by Juno Dawson
Even the short run had left me soaked to the skin. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. Rick slid out of his blazer and draped it over my shoulders. ‘I’m frozen,’ I said, a fat raindrop running off my nose. He held me close, rubbing my back. He was as wet as I was so I’m not sure it helped either of us.
‘Maybe …’ He stopped.
‘What?’
‘No. I … I was gonna say we should get out of these wet clothes before we catch a chill.’
I looked up into his eyes and bit my lip to hide a smile. ‘Richard P. Sawyer …’
He smiled back. ‘I’m serious! I don’t want you to get hypothermia or something. Look … go up there.’ There was a sturdy ladder leading to an upper level overlooking the barn. A hay store, I supposed. ‘There’s even a blanket.’
I’m not sure I’d have called it a blanket, but there was a hessian curtain hanging along the edge of the top level. I was so cold my teeth were clattering together. ‘Very well. You wait here.’
I climbed the ladder and went behind the curtain. I peeled my flimsy dress from my skin and let it fall to the floor. I was wet to my underwear. I hesitated a moment and then took those off too. I wondered if Rick was watching my silhouette from below so I peeked my head around the curtain. Like a perfect gent, his back was turned. His shirt was stuck to his back. Oh, it just wasn’t fair. ‘Lieutenant Sawyer?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘There’s plenty of curtain for two …’
He grinned and started up the ladder. I pulled it down and wrapped the edge of the material around my chest. ‘Are you going to avert your gaze while I strip?’ he asked with a wicked glint in his eye.
‘Of course. What kind of wanton hussy do you think I am?’ I winked and turned on my heel. The barn was musty and cobweb-strewn, but otherwise clean. It merely smelled of dry hay, not an unpleasant odour in the slightest.
My back was still turned when I felt his arms wrap around me from behind, his body pressed against my back. He kissed the groove between my neck and shoulder, brushing my wet hair aside. He was so warm and his kisses were silky soft. My whole body hummed.
I turned to face him and closed my eyes. He wrapped the blanket around the both of us and we embraced, skin to skin. Oh, it felt divine. He ran his fingers through my hair and we kissed.
What we did came so naturally I cannot pretend it felt immoral. Quite the contrary, it seemed like the exact right thing to do. I couldn’t stop myself and I can’t say I was inclined to do so. I felt so safe, so special in Rick’s arms.
In the warmth of the little barn, covered by a rough cloth, Rick and I made love on a bed of hay.
I blame the rain.
Chapter 19
Oh, gross. Well, that’s put me right off my dinner.
Chapter 20
The next night I go to Bronwyn’s for supper. I’m a little nervous because I haven’t really spent much time with Bronwyn alone as Danny’s always around to dilute her a little bit. If I’m honest, I don’t think we have a single thing in common. God, if Tiggy and Marina and the St Agnes girls could see us together, they’d totally wet themselves.
We walk home from school together, heading out of town in the opposite direction to the farm, towards the old mine. I realise Bronwyn must live on the Coedwigoedd estate – the grotsky council estate built after the war for miners and their families.
The houses are a nightmare in pebble-dash. The nicer ones have manicured gardens with terracotta pots, the worst are burnt out and boarded up with steel panels. ‘The estate thought a paedophile lived there –’ Bronwyn points to a charred ruin – ‘so they chased him out of town and set fire to his house.’
She’s under a leopard-print umbrella and mine is Burberry. There’s a mist of drizzle wetter than it looks. ‘Oh, wow. Was he a Charlie Chester Child Molester?’
Bronwyn shrugs. ‘Probably not. He just had a glass eye and kept himself to himself. I hope he’s OK, wherever he is. It was pretty scary. The people on the estate might as well have chased him down with burning torches. It was like Frankenstein or something.’
‘I suppose that’s one of the good things about living in the city – no one really pays you any attention until they run you down by accident.’
Bronwyn smiles. ‘If I can trust Dad to look after himself, I’ll move away for uni.’
‘Where?’
‘Maybe London. Mr Deacon thinks I should apply for Oxbridge, but I don’t know if I could stomach all the weird ceremonies and braying Etonians.’
I don’t let on that half of my school end up there. ‘God, I haven’t even started to think about it. It feels like it’s years away.’
‘You don’t know what you’ll study?’
‘Not really. I always thought I’d go to a ballet school,’ I confess, ‘but now I’ll need a plan B. How do you become a personal shopper? I think I’d be good at that.’
Bronwyn cuts me down with a glare. ‘There’s more to you than shopping, Fliss, whatever you say.’
I give her a smirk. ‘How awful. I’ll have to work on being shallower.’
‘You want people to think you’re a pink wafer biscuit, but you’re not. You’re more of a Jammy Dodger.’
‘Ha! Is that a good thing?’
‘More substance. What biscuit would I be?’
‘Definitely a Hobnob. Nutty.’
‘They’re oats, but I’ll take that.’
Bronwyn stops at a rickety wooden gate. Her garden is a bit of a state – a privet hedge bulges through the fence, swallowing half the pavement, and overgrown grass has almost entirely reclaimed the flagstone path leading to the front door.
Bronwyn shoulders the door open, sweeping aside a mountain of ignored circulars, menus and bills. The house smells. I can’t identify what of, but it’s an almost-sweet, toffee odour.
The frayed brown carpets are thick with cat hair. Someone has stripped the wallpaper in the hallway and never bothered to repaper or paint. ‘Ignore the mess,’ Bronwyn says, but it’s easier said than done. She guides me into a lounge where two mismatched seventies sofas are gathered around a grand wooden coffee table covered in ashtrays and discarded Rizlas.
My face has never been very good at hiding disgust. I force the muscles in my mouth to go slack, to avoid curling down at the edges. It looks like a crack den. I’m in a Prodigy video. ‘How many cats do you have?’ I can see at least three: a fat black one, a tabby and a fluffy little kitten.
‘Four, I think. Esmeralda had kittens before we could get her spayed.’
The kitten is certainly cute. Bronwyn scoops it up and hands it to me. I’m fairly sure she’ll be infested with fleas but I give her a cuddle anyway and she mewls appreciatively. ‘Where’s your dad?’
‘Oh, he’s away all week setting up a sculpture park in Nottingham.’
‘You’re by yourself all week?’
‘Sure. He works away a lot.’
I clear aside an issue of the Guardian from two weeks ago and perch on the edge of the nearest settee.
‘We didn’t pay the TV licence so we can only watch videos,’ Bronwyn explains. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
‘You don’t have a TV?’ I fail to disguise the horror. ‘What do you do in the evening?’
‘Surf the net mostly. You hungry?’ Although I worry about the hygiene rating their kitchen would get, I sit at a Formica folding table as Bronwyn prepares some pasta in a tomato-and-basil sauce. She manoeuvres her way around the kitchen like an expert chef, flourishing salt and pepper, adding a slosh of red wine to the sauce. It’s pretty clear she is used to fending for herself.
There’s a photo pinned to the fridge. ‘Is that your mum?’ It has to be, they’re almost identical.
‘Yeah. I haven’t seen her since she visited in ’95. I think she’s somewhere on the West Bank now.’ She can’t quite hide a soft resignation in her voice.
‘Do you miss her?’
‘She’s been in and out my whole life.’ I say nothing. ‘She�
�s like Rafferty …’ She points at the fat black cat that slips out through a flap in the back door. ‘He vanishes for days on end. Some other families must be feeding him somewhere – look how fat he is. I guess some people just can’t stay still.’
She serves the pasta and brings a dish to me. She explains her dad is vegan but she loves cheese too much to give it up. I sprinkle some grated cheddar on top of the pasta. It’s funny, I’ve stopped missing meat really. In fact, thinking about it now leaves a slightly metallic taste in my mouth.
After we’ve eaten, Bronwyn dumps the dirty plates onto a towering pile of dishes lurching out of the sink and we head upstairs to play on the net. I feel so cut off at the farm that I’m looking forward to just checking in to MSN and seeing who’s online.
Cats line the staircase, along with old Yellow Pages. I spot Bronwyn’s room immediately because there’s a battered ‘KEEP OUT – AREA 51’ metal sign on her door. ‘Come on in,’ she says.
Her room, thankfully, is slightly tidier than the rest of the house. She flicks on a lamp with a red bulb and it’s a little like being in a photographer’s darkroom. In this light, no wonder it always looks like she’s put her eye make-up on with a paint roller.
The walls are a shrine to grungy bands. Kurt Cobain’s mournful eyes peer down at me, heavily ringed with kohl, while Richey Manic smiles coyly, displaying the 4 REAL he’s carved into his arm. I recognise Björk and Shirley Manson and that’s about it.
Above her computer, predictably, is the I WANT TO BELIEVE poster. ‘Can I just see if my old friends are online?’ I ask. ‘I promise I’m not using you for your Internet connection. It’d just be cool to say hi.’
‘Sure. Although I want to trade you.’
I log in and swivel around in the chair to face her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well …’ She sits on her bed. ‘You know I like Robin …’ Her eyes are fixed on her hands.
‘I do.’
‘Well, I want him to notice me. I’m so tired of being “one of the guys”. I can’t stand Sophie – all she ever talks about is calories – and every time Danny gives me a makeover I end up looking like a drag-queen porn star.’
I blink dumbly and wonder if I’m dreaming this. ‘Bronwyn, are you asking me for a makeover?’
‘I dunno. I guess. You know I want to be a feminist and everything, but I would also like to kiss a boy before I turn thirty.’
‘OK … you can do both! But you don’t need a makeover.’
‘Oh, come on, Fliss – I’ve seen how Dewi and half of the Year 11 boys stare at you. How do you do it?’
‘Really?’ I laugh. ‘I don’t know! It’s not like I do it on purpose! Although maybe it’s something to do with the hair.’
Bronwyn runs a hand through her Fraggle Rock curls. ‘Like that’s gonna happen!’
I briefly look at my MSN. Xander and Marina are online, but Bronwyn needs my attention more. ‘I don’t think it’s really got anything to do with what you look like, Bronwyn. I just think Robin is super-shy. Like I said, you’re gonna have to make the first move.’
‘I don’t want to make the first move. I want it to be like a movie or something, where he chases after me in the rain and we kiss.’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing. Just something I read in Margot’s diary. I would have said that never really happens, but it did to her.’
‘So can you help me?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t see the point in changing your hair and clothes and stuff unless you want to change them forever. It sounds Sweet Valley High, I know, but if he doesn’t like you for you there’s no hope. Maybe it’s about letting him know you want to be more than just friends.’
‘And how do I do that?’
‘Turn up the flirting a little.’
‘Oh, that’s so cringin’.’
‘It doesn’t have to be crap chat-up lines and stuff.’ I join her on the bed. ‘Look. I’m gonna flirt with you now, but I’m pretending to be a boy, so this isn’t a lesbian thing, OK?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Thanks for the disclaimer.’
‘It’s all about finding a way to get into his space. Like, “Hi, Robin, I like this coat. Where did you get it?”’ I rub the sleeve of her school jumper. ‘Like see how I’m so close you can like totally smell my perfume? Or, “Robin you have an eyelash on your cheek.”’ I gently brush an imaginary lash away.
She bats my hand away. ‘OK, I get the picture.’
‘I know it’s totally fromage, but everyone knows the signs. It’s a way of saying, “I’m flirting with you, dummy,” without actually saying it.’
With a deep sigh, Bronwyn’s shoulders sag. ‘I guess. But what if it doesn’t work?’
‘You can’t make him like you, but you know he’s not the only boy in the world. In fact, if anything, you’re out of his league. You could do better. Oxbridge will be teeming with tall nerdy guys who like the Manic Street Preachers!’
She smiles broadly. ‘OK. But will you do one thing for me?’
‘Go on.’
‘Will you show me how you get your eyebrows so perfect?’
I giggle. ‘That I can do. I will require a pair of tweezers and a forty-watt light bulb.’
It sounds majorly dorky, but I’ve started to really look forward to getting into bed with my hot-water bottle and settling down with the diary. I tell Mum I’m reading Of Mice and Men, which I should be reading for English, and she beams with pride at my swottiness. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I ask when I get back from Bronwyn’s.
‘Not too bad, thanks,’ Mum says, although she still looks a bit washed-out. ‘Probably getting a virus or something.’
‘Nothing serious?’
Across the lounge, Margot is reading in her armchair. She seems to freeze for second, pausing mid-page-turn. ‘I just needed a lie-in,’ Mum says.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’d better get on with this reading then. Goodnight!’
‘Goodnight, Felicity,’ Margot says, returning to her book as I go back to the one she wrote. I just hope that’s the end of the Lady Chatterley barn action. I need the edited-for-TV version. Or a therapist.
Monday 21st April, 1941
Heavens above. I don’t know what to do. I worry by committing these words to ink I’m making them flesh, and some secrets should stay invisible. Too much information can feel like a hex. It’s human nature to absolve oneself of responsibility, and by passing the secret on I’m locking the curse within the page. I have to get it out or I’ll pop.
Where did we get to? Ah yes, the barn! I wish I could say I felt even a trace of guilt, but I don’t. My only regret is that I want to be that close to Rick every night. I want to fall asleep listening to him breathe and wake up warm in his arms. As it is, we’ve only been able to sneak off back to the barn a couple of times since.
The oddest part is how much I want to talk to Mother about it. I feel like a woman now. I am ready for the war to be over so I can officially start my life. I often daydream about a cottage by the sea, perhaps in St Ives, of long walks on a windswept beach. Other times I imagine a smart townhouse in Marylebone with colourful window boxes, and a red front door with a gleaming brass knocker.
The strangest thing is, not only do I feel different, but I suspect I must look different too. Glynis saw it at once. We were at the listening post, working on a particularly devilish code. Four of us pored over it, trying to crack it faster than the people down at Bletchley. We are still keenly aware of Agatha’s absence. The office feels very different without her.
Glynis peeled off her headphones and took a sip of tea. ‘Margot,’ she said quite unexpectedly, ‘do me a favour.’
‘Of course.’
‘Just be a little bit careful with Rick, yes?’
My first reaction was to want to slap her face. Ridiculous, yes, but she had touched a very raw nerve. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
She tilted her head alm
ost sympathetically. I did not care for her patronising tone. ‘This war, Margot – none of us knows where it’ll take us, where it’ll leave us.’
I paused to select my words. I didn’t want to sound like a silly schoolgirl. ‘I’m not a child. I know he’ll have to leave eventually.’
She paused for a moment. ‘It’s not whether he leaves. It’s whether he comes back.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘We mustn’t think like that. If we start to think like that, we may as well admit defeat right now. It might take some time, but we won’t be at war forever, and then we’ll be together.’
Glynis took my hand over the table. ‘I hope so, Margot. Honestly I do. I really, really hope so.’
As the weather improved, so did Rick’s condition, a fact we both blithely ignored. As he was a little bit better, I agreed to teach him how to ride a horse. Bess and Andrew came with us too. There’s only one horse on the farm and he isn’t broken in to ride, so one day last week we cycled to the next village, where there is a riding stables.
Andrew had clearly ridden before, but Bess and Rick were both nervous. Rick’s horse, to match his height, had to be a good eighteen hands, and I couldn’t help but laugh as the colour drained out of his face.
In the end we rode two horses between the four of us and took turns to ride or to guide. With Rick on Bainbridge, I led the handsome chestnut beast gently by a guide rope. Luckily he was a docile creature and needed only the lightest encouragement.
We followed the towpath and had a picnic in a clearing in the woods. After a couple of hours, Rick relaxed enough to feed Bainbridge the apples I’d brought from home. He caught my eye as Bainbridge gobbled them from out of his palm and I was almost knocked clean off my feet by how much love sailed between us. I feel tipsy on it, merry like Grammama when she’s been on the sherry!