I almost phoned Dogman again: I was
that
desperate, even though it would probably have been a frying-pan/fire situation. I could just imagine the sort of comfort he’d offer, given half a chance. My opportunity to see the glories that lay beneath his manky old coat.
Instead I called Maggie and brought her up to date, even though I’d in fact told her all the news from the pay-phone at hospital. ‘Did I get you out of bed?’ I asked, when I realized she had no teeth in. She said not, so I spun the call out for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t tell half of what she said but it didn’t matter.
After that I went to the kitchen, piled some food on a plate, did one more recce of the house and retired to my room with a chair against the door. I started on
Pride and Prejudice
because that’s my ultimate comfort book, the one that always makes me feel better. The number of times I’ve hidden inside Mr Bennet’s library. But the house was creaking and groaning as though an entire army of burglars was scouting the downstairs, and I couldn’t get past the first page. I seemed to have forgotten how to read.
It seemed a long time till it got light outside again.
*
There’s no drug like a book. If I couldn’t read, I’d die.
It took a whole week till Poll returned – some problem with her blood pressure and a suspected hairline fracture – and ten days to admit that I wasn’t going anywhere. There was still a month and a half till term started but I knew the whole idea of leaving to become a student a hundred miles away had always been a fantasy. My instinct had been right. I would never, ever cope on my own.
Which was just as well, because Poll had turned really clingy.
‘I don’t know what they did to her in th’ hospital,’ whispered Maggie, as Poll took herself off upstairs, limping and sighing and clutching her chest. ‘She keeps having these dos, panic attacks she calls them. Our Dawn had them after little Kayleigh was born. One time she couldn’t go out of th’ house and she’d run out of nappies. When I went round she’d put a sanitary towel on t’ baby and taped it down with sticking plaster.’
I shrugged. I hated babies. Dawn could have wrapped it in Bacofoil for all I cared. ‘How long did it last?’
‘The sticking plaster?’
‘No, having panic attacks.’
‘Oh, well, she waited I don’t know how long before saying owt in case they thought she were an unfit mother and took Kayleigh into care. But she went to t’ doctor in t’ finish, and he gave her tablets. Psoriasis, I think they were called.’
‘That’s a disease.’
Maggie narrowed her eyes. ‘Eh, I don’t know. Summatsis. I’ll ask next time I see her. But Poll’s got to get over losing her dog, that was a terrible shock for her on top of the fall. And with you going too . . . ’
I got up quickly and went in the kitchen out of her way for a minute. I looked through the smeary glass at the long narrow garden with Winston’s mound at the bottom, at the faint white shadows of Dogman’s melted gnomes, at the saggy washing line beaded with rain. I could simply have said, I’m not now, I’m staying put. I don’t know why I didn’t come straight out with the truth. Maybe I didn’t want Maggie to feel she’d won. Anyway, she and Poll would know soon enough I wasn’t leaving for Oxford.
When the Freshers’ Guide came through the post, it was with a kind of relief that I scanned it and then threw it in the bin. You had to have a medical and I always hated those, stripping off to your underwear, watching the nurse eye your rolls of flesh; the scales with their sliding bar that had to be tipped back, and back, and back till the doctor tutted in amazement. Also on the agenda were Karaoke, Bar Quizzes, Treasure Hunts, Ice-skating, all manner of crazy fun. Condoms were available in the toilets near the JCR, because who knows but in the middle of a barn dance you might not fancy a shag with someone you’ve only known ten minutes. My Freshers’ Week would have been a hundred and sixty-eight hours of sitting in my room trying to avoid everyone.
I did pick the envelope out of the bin, though, after a while. I’d keep the guide, with the reading list and the original letter offering me a conditional place, in the pages of Dad’s textbook alongside the photo of my mother. I figured it would be a good memory to have, proof that I could have gone to Oxford if I’d wanted.
‘But,’ I told Maggie as we washed up together, ‘if I do stay, there’ll have to be some changes round here. You know, more freedom.’
‘Tell your grandma,’ said Maggie, rubbing at a slug trail on the back doormat with her shoe.
‘I will. I’ve been making a list.’
We went through to where Poll was sitting, hunched and miserable, in front of
Boot Sale Challenge
. ‘All the fight’s gone out of her,’ Maggie had said earlier; it was true. A good time to tell her what was what, then.
‘I’ve been having a think,’ I said, settling at the end of the sofa nearest Poll’s chair and muting the volume on the TV.
‘Oh aye? What about?’
Maggie smiled at me encouragingly. ‘Go on, love.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Now I’m eighteen and I’ve left school, I want a bit more freedom.’
Poll turned and peered at me. ‘You what?’
‘I’ll stay under this roof, look after you—’
Poll spluttered. ‘It’s me as looks after you, more like.’
‘Keep going,’ Maggie said to me.
‘But there need to be some changes round here.’
‘Oh,
do
there?’
‘Yes, there do. Such as, I want to come and go as I please.’
‘You’ve got a key,’ Poll huffed. ‘I don’t know what you’re moaning about.’
‘Yes, but I still have to tell you everywhere I’m going, don’t I?’
‘I should think so too. That’s manners. I don’t want to be worrying where you are all t’ time. What if you’re abducted, and t’ police go, “Where did she say she was headed?” and I have to tell them, “I’m sorry, officer, I don’t know”? That’ll look good on t’ news, won’t it?’
‘Poll’s got a point,’ said Maggie. ‘A quick phone call to say you’ll be late. Just so’s she knows you’re safe.’
‘But not twenty bloody questions every time I step over the threshold.’
‘There’s no need for bad language,’ said Poll. ‘All right. You tell me so I don’t have to ask.’
I left the point and moved on. ‘I want to be able to wear what I like, not just the things you get for me off the market. They make me look like, like you. Like I’m about seventy.’
That nettled her. ‘You wear what you damn well please, then, if you don’t mind all and sundry looking up your skirt and down your bust. And I’m not paying out for it, you’ve to fund it yourself. “Vest” is all I’ve got to say on the matter. Dress like a trollop, see what happens.’
‘Well, they do,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s what t’ young ’uns want. They all do it, show off their bits and pieces, it’s the fashion.’
‘I’ve said all I’m saying.’ Poll pointed a finger in my face. ‘You’ll find out.’
‘That’s up to me. And while we’re on the subject, I don’t want any sarky comments about boyfriends, if I bring somebody home.’
Poll didn’t say anything but she started to laugh, which was worse. I looked despairingly at Maggie.
‘She’s a bonny girl,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s a lovely curvy figure. If she’d tie her hair back a bit more so we could see her face . . . ’ She leaned across the sofa and lifted my hair away from my cheek. ‘You want to mek the most of yourself, love. Lift your head up more, put your shoulders back. You’re always trying to hide away, and you’ve no need. You’ve beautiful skin.’
Poll had carried on laughing but in a forced sort of way. ‘If you say so, Maggie.’
‘I want to watch more of the programmes I like,’ I continued. ‘I’m fed up of house-decorating and quiz shows. In fact, I want a TV of my own, in my room. Everyone at school had their own TV.’
‘Everyone at your school had more money than us,’ snapped Poll. ‘I’m a pensioner, if you hadn’t noticed—’
‘Now, hang on, I think our Dawn might have an old one,’ Maggie interrupted. ‘She were going to put it in t’ free paper, but I’m sure she’d let you have it for next to nowt. I’ll have a word.’ She beamed at Poll. ‘So that’s summat else sorted out.’
‘Thanks, Maggie. Where was I up to? Oh yeah, at some point I want to do an Open University course. Miss Stockley’ll help me apply, and I can use the computers in the library to do the assignments.’ I had in mind a degree in librarianship, but I didn’t tell Poll that. I was hoping madly that Miss Dragon would be so flattered by my career choice she’d forgive me for throwing away Oxford.
Poll just shrugged.
‘And the last thing is, I’m fed up of Dickie being round here all the time. Can’t we see less of him? It’s as if he lives here, for God’s sake. I’m nearly tripping over him. I don’t like the way he lets himself in now without ringing the bell.’
She sat upright, her brow furrowed. ‘Dickie’s a friend. He’s good to you, I don’t know why you’ve tekken against him all of a sudden. You used go walking with him and all sorts. You used think he was marvellous. Well, didn’t you? You’d moth-eat him every time he was round. Honest, Maggie, she did.’
‘I know, I can remember.’ Maggie smiled fondly. ‘You were a bobbin when you were small. Allus into everything, doing your little projects. I remember saving you all that tinfoil once.’
‘Aye, and do you not remember Dickie building you that bird table so you could do your survey for school? You’ve a short memory, you have.’
That was pre-breasts, though. I said, ‘He’s changed.’
‘You mean you have,’ said Poll. ‘Bread etten’s soon forgetten. You ought to be more grateful for what you have, not whining for more all t’ time. Anyway, Dickie’s like family. Well, he is to me.’
Family; now there was a word to conjure with.
‘He is harmless,’ said Maggie, nodding. ‘You’ve not to tek him seriously.’ She patted me on the knee. ‘So, are we straight now?’
Poll and I scowled at each other.
‘Well, then,’ Maggie went on, ‘I wanted to show you both this in the catalogue.’ She pulled a rolled-up magazine out of her shopping bag and opened it up where the corner of a page was turned over. ‘Get your magnifier, Poll. Move that light closer, Katherine. Can you see?’
‘Is it a penguin?’ Poll cocked her head.
‘No, it’s a stone dog; see, it’s sitting up and begging. It’s the spitting image of Winston. I thought you could put it in t’ garden, on his grave.’
Poll dragged the picture closer. ‘I see him now. In’t he beautiful?’
‘
This life-like canine companion
,’ Maggie read over her shoulder, ‘
crafted from hard-wearing resin, will withstand the harshest of British weather. Rain or shine, Westie will always be ready to play. Price slashed to nineteen ninety-nine
.’
‘Oh yes, we’ve got to have one of those. Can you fill in the form for us, Maggie?’
We’ve money enough for that, then, I thought.
*
I got the TV, though, within days. That made me feel a whole lot better, because I could go up to my room, shut the door and watch decent programmes without a background of non-stop grumbling. It was mean in some ways, because it meant Poll had to try and make out the shows she liked all on her own downstairs, without me to fill in the crucial details. But it gave us a break from each other.
I’d started to rearrange my room too. I bagged up half the clothes in my wardrobe; I was going to take them down to Scope. Some giant old lady would be glad of them. I moved some of the furniture round, just for a change, and took most of Dad’s posters down off the walls. I was fed up of living in a shrine. In their place I Blu-tacked some posters of my own; one of Virginia Woolf, one for
The Lord of the Rings
, and a black-and-white study of some trees on a hill. Dogman had given me these six months ago and I hadn’t even unrolled them because I assumed they’d be smut. They were tatty round the edges, as if he’d peeled them off someone’s wall himself, but he swore they were from a table-top sale in Harrop.
I also repainted my door cherry red gloss from a tin I found in the outhouse, and borrowed Maggie’s steam cleaner for the carpet. It came up a different colour. With tea-lights all round, a joss-stick burning, and a black lacy shawl hung over the back of the chair, the room looked nice. I’d plans for a new lampshade and a throw for the bed, with velvet cushions. Maybe I could ask for them at Christmas.
Poll thought it looked like Santa’s Grotto, but Maggie was impressed when I took her up and showed her.
‘You’ve a flair,’ she said. ‘Our Dawn’s keen on stencilling and she’s done all gold butterflies round her picture rail. You could do summat like that.’
‘Look at this,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘Whatever is it?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? It’s a tractor.’
‘Oh. I thought it were an old cotton reel with a drawing pin stuck in.’
‘Ah, well, that’s where you’re wrong.’ I put the collection of pieces on the dressing table and started to assemble them. ‘I found it when I was clearing out; Dickie made it for me out of the
Ladybird Book of Things to Make and Do
. I remember him cutting the end of a candle off and pulling the wick out, and hunting all round the house for the right size elastic band. It still works. See. You use the matchstick to wind it up.’
We watched together as the cotton reel crawled along the top.
‘It goes over hills too.’ I leant a book in the tractor’s way and it clambered on, and up. ‘Dickie cut notches round the edges to make it grip. Clever, isn’t it?’
‘Very good,’ said Maggie.
‘And I tell you what.’ I scooped the tractor up and let the matchstick spin. ‘I’ve decided to be nicer to Dickie. Make more of an effort. He’s not going to go away, it’s no good kicking against the pricks.’
‘I think you’re very wise,’ said Maggie solemnly. ‘Mek the best of things, that’s the secret of happiness. Not money.’
We heard a thump in the porch followed by Dogman singing a burst of ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’.
‘Talk of the devil,’ chuckled Maggie, nudging me in the ribs.
‘Hey, look what I’ve got.’ Dogman was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a dripping carrier bag and looking pleased with himself. A dark liquid was spotting the carpet by his feet.