‘It’s only when she sees you; the rest of the time, she’s fine. You overturn everything. You take her back to her old life. You call her by her old name. Is it any wonder she won’t settle? I tell you, I’ve had as much as I can take. I’m going to talk to our solicitor; I’m going to prepare a file –’
‘Easy, Mother.’
‘How can you say that? You’re the one he’s accusing … such vile accusations.’
‘We have to think of the girl.’
‘Precisely. We must free Patience from his evil clutches. Which is why I intend to have his Contact Order revoked … So, I suggest that you make the most of this weekend. If I have my way, it will be the last.’
I discount her threats and drive Pagan home. In the car, she reproaches me bitterly for betraying her to her grandparents. I apologise and suggest that she smacks me hard as soon as we stop at a traffic lights; but every one that we come to is green. I am horrified to find that my intervention has made things worse. Far from being deterred by detection, your father seems to have grown more confident. The message is clear; he is at liberty to renew the attack, while I am threatened with exclusion. Moreover, according to Max, by demanding that Dudley conduct an internal examination without the consent of her guardians, I may well be charged with aiding and abetting an assault.
From assault to murder … I look at Pagan and again at the pills. Why not leap to the logical conclusion and kill the pain once and for all? But I fear the obloquy that would grow on my name like mould. I would become the all-purpose pervert, star attraction in the Chamber of Horrors. My mother would be forced to do public penance for my birth, while your parents wallowed in tabloid grief. And yet it is they who are the monsters so beloved of banner headlines. I accuse them both since, at the very least, she must suspect his guilt and be trying to protect him. How else does she explain why she would treat a child for constipation, while at the same time rubbing her nose in her soiled pants?
I am incensed by the inconsistency and put down the pills. There is no way that I will play into their hands by doing away with myself, let alone with Pagan. Come what may, I will find the means to expose them. Meanwhile, I flush temptation down the lavatory, saving two Mogadon as a pledge of sleep.
Thank you … thank you. I slept far better than I dared hope. I saw a sign and one so simple and yet so bold that it bears your hallmark. My dream developed into a vision. I realised that, instead of struggling against insuperable odds, we should run away; I glimpsed both the disguise and the destination. As I apply the regulation fifty brushstrokes to her hair, I put the proposal to Pagan.
‘How would you like to be a little boy? Just pretend. So that we can hide somewhere that no one will find us.’
‘Oh yes,’ she claps her hands. ‘No one could hurt me if I was a boy, could they?’
‘No one at all. You’ll be totally safe.’
‘No one could do naughty, nasty things.’ … I push my thoughts back under the stones where they belong. ‘Will I have to be someone else again; or will I still be Pagan?’
‘We could call you Paul. That’s almost Pagan but not quite. Just like a boy’s almost a girl but not quite.’
‘Paul. I’m Paul … Paul.’ She bounces up and down on the bed.
‘Sh-sh. You mustn’t let Consuela hear; it’s a secret.’
I have forgotten the burden of secrecy on a child and the frustration that comes of not being able to reveal and relieve it. She drops heavy hints over the Coco Pops (‘if I were a boy, I’d have two helpings’), and her chuckles echo the crackles of the cereal as she adds the milk. Fortunately, Consuela is content just to see her looking so cheerful and picks up nothing more substantial than the dirty plates.
After breakfast, we drive to the bank where I withdraw the £4762 that I have on deposit and then to the Halifax, where I take out my entire entitlement of £500 in cash. We then go shopping, or rather stocking. Our first stop is Marks and Spencer, where Paul is kitted out as extensively as for the first day at school. We buy vests, socks and underpants – authenticity being the keynote – together with shorts and jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts (‘Will I sweat cos I’m a boy?’), pullovers and tops. There is no call to invent a twin brother – like the burly transvestites with weight-lifter wives – since ages are prominently marked. ‘I’m nearly seven,’ Pagan protests as I place her in the five-to six-year-old range. ‘But you’re not tall,’ I say determinedly. ‘Besides, boys are bigger than girls,’ I add as a sop to her pride.
Our visit to Russell and Bromley turns out to be trickier.
‘That’s a boy’s shoe, sir,’ the assistant insists. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise …’ he blushes and hurries to find me its pair … I feel like the Princess of Wales being let off for speeding.
‘She’s a tomboy. What can I do?’
We head back up the street to Snow and Rock, where we buy a tent, mattresses, stove and fuel-canisters, flashlight and batteries, kettle, pans and sleeping-bags.
‘How can we sleep in a bag?’ Pagan asks.
‘It’s not a real bag; it’s just a word.’
‘Like when she’s a bag of nerves?’
‘But much nicer.’
The spending-spree elates me. I intend to use my credit to the limit. Who knows when I will be back to pay the bill? We move on to Dixons, where I buy a small transistor radio, more batteries and a Sony Watchman as a surprise for Pagan.
‘Now you’ll be able to see yourself wherever you are,’ the assistant says blithely.
‘My show’s live.’ I resent the imputation. ‘Besides, the screen isn’t a mirror.’
After returning home for lunch, where we make up for our lateness by our appetites (for the first time in months Pagan not only finishes her food but asks for seconds), we set out for the rest of our supplies. To avert suspicion, I alternate between several stores. The watchword is tins. I think back to the programme which I made with a group of survivalists in the States; they had provisions to last ten years. Our requirements may be more modest, but I am in no mood for restraint. So I buy salmon, sardines, mussels, tongue, turkey and tuna; vegetables, soups and bisques; spaghetti hoops and golden syrup (by special request); truffles, marrons and foie gras (for special treats); orange juice and orange squash, coffee and Coffeemate, ginger beer and gin.
I feel as if I am entering the world of Bunter and Robin and making up for all the midnight feasts that I missed along with boarding school. I break my own ‘tins only’ rule by taking two fruit cakes, with sell-by dates by which we should have long left the country, and a selection of comfort-chocolates. For a few weeks, I intend to forget both my waistline and Pagan’s teeth. The imperative is to survive.
Toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap and soap-powder, deodorant, hair-dye and fly-spray, a mirror … I congratulate myself on covering all contingencies. Aspirin, junior Disprin, antiseptic, disinfectant, bandages, throat sweets and vitamins … your mother’s ambulance can hardly come so well stocked. Pagan views every item as further confirmation of her freedom. Our only argument arises over cat-food. In three separate shops, at three separate stands, she attempts to slip tins into my trolley. I explain that we have to leave Trouble with Consuela. Her lower lip trembles. Much to my disgust, I hear myself saying that boys don’t cry.
‘I’m not a boy yet.’
‘It takes a lifetime’s practice.’
It is Consuela’s cards evening, and I put Pagan straight to bed, insisting on an immediate lights-out in view of the busy day ahead. I scan the shelves for the perfect books to occupy my leisure … as well as long-deferred classics and my Desert Island Proust, I take Anaïs Nin’s Diary in honour of you. I pack three suitcases of clothes and load the car, while trying to avoid the attention of the unofficial neighbourhood watch. I write to Max, my mother and your parents, with explanations for our departure, and to Consuela, with instructions on seeing to Trouble and the house. I ask Max to pay her wages and any bills and leave him a letter of authority to draw on my accounts.
>
The next morning, as soon as Consuela goes to church, I cut off Pagan’s hair. My model is Dennis the Menace; but she squirms so much that it almost becomes Van Gogh. ‘I am a boy!’ she exclaims with delight. And, with the addition of a Yankees baseball shirt and shorts, the illusion is complete. I cannot hope for such a drastic transformation; the memory of Ernest Lipton’s party precludes drag. But, by dyeing my hair, I hide my most distinctive feature, while my freckles will disappear beneath my beard. Then, giving thanks for my magpie mentality, I dust down my old St Bride’s corduroy jacket and trousers, which smell somewhat musty from the attic but still fit perfectly after eighteen years … eighteen years, I hope you take note (I am inclined to buy another dozen bars of Lindt to celebrate). I am thrilled to find myself anonymous again.
We are let down only by our headgear. As we leave the house, I sport an old Cambridge boater and Pagan a school hat, to hide our hair from any intrusive gaze.
‘I can’t wear this; it’s for a girl,’ she insists with all the scorn of Just William.
‘We’ll throw it away as soon as we’re out of London.’
‘Shan’t we give it to the poor children?’
‘Maybe one of them will pick it up.’
We are halfway down the avenue when I think ‘passport’ and make an abrupt turn.
‘Are we going to another country?’
‘Not straightaway but soon.’
‘When?’
I start to explain that, when my beard has grown and our safety is assured, we will hire a boat to take us to the Continent.
‘That’s why I drew out so much money. We won’t be free to go through airports. For a start, I no longer have your passport. And, anyway, we might be recognised. But do you remember Aunt Imogen?’
‘The lady with the funny hair?’
‘Sometimes. When she came back from living in America, she wasn’t allowed to bring her dogs.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a rule. So she took them to France.’
‘Don’t they have rules in France?’
‘Not the same ones. Then she paid some fishermen to sail them across the sea.’
‘Did they put them in boxes?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Will they put us in boxes?’
‘Of course not. We shall stand on deck and wave England bye-bye.’
I wish I were as certain about where we would be waving hello. Spain is the obvious choice, although I have no desire to spend my life among the beer-bellied brutality of the Costa del Crime … In the past, Sweden has provided a haven for terrorists and deserters, and yet, whatever David and his friends might say, I am hardly a political refugee.
‘Will we live in abroad?’
‘Yes.’
‘For ever?’
‘For as long as we want.’
‘Will I be a girl again?’
‘You can be whatever you like.’
I post the letters before we hit the Westway, where I fling Pagan’s hat out of the window. She laughs. I proceed to discard a far more precious package: her hair. I intended to keep it, next to her baby curls, as a souvenir of a second rite of passage; but the dangers of discovery are too great. So I release the strands, which drift like thistledown as we roar up the road to Herefordshire.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Do you remember when Mummy died and we drove to have lunch with an old lady and we said a wish and scattered fairy-dust by a lake?’
‘Are we going to live in a van?’
‘No. There was a little house by the gates, which no one has lived in for years. It won’t be very comfortable or clean; there won’t be any heat or light. But it’s June, so we won’t be cold. And we’ll get up when it’s day and go to bed when it’s dark. At least I will; you’ll be asleep far earlier.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘But we’ll be together, which is all that matters, isn’t it?’
‘Will we have a TV?’
‘Wait and see. If you’re an especially good girl … sorry, boy.’ I respond to her exasperated elbow. ‘You may have a surprise.’
We stop for petrol near Malvern. I work the pumps and worry about recognition. The further we go from London, the more self-conscious I feel about the boater. I long for something less jaunty, better suited to the cords. I find myself in rare agreement with my father, who complained that ‘No one wears a hat any more, no one shows respect’ (although, in his scheme, the main purpose of putting one on was to take it off to your betters). I push mine over my eyes and approach the till with trepidation. My fears turn out to be groundless. The attendant is so engrossed in conversation that it is as much as he can do to count my change.
We picnic in a field, which is a great success and pee behind a bush, which is not. Pagan finds squatting in the undergrowth undignified and fails to function.
‘It’s like a tramp.’
‘What do you know about tramps?’
‘She told me.’ Her forehead furrows. ‘She doesn’t like them.’
‘All the more reason to behave like one,’ I suggest with vengeful logic. Her bladder instantly agrees.
A little before four, we reach Crierley. Pagan recognises the pineapples. I examine the gatehouse, which is even more ramshackle than I remembered.
‘Are we going to make it tidy?’
‘No, I’ve explained. No one must know that we’re here.’
‘Will we go to prison?’
‘If they find us. At least, I will. You’ll go back to your grandparents.’
‘That’s worse, that’s like going through Traitors’ Gate!’
I park the car behind the cottage, hidden by a wall from the road and a hedge from the house. I ineffectually kick over the tracks. Pagan ignores my instructions and runs up the path.
‘Wait for me; it may be dangerous.’ I suddenly feel a tug of despair. I have never before acted on impulse, and, walking around the walls, I see why.
‘Don’t you have the key?’ Pagan asks, as I rattle the front door, which I had somehow assumed would be open. ‘How are we going to get in?’
‘I’ll find a way,’ I say, with vain confidence. ‘This is an adventure. In adventures, you don’t use doors; you climb through windows. Don’t you know that?’ Her silence suggests doubt. We continue our circuit of the cottage. I lift her over fallen slates, broken glass and crumbled plaster, but I cannot save her from the gorse bushes. ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘Little boys’ legs are always a mass of scratches; it’ll look much more authentic.’
‘What’s authentic?’
‘Real.’
I choose the window which appears to offer the easiest access. The sill is covered with viscous slime; and, as I press my fingers on the frame, they sink in, releasing a kaleidoscopic colony of ants. Pagan screams, while I berate myself for omitting to bring gloves. Two of the panes are smashed; so I grab a stick and shatter the shards. Wrapping my hand in a rag, I wrench the wood; but it fails to give way. I pick up a large stone, taking care to avoid the crawling vermin, and, pushing Pagan well back, hurl it through the frame. From the subsequent cracks and crunches, I am convinced that I have destroyed the entire wall and wait for the rush of rubble. When none occurs, I move forward and try to dislodge the remnants.
‘It’s like a shark. Look, the window’s the mouth and the bits of glass are its teeth.’
‘Then take care not to come too close, or it may bite.’
I contemplate how best to brave the jaws. If I put a leg over, I am in danger of castration; head first, it’s decapitation; feet first, and I may be split in two. I begin to regret my well-spent youth. Why was I singing in choirs when I could have been breaking into houses? Surely every child should know how to negotiate splinters of glass without risking serious injury? And, to my amazement, ours does.
‘Why have you stopped?’
‘I don’t want to chop my head off. Strange as it may seem, I’m rather fond of it.’
‘Why don’t y
ou push it with your hand?’
Facing me is a handle which, with a Test-Your-Strength whack, I nudge down. The frame flies open, spraying glass like melting snow.
I congratulate Pagan and ease myself over the edge. I feel myself sitting on something yellow. ‘Me too,’ she calls, and I lift her over, trying to avoid the sludge on the sill. Her shoes scrape on the debris. ‘It smells like pooh,’ she says, pulling a face midway between a grimace and a pout.
‘It’s just damp,’ I snap, stung by her honesty.
‘It’s pooh,’ she reiterates … and she is right. As we move into the hall, the stench grows stronger, and, as I open the kitchen door, I realise that we are not the first to have sought refuge here. Like a prison cell in a dirty protest, your dream cottage has become a giant midden. And, in the corner of the room, padding and panting, lurks something alive.
I slam the door and haul Pagan back the way that we came. I thrust her through the window and quickly follow.
‘Aren’t we going to stay there?’
‘No.’
‘Then where?’
‘I don’t know.’ I picture a salesman asleep in his car.
‘Can’t we go to a hotel?’
‘You know that no one must see us.’
‘But now that I’m in my clothes and my legs are scratched …’
‘We have to wait till my beard grows.’ She puts her hand to my cheek.
‘That’s scratchy too.’
I squat against the wall; Pagan makes to mirror me and tumbles into my lap. I wonder whether it might be feasible to rush back to London and intercept the mail. I could ask Consuela not to cook for six months while we used up the tins; I could tell your mother that I had to cut off Pagan’s hair on discovering lice. But that still leaves your father.
‘What are we going to do?’ Pagan asks me.
‘I don’t know. We must both put our thinking-caps on.’
‘What’s the problem?’ I start and look up to see Robin; moonlight marbling his skin. ‘Why must you always look on the black side? No one comes near it for months on end. We’ll be perfectly safe.’
Pagan and her parents Page 33