Unbecoming (10 page)

Today’s category for the memory game was: men.

As Mary walked she got to twelve, which wasn’t bad, because she was sure she’d repeated none except for Robert, who deserved to be repeated, because he’d been her first. But thinking of men brought her to the baby. And thinking of the baby brought her to Pat. She tried to keep within category, but could only remember censure – her sister’s breath in her face as she hissed her disapproval.
You’ve done it now, Mary. Nearly full term and not a word to anyone. There’ll be no bringing Dad round this time
.

Pat picks up a cup and sloshes it over to the draining board. She comes back for a plate and strides over to the bin with it. She puts both plate and untouched sandwich in the bin and lets the lid drop with a thud. She turns to Mary, her eyes furious, ‘Look what you did.’

‘What did I do?’ Mary sits on her hands to stop them shaking. ‘Everything isn’t my fault.’

‘No. But this is your fault.’ Pat says it quietly, like there’s no disputing it. She crouches down by Mary’s chair. ‘Who’s the father?’

Mary shakes her head.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Pat says. ‘Tell me his name.’

‘No.’

‘Do we know him? What’s his job? Will he make an honest woman of you?’ Pat’s eyes clutch at her. ‘Mary, I’m your sister. You can tell me anything. We should be friends.’

‘Friends? That’s a laugh. You don’t even like me.’

‘I gave up everything for you, everything that I was going to be.’

Yes
, thought Mary.
And don’t I know it
.

Tears spill. Splish, splash onto the kitchen floor. It surprises Mary that this is how it is. She thought she was stronger than this.

Pat relents, kneels by the chair and strokes Mary’s back, describing slow circles. Mary doesn’t want her to stop. Maybe if she stays here with her sister rubbing her back, then none of this will be true – she won’t be pregnant, she won’t have these strange gripping pains in her stomach and it’ll be a normal Saturday instead.

‘It hurts,’ Mary says. ‘It already hurts. Is it supposed to?’

‘Oh dear,’ Pat says. ‘What a fuss.’

Mary sobs properly then. She can’t help it. She just can’t hold everything in any more. She watches the tears drip onto her skirt and spread like flowers and she knows this is the end of every future she’s ever imagined for herself.

Beautiful Robert Gibson, contracted for six months to work at the railway yard at Hexham. Mary had met him on the beach. She'd been daydreaming at the waves and he'd simply laid his coat on the sand and sat down beside her.

They'd talked for ages, sitting together watching the tide retreat when she should have been home hours ago. She knew Pat would be half-crazed with worry, but Mary couldn't seem to drag herself away.

They met every day after that. Why not? What harm? He collected her round the corner from the secretarial school and they'd go to the harbour and look at the boats or stroll along the beach. One evening, he borrowed a car and they went to Tiffany's and he was the best dancer there and it was Mary he wanted to be with. He told her he never imagined in a million years he'd meet a girl like her in a town like this. He said she
moved
him.

Another time, he invited Mary to his caravan and made her sardines on toast. It was all very proper. Nothing happened. Trouble was, Mary wished it had. Because surely, if she was with a man in that way,
properly
with him, wouldn't the world finally be enough?

He's sitting on the caravan steps drinking tea when she turns up. He has his shirt wrapped round his waist and when he grins at her, the whole morning seems to shine.

‘I've brought a picnic,' she tells him, when he says he's expected at the yard, that it's Friday, that he won't get his wages if he doesn't go in. ‘Look – bread, butter, even a tin of salmon. My sister's going to kill me about the salmon, but I don't care. I brought dandelion wine too, which sounds horrid, but is, in fact, rather delicious.'

He laughs. ‘So now you're stealing your father's moonshine?'

‘Can't help it.' She sets the bag down on the grass, holds out her arms to him. ‘I'm a very bad girl.'

He looks her up and down appraisingly. ‘Whatever are we going to do with you?'

‘No idea.'

She buries herself in him, his bare chest and naked arms, the softness of his neck. She breathes in the scent of his skin, still sweet and warm from sleep.

‘I can feel your heart,' she tells him. ‘It's beating very fast.'

‘Is it?'

She smiles. ‘Does that mean you're afraid of me?'

‘Should I be?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘And what about you, Mary Todd, what are you afraid of? Anything at all?'

She pretends not to hear, pulls him tighter instead. She doesn't want to tell him about how difficult things have been, how suspicious her family are. Pat's taken her purse and post office book away for safekeeping. Dad's taken to telephoning the secretarial school asking for details of Mary's attendance. Her world is closing in. She feels constantly observed, constantly disapproved of.

‘I'm going to live in London,' she tells him, because if she's not going to talk about fear, then she'll talk about its opposite. ‘I'm going to train to be an actress and then I'm going to get famous. My life's going to be startling. One day, you'll be telling your
friends you knew me and they won't believe you, just imagine!'

‘Mary,' he says, ‘I never met a girl like you before.' He pulls gently away so he can look at her. ‘Tell me, since you're so good at predicting the future – what's going to happen today?'

She smiles up at him. ‘I can think of plenty.'

He tells her he feels like he's cradle snatching as he leads her up the caravan steps.

Inside is a table and a bed. ‘What else do we need?' he asks as he finds two cups and opens the wine.

Mary leans back on a pillow and quietly undoes the top two buttons of her blouse, so that when he turns round he'll see the way the sunlight falls on her hair and how the skin at her throat gleams.

He grins as he pours the wine. ‘What are you trying to do to me?'

She smiles back. ‘Nothing.'

‘Do you know how a man feels when you look at him like that?'

She shakes her head, but she does know, has always understood it. Women are supposed to look demurely at their shoes, their laps, their folded arms, the floor. But it's thrilling to look men full in the eye, to meet their gaze.

‘I'm going to have to kiss you if you don't stop.'

‘Go on then.'

She doesn't take her eyes from his as he sits next to her on the bed. He looks like he's drowning as he reaches for her. It makes her want to laugh out loud. She feels wild and young and powerful. She is Mary Todd and she draws men to her. She can make their breathing change just by looking at them.

It's minutes before he gives a little moan and pulls away, sits apart on the bed, can't meet her eyes.

When he speaks, his voice is strangely quiet. ‘Mary,' he says, ‘I'm not sure about this.'

‘Why not? I thought you liked me.'

‘I do like you, that's the problem. I want you so much I can't think straight. But to do this now, well, it might not be the best idea we ever had.'

‘It is,' she says, and she snuggles up next to him and rubs his thigh.

‘Mary, don't. It's not that I don't want to. Christ, I want to so much. It's just, I don't want you to get hurt when I leave. I don't want you to get pregnant either.'

‘You can't get pregnant the first time.'

‘You can. I think you can.'

‘My sister was in the Voluntary Nursing Service and that's what she told me.'

‘Are you sure?'

She nods very slowly. Pat's told her no such thing and has never done a day's nursing in her life, but she doesn't want this to stop. She's certain it'll be all right.

Beautiful Robert Gibson, with his voice like melted butter. Both brothers went missing in action, his mother died of grief and he has eyes you can drown in. He used his demob money to start a printing press and now he's writing a novel. He's only on the railways to make a bit of cash.

‘I want you to be my first,' she whispers as she leans in to kiss him again.

It's like a dance. He touches her breast through her blouse and she keeps kissing him to show how much she likes it. She runs her finger down the length of his spine and reaches for his belt. He undoes her buttons and they both smile at their fumbling fingers.

They lie on the bed. They press closer. He lifts the hem of her
skirt. She touches the curve of his bare hip. It's a strange and wonderful dance. Better than any she's ever danced before.

I am alive
, she keeps thinking.
Right now I'm alive, but if I was at home, nothing would be happening to me at all
.

Later, on the steps, he gets out his camera to take a photo. ‘Look at you,' he tells her. ‘You don't even know, do you?'

‘Know what?'

‘How bloody gorgeous you are. You really are. Everyone says so.'

‘Everyone?'

‘Down at the yard. Do you know what they call you?'

She shakes her head.

‘Copper Box, that's what. And you are, with all that hair.'

‘Is that a compliment?'

‘You bet it is! It's after the fire box in the steam locomotive. Come on then, smile for the camera.'

She poses for him, one hand on her hip, the other gathering up her skirt to show him a bit of petticoat. ‘Why is it a compliment?'

He winks. ‘There's a high ratio of heat transmission in the fire box, you know.'

She laughs out loud. The shutter clicks.

The girl who suddenly appeared at her side said, ‘Your favourite table's free if you fancy it.'

Mary tried to conjure Robert back by closing her eyes and imagining there were no sounds – no cars on the road, no bustle or chink from the café ahead, just her memories and her breathing. In and out.

‘Mary?'

‘Shush a minute!'

‘I just wondered if you wanted a sit-down?'

‘I'll sit when I'm ready, thank you. At the moment, I'm talking to Robert.'

‘Ah, the beautiful Mister Gibson …'

‘How do you know his name?' Mary gave the girl a stern look. ‘Who have you been gossiping with?'

‘You!' The girl smiled. ‘He took you to Marine Parade. You'd always wanted to go and there was a big band and hundreds of people and you were the best dancers there and you stayed until the very end and then, when you got home, Pat was waiting up for you.'

This girl was astonishing. Mary gazed at her in awe. ‘What happened next?'

‘An inquisition.' The girl adopted a pose, looking every inch a school marm. ‘
Who was that chap in the car? You cheapen yourself kissing with a fervour I've only seen at the pictures!'
She wagged a finger, grinning now. ‘
Your behaviour is atrocious and I ban you from ever seeing Robert Gibson again
.'

‘Ha! That'll never work!'

The girl laughed. ‘It's one of my favourite stories, Mary. Along with the one about your waters breaking four weeks early and Pat making you squat over a saucepan on the kitchen floor.'

‘You're a miracle knowing so many things!'

‘Not really. You talk and I write stuff down, that's all. Walking helps you remember, doesn't it?'

Did it? Possibly. All she knew for sure as the girl chivvied her towards an empty table was that it had been worth it – to feel such voltage.

And to bear Robert's child. Ah … a daughter who would get all her love, all her grief, all her heart.

If only she’d let Mary keep walking. Or if only the café door had been shut so the smell of warm pastries hadn’t been so enticing. Or if only Katie had managed to persuade Mum to let her take Mary on a bus and go to the seaside.

There were many ways it could have been. Many ways to have avoided Simona Williams from tutor group 13E (who everyone knew the rumours about) turning from the coffee machine behind the counter and frowning at Katie, gently puzzled. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

This was Mary’s favourite café! Every day this week they’d come here and Simona Williams had never been waitressing before. Katie tried to scrabble up a menu so she didn’t have to speak, could just go outside and convince Mary to leave right now!

But Simona said, ‘Seriously, where do I know you from?’

Katie shook her head, wanted to say
never seen you before
, but all that came out was a whisper, accompanied by blazing cheeks and a thudding heart.

She’d have traded most things – a month of her life (she’d be on a summer scheme instead of under this girl’s gaze), a week as her brother (how bad could Woodhaven School be?), or even a few hours as Mary, aimlessly shuffling salt and pepper sachets at a table beyond the café window – anything to avoid the dawning recognition on Simona’s face.

But the reality was she was Katie Baxter and two minutes ago, the coffee smell coming from this café had been amazing and there were plenty of empty tables outside and she knew Mary would want her morning cigarette soon, so she’d encouraged her to find a seat and walked through the door and marched up to the counter and opened her big mouth and said, ‘What cakes have you got today?’

And Simona Williams had turned round. And now … yes, now a cold light had crept into her eyes. ‘You hang out with those morons, don’t you?’

Swallow, try to stop looking mortified, try to return the gaze
. ‘I go to the same school as you.’

‘Yeah, but you also hang out with those morons.’ She thrust a menu at Katie and turned back to the coffee machine.

There were many ways it could have been. Many ways to have avoided the racing pulse at her neck, the hot shame on her face as she made her way back outside.

‘The cakes look rubbish today,’ she told Mary. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’

Mary shook her head, took the menu. ‘I like it here.’

‘I’ve gone off it. Let’s go home.’

‘You go. I’m hungry.’

Katie sighed, took Mary’s cardigan from the floor and hung it on the back of the chair and propped Mary’s handbag where they could see it, trying to look busy and calm until her heart normalized. Finally, she sat down (chair facing the window … oh God!) and crossed her fingers that Mary would not start singing or stuff her pockets with sugar cubes or ask the couple on the next table if she might finish the pizza slice they’d clearly abandoned. She’d been guilty of all these offences over the last week. Why would today be any different?

‘I wonder,’ Mary said, ‘what jerk chicken is? They never used to sell such things.’

She showed Katie the menu. Pictures of pasta and burgers and plates swimming high with rice and curry swam in front of her eyes. She felt sick. She didn’t want anything. She should never have offered to be Mary’s carer. All these days of care for one party! It wasn’t even a fair deal.

Mary turned impatiently to the window. ‘Where are the people who work here?’

Behind the counter, ignoring them, that’s where. If Katie leaned her chair back, she could see Simona chatting with the other waitress, the older woman, Angie, who usually served them. They were both laughing like there weren’t any customers, or if there were, like they couldn’t be bothered to serve them. Simona was wearing a T-shirt, shorts and a black work apron, and although Katie couldn’t see her face properly, she could see the curve of her neck and the bare top of one shoulder.

‘Hurry up, ladies!’ Mary rapped on the window with her knuckles.

Both waitresses turned and looked right at Katie, as if it was her who’d knocked, as if she was arrogant enough to think they were servants you could summon. Simona frowned, wiped her hands down her apron and stalked towards the door. Katie saw the dark curl of hair under her armpit as she yanked it open. ‘What?’

Katie shrank in her seat. ‘Could we order?’

‘I’m busy.’

She slammed back into the café and it was minutes before Angie sidled out. She gave Mary a beaming smile, but she picked up Katie’s menu from the table as if it was contagious and shoved it under her arm. ‘So, what are you having today?’ Her voice was cold.

Katie ordered in the quietest voice possible, then checked out the street, the bus stop opposite, anything so as not to seem like someone who would usually hang out with ‘morons’.

Mary minutely scrolled down her menu with a finger. ‘Where are the ice creams?’

‘You asked me that yesterday, darling. We’ve got lollies in the freezer for kiddies, but that’s it. It’s mostly cakes if you want something sweet.’ Angie wiped the table with a blue-checkered cloth as she waited. She brushed up against Katie so close she could smell her perfume along with the disinfectant smell of the cloth.

Katie edged a fraction away, concentrated on the birds over by the dustbins. She liked the way they ruminated with their heads on one side as if they were thinking about going to other places, and what the best route might be and if was time to go yet. She wished she could swap – a whole day of her life for ten minutes as a bird. She’d get all the way home if she flew fast.

Mary took ages, but eventually ordered chocolate fudge cake and Angie left.

Katie got the book out, hoping she’d look like she was writing a novel. At least then Simona might think she had
some
sensitivity.

‘Ah,’ Mary said, stroking the cover. ‘What’s this?’

‘Our book.’

‘Ours?’

‘Things you say.’

She laughed. ‘Do I say interesting things?’

‘You really do. And I write them down so you can remember.’

‘A diary?’ Mary waved a dismissive hand. ‘My sister wrote pages in a diary every day – things people said, lists of complaints against the world. She was so busy writing she had no time left to do any living. No point in that kind of book now, is there?’

‘This isn’t that kind of book. This is to help with your memory.’

‘Let me have a look.’

Katie handed it over. She risked a glance through the window while Mary fumbled at the pages, wondered how wrong it would be to leave before the food arrived.

‘Here’s a whole string of names,’ Mary laughed. ‘Are these your boyfriends?’

‘Yours, not mine.’

Mary wagged a finger. ‘Don’t be so moral.’

‘We made a list of everyone important to you. Look, there’s Jean, the woman next door, and here’s her son, Norman.’

‘Ahh,’ Mary sighed, tapping the page affectionately. ‘I shared a lot of smooches with him. And who’s this –
a winking man on a bus?’

‘He asked you out dancing. You couldn’t remember his name.’

‘John Farthing. Of course I remember. Worked on the boats.’ Mary handed the book back. ‘I got into terrible trouble when he dropped me home. Dad was waiting up for me and he couldn’t abide shenanigans. Locked me straight in the coal hole.’

‘That really happened?’

‘Worth every second.’ Mary smiled fondly. ‘John Farthing was a wonderful kisser.’

Katie picked up the pen and wrote
John
in the margin.

‘Pat let me out in the end. She always did. Oh, I felt so sorry for her. All she wanted was an easy life – Dad not to get cross, me to stop gadding about. Now, what are you doing scribbling away in that book?’

‘Writing down what you’re saying. Do you mind?’

‘I’m honoured you find me so noteworthy. You carry on.’

Katie felt weird then, because was this an invasion of privacy? Was Mary technically able to give permission?

‘Write this down.’ Mary leaned across the table to whisper.
‘Pleasure is spread through the earth in stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find. You know who said that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Me neither!’ Mary laughed. ‘We’ll ask Jack when he gets back, shall we?’

‘Back from where?’

‘The gents. He just walked straight past us. Didn’t you see him?’

Katie wanted to say,
Yes, Mary, I saw him and you’re not crazy
. Would it help?

Mum thought reality was important, which is why she insisted on reminding Mary that she had memory loss and Jack was dead. But Katie was beginning to think it was easier to run with Mary’s narratives. Jack was in the loo – why not? Mary was climbing down drainpipes or dancing the night away – absolutely. Time travel made the world a nicer place.

If Katie knew how to do it, she’d go back a fortnight to when she’d come out of that maths exam, and instead of walking over to Esme and that lot, she’d climb over the wall by the teachers’ car park and scurry away unseen. At least then she wouldn’t have laughed at Simona and she wouldn’t feel so wretched sitting here now.

She dared another look through the window and tried to imagine walking in and apologizing. Simona was at a table chatting to some couple who were beaming up at her. She wrote their order on a pad, took their menus and walked back to the counter and out of sight.

Katie sighed and flicked through the pages of her notebook. The stories were building up. Here was the day Mary’s father brought home all that beautiful silk. Here was Mary daydreaming on the beach, about to meet Robert. And here was the most
terrifying story of all – Mary giving birth in her bedroom and Pat acting as midwife. Anything could’ve gone wrong.

Mary tapped a finger on the tablecloth. ‘I’m going to order a knickerbocker glory.’

‘You just ordered chocolate fudge cake.’

‘It’s for Caroline. She loves them.’

‘Mum does? I doubt it.’

‘I tell you what, I’ll ask the nice waitress.’

‘No, Mary, don’t bang on the window again, please. They don’t do ice creams anyway, she just told you that. I’ll find the recipe on my phone if you like and then we’ll know how to make it ourselves. I’ll do it right now. Look, I’m doing it. Here we are, see – here’s a picture. Is this it? Ice cream, fruit, whipped cream, sauce and a cherry?’

Mary clapped her hands with delight. ‘Isn’t that amazing? Look at that. Doesn’t it look delicious?’

Katie saved the page to favourites, although if she ever brought the ingredients into the flat, she’d get bollocked. Mum might accept a smoothie, a handful of berries, some low fat yogurt, but not this calorific monstrosity. Mum and Mary were such opposing forces it was mad. Mary would probably pick the fruit out of the sundae and leave it on the side because it was too healthy. She might eat the cherry at a push, because she used to spit the stones across the garden when she was a kid. Katie liked cherries too. She used to loop pairs of them over her ears and pretend they were jewels.

It was good having cherries in common with Mary. Katie drew one at the top of the page and gave it two leaves and a stalk.

Inside the café, Simona was placing some kind of cake onto a plate using silver tongs. She put the plate on a tray and turned to the coffee machine. Katie found her gaze drifting to Simona’s back, her hair, the tilt of her neck …

Christ, what was wrong with her? This was ridiculous! She got out her red pen and coloured in the cherry.

Mary looked up in anticipation as the door opened. ‘Ah, here’s the food.’

No, no! Katie couldn’t look, couldn’t speak – her face was one hot burning blush as Simona came over and rested a tray on the edge of the table. She motioned to the book. ‘You want to lift that up?’

Katie slapped it shut, fumbled with the elastic, the pens, her bag, trying to clear a space as Simona carefully unloaded Mary’s coffee and cake.

Mary practically pounced on it. ‘May I say this looks delicious?’

‘You may say that, thanks.’ Simona put out napkins and cutlery.

Katie’s heart was banging so loud she was sure this girl could hear it. She
had
to say something! Anything …

‘Do you own this place?’ Mary asked as she broke the cake into chocolatey lumps with her fingers.

‘Sadly not. If I did, I’d give myself a pay rise.’

Mary laughed at the joke and Simona laughed with her, but it faded as she slapped Katie’s teacake down. ‘Here – don’t choke.’

It was now or never. Katie dared to look up. ‘Can I say something?’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Simona shot a suspicious glance around as if she imagined Esme or the others might be hiding under one of the tables.

‘They’re not my friends. I barely know them.’ It sounded wrong, like she was making excuses, but she didn’t know how else to explain. ‘I was coming out of maths and there they were. I didn’t know Amy was going to say that stuff to you.’

Simona narrowed her eyes. ‘You laughed right along with them.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Oh, you didn’t
mean
to? Not your fault, then? Your mates are total prats and you just got swept along.’ She picked up the tray. ‘Glad we cleared that up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, I heard you the first time. Let’s hope you feel better about yourself now.’

Tears stabbed Katie’s eyes. She felt stupid, dumb and childish as Simona walked back into the café and she was left sitting outside with her teacake and latte. She didn’t want them. She wanted to go home and go to bed and hide. She turned her back to the window, wishing she could peel her face off and swap it for someone else’s.

Mary ate quickly, as if she hadn’t eaten for days, sighing with pleasure at each new mouthful. She got chocolate everywhere – her chin, her cardigan, all over the table. When she stirred sugar into her coffee (three lumps!) she got froth all over the back of her hand and simply wiped it down her skirt.

People didn’t do brave things. Not people Katie knew anyway. Dad was a coward who lied about having a girlfriend. Mary was a coward who gave up her baby. Mum worried about almost everything and Katie – well, it was clear she’d also inherited the cowardly gene because she should have apologized differently – louder, or for longer or more eloquently.