Unbecoming

by Jenny Downham

  On the screen, a man set up a camera. He was going to interview everyone who knew his wife. She’d died several weeks previously and he was convinced she’d been having an affair. His friends simply thought he was missing her as they sat one by one in a chair and spoke at great length while he filmed them. After a while, Katie stopped reading the subtitles and let the foreign words wash over her because the whole length of Jamie’s leg was pressing against the whole length of hers.

  Surely the fact that Jamie seemed to like her so much was a start? There were girls all over the world in much worse positions. There was that girl at her old school, Adina, who didn’t come back after the summer holidays and everyone said she’d been sent abroad to marry her uncle. And there were young women Katie had heard about on the radio who came over to this country with their boyfriends and were then totally betrayed and sold as house slaves while their ‘boyfriends’ pocketed a fee.

  Jamie was kind and funny and intelligent and not bad-looking and surely she’d grow to like him? His hand slid from his lap to the side of her thigh and his little finger began to stroke the seam of her jeans.

  The film cut to footage the man had taken when his wife was alive. Here she was looking out of a window. Here she was reading a newspaper. Here she was sleeping.

  Jamie leaned in. ‘Did you say there was a car chase?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Katie whispered back. ‘Right after the gun fight.’

  He laughed. His breath was warm against her neck.

  The woman on the screen was dancing now. She had a cigarette in her hand and she blew a kiss to the camera with such confidence that for an instant she looked like Mary. Katie smiled, and maybe Jamie saw and thought it was encouragement because he picked up her hand and threaded his fingers with hers and laid both their hands back on her thigh.

  A boy’s hand in hers! A boy’s hand in the dark. His hand was warm and the lacing of their fingers together was so intimate it shocked her.

  The film droned on, but none of it mattered. She could feel Jamie’s pulse in her palm and it felt much more meaningful than kissing him at the party.

  ‘I really like you,’ he said.

  She didn’t say anything. She sat there like an idiot with her heart going nuts and she’d bet any money he was looking all serious and vulnerable and if she did turn towards him or say anything, he was going to kiss her and she wanted to please him, but …

  Should she tell him? Before I met you, I kissed a girl. Since I met you I’ve kissed another one. I may not be the person you think I am.

  The trouble was, there was something so lovely about his attention that she didn’t feel quite ready to give it up yet.

  ‘You have such amazing hair,’ Jamie said, his voice gentle. He leaned closer and kissed her lightly on the side of her head. ‘Your eyes are amazing too.’

  He was interested in her in ways that no boy had ever been before, and Katie felt moved by him and sorry for him. She ached with it. It reminded her of seeing really old people scrabble for money in their purses.

  ‘I really like you,’ Jamie said. He laughed softly. ‘Did I already say that?’

  ‘I like you too,’ she said, because she did, and also because it would make him happy and what else are you supposed to do with so much feeling?

  It was nice kissing him again. His skin was soft and his lips were soft too and he was gentle, his kisses like small enquiries. He ran his tongue along the edge of her top lip and when she did it back, he did it again. He ran his tongue along her bottom lip. She dared to touch the tip of his tongue with hers. It was like a conversation – each gesture a new sentence. It was complicated, but interesting.

  It was nice stopping kissing him too. She particularly liked his arm round her. She felt gathered, like wool being wound in, as he pulled her close and she leaned her head on his shoulder and they went back to watching the movie.

  It was weird coming out of the arts centre into bright daylight. The sky had cleared of cloud and the street was busy. There were tons of little kids being dragged about now there was no school to go to.

  ‘We could go for a drink if you like,’ Jamie suggested. ‘What time do you have to be back?’

  She turned her phone on but there were no messages. ‘OK, let’s get a coffee somewhere.’

  ‘You fancy a pub instead?’

  ‘Will we get served?’

  ‘I’ve got ID. And you’re so sophisticated, no one will ask you.’

  Sophisticated? No one had ever called her that before. ‘Do you know a nice one?’

  He looked about as if a pub would suddenly appear before their eyes. ‘The one on Sidmore Street has a beer garden. You fancy that?’

  He didn’t try to take her hand again as they walked, but he softly bumped against her twice and she knew he was doing it on purpose. He dared to link arms as they crossed the road. It was old-fashioned and she didn’t mind it. When they got to the pub they found a table easily and he asked what she wanted and she told him a rum and Coke because she wanted to keep being sophisticated.

  ‘Crisps?’ Jamie said.

  ‘No, I’m fine. But let me pay.’

  She handed over ten pounds, and although he hesitated he took it.

  What was astonishing was that when he went off to the bar, she missed him. She actually felt shy sitting amongst the other people in the beer garden – friendless again, alone. She looked at her phone to give her something to do, but there were no messages. Strange to be this free suddenly.

  She texted Chris: OK? She considered texting Esme: ON THRD DATE, but that would look strange and desperate, so she didn’t.

  She got out the cinema leaflet and flicked through it. She’d choose a movie and invite Jamie out again. It would be her treat. Jamie had done all the work for this date – all the texting and arranging, all the hand holding and daring to touch. On the walk round the park he’d also asked most of the questions, done most of the listening and said most of the lovely things. She’d soaked it all up like some kind of parasitic sponge and spent most of the time wondering if she even fancied him, so it was only fair that she treated him.

  But there, right in the middle of the brochure was an advert for next week’s French film. In the photo, two girls stood in such proximity that the only outcome was a kiss. The girl on the left had her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open in anticipation as she leaned down. The girl on the right had her eyes almost shut, but her lips were also parted as she craned her neck up. She had blue hair. It was a three-hour film based on a graphic novel, following a blossoming love affair between two young women. Warning: contains explicit sexual content.

  And that’s when Jamie came back with a drink in each hand and a packet of crisps swinging from his mouth. And that’s when she slapped the brochure shut like it was porn.

  And maybe the universe punishes people for doing one thing and thinking another, because that’s also when her phone rang. It was Mum. She was furious. She’d come back to the flat and found the door unlocked and nobody in.

  ‘What’s going on, Katie? Where the hell is everyone?’

  Twenty-eight

  The bus was full of people and Mary was struck by how young they all were. Every single one of them younger than her. She wasn’t sure when this happened, but she knows that it had, like the balance of the world had shifted when she wasn’t looking.

  The boy sitting next to her was plugged into things, the light from some gadget shining on his face, his fingers tapping at it. ‘Mum keeps ringing,’ he said. ‘But I’m not answering. I’m just texting that we’re fine and we’ll be back later.’

  He looked upset. Mary touched his arm to comfort him, but he shrank away. Sometimes she wondered if she drained energy from the world. Sometimes she felt like a hole in a plane, sucking lap trays and coats and babies at great speed out to an empty sky.

  She nudged the boy again. She wanted to say, I was your age once. Every morning when I wake up, don’t you think I’m shocked to look in the bathroom mirror and
see this battered peach?

  But when the boy looked up, all Mary could think of saying was, ‘How quickly it goes.’

  When every damn thought was so much richer, so much more than that. Like a rock pool, she thought, with your hand plunged deep in cold water and bright fish threading your fingers and you want to catch one in your hand. You want to hold it up, trapped and shimmering and shout, Look! Look!

  The boy said, ‘Now Katie’s calling. I’m gonna turn it to silent. That’ll shut them up.’

  Who was he? Mary stared at him, willed a name to pop into her head. Nothing. She nudged him again. ‘Do I know you?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m Chris.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘You’re always asking that. Fourteen.’

  ‘That’s a good age.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’

  Perhaps she should label things – butter, fridge, tables and chairs. That might help. Perhaps this child wouldn’t mind wearing a badge?

  He tapped away at his gadget again. ‘Katie says if I lose you, she’ll never forgive me, so I’m telling her to sod off.’

  Who is keeping who company? Who is looking after who?

  ‘Would you do me a favour,’ Mary said, ‘and tell me to go home if I look lost?’

  The boy frowned. ‘Are you OK? You’re not feeling sick again, are you?’

  Sick? Perhaps. Because every damn thought kept slipping away. And her head was full of memories that weren’t in any order at all. Why, for instance, did Pat pop into her mind now? Pat bending down to her saying, ‘People drown in that water. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that only paddling’s allowed.’

  And now Mary as a child, in a red swimming costume and sun hat.

  And now the day on the beach when Pat looked away for a moment. A beach well known for its terrible tides and its secret shifting sand.

  It was so peaceful. Mary lay on her back in the water and watched the clouds spin. She was there for ages floating about. She was a mermaid, a dolphin, a drowning princess. She only began to be afraid when a flock of seagulls settled on the cliff to watch and she realized her face was under the water.

  Later, Pat wrapped her in a blanket and held her on her lap. Mary was so surprised to be alive that she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Instead, she found a small space in the crook of her sister’s elbow and buried herself there.

  ‘You were so nearly lost,’ her sister whispered. ‘I will never be so careless again.’

  But she was. She was very careless.

  1968 – the point of you

  They say if you spend five days in water you start to melt. If someone grabs your dead hand to haul you out, your hand comes off in theirs. Your eyes are fish blown, your hair has turned to seaweed. You are salty and swollen, more water than earth or air. You are soaked, full as a sponge. You come out dripping and bloated and heavier than you’ve ever been. Your bones have absorbed it, your head is full of brine like a pickled boar. Every orifice leaks as they drag you up the beach and lay you out.

  Mary sits with a small crowd in the parlour and Pat lies in her box and Jean from next door says, ‘He’ll be lost without her.’ And they all look at Dad, who has still not spoken a word to Mary. Who has curled Caroline’s hand in his own as if it will save him.

  Pat knew how to make mock cream from cornflour and margarine, a sauce from Creamola when there was no custard to be had. Pat knew how to bank a fire, how to manage a larder, how to take a pint of sour milk and turn it into a scone.

  How would any of them cope without her?

  That night, Mary lies in bed and listens to Caroline breathe. Then she sits up and looks at her. You are my child, she thinks. You have a sweet, sad face and I am your mother. We will go back to London again together soon and all will be well.

  Outside the church after the funeral, Jean mops her eyes. ‘She was a wonderful neighbour,’ she says. ‘Always so neat and houseproud.’

  ‘She was indeed remarkable,’ the vicar agrees. ‘A woman who lived a life in sacrifice and put others’ needs above her own. This young lady in particular owes her a great debt.’

  Mary owes her? Does she?

  Oh yes. It was the younger sister’s fault. It had been too much for Pat to take responsibility for a child when their mother died. Was she never to have a life of her own? It was her nerves – anyone could see. Selfish Mary. Contrary Mary. That Pat loved too much, and too hard.

  And in later years, it was Mary’s fault for visiting so rarely, for living so far away, for never using the telephone, even though that was why Pat had one installed (at great expense, mind you!).

  ‘That wasn’t how it was,’ Mary wants to scream. ‘Pat lied to me. She stole my baby and never let me see her. I let them be together over and over.’

  Maybe that’s why she finds it so hard to wrench the girl from her grandfather. They just keep holding each other, their hands across the kitchen table as she passes him tissues, her arm round his shoulder as she watches his favourite programmes with him.

  In the days leading up to Christmas his tired old eyes light up only if the child is near. Caroline reads to him, something Mary’s never considered doing in her life. Caroline knows how to bank the fire and stack his pipe and when he says he wants no festivities, no gifts or tree or special dinner, the girl agrees and they spend Christmas Day huddled together, looking at photos of Pat and talking about how valiant and exceptional she was. When all Mary can think is, How dare she? How dare she steal my daughter and break her heart? How dare she die?

  Mary shares Caroline’s room at first, like camping, like maybe after New Year they’ll wake up and it’s just been a holiday and Caroline will want to leave now.

  But no, Caroline just gets on with things – goes back to school when term starts, does her homework, has her tea, watches TV, does more homework, drinks a mug of Horlicks, kisses her grandpa, who was off for a walk (again). The amount of walking that man does, he should buy a bloody dog. Or walk the circumference of England.

  ‘You’re staying then?’ Caroline says to Mary one night.

  ‘I am,’ Mary answers. ‘If you want privacy, I’ll move into the spare room, but that’s the extent of my leaving. I’m your mother, aren’t I?’

  But claims of motherhood incense Caroline. And Mary’s attempts at domesticity infuriate her more. She stalks about the house, tutting when Mary uses the wrong cups or fails to ram the lid back on the tea caddy or puts a wet spoon in the sugar or slops water on the carpet and wipes it in with her foot instead of bothering with newspaper and cloths. The day Mary witnesses Caroline mopping the kitchen lino with rags tied round her slippers, she knows it’s too late. The girl belongs to Pat. And guilt will keep her there.

  And Mary is giddy with missing London. She thinks of her suitcase under the bed. Her manuscript. The lines she’s supposed to be learning. The panto would be over by now, and the company would have a short break then start rehearsals for Uncle Vania. She’d been promised the role of Yeliena. Would they have recast yet?

  One day towards the end of January, Caroline politely knocks on Mary’s bedroom door. ‘You may as well go back,’ she says. ‘I mean, they want you in London, don’t they? And really, you’re no use here. I don’t see the point of you. So why not just leave? Come and visit if you like, send money when you can, but you’re only under my feet here.’

  Was she remembering this right? Had a fourteen-year-old child said this to her?

  ‘Come with me,’ Mary says. ‘Don’t stay looking after him. The only reward will be people telling you what a good girl you are and, believe me, you can live perfectly well without any of that.’

  ‘He needs me. And anyway, it’s what Mum would’ve wanted.’

  She was right about that.

  And Mary’s failing, her very great and terrible failing, had been to listen to the words of a broken girl. She should’ve hoisted Caroline onto her shoulders and carried her off. Instead, she abandoned her
to an old man, to his teeth in a jar, to his back bent with age, to the gip in his knee and the tremors in his hands and eventually to his incontinence and night terrors. And because she felt so guilty, poor little Caroline bent her head in acquiescence and got on with the task in hand, which turned out to be caring for her grandfather for fifteen long years.

  Twenty-nine

  It was like running back in time – back to the wide pavements and long sloping front gardens and detached houses of her old life. The lawns were vivid green, like in picture books and there was the familiar tang of earth, wet and dark from so many sprinkler systems. How could Katie have forgotten that smell?

  She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. No, she didn’t need it. She wouldn’t look. It could all piss off. She’d come here to do one thing – get Chris and Mary and haul them away.

  She ran faster. The breeze lifted her hair and her legs began to burn and she could feel her own sweat, could taste salt on her lips, but she was going to keep running until she got there and when she got there, Chris was going to be in such trouble. She was going to yell at him. She was going to do more than yell at him, in fact, because how come he couldn’t do one thing right? And how come whatever happened for the rest of her life, Chris would be her responsibility? Had she asked for it? No. But Mum went on about it all the time – Look out for your brother, Katie. He’s not as clever as you. He doesn’t have your opportunities.

  Well, that could all piss off too. Because this was the last time, the very last, that Katie would look out for anyone other than herself. She’d been on a date! She’d been trying to be normal! Well, tonight, when she got home, she’d tell Mum that yes, she would in fact like to go to the Oxbridge Summer School, and after that she wanted to spend the rest of the holiday studying. Mum would be a total hypocrite if she refused. She’d have to look after Chris and Mary herself and Katie could get away from them all, pretend she was going to the library and then sneak off and have a regular teenage life.