Porky (7 page)

That summer was my last as a little girl. For one thing, I was eleven; in the autumn I'd be moving up into the new school, West Drayton Secondary. Nancy was going to another school and Debbie was going to Canada, so I'd have to make new friends. The big school filled me with terror and pride.

But there was another reason too. The day things changed, it was hot and sunny. Half-term, it must have been, because I was home. I was in the caravan when I saw a car drive into the yard. Two men climbed out. They wore suits. Hardly anyone visited us, specially not in a suit. The two men talked to each other for a moment, then they glanced around the yard.

I ducked below the window. When I raised my head they must have gone round the front, to ring on the bell nobody used. After a while they reappeared and knocked on the back porch. They moved away and looked our bungalow up and down. The way they did this, I suddenly saw it clearly: the green wood, stained under the windows; the rusting, corrugated-iron roof. One man rubbed on the window; then he wiped his fingers on his hanky and smiled at the other one. When he did that, I knew I wasn't going to let them see me.

Then Dad came up. He must have been down at our car park field. They talked for a moment, then Dad went inside and came out again with his jacket. As he put it on he bellowed,

‘Heth!'

I climbed down from the caravan.

‘Where's your manners? There's two good friends of mine here.'

I had to shake their hands.

‘Say hello to . . . er –'

‘Mike,' said one.

‘Tony,' said the other.

‘Just popping off,' said Dad. ‘What'll it be?'

‘Pepsi?' I asked.

He gave a thumbs-up sign and climbed into the car.

It was hours before he came back. Out in the depot the tea-time hooter was sounding when I heard the car returning. They must have enjoyed themselves because they were laughing and joking outside. I slipped out of the front veranda and sat down on the grass. I leaned against the wooden frame and watched the car bouncing away along the ruts. It turned left, into the traffic.

I didn't know, then, how I'd look back to that afternoon; how I'd try to remember it as it was, before everything happened. An ant was walking up my leg; it struggled over the pale hairs. I've got hairs, I realized; that was the first time I'd noticed them.

‘Heth?'

The inner door opened, then the veranda door. His trousers stood in front of me. His hands were behind his back.

‘Go on,' he said. ‘Guess.'

I squinted up but the sun was in my eyes, so I couldn't tell from his expression.

‘Left,' I said.

He usually cheated and changed hands, but today he didn't. He held out his palm; in it lay a scrunched-up paper napkin. He lowered himself down beside me and opened the napkin, carefully, on the grass.

‘Whoops,' he said. The little cheese biscuits were all broken. ‘Must've sat on them.'

‘I don't mind,' I said truthfully. I picked up the bits and ate them.

‘Had them in these bowls,' he said. ‘Them and olives, but I know you don't like the olives . . . Ever so smart, it was. Know the Global?'

I nodded.

‘In there. Got this Eurolounge . . . Velvet seating and all, with dinky little whatsits on them. Tassels. You'd have loved it, Heth. I told them . . . I said, my little girl would love this.'

‘What were those men?'

‘Who?'

‘Those two men you went with.'

He smiled and closed his eyes. He was leaning against the veranda.

‘Know something, Podge?'

‘What?'

‘Promise you won't tell?'

‘Cross my heart.'

He paused, still smiling. ‘We're sitting on a gold mine, that's what.'

‘What?'

Eyes closed, he put a finger to his lips. ‘Sssh.'

‘A gold mine?'

‘I knew it . . . Didn't have to tell me. Didn't have to tell old Frank. Not that they did, in so many words . . . Oh no, not them . . . Devious buggers.' He looked at me with one eye, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum's the word, eh?'

I stared at him, but his eyes had closed again. Then his head slid sideways and he started snoring.

I sat there for a moment, too panic-stricken to move. Down beyond the pigs, a car bumped slowly out of our field and drove off. Bye-bye, 50p. I looked at my Dad's poor, frayed cuffs. I thought of my Mum, working herself to the bone, she said, to make ends meet. Where's the money to come from? she said.

The problem was to find out where the gold was hidden. Why hadn't Dad told me about this before? He couldn't know where it was, or he would have dug it up by now. How could he sit there, when those men would surely be coming back? They knew. They would find it first, unless I hurried.

I found a trowel in the veranda and went round the back. Our yard was cracked, but none of the gaps were big enough to insert my trowel. Anyway, where would I go from there? Even with a spade, I couldn't lever up our yard, I didn't have the strength. Around our bungalow the earth was hard and dusty, all scratched by the hens. They gathered behind me, to watch. I stabbed at the ground; it hadn't rained for weeks, it was like iron. The handle was wobbly because a screw was missing. I jabbed and stabbed: why was nothing ever mended in our house? If only I could dig properly, Dad could buy himself a new trowel, a new anything. He could build himself a pub in the yard instead of leaving us alone.

The possibilities made me dizzy. I didn't really want anything for myself, nothing big, but that afternoon – probably because for the first time I could do something to remedy it – that afternoon I realized how money might make my parents happier. The words sprang up: we are poor. It wasn't my Mum going on about it, but me realizing it for myself.

I made no progress. The ground was just chipped, here and there. I was useless. I didn't like to try the grass out the front because Dad was there.

I went indoors. Thinking back now, I'm not sure I knew what I was seeking. Gold coins? I was too old to believe in hidden treasure. But I was still young enough to believe in miracles: that something could be found that would make my parents happier . . . That I could do it if I tried.

Everywhere the floor creaked. I knew there were holes under the carpet because we'd all learned how to avoid them – a stride was necessary, for instance, outside the bathroom door, and there was a subsiding area of carpet behind the telly. When my Mum went on about them, Dad said he only had one pair of hands.

I started in the kitchen because the lino was loose. Lifting it, I saw the floorboards all broken. Dusty gaps showed what must have been earth but it looked even less promising than outside. I felt foolish, kneeling there with my trowel.

Just then I heard a car outside. Mum was back from work; Oonagh's husband had given her a lift. By the time she'd come indoors I'd put back the lino and also hidden, in the fridge, Dad's plate of Spam and tomatoes that I'd made for his lunch, and that he hadn't seen. I hid the trowel in the cupboard. Her footstep made me feel infantile. I jerked shut the cupboard door, which was warped.

It was late that night when the shouting started. I was in bed but I woke up at the noise. I couldn't hear the TV, which alarmed me; Mum must have switched it off. I knew then that it must be bad, so I went under the blankets and put Kanga's arm in my mouth.

‘Keep your voice down!' shouted my Dad.

‘Let her hear. Let her know what sort of a man she has for a father.'

My bedclothes muffled the voices but they were all too recognizable. My teeth dug into Kanga.

‘What a spineless nobody he is . . . What a good-for-nothing slob.'

‘Say that again, Coral. I'm waiting . . . Go on.'

‘No need, is there?'

‘Oh yes?'

‘We both know it, don't we?'

‘Look –'

‘I'm wondering what they were saying, when they dumped you here . . . When they'd opened their door and let you roll out –'

‘I told you, we got along fine. Real matey, we were –'

‘Don't tell me! Can't I imagine it? I don't want to, mind you, but –'

‘We're not selling this place!'

I stiffened.

‘Don't care what they offer,' he said. ‘Don't give a monkey's fart.'

From a long way off I heard her laugh. ‘
You
don't care! That's a fine one . . . No, I'm sure you don't. You don't have to earn it, do you?'

Selling
? Selling our home? I lay rigid. She was just finishing saying something. ‘. . . Sitting on your fat backside all day . . .'

‘I'm not budging. I like it, the kid likes it –'

‘And what about me? Thought about that? I know you don't like to bother about
my
feelings, too much of an effort, isn't it? I don't suppose you remember our plans.'

‘What?'

‘When we bought this place. Our plans. Building up the business, getting out. Getting
on.
Somewhere else, somewhere better. This land is worth a fortune now – all this development land . . . Dear God, I hate this place. I should've listened to my Mum.'

‘Here we go!'

‘When she told me what it'd be like. What I could expect, with a slob like you. Damn all, as it turns out.'

‘You're a bitch.'

‘You're a fool. You're such a
fool.
'

‘Cold bitch, too. When was the last time –'

‘Such a
fool.
'

‘Go on, say it again.'

‘A big, stupid, drunken –'

A thud. I bit Kanga, hard.

‘Don't you come near me.' Her voice was flat. ‘Stay away.'

‘Nobody talks to me like that.'

‘I've had enough. See?'

‘Not good enough for you, am I? Hoity-toity?'

‘You hit me again, and I'll, I'll . . .'

A chair scraped. I didn't hear any more because I pressed my hands against my ears. You probably think I was a coward. But nothing could have pulled me out from those blankets.

A few moments later I loosened my hands, just a little. Teddy was starting to whine; otherwise there was silence. I pushed back the bedclothes and ran into the lounge.

My Dad was sitting there, smoking.

‘Where's Mum?'

‘Your Mum? Just popped out.'

‘Has she died?'

He gaped at me.

‘Has she?' I asked.

‘Come here, ducks.' He patted the settee beside him. ‘'Course she hasn't. Heard a bit of a ding-dong, eh?'

I nodded.

‘She'll be back,' he said.

‘Has she gone to Oonagh's?'

He nodded.

‘But it's miles.'

‘Only a mile, that way.' He jerked his head towards the back door.

‘Across the field?'

He nodded.

‘Couldn't we fetch her back?'

‘No sense in it. Till she's cooled off.'

‘What about Teddy? And us?'

He leaned forward, rubbing his face in his hands. ‘No problem, princess.' He held out one hand; I took it. ‘We'll manage.'

He looked so large and helpless. I didn't know what to do. Teddy was crying louder now, so I went into their bedroom. It was only these last few weeks, to see Teddy, that I'd been into their room. Their cupboard door was open; so were two drawers. Her hairbrush was gone. I picked up Teddy and took him into the kitchen, to mix his bottle.

By the time I'd put Teddy down again Dad was asleep, toppled sideways on the settee. I couldn't think what to do with him. I bolted the front and the back door; then I thought: what if she comes back? So I unbolted them and went to bed. As I lay there, gripping Kanga, I remembered I'd been digging for gold. It seemed like a week ago.

I dreamed I was falling through the floor. There was just space below, endless space . . . black and echoing. There was nothing for me to grab on to. They'd all been packed away, the floorboards, they'd been sent away . . . Nothing left, no house, nothing . . . Somebody was crying for me, miles above, but I couldn't hear what they were trying to tell me . . .

It was Teddy crying, through the wall. I heard him now. Mum will see to him, I thought . . . Then I sat up suddenly, awake.

In the lounge, the light was still on. The room was empty; Dad must have gone to bed. I stood outside their bedroom door. Teddy was still crying in there, but I couldn't hear any noise from my Dad. Beside the handle, I hesitated. Teddy's crying grew more purposeful. What happened if Dad woke up, like a wild man, and started shaking him?

The door creaked as I opened it. No wonder he was crying; it was pitch dark in there. Mum always left on the bedside lamp. The light from the lounge fell across the bed. Dad's head lay on the pillow; he was still asleep.

Teddy had kicked off his bedclothes. I unclipped the bars of the cot; they rattled down. Behind me, Dad grunted.

‘What's that?' he mumbled.

‘Only me,' I whispered.

I leaned over and picked up Teddy. He was sopping wet – him and his nightie and the cot sheet. He hadn't been changed for hours. I sat down heavily on the bed. He twisted around in my lap, hiccuping, trying to catch his breath for another wail. I shivered in the cold. By now I was crying too, noisily, missing my Mum. I couldn't move, so I had to wipe my nose on my nightie sleeve. It seemed impossible to ever stand up. Teddy was so wet; I felt the drops slide down my leg, inside my nightie.

‘Don't cry, Heth.' The bed creaked under me. Dad moved; he was sitting up, behind me. His hands gripped my shoulders. ‘Stop it!'

‘How could she leave him? Dad, how could she?'

‘Don't take on, lovey.' The hands tightened. ‘You'll start me off in a minute . . . cats' chorus.'

‘How could she leave you?' I blurted out. Meaning: and me too.