by Jean Ure
Later that day I gaze at Rory across the assembly hall. He catches me at it, and blushes. I think to myself that Dad would probably approve of Rory–well, as much as he’d approve of any boy. But even if he did, we’d still fall out. Dad and I are fated to disagree about pretty well everything. In any case, he’s not my sort. Rory, I mean. He’s too nice! How could I go out with a boy that Dad approved of??? It’s not worth staying on to be oppressed and humiliated just for the sake of going out with any stray male that happens to be available. I have more pride than that!
On the other hand, as Marnie reminded me, I haven’t been out with a boy for simply months. That’s not normal! Leave it too long and people will think I’m not interested. Plus I shall forget how to do it. How to talk to them. How to be with them. Cos being with a boy is definitely not the same as being with a girl.
It’s Dad’s fault. It’s all Dad’s fault! How can I ever hope to grow up sane and well balanced with him thwarting me at every turn? I feel in such a muddle!
When Honey asks me, on the way home, whether we are still going to do it–“That thing that you were talking about?”–I tell her yes, I’m working on it. Honey says, “So when do you think it will be?”
What does she expect me to say? It’s not something you can put in your diary, like a dentist appointment. I tell her that I’m waiting to see what happens. “I’m giving him one more chance.”
“Oh.” Honey nods. “All right.”
I say, “Why? You didn’t want to go right now, did you?”
“I just thought you’d decided.”
“I haven’t decided anything! Have you?”
“No. I thought you had.”
I tell her that I haven’t made up my mind. Yet. “But if he comes on heavy just one more time—”
“That’ll be it?” says Honey.
I say that that will definitely be it. “Cos I have had enough!”
three
Sunday was looming, with its roast and two veg. Dad insists on his roast and two veg, even in the height of summer. He sits there, sweating, and forcing himself to eat, like it’s some kind of holy ritual. Like God has spoken to him. “And on Sunday, thou shalt consume flesh.” Just so long as he didn’t expect me to consume it. Dad, I mean, cos I don’t believe in God. At least, I don’t think I do.
I really didn’t like having rows with Dad. I didn’t go out of my way to have them, which Mum seemed to think I did; they just happened. I wasn’t looking forward to another meat argument. I knew it would end in Dad banging on the table and me shrieking, the same as it had last Sunday, but I was determined to stand my ground.
Sunday morning, when she came back from Gathering, Mum called me into the kitchen. I thought she was going to warn me not to make a fuss, just eat what everyone else was eating in order to keep Dad happy. Mum would do almost anything to keep Dad happy. I was all prepared to put up a fight when she kind of took the wind out of my sails by saying, “Your father and I have been talking. He is still waiting for you to repent, but there is obviously no point in forcing you. It has to come from the heart. In the meantime you must make your peace with the Lord as best you may. I just pray he forgives you.”
I said, “Forgives me for what?”
“Rejecting his bounty. It is not up to us to reject what the Lord has seen fit to provide.”
Whew! Mum doesn’t usually talk like this; she is usually quite normal. I guessed they’d been discussing me at Gathering. It was probably Dad who’d written the script for her.
I said, “Does that mean you’re not going to nag me to eat dead stuff any more?”
Mum suddenly switched back to being Mum. “Not as long as you promise to eat everything else. I don’t want you getting anorexic.”
I assured her that I would glut on vegetable matter as much as she liked. I have no objections to potatoes and cauliflower. I said this to Mum. “Vegetables aren’t pumped full of antibiotics–plus they don’t have their throats cut.”
Kirsty, who was laying the table, at once said, “No, they just get pulled up by the roots! How’d you like to be pulled up by the roots? Vegetables have feelings too, you know.”
“Girls, please don’t start,” said Mum. “We don’t need any smart mouth. Just remember, your dad’s been working hard all week, he deserves a bit of peace and quiet on his day of rest.”
Dad may have agreed there wasn’t any point in forcing me, but he obviously wasn’t pleased about it. He was in a foul mood from the word go. You could always tell when Dad was in a mood. He’d be ominously quiet, and his cheeks would turn a purply pink and his lips purse into this thin line. I guess what it was, he resented me being allowed to get away with something. Cos that’s how he would have seen it. He’d have gone to Gathering all stiff and self-righteous, thinking everyone would be on his side and say how he’d got to tie me to a table leg and force-feed me, or lock me in my room and starve me into submission. He’d have liked to do that. He’d have felt he was carrying out God’s mission. As it was, he sat and simmered all through lunch, seething as he watched me eat my vegetables. When he finally blew, it was like Vesuvius erupting. And over something utterly trivial.
Me and Kirsty had been talking about this teacher at school, Mrs Sebag. A stupid name, if ever there was one! I said, “She ought to be called Old-Bag, the way everything sags.”
Kirsty giggled.
“That’s not very nice,” said Mum.
“She’s not a very nice woman,” said Kirsty. You can bet if little Miss Goody Two-Shoes says someone’s not very nice, they’re positively disgusting. “She’s squalid,” said Kirsty. It was our latest term of abuse. “She’s squalid and she’s vicious.”
I said, “Yes, and she has a face like a bottom.”
Kirsty giggled again.
“Great big fat cheeks like bum cheeks, and—”
It was then that Dad exploded.
“I will not tolerate that sort of talk on the Lord’s day!” BANG. THUD. “How dare you speak of one of your teachers in those terms? It’s about time you learned some respect!” CRASH. WALLOP. He was pounding the table so hard, all the cutlery was bouncing. Even Kirsty was looking a bit alarmed.
Mum said, “Alec—” But Dad was on his feet and bellowing.
“Are you listening to me?” He planted both fists on the table and leaned across, to glare into my face. His eyes were all bloodshot. “I have had just about enough of your boorish behaviour! What is it with you? Do you set out on purpose to upset us all? Does it give you some kind of perverted pleasure? Do you really think your mother and your sister want to sit here and listen to that kind of language?”
I said, “What are you on about? I didn’t use four-letter words!”
Mum wailed, “Jade, please, stop it!”
“I won’t stop it, he’s mad! What’s wrong with bum cheeks? Everybody’s got some! We were made that way…the Lord made us that way. Blame Him if you don’t like it! Not me. I didn’t give us bum cheeks!”
I really thought for a minute that Dad was going to hit me. Not that he ever had, but there is always a first time. He stood there, with his fists on the table, breathing heavily and this vein throbbing in his forehead. I did my best to stare him out, but the honest truth is that I was actually a bit frightened. My dad is a big man; he could do a lot of damage. It really isn’t sensible to provoke him. Not when he’s in one of his rages.
Mum said again, “Alec!” She tugged nervously at his sleeve, but he elbowed her off.
I pushed my chair back. Dad snarled, “Who gave you permission to leave the table?”
“I’ve finished,” I said.
“You’ve finished when I say you’ve finished! Sit down and clear your plate.”
Mutinously, I did so, shovelling the last few scrapings of pudding into my mouth. “Now can I go?”
“You can go up to your room.”
I said, “I don’t want to go up to my room! I’m going round to Honey’s.”
I made for the door, b
ut Dad’s voice came bellowing after me.
“You’re doing no such thing! You go up to your room and you stay there until I tell you it’s time to come out!”
I looked from him to Mum. I couldn’t believe this! I said, “Mum?”
Quietly she said, “Just do as your father tells you.”
“But I—”
“Do it!” Dad was across the room and flinging open the door. He pointed, dramatically, up the stairs. “Go to your room!”
I shouted, “This is like living in some kind of soap opera!” but I didn’t really have much choice. Not with Dad in that sort of mood.
I tore up the stairs and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My heart was hammering. He couldn’t treat me like this! I wasn’t a child, I was fourteen years old. He couldn’t keep me shut up against my will!
I sank down on to the bed. My limbs had gone all trembly, and my heart was still racing. Vengeful thoughts went spurting through my head. I snatched up the phone and punched out Honey’s number. Let her answer! Let her answer! Please.
“Hallo?”
“Honey?” I said. “It’s happened.”
There was a silence, then Honey said, “You mean—”
“We’re going! I’ve had enough!”
More silence.
“Honey? Did you hear me? This is it, he’s blown it. We’re getting out!”
“Yes, all right,” said Honey. “If that’s what you think we ought to do.”
“It is!”
“So do you want me to get ready?”
I was surprised how calm she was. This was some big step we were taking! I’d have expected her to at least um and ah a bit. Instead, all she could say was “Do you want me to get ready?”
I told her to wait till I gave the OK. I had visions of her mum walking in to find Honey shoving clothes into her rucksack.
“Leave it till the last minute. I’ll tell you when.”
“So we’re not going straight away?”
“We can’t go straight away,” I said.
“So when are we going?”
“Mm…I dunno! Soon. This week, maybe. We’ll go this week! Cos it’s half term, right?”
Honey said, “R-right.” She was starting to sound a bit doubtful.
“We’re definitely going,” I said. “Sit and think what you want to take with you. Not your whole wardrobe, we can’t carry loads of stuff. Just what’ll go in your rucksack. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“OK?”
“We are definitely going?”
“Yes, I told you! In the week.”
Monday, maybe. Or maybe Wednesday, or Thursday. That would give me more time to plan. I needed to plan! I put the phone down and sat on the edge of my bed to do what I had told Honey to do, think what I wanted to take with me. I had to go. I had to get out. I couldn’t stand another minute of it! Dad had to be taught that he couldn’t get away with treating me like that. He’d be sorry when I’d gone! When he had to confess, at Gathering, that his daughter had run away. Driven from home by his beastly bullying.
The phone rang and I snatched it up. I thought it might be Marnie, but it was Honey. She was all breathless and tense. She said, “If we’re going to go, I think we should go now.”
I said, “Why, what—”
“Now!” said Honey.
“You mean, like, right this minute?”
“Now!”
I said, “Why?”
“Cos I think now would be a good time.”
“But why? I mean—”
“Let’s just do it!” said Honey.
She talked me into it. Left to myself, I don’t really think I ever would have gone. Not really. Not for all my plotting and planning. But there was an urgency in Honey’s voice, and I couldn’t lose face. I mean, I was the one that had been pushing for it.
So I made a snap decision. Sometimes you have to. “OK! Get ready. I’ll be round as soon as I can, I’ve just got to wait for them to go out. Oh, and see if you can grab any money. As much as you can!”
I put the phone down, and this tingle of anticipation went zinging through me. We were doing it! We were actually doing it! I yanked my rucksack off the top of the wardrobe and began frantically stuffing things into it. I’d already been over in my mind what I’d take with me. Just basics. And money! I pulled out the rubber bung in the belly of my piggy bank and a flood of coins cascaded over the duvet. I’d just about clawed up the last 2p when there was a tap at the door and Mum’s voice said, “Jade?” Hastily, I kicked my rucksack out of sight, beneath the bed.
“Yes?” I stretched myself out, on top of the duvet. Mum came in, looking a bit flustered.
“We’re just about to go…are you sure you don’t want to come with us? Auntie Claire would be so pleased!”
“I thought I was being held prisoner?” I said.
“Oh, Jade!” Mum sat down, beseechingly, on the bed. “I wish you’d come and apologise to your dad! Just tell him you’re sorry and you won’t do it again. It would mean so much to him! He does love you, you know.”
I grunted. “He’s got a funny way of showing it.”
“It’s not easy for him. You know what Nana Rutherford’s like.”
Yeah, yeah! That was always the excuse: Dad’s mum was sour and crotchety. She hadn’t cuddled him when he was a baby. So now we all had to suffer.
“Jade! Please.” Mum took my hands between hers. When Dad wasn’t there to loom over her, Mum was quite a touchy-feely kind of person. Me and Kirsty had had loads of cuddles, on the quiet. That is, when Dad wasn’t around to cast gloom and despair. Sometimes I used to feel sorry for Mum, being married to such a tyrant. Other times I just felt cross and resentful.
Right at this moment, I wasn’t quite sure how I felt. Irritated, cos of Mum using emotional blackmail, mixed with guilt at what I was planning to do.
“He works so hard,” said Mum. “His family means everything to him! He doesn’t enjoy telling you off, it’s just…well! He’s under a lot of pressure, and he worries about you.”
I muttered that I didn’t know what he had to be worried about, but I let myself be persuaded. For Mum’s sake, really. I am such a soft touch! I went back downstairs with her and found Dad backing the car out, and I took a deep breath and I told him that I was sorry. Even then, I could still have rung Honey and said I’d changed my mind. I might have, too. If Dad had just come half way to meet me! But he didn’t. His face remained set like a stone. Coldly he said, “Don’t you dare to talk to me like that again.” And that was that.
I went back indoors. Kirsty said, “Oh, you broke out!” I told her to shut up. Mum looked at me, hopefully.
“So are you going to come with us?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, Jade, do! Auntie Claire will be so disappointed.”
I snarled, “No!” and tore back upstairs. I waited till they had all gone off, till the car was out of sight, then I pulled my rucksack from under the bed and headed for the door.
And that was when it struck me: it was Sunday! There aren’t any buses on a Sunday. Damn. Damn, damn, damn! Even when you tried to run away from this horrible armpit of a place, you couldn’t do it.
I refused to be beaten. My mind was made up! One way or another, we were definitely going.
I marched downstairs and into the garage, where the bikes were kept. Dad had had this idea, when we were younger, that we should all keep fit by cycling. We used to go on these mad family outings, round the countryside, until one memorable day Dad got into a slanging match with a lorry driver and after that we didn’t do it any more.
Determinedly, I wheeled a couple of bikes out of the garage and set off up the road to collect Honey. She must have been waiting just inside the front door cos she shot out immediately. The big beam on her face faded when she saw the bikes.
“What are they for?”
“It’s Sunday,” I said. “No buses. Remember?”
“Oh.” Her mouth dropped open.
“Don’t do that,” I said, “it makes you look daft. Here!”
I pushed one of the bikes at her. She backed away, as if it were some kind of wild animal.
“We can’t cycle all the way to Birmingham!”
You had to be very patient with Honey. It was no good getting mad at her, it just slowed her up even more.
“We’re not cycling to Birmingham,” I said, “we’re going to Market Norton, to get a train.”
Her eyes went big. “On a Sunday?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Market Norton was where Darcy used to live. I’d been there on a Sunday. I knew that there were trains. “Look, stop wittering,” I said. “You were the one that said to go today. Just get on that bike and let’s get started!”
As we rode off, I asked Honey where her mum was. “How did you get out without her seeing you? She didn’t see you, did she?”
Honey shook her head. “She’s asleep. She won’t wake up”–Honey and her bike went wobbling slowly towards the hedge at the side of the road–“for ages. Hours, probably. Not till this evening.”
I knew what that meant: Mrs de Vito had been at the bottle. That was why Honey had suddenly been so desperate to get out. I’d been there when her mum had come round from one of her binges. Those were the times she was at her meanest, like she was almost blaming Honey for all that had gone wrong, like her husband leaving her for another woman. The awful thing was, Honey was also starting to blame herself. It was right that I’d got her out.
I grabbed hold of her handlebars and yanked her back on to the road.
“Watch it!” I tried not to sound too impatient, cos I knew she couldn’t help it. Her sense of balance just wasn’t very good. At school she’d been excused from doing gym because of all the times she’d gone and cut her head open or sprained her ankle or even, once, broken her wrist. There’s a word for people that aren’t well coordinated, only I can’t remember what it is.
Yes, I can! It’s dyspraxic. I once told Darcy this was what Honey suffered from, dyspraxia, and she said, “She’s just an idiot.” It’s true that Darcy was never a very sympathetic kind of person, but we did have fun together.