that we'd done this before, though it was too far away to remember when. I didn't want to know. In fact, I don't want to tell you about this now; but I was too tired, then, to resist, and it's certainly too late now. He put his arms around me . . . Teddy was a hot restless body between us . . . Dad's breath was in my mouth. His tongue pushed into me.

‘You smell of fruit gums,' he murmured.

I frowned. ‘I haven't eaten any.' I tried to wriggle away. ‘Honestly I haven't.'

He took a deep breath and let it out, shakily. ‘Everything sweet,' he said, ‘. . . sweet and new . . .'

We lay there, us three, clasped together. Teddy stopped kicking; he was lulled by our warmth. That big strange bed was our place . . . safe and sound. Not strange now. I was too sleepy to get up; by now I didn't want to. The three of us were tucked into our raft, with that space all around, the awful possibilities . . . the draughty, fearful possibilities, like the floorboards being removed. Mum might not come back. Mum might not love us enough ever to come back . . . She might sell our home, just like that. That's how much she minded . . .

With all the kicking, my nightie was rolled up around my waist. I was sorry that I hadn't worn my knickers, but then I hadn't known I would be here. Teddy's knee was poked into my stomach. His nightie was rolled up too; I held his fat, bent leg. His nappy felt loose because Dad had pinned it. How could Mum not want our Teddy? I did. Dad wanted us too . . . I could feel his hand enclosing me, rubbing my leg so gently, and rubbing my tummy. Nobody had ever comforted me so much.

‘Oh pet,' he murmured, ‘oh my pet.'

It meant as much to him, because he was breathing shakily. He loved me, you see. I'd always known that, about my Dad. He was rubbing Teddy's soft legs, then he was rubbing mine again, and then his hand moved round between them . . . his finger lay on my warm place, my own warm slit where I was not allowed to touch . . . His finger lay there quite still, gently pressing against the skin.

He seemed short of breath . . . His finger was stroking me there, oh so gently . . . I didn't know what to do about this. I didn't move. My Mum had slapped my hand once, in the bath. I'd been touching myself like that . . . But it must be all right, mustn't it, if he did it? He knew, after all; he was my Dad. I could trust him.

He'd stopped kissing me; he was breathing heavily, his face pressed into my hair, with Teddy's head jammed between us. This was uncomfortable but he didn't seem to notice. He seemed to have difficulty taking breath, snorting into my hair like this.

His face was heated . . . But he wasn't going to die, because he was saying, ‘My pet . . . my dearest', in a strangled sort of voice. He'd never called me
dearest
before. I was confused, but I was so pleased too . . . I wanted this to go on, and yet I terribly wanted it to stop.

Then he cried out, sharply.

‘Teddy!' I admonished. ‘Stop it.'

Teddy must have kicked him. Dad lay still. Down there, his finger moved away. What had I done wrong? He was gripping my shoulder, hard, his face still in the pillow.

And then an awful thing happened. I didn't realize it for a moment. I thought he was trying to catch his breath, in gulps. I lay, trying to convince myself, even after I knew.

But he was sobbing.

I didn't move. With each spasm, his hand clenched me. It hurt. I didn't realize that until next day, when I couldn't touch my shoulder. I lay rigid, staring into the grey room. I stared at the cupboard, with its piled boxes on top. I kept my eyes on it. Perhaps Dad would be packing up his boxes too, if I upset him like this.

I've described what happened, as best I can. But I can find no words for how I felt at that moment, hearing my Dad sobbing, with my arms around him doing no good. The only word that gets near is fear.

After a while he spoke, his voice muffled in the pillow.

‘Heather, Heather . . . don't be angry.'

‘Of course I'm not.'

‘Don't be angry,' he moaned.

My arms should be helping him, but I didn't know how to. I wanted him to put his arms around me, strong and safe, so I needn't hear him. I wanted him to be recognizable.

But he just went on making that noise, as if his insides were being pulled out through his throat.

‘I tried not to,' he mumbled. ‘I did, honest . . . I didn't mean it.'

He didn't mean to call me
dearest
? I wanted to block my ears.

‘Honest to God,' he said, ‘didn't mean to.'

Teddy jerked against my stomach. I tried to think of words to make it all right, but I didn't know what words to use. My head felt so dizzy. I must stop that noise he was making.

‘Mum'll be back,' I said.

He jerked up. ‘
What?
'

‘She'll be back, I know she will.'

He stayed like that, his head reared up.

‘You said she will,' I went on. ‘So none of us need worry, you or me or Teddy.' I kept my arms round his shoulders. The bed smelt animal-warm, and sour. ‘It's tomorrow already, so she might be home today.'

My voice sounded as if it came from another person, not me. But my words soothed me, as if somebody else was doing the comforting. I hoped I was having this effect on Dad.

Perhaps it had done the trick. He lay still. Then he said sharply, ‘You lock the door?'

I opened my mouth to say no. I was going to say: I left it open, for Mum to come in.

But then, inside me, something happened. It happened as I lay there, pressed against him, and realized what we must look like. Somewhere in my soft middle, it felt like a lid beginning to lift. It was a sick feeling.

‘Did you, Podge?' he asked. ‘Lock it?'

I lay rigid. His voice made me nervous. More than anything I wanted Mum to be here to stop this happening. But he mustn't know that.

So I said my first lie. ‘Yes.'

Mum didn't come back the next day, or the next. At one point I thought, pettily: how could she do this on my half-term? I felt ashamed for that crossing my mind. She went to work, though. We found this out because Oonagh's husband was a mate of my Dad's; he worked at the Gas Board sports ground, out towards Staines, and my Dad visited him there. He said Mum was living with them and coming home each night. Calm as calm, as if they were us. Dad said that he and Vic laughed about it:
women
, they said. But I didn't understand how they could.

Whether Teddy noticed I couldn't tell. I tried to comfort him. He gazed at me, then he transferred his gaze to the apple branches above my head. He couldn't be minded at Oonagh's, of course, so I'd park him under the tree. I used to think he understood everything, but all of a sudden I was not so sure. I loved him just as much, but I was seeing him more clearly now: he was ever so young, with that blank look babies have, and his expression changing like the clouds for no reason. He was suddenly disappointing. Nothing interested him beyond his own fingers and his mouth. He'd worked out how to do this best. He'd suck his two middle fingers; this left his forefinger free to pick his nose. Even at three months he'd worked this out; Teddy was like that.

My Dad and I were very much alone. Those thousands of cars passed us each day and I knew none would ever turn up our drive. The weather was heavy, and hot, and grey. It weighed like lead. When my Dad was out I'd go into their bedroom and pull out the drawers. Mum's folded clothes were still there; she hadn't taken much. She must come back. She'd left her turquoise coat, too, so what would happen when winter came?

I didn't want to ask him about her; something was stopping me. I didn't want to ask him any questions, because I could no longer trust what the answer would be. Back in April, after that first time, I told you that I felt I didn't know him so well. It was worse now; I felt it all the time, this wariness, with something else nudging behind me. This was the suspicion that in fact there was some answer, some fearful grown-up secret, that he was waiting to tell me. I didn't want him to.

I tried to stop him by the power of thought. I was good at that. I could sit beside the road, for instance, with my eyes closed and will the next car to be red. When I opened my eyes, it was. I could do this with Smarties too – which colour would rattle out next. I willed Dad with my eyes open, otherwise he might ask me what was the matter.

The best thing was to keep out of his way. Alone, I could will myself not to think about what was happening. If I did I would start to work it out and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

The best place was the big field behind us. They'd planted sweet corn in it this year and by now the plants had grown as tall as me, if I stayed bent. I'd park Teddy under the apple tree, where I could hear him if he cried. Then I'd creep into my forest . . . Not too far, but out of sight. When I sat down I was hidden. I was podgy, yes, but I could fit myself into a small space. I'd sit there amongst the stalks; when the wind blew, the leaves rustled. There were the tiniest tassels in there, already; they were silky to stroke. I stayed there a long time. I told myself I was an explorer and this was New Guinea, because it made me feel better if I called it a game.

I slept in my Dad's bed the next night, and the next. You see, Teddy cried if I wasn't there. That was part of the reason. But there was another part, which is more difficult to explain. My room didn't seem mine, as much as it used to; not since Dad had made a habit of going in there. Nowadays I was always having to open the window, he worked up such a fug. And since Mum had gone I was frightened at night. If I slept in my own bed I might wake up and find everybody gone. There might be strange people in the lounge, rearranging the furniture. There might be no furniture at all.