Easy Peasy

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Do your coat up,’ he said. I fastened the wooden toggles of my duffel coat.

  The golf-course straddled a road. ‘Stay this side of the road,’ Daddy instructed. ‘The pond’s by the ninth hole. I’ll pick you up as I pass.’

  ‘OK.’

  He swung his golf-bag over his shoulder and set off for the club-house. ‘Be good,’ he said.

  We ran over the short tussocky grass to the top of a rise. There was a faint wavering silver line in the distance that was the sea. Sea-gulls screeched. The wind blustered and moaned and my eyes streamed. My loose hair whipped about my face, my ears stung. I pulled up my hood and even buttoned the little tab that made my chin itch.

  It was the first time that Hazel and I had been to this golf-course. From where we stood we could see it reaching down all around us: the greyish hairy grass; the flashes of violently yellow gorse; the sandy dips of the bunkers; the velvet putting-greens each with a frantic white flag on a rattling pole. We ran down the slope, our fishing-nets catching on the lumpy grass, screaming into the wind. I didn’t think I would ever be able to stop running – the slope was steeper than it looked. It was funny, my legs going faster and faster like cartoon legs, my top half holding back, trying to stop. I tripped in the end, rolled on the grass unhurt, breathless. Hazel flopped down beside me. We lay on our backs, panting. The wind was not so fierce when we flattened ourselves down and there was even a faint warmth from the sun. We watched rags of clouds tearing and mending in the blue. I felt madly alive, my heart beating against the ground, my eyes smarting with brightness. It was so good to be out with Daddy for once, good to be with Hazel too, with no Bridget or Harriet or Susan or any of her other million friends.

  We got up in the end and walked towards the pond. Hazel told me about a boy she liked at school. She was nearly thirteen and had a little spot beside her nose. She was about to start her periods she said. I asked her how she knew but she just smiled mysteriously. ‘It’s so different at secondary school.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Just everything. Your whole outlook changes. Junior school seems so utterly …’

  ‘Utterly what?’

  ‘Just utterly. You’ll see.’

  ‘Fore!’ came a yell from somewhere and a golf ball zizzed past between our heads. It landed with a thwunk and a rattle in a clump of gorse.

  ‘It could have killed us!’ Indignantly I looked round for the culprit.

  ‘One of us,’ Hazel corrected.

  A man came down the slope, followed by another. The first man was wearing a tweed jacket and his face was red and seamy under a long vertical streamer of white hair.

  ‘Be off with you,’ he said.

  I wanted to laugh. ‘You nearly hit us.’

  ‘This is a golf-course young lady. Not a bally playground.’

  ‘We’re waiting for our father. He’s playing golf,’ Hazel did her sweetest smile.

  ‘You’ll get yourselves brained prancing about on the clearway.’

  The other man caught up. He was fat and out of breath. ‘See where my ball went?’ he panted.

  We shrugged. ‘We’re going to the pond,’ I said. ‘Do excuse us.’

  ‘Bally cheek!’

  When we were out of ear-shot we fell about laughing. ‘Do excuse us,’ Hazel parroted. ‘Did you see his face? Bally cheek!’ I lit up with pride. It was not often I impressed her.

  ‘Let’s get his ball,’ I said.

  The gorse bushes were dense and crammed with yellow coconut-smelling blossom. The shrubs were old and tall enough to have crawlable passages beneath them. I went in first and found a ball straight away – and then another and another.

  ‘There’s tons of them,’ I shouted. Hazel came in too though usually she hated to get dirty. We wriggled on our bellies in the sand through increasingly low passages, meeting thorny dead-ends and scratching our hands as we extracted more and more lost balls. I saw one lodged in the bush above me. I put on my sheepskin mitten to get it down, closing my eyes against a rattling scatter of dead prickles. We found nine balls altogether. One or two of them were still white, still shiny and dimpled with tiny numbers and symbols printed on them, but most of them were old and discoloured to various degrees.

  ‘We could give them to Dad,’ Hazel suggested.

  ‘The nice ones. Look at this.’ A little piece of the outer skin of one ball had split and curled up. I forced my thumb-nail under it and peeled it back. It was very stiff and brittle. Bits kept flaking off between my fingers. Underneath, the ball was a mass of thread, densely wound together like a ball of wool. ‘Look …’ Fascinated, I finished peeling it, the sharp edges of the skin stabbing and jamming into the soft place under my nail. When I had finished it sat in the palm of my hand, a dull, heavy, yellowish ball.

  ‘Can you unwind that stuff?’ Hazel asked. Her face was very close to mine. I saw she still had a crumb of sleep in the corner of one eye.

  I had to pick with my teeth at the rubbery surface to find an end. It tasted like rubber-bands, only stronger, and snapped off between my teeth. Eventually I found an end and began to pull it loose, it was stretchy, a sort of stringy rubbery stuff.

  ‘Weird,’ Hazel breathed. She began sorting through the other balls to find one to undo herself.

  ‘I’d have thought they’d have been white right through,’ I said. ‘You know, like a boiled egg.’

  ‘Without a yolk,’ Hazel said. ‘Me too.’

  It seemed sort of cosy under the gorse bushes, out of the wind. We set about unpeeling the balls. The rubbery stuff came away easily after the first few strands broke off. In some places it was as if the strings had all melted together and whole lumps came away. It was very fine rubber, unevenly spun – and there was miles of it. It was fascinating to do, fascinating to turn the neat impacted ball into a great pile of looseness all tangled and chaotic.

  ‘I’m addicted to it,’ I said.

  Hazel didn’t answer, she was gnawing at one of the other balls trying to get her teeth into a crack.

  ‘I wonder how you make them?’ Imagining people, women probably, in white caps sitting at long benches winding and winding the mountains of stuff. It took ages to get to the middle. I thought that here would be a hard bit, like the seed in an aniseed ball. But when I got there, there was a hollow, sticky and milky as if it hadn’t set properly. It smelt fiercely rubbery, like the smell when you undo an old hot-water bottle with its rubber all perished.

  It seemed rude somehow, that the centre of a hard thing like a golf ball was all soft and gooey. Unformed. My fingers were all tacky and I felt cold and cramped all of a sudden, realising that gorse prickles had fallen down my neck. I crawled out and stood in the wind, stamping my feet to drive away the fizz of pins and needles, while I waited for Hazel.

  We put the golf balls in our buckets and continued on our way to the pond, a big murky oval fringed with dark sand, like a miniature sea. There was a bicycle in it, one handle-bar and a bit of wheel projecting from the water.

  ‘I can’t see any weed or any frogs or anything,’ Hazel complained. ‘Daddy must be mad.’

  ‘Stop calling people mad,’ I said. I was disappointed that the pond wasn’t brimming with life. I’d imagined bulrushes and dragon-flies, water-lilies, frogs on lily-pads and glamorous goldfishes, one of which, whatever Hazel said, I’d been determined to take home. ‘We’ll just have to search,’ I said. ‘There must be something living in it.’

  I waded in first. I could feel the cold of the water through my Wellington boots. The bottom was soft and yielding under my feet.

  ‘Catch something then,’ Hazel said. I took another step in. There was a hard thing under the sole of one boot, the muddy sand swirled up, thickening the water which lapped the top of my boot and I felt a cold trickle inside.

  ‘Come on,’ I looked over my shoulder at Hazel who was still at the edge, one fastidious foot poised above the surface. I thought I saw something dark moving through the cloudiness. I wanted to get out. The
water was so cold I could hardly believe I had boots on at all, it fastened around my ankles, my calves, like iron. I don’t know what the dark thing was, it seemed long and sinuous. I thought maybe an eel. I didn’t want an eel in our pond, that wasn’t the sort of thing at all. It made my stomach churn, the idea of an eel winding round my legs, sliding over the top of my wellington and down inside. I trawled my net through the water, collecting a clot of slimy green weed.

  ‘Look.’

  Hazel was standing in the water now, only a little way in, dipping her net.

  ‘It’s like snot,’ she said, ‘put it back.’

  ‘More than you’ve got.’

  ‘We don’t want that sort of thing in our pond.’

  ‘No.’ I swept my net backwards through the water to free it of the weed. I kept it near the surface, careful not to catch anything big and dark. I took a step to the side and my net nudged something. I prodded. It was something solid, something that swayed when I nudged it, just a fraction. When I lifted my net it was full of the tiny wriggly squiggles of leeches. I shivered and pulled it back through the water to wash them out. I stepped away from the thing, whatever it was. The water reflected oily rainbows at me.

  ‘I think it’s all dead and stagnant,’ I said.

  ‘Look.’ Hazel had scooped up another golf ball, vivid green with slime. ‘I bet there’s millions in here.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything we want though, do you?’ My feet were beginning to ache with the cold. I could not get the feeling of that heavy nudge out of my hand. I wanted to get out but I didn’t want to give up before Hazel. I took another step to the side. A sea-gull swooped low and cried as if it was lost. The sandy bottom seemed suddenly to give way and water cascaded into my boot. I tried to scream, panic gripped my throat, tried to turn, found my foot stuck, pulled madly to free it, lost my balance, fell.

  Fell right under the filthy pond water. My mouth was open and my eyes. I saw one khaki dull underwater moment, only one underwater moment, a split second – but when I wrenched my head back above the surface, the brightness was blinding. I struggled up, and waded from the pond, water streaming from me. Hazel was standing on the edge, her hands in front of her mouth giving short sharp screams – I noticed she hadn’t done anything to help me. In my mouth was the oily vegetable taste of the pond.

  ‘Grizzle! Now what?’ Hazel wailed.

  ‘Thanks for saving me!’ I turned away from her. I didn’t know what to do. My hair, my duffel coat, everything was sodden. I’d lost one boot. I stood there dripping and began to cry. I spat and spat to try and get rid of the taste. My net floated out of reach in the middle of the pond. Somewhere underneath the water was my boot. I started to shiver violently. My tears were the only hot thing about me.

  Dear Foxy,

  6 (just) Nov

  I wish you had come to the funeral with me, it was very nice of you to offer. I’m missing you dreadfully. The funeral was all right – well what you’d expect, quiet, sad. At least it’s all over now and we can carry on with our lives. Mummy doesn’t seem too bad but I’m going to stay a few days to keep her company.

  I don’t know why but I’ve been having the most terrible dreams, maybe some sort of insecurity brought on by the funeral, or just being away from you, I don’t know. Last night particularly, I had the most terrible dream about you and Kris. You two were in bed together and I was watching though you couldn’t see me so I was powerless to do anything about it I just had to watch. Why should I dream such a thing? It’s never even occurred to me that you and Kris might be more to each other than … well than meets the eye. Don’t worry. I’m not accusing you of anything! I do trust you. But dreams are so strange, aren’t they?

  Can’t wait to see you.

  With all my love and more.

  Zelda.

  I slide this in an envelope. Send her on a guilt trip with no return. A shiver of satisfaction, yes, make her squirm. I’ll take her back a present. I’ll cook something marvellous, I’ll be so good in bed she will be amazed. Buy champagne?

  4

  ‘We’ll have to find Daddy,’ Hazel said, calming down. ‘He’ll be livid.’

  ‘We don’t know where he is,’ I tried to say but my teeth were chattering. My clothes felt heavy as if they were trying to pull me back down and into the water. The wind on my face was like icy breath.

  The man we had seen before came hurrying down the slope towards us. ‘Good Lord, girls.’

  ‘We need to find Daddy,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Evidently. When did he tee off?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mr Dawkins. Ralph.’

  ‘Ah …’ he seemed to soften. He put up his hand to flatten his flying hair. ‘You’re Ralph’s girls.’ He looked at us with more interest.

  I gave a hysterical shudder and a sob. I was starting to feel very strange, not cold any more, actually quite warm as if my clothes were soaked with water that was hot instead of icy cold.

  ‘Well come along. We’d better get you up to the club-house before you die of bally pneumonia.’ He began walking upwards. I could hardly walk. I limped along, one foot squelching water in its boot, the other had gone practically dead in its sock that was slimy and green. I couldn’t stop crying in a silly snivelling way.

  ‘I didn’t need to save you,’ Hazel hissed. ‘I knew you wouldn’t drown. It wasn’t very deep.’

  I didn’t answer. I spat again to try to get rid of the awful taste that seemed wound round my tongue like weed. My nose was running but there was nothing to wipe it on but my soaking duffel coat sleeve.

  ‘But anyway I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, staring straight ahead and not at me.

  ‘All right,’ I managed to sniff.

  ‘I bet your sandwich is ruined,’ she said. She looked at my pocket and I felt the muscles in my stiff face bunch as if I wanted to laugh.

  ‘See you’ve found yourself a ball or two.’ The man had stopped to wait for us and was eyeing Hazel’s bucket. ‘Let me take your net.’ He stuck it in his golf-bag.

  ‘Would you like one?’ Hazel held out the bucket to him as if it was a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He selected the nicest, whitest ball from the top and strode on ahead, whistling through his teeth.

  In the club-house I had to take off my clothes and put on a man’s shirt, sweater and woolly socks. My clothes, stuck to my skin as if they had become part of me, were difficult to peel off. My clammy skin was very pink in some places and white in others, as if I’d been slapped all over. I was changing in a little cupboard, with Hazel waiting outside. The shirt came down to my knees. The cotton felt soft and dry and comforting against my fishy cold skin. But I felt stupid dressed like that, especially when the man made us sit in the bar to wait while someone found Daddy. He gave me a glass of brandy to warm myself up, which was awful.

  ‘Ugh, you’ve got all stuff in your hair.’ Hazel was jealous because she’d only got fizzy lemonade. The men in the room all made a fuss of me. I might have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been so worried about Daddy. He came in after a while.

  ‘Can’t I leave you for five minutes?’ he said, which was hardly fair because it had been an hour at least. Someone said what fine looking girls we were, and Daddy looked pleased and bought himself and the man who’d helped us a whisky. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ someone said, as usual. Daddy didn’t seem very angry – he didn’t speak in the car but that wasn’t unusual. We had to stop for Hazel to be sick and he smiled at me while we were waiting. ‘Warming up?’ he asked. He drove off again as soon as we were home to finish his round of golf.

  Mummy ran me a hot bath and helped wash the slime out of my hair. While I was getting dry, she looked at me thoughtfully. ‘You’re growing up,’ she said and I pulled the towel round my body. I think that’s the last time she ever saw me naked.

  Although I wasn’t ill, Mummy made me get into bed with a hot-water bottle. She brought me a mug of
tomato soup, bright orange and speckled, and a pile of old comics to flick through. Once I’d finished the soup, I lay down and dozed, happy for once, special, fussed over, safe in my warm bed, listening to the everyday sounds: Hazel practising her recorder, Huwie’s little feet thudding about, Mummy’s voice.

  Our pond stayed empty for the week. The following Saturday when Elaine and I got back from our riding lesson, Mummy was out in the garden, kneeling by a mountain of rough grey rocks. Huwie was lying on his tummy by the pond snatching up fistfuls of frogs’ spawn and laughing as they squirted out between his fingers.

  ‘Frogs’ spawn?’ I said. I went to look closer and saw a big clot of it at one side, some of the tadpoles already fidgeting inside their jelly balls. And there were two tangerine fish swimming under the weed, calm and smug as if they’d been there for years.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ Elaine said leaning over.

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘Mr Rutterford donated the weed and the frogs’ spawn,’ Mummy said. Mr Rutterford was the barman at the golf-club, who, on learning the cause of my accident, had offered Daddy some stuff from his pond. From her voice I could tell she was keeping something back. ‘And he took Vassily to the pet shop since you and Hazel were both out,’ she said. Elaine snorted. Suddenly I felt ill, the weedy feeling was in my throat as if I was going to choke on something.

  ‘He would have taken you if you’d been here,’ Mummy gave me a cautious look but I couldn’t say anything in front of Elaine. I’d stopped telling even her about all the time Vassily spent at our house, it was too embarrassing. And Mummy was different about Dog-belly lately, not quite so quick to defend Daddy’s odd friendship, not quite so keen to have Dog-belly round. Once I heard her say, ‘You can have too much of a good thing, Ralph’, and another time, ‘Doesn’t his mother have any time for him?’ But I didn’t hear Daddy reply.