Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

‘Are there some cats who don’t have tails?’

  ‘Yes. Ones from the Isle of Man.’

  ‘When Trouble dies, will you buy one of those?’

  ‘Trouble’s not going to die. He’s only five years old … younger than you. No one’s going to die … is that what’s worrying you? Besides, a cat has nine lives.’

  ‘I don’t like tails! I don’t like tails!’

  I try to make sense of her vehemence. The next morning, the evidence is at once clearer and more confusing. After disturbing me twice in the night – and not merely by waking me – she rouses me with a series of scrapes and slams and thuds. I rush to her room, which looks as if it has been visited by the drug squad. Dolls are eviscerated and fluffy animals vivisected; books are spineless and favourite toys smashed. A clockwork goose, accidentally animated, waddles across the floor. I am unsure which shocks me more: the devastation, or the sight of its perpetrator, cowering in a corner, waiting to be smacked. I do what I can to reassure her. I hold out my arms, but she shies away. As I try to fathom why she should have destroyed her most cherished possessions, my only clue is the memory of you shearing your entire wardrobe after the abortion. I dismiss it as an irrelevance and question her. She says nothing except ‘she’s a bad girl; she’s a bad girl’; as though her identity were slipping from her grasp.

  I call Consuela to clear the mess. She crosses herself and speaks at speed in Spanish. I take Pagan into the bathroom. She is uncharacteristically coy and I suspect your mother’s influence. She will no longer let me help her wash or see her without her clothes. ‘It’s rude,’ she insists, and I think better of arguing. She is too young for such modesty; the distinctions of male and female should be subsumed in those of adult and child. Your mother, with her antiseptic notions of purity, is going the fastest way towards destroying it. By trying to guard against the threat of sex, she is putting the thought in her mind. Pagan will grow up like a convent girl bathing in her shift and her shame … And yet what if it is not repression but reaction? What if someone has made her hate her own body by imposing his? As I bring her back to her bedroom to dress, I voice my fears.

  ‘Darling, no one is in any way… hurting you, are they?’

  ‘What sort of hurt?’

  ‘Any sort. Is anyone at school or at home, a friend or a grown-up, hitting you or hurting you or touching you in any way that they shouldn’t?’ I am lost in the Moscow metro, unable to read the map.

  ‘She’s a bad girl. So bad.’

  ‘That’s not true. We all lose our tempers and break things … grown-ups too. Married people throw plates at each other. You must have seen them on TV.’

  ‘Married, like them?’

  ‘Like lots of people. So it’s not important; we’ll buy some new toys. What is important is that no one’s doing anything to you that they shouldn’t, anything that’s … rude. You told me before that you were a big girl and could bath yourself. Is that what you do in Hove, or do Granny and Grandpa help you?’

  ‘I’m a big girl.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Though it’s alright with Granny. She’s another girl … woman.’

  ‘No, it’s still rude.’

  ‘So, she never goes into the bathroom with you … and Grandpa neither?’

  ‘Cruel Leo, making all these questions. My head hurts. I’m hungry. When can we have breakfast?’

  I surreptitiously search her legs for bruises, while she shifts and squirms and tries to turn putting on her vest into a game of peekaboo. I am unable to respond; my suspicions raise a barrier between us. Am I allowing my hatred of your parents to distort my judgement? I need advice – I must try to snatch a word alone with Susan after lunch – above all, I need you … and not just as a confidante. Can’t you give me a sign? I know: if she chooses her white jumper, my fears are justified; if she chooses her blue, I can forget them … Against all precedent, she chooses her pink.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like pink. Wouldn’t you rather wear the blue? It goes better with your culottes.’

  ‘I’m not a boy!’

  At breakfast, where she wreaks havoc with the honey, I spring my Saturday surprise: Susan is coming up to town from Hampshire.

  ‘You must say a big thank-you to her, because she’s leaving Geoffrey, even though he’s only home for a week.’

  ‘Can’t he come too?’

  ‘No …’ No. He has never approved of me and was evidently relieved when the Appeal decision made it impractical for Susan to remain. Her departure has, at least, brought forward their wedding plans. ‘They’re going to be married when Geoffrey leaves the Navy next June.’

  ‘Then I’ll be a bridesmaid!’

  ‘Don’t get too excited; it’s not for a year. And careful with that spoon on your sleeve.’

  ‘She said when she was married, I would.’

  ‘She may not have any bridesmaids. She told me that she wanted a very quiet wedding.’ She added that Geoffrey’s family was appallingly stuffy (‘horse-hair rather than goose-down’), which I suspect was to prepare me for exclusion. The front page of the Nation and the back pages of the Tatler do not mix.

  Susan is her old self, which is just what we need at this time of enforced new identities … although not her old face, after an ill-advised attempt to revamp her make-up, which has left her a hybrid of Rive Gauche and village green. Pagan clamours for confirmation, first of the wedding and then of her own role in the ceremony, and insists that we spend the morning looking at dresses. Susan is happy to oblige, although not to the extent of endorsing her choice: a diaphanous cloak over a skin-tight satin sheath. ‘It’d almost be worth it to see my future mother-in-law’s face.’ I feel an infidel in this temple of femininity, and, on hearing Pagan proudly proclaim to the assistant that ‘when I’m eighteen, I’m going to marry Leo’, I break out and take them for lunch.

  After lunch, we attempt to repair the morning’s damage in the Regent Street Disney Shop. Pagan revels in her purchases but objects to being kissed by Mickey Mouse.

  ‘It’s naughty.’

  ‘It was just a peck on the cheek.’

  ‘Men aren’t allowed.’

  ‘Mickey Mouse isn’t a man.’

  ‘He is underneath.’

  As the till rings up a Christmas Eve total, I decide against burdening Susan with the reasons for our unseasonal spree … I refuse to plant briars in her bridal bouquet. I will find out the truth alone.

  Pagan’s bedtime mood almost allays my suspicions. Unlike last night’s gloom, she appears quite relaxed as she gives me an open-armed cuddle. I pre-empt Sunday’s surprise and tell her that I have invited Stephanie and her parents for lunch. Before switching out the light, I broach the subject of names. She has been Pagan all day, which I feel sure has comforted her; but I have no wish to foster a split personality. If she is happy to be Patience, so am I. The choice could be worse – it could be Prudence – and, as you know, I have never been a proponent of Pagan per se. I am sure that I will find it easier to accept from people other than your parents. I tell her that it is entirely her decision; but, if she chooses Patience, we must warn people in advance.

  ‘No!’ she shouts. ‘I want to be me. I don’t want to be them.’

  ‘You’re you whatever. You’d still be you if you were called Catherine or Jennifer or Stephanie.’

  ‘But not Patience. I don’t like Patience. I hate her.’

  ‘Very well, then we’ll stick to Pagan. You’ll be Pagan for me … for all your old friends.’

  ‘I’ll be me when I come here. And the rest of the time’ll be like I was sleeping. Like a hedgehog.’

  ‘A hedgehog?’ My mind prickles.

  ‘That goes to sleep all winter.’

  ‘Oh, I see. But that would be a bit sad. You’d be asleep for most of the time.’

  ‘But only till I’m eighteen. Then, I’ll come home to live with you. I’m six now; I’ll soon be seven. So it’s not that many years. I’m going to get a big piece of paper and draw on lots of lines; one
for every day till I’m eighteen. Then I’m going to cross them off, one at a time.’

  ‘Pagan, darling, you know that there’s no one in the world that I love as much as you and there’s nothing that I want more than for you to live here; but it isn’t possible. Sometimes grown-ups can’t do all that children think. There are other people telling us what to do. We have to learn patience.’ The word is too quick for me.

  ‘No, I hate Patience. She’s naughty. She does naughty, naughty things.’ I picture your mother’s reprimands and pray that they will not leave her as bitter as they did you.

  Lunch is a great success. Consuela cooks roast beef and Yorkshire pudding to the manner – and the nation – born. Mr Stephanie – Stephen – gives us an insider’s view of the progress of the Channel Tunnel, while Mrs Stephanie – Delia? Dahlia? – reveals an unexpected gift for mimicry. The girls play quietly together until four o’clock, when Stephanie runs screaming downstairs in a stream of tears. Her mother calms her sobs but fails to secure an explanation. Pagan proves to be equally reticent. Stephen and I make paternal noises about tiredness and tiffs, while we stand around at a loss. With our children at odds, our common ground is eroded, and I am relieved when they seize the first polite opportunity to depart.

  ‘I never want to see Stephanie ever, ever, ever,’ Pagan insists in the middle of the A23.

  ‘Don’t you like her any more?’

  ‘Patience doesn’t like her.’ I am jolted by the name but presume that, with London receding, her Hove side is moving to the fore.

  Your mother answers my knock, barring the door in such a way as to preclude the possibility of my entry. ‘Did you have a good weekend? What did you do? Are you tired after your journey? Don’t you have a kiss for Granny?’ She pre-empts any answer but the last by pressing her cheek into lip-range. Pagan makes no move. ‘A kiss, Patience, please. People are watching.’ I swivel around, but the only sign of life is the cherub peeing in next-door’s garden, his incontinence writ in stone. I recall your mockery of her maternal mantra … ‘“People are watching you; people are watching” … to hear her talk, you’d think the world was full of voyeurs. Though I suppose that was no surprise when God himself was apparently fixated on my genitals, his celestial telescope steaming up every time a foreign body strayed anywhere near. As kids, we were constantly on display. “Don’t slouch” … “Don’t scratch” … “Smile” … “People are watching.” Until one day, I said the unsayable. “Of course, people are watching. William’s in a wheelchair; they’re trying to see inside.” And she screamed that I was a wicked girl; she should never have taken me in; I hadn’t given them a single moment’s pleasure.’

  Pagan slides back into focus. ‘I hate Patience. She’s naughty. She does naughty, naughty things.’ … I thought that history repeated itself, until I started to live in the past.

  Having elicited a kiss for herself, your mother prescribes one for me. ‘Kiss Uncle goodbye then and thank him for having you.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to do that; she knows she’s always welcome.’

  ‘She has to learn manners; she’s a big girl.’

  As I drive back to London, I try to erase the expression on Pagan’s face while retaining the sensation of her kiss. On my return, I find a message from Mr Steph – Stephen Tickell – whose audible distress lends weight to his demand to ring him as soon as possible. He sounds even more agitated in person; and, when he claims to have news about Pagan which he would rather not divulge on the phone, I offer to go straight round. He invites me into the den and, after much circumlocution, tells me that Stephanie has revealed the reason for her outburst. It seems that Pagan made her lie on her bed and pull down her knickers; then she inserted a lizard in her vagina.

  ‘A lizard?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘A model lizard. Stephanie said she had a green lizard.’

  ‘She has a crocodile … a green rubber crocodile.’

  ‘I didn’t go into details. All I know is that, when we arrived home, Stephanie started crying again. She said that she had a pain “down there”. My wife looked, found her skin was chafed and persuaded her to explain. Look here, old chum, are you alright?’ I feel sick. A large whisky does little to ease my mind; although it helps to settle my stomach. ‘We weren’t sure whether to tell you. We don’t want to overreact; it may just be innocent fun. Birds and bees … lizards and crocodiles. But Stephanie said she was quite vicious. Has she done anything like it before?’

  ‘No, never, nothing … nothing vicious. You know the position: for the past three months, she’s been living with her grandparents. I only see her once a fortnight. How can I know what’s going on?’

  ‘Look, I never said anything was going on –’

  ‘No, but I did.’

  I tell him what occurred on Friday night; I have hesitated to admit it even to you … especially to you, who can only look on in horror, but I woke up to find Pagan rocking on my bed. My first thought was that her bad dream had become mine. ‘I can’t sleep. Can I come in with you?’

  ‘You know the rules. You can come for a cuddle on Sunday morning, but only married people sleep together.’ I am scrupulous; I am over-scrupulous. My bed has become a courtroom with Judge Flower presiding at the head.

  ‘They don’t. They have two rooms.’

  ‘It’s different when people are old. They find it hard to sleep.’

  ‘You said old people don’t need to sleep as much.’

  ‘They still need some. And middle-aged people like me need even more. So let’s take you back to bed.’ I throw off the duvet.

  ‘Please let me come in with you. Please. Just for one minute … half a minute … a bit of a minute.’

  ‘Are you trying to be naughty?’ I ask; at which she pulls down her pyjama trousers, rolls her hips and pokes her fingertip in her vagina.

  ‘I can come in now, can’t I?’ My brain spins with her finger. I do not know where to look. I take her hand, pull up her pyjamas and guide her gently back to her room. My desire for an explanation fights with my determination to shield her from guilt. I crouch by her side, stroke her cheek and ask whether anyone – any man – has done anything to hurt her. It is three in the morning; I cannot find the words for myself, let alone for her. ‘No,’ she replies with a certitude that I grab on to. I remind myself that all children masturbate, especially if they are unhappy (my own blank memory merely confirms my repression); it is an involuntary impulse, on a par with sucking her thumb or clinging to her cot-blanket. It would be a mistake to make too much of it. So I switch off the light and promise to sit with her until she falls asleep.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to have dark, Leo. There are monsters with faces which frighten me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’re not in the dark; they’re in your head.’

  ‘That’s worse.’

  ‘Not at all; it means you can make yourself see other things.’

  ‘Can I?’ … Oh yes, you just have to model yourself on your Uncle Leo. He is doing it now.

  Stephen Tickell is out of his depth. He picks up a string of amber worry beads, which he twists tensely through his fingers. He wonders whether we can attribute Pagan’s behaviour to the move or if we must look for a more sinister explanation. I reply that I am as mystified as he is. I presume that your parents watch her carefully, but who knows who may have eluded them? Workmen, teachers, friends, the entire Sussex St John Ambulance brigade … my voice cracks. I try to compose myself as Stephanie and her mother enter; their marked resemblance now extends to red eyes. I feel more isolated than ever. Stephanie stares at me in mute reproach, while her mother flashes a strained support-group smile.

  ‘We wanted you to be quite sure that Stephanie was telling the truth,’ she explains.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘So dear, tell Mr Young exactly what you told Daddy and me.’

  ‘There’s no need, really.’ A maternal hand signals silence.

  ‘We were in her room, playing. She said
we were going to play Night. She made me lie on the bed. She pulled down my knickers …’ She looks to her parents for reassurance. ‘Then she picked up my legs and hit me in my wee-wee with a lizard.’

  ‘It was a crocodile.’

  ‘Not now, Stephen!’

  ‘She went in and out, in and out, although I said I didn’t like it; in and out, calling “Come, come, come”’.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘You never mentioned that before.’

  ‘“Come, come, come.”’

  I hear Stephanie’s words … Pagan’s words, in a host of male accents, echoing like an elocution lesson on my journey home. Pagan is in danger; and yet, if my suspicions are correct, there is no way that I can alert your parents … I picture your mother’s ‘What! In our house?’ and the glint on your father’s blade. I decide to ring Max. He will hit them with the full weight of the law … But he is not at home. Sylvia informs me that he is at some cinephiles’ convention; she promises to have him call me the moment (however late) that he returns. In the event, he waits until he is at work the next day.

  I am unprepared for his reaction. It is clear that he does not want to believe my story, which is understandable; and equally clear that he thinks I do, which is insulting. He declares that her behaviour is just a sign of disturbance.

  ‘Tearing up her toys may be a sign of disturbance … breaking up her room may be a sign of disturbance; but masturbating by my bed and forcing a crocodile up her best friend’s vagina is a sign of assault!’

  ‘Whoa, there! That’s a very serious allegation.’ I remind myself that he is a lawyer. ‘Have you any evidence to back it up?’

  ‘I’ve just given you the evidence.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stand up in a police cell, let alone a court … It seems to me that we’re all too quick, nowadays, to cry “Child abuse”. How many people do you know who were abused as children? How many do I? And yet, if statistics are to be believed, they’re everywhere.’ He laughs and seems to sip some coffee. ‘Have you any idea who might be involved?’

  ‘How do I know who she sees in Brighton? I’m a four-day-a-month man. In any case, I’m not interested in retribution. I just want to make sure she’s removed to a safe environment.’