Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Deborah Moggach
Title Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Three
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Read on for an extract from Something to Hide
Copyright
About the Author
* * *
Deborah Moggach is one of four daughters in a writing family. She is the prize-winning author of numerous TV screenplays, including Goggle-Eyes, Seesaw, Close Relations and Final Demand. Her novels include The Stand-In, The Ex-Wives and Tulip Fever, which is shortly to be filmed by Steven Spielberg’s DreamWorks and, most recently, These Foolish Things. She has also written two books of short stories. She has a son and a daughter, and lives in north London.
Also by Deborah Moggach
You Must be Sisters
Close to Home
A Quiet Drink
Hot Water Man
Driving in the Dark
To Have and To Hold
Smile and Other Stories
Stolen
The Stand-In
The Ex-Wives
Changing Babies
Seesaw
Close Relations
Tulip Fever
Final Demand
These Foolish Things
Porky
Deborah Moggach
Part One
Chapter One
AT SCHOOL THEY called me Porky, on account of the pigs. They hadn’t learnt to at primary school. When you’re small you just talk about yourself all the time; your little doings. You don’t have the interest in anyone else, do you, so you can’t work out how to hurt them.
But when I moved into the big school they were older and they’d kept their eyes open. They’d driven past our place often enough, with their Mums and Dads. Our bungalow, it’s right there on the A4. You probably know the road, it’s the main one running past Heathrow Airport. You might have seen our place, in fact. It’s the one with the pig field in front. I had no idea, then, that it was different.
That’s where we lived. Not far from the runway, us and the pigs, and you might ask: was it noisy? If we’d had visitors they’d have shouted that question, politely, over the roar. But we never had any visitors. And because nobody did much talking at home, nobody had to shout. The planes interfered with the telly, of course, you couldn’t hear the jingles, but then they always kept the telly on loud, my Mum and Dad. Was that noisy? Yes.
Girls are meanest. It was the girls who stood in a huddle, holding their noses. They didn’t do it, you bet, where our teacher could see; they did it in the cloakroom. ‘Now Wash Your Hands’, it said on the toilet paper. I’d hear them scuffling outside. I could see their sandals under the door, waiting. I prayed for the bell to ring. But if it didn’t, I had to go to the basins.
Then the chorus would start. ‘Poo-ee’, honking because they’d pinched in their nostrils. Maureen, the biggest, once bent down to inspect my shoes. For manure, she said. Sometimes they crooned a song, swaying, linking arms:
‘Porky, Porky, no peace I find,
Just that smelly old song
Keeps Porky on my mind.’
It wouldn’t have lasted so long if I hadn’t blushed. They would have got bored with that Porky business. It was my blush that told them I minded. I have this fair complexion, pink and white. People liked it later; Arabs liked it all right. But then I hated the blush creeping up and my face swelling.
At school you see yourself for the first time. You’re not really born until then. Gwen, who became my friend, she pinched a charcoal stick from the art room to draw eyelashes on our faces. She said to me ever so kindly, I remember the exact words, she said,
‘Does wonders for little piggy eyes.’
It was a moment later that I realized she meant me. Her smudged, spider eyes gazed at my face.
That night I shut myself in the bathroom for a good look. They were. My eyelashes were so pale, you see. We just had a single light bulb and I turned my head this way and that . . . The light shone through them; my face got redder. I blushed for every reason, even when I was alone. I blushed at the fact I was blushing. Years later somebody called me shameless. They hadn’t the first idea . . . Nobody had.
Anyway, the name stuck. I got to know the other girls, and the boys. They forgot about holding their noses; they lost the interest. But the name stayed. The teachers were the only ones who called me Heather – in fact, sometimes even the teachers let a ‘Porky’ slip out. I was a lump of a girl then, before I slimmed down. A big girl, with my pink face and my blonde hair; no wonder the piggy name stuck.
But they should never have sniffed the air like that. I was one of the cleanest people in the school. If I ponged of anything, it was talc. I used to bring the tin in with me. I’d go into the toilet and take off my socks and sprinkle my feet.
No, I was always scrubbing. My face felt starched from washing. Nobody knew, of course. I didn’t tell anyone, not Gwen, not my Mum. How it was on the inside that I was dirty. I didn’t tell anyone later, when I was older. Once or twice I nearly spoke. Just once or twice, sitting on some bar stool somewhere, thousands of miles away from here, I nearly did, just to see the expression on some stranger’s face. As long as it was someone I’d never see again.
But I never told. I’m nineteen now. I don’t know why I’m telling it tonight, except that I can’t go out. I haven’t gone out for a week. Nowadays I’ve got all the time in the world.
I’m sitting at the window; outside the sky is flushed. Swallows are sitting on the telegraph wires; each evening there’s more of them, as if someone’s stringing beads. Soon they’ll be flying south, like I used to do. We used to take off in the evening and fly right over the sunset, right over the end of the horizon and never meet the night at all. We’d fly round into the next day. None of the passengers would see it because they were asleep, heads lolling, the portholes shut. But I did. Weird things happened inside me; I didn’t have a regular period for a year.
It’s easiest telling like this, to nobody. I couldn’t tell it to a person. He’s asleep. I can hear snores through the wall. I have all night . . . So I might be able to tell you, as long as I don’t know who you are.
There were four of us, when my Mum was around. She wasn’t, much. It was years later that I discovered why. At the time I thought all parents were like them. You think that when you’re little . . . No, you don’t even think. They’re yours; you can’t see any different. They’re all you’ve got.
My Mum’s name was Coral and she’d once been good-looking, before she wore herself out. Blonde, like me. She’d met my Dad in Ipswich long ago, when he was working on the fairground. It travelled all over the south of England. The Mercers, that’s my Dad’s family, in those days they owned four rides, ‘Mercer’ lit up in the electric lights. People called them travellers.
But when she got married my Mum wasn’t having any of that, on account of the mud, and the moving from place to place. Even more, there was the lack of privacy. You’d hang up your washing, she’d say, and half the town would be counting your socks. (She wasn’t the type to mention the other items.) I’d picture her, the pale bri
de. At night she never budged. She’d sit in the trailer, behind a nylon curtain, the lights flashing on and off against her cheek. At midnight they were switched off and there was no sound except the local girls squealing.
Years later, in the hen-house, my Dad told me it was because he’d been such a naughty boy. That’s why she’d objected. I didn’t try to believe him; I was just trying not to listen. Whatever the reason, they had some money saved and my Mum had her way, as she did in most things, and they moved into the bungalow where I was born.
My Dad said it broke him, settling down; he said he was a broken man. His eyes would grow moist at this point. He said you couldn’t get a bloke like him to stay put for the rest of his natural days. He usually said this when Mum was telling him to get up and do something. He was a heavy smoker. He’d sit there in the haze, looking out of the window. We had a concrete yard. Beyond the railway carriage where the hens lived, there was this old caravan. It didn’t have any wheels; it stood on blocks. The windows were rusted shut and the door was rusted open, hanging on one hinge. Nettles grew around it, and long, dead grass, like blonde hair. Indoors the haze hung, dimming the furniture, but outside the wind blew the pale grass flat. And every two minutes, overhead, came the roar of the planes.
So it was my Dad who stayed put, in home sweet home. He had the pigs, of course. They were in the field between our bungalow and the main road. Then there were his schemes. There was always some business project on the go. We had one other field, next to the pigs’ field, adjoining the road. He’d painted this sign outside saying ‘Long Term Car Park 50p a Day’. A lad he knew from West Drayton, the son of one of his mates, he was supposed to be there standing guard, but then it turned out he was still supposed to be at school, so the council took him away. Then Dad persuaded this old bloke Paddy to do it. But Pad was always complaining about his bad back, and the damp, he had the same problems as my Dad, so he’d pop off to warm himself at the café down the road, just beyond the roundabout. He warmed himself for days.
So it was left to my Dad. He’d keep watch at the front window, waiting for custom; on fine days he’d sit outside on the veranda, growing ruddier in the sun. That’s why he stayed there, to watch for business. There wasn’t a lot of it about. The airport authorities had an off-airport parking lot with a connecting bus service. The Excelsior Hotel had built another one, just down the road. And folk got fed up with being stuck in our mud. But there were sometimes four or five cars sitting there amongst the thistles. That meant money to collect, if he could catch them before they raced off.
Then he had his deals. He never spoke of them, he preferred to keep the mystery, but they meant driving along to the Two Magpies, or the haulage depot, or his mates in the airport taxi rank. This was a wire compound where they parked until the light flashed with their number. He knew a lot of cabbies. Years later, when I’d left home and I took taxis for granted, I chatted with a cabbie called, would you believe it, Bernie, and he said that down at the airport were the hottest poker games around. He said they’d sit in each other’s cabs; their numbers would flash up on the board but they played on like the blind. They gambled away their cabs and had to start from scratch, hiring another one from the big boys and working up from the bottom again. I don’t know what my Dad gambled away. All I know is that we never had any money coming in, apart from what my Mum earned.
Dad’s other business was haulage. He had a truck that he used to transport the pigs; also a lorry. But we didn’t have a phone and usually one or the other was broken, its pistons or its big end gone, something impossible like that. He’d lie underneath, fiddling and cursing. But sometimes, just sometimes, he had to make a delivery. And then he would be gone, to Nottingham or to Hull. When I was young I didn’t want him to leave. But when I was older, those were the best days.
Sooner or later I’ll have to describe him. But I’d rather wait. First I’ll tell you what my Mum did. There was no shortage of jobs round our way, what with the airport, and all the hotels coming up. You must know our area. Not so many people live there but the whole world seems to be passing through. As fast as they can, too, in order to reach somewhere else. Nobody stopped longer than a night at one of the hotels, and that’s if they had a flight to catch. What would they stop for? Whoever stood guard at our car park, they were buffeted by the passing traffic. Old Pad couldn’t keep his hat on. Apart from him, you’d be lucky to see another human being walking along the verge. They all whizzed by in cars. It was this one great transit area, catering for people who were going somewhere else . . . With us in the middle.
There weren’t many fields left, they’d mostly been developed. The few vacant patches, they had signs amongst the bushes saying ‘Flyways Hotel: Opening Soon’. They were all being built for the airport trade. The airport was right opposite our gate, on the other side of the road. Through the wire fence you could see the prefabs where they kept the ambulances, and the animal hostel, and what I’d been told was where they put the Pakis. Day and night, the odour of kerosene hung in the air. It was always in my nostrils; it was the smell of my childhood. I could never get rid of the memories, even though I travelled to airports all round the world.
You’d think the old associations would fade, once I’d smelt it everywhere. But one whiff and I was back to the beginning again. It didn’t work . . . Take it from me: nothing does.
There were plenty of jobs at the airport, on the catering side and in the toilets. When I was little I never knew what my Mum did, I just saw what she brought home. Slabs of soap, and Danish pastries. Sometimes every item of our tea was wrapped in Cling Film.
On occasion she gave something to me. She wasn’t used to showing affection, so it meant a lot. I kept a shower cap for ages. That must have been when she was working at the Post House Hotel. It’s a huge building like a barracks, spotlit at night, rising out of the vacant land by the flyover. You could see it from our bungalow. I never knew how anyone got into the hotel, it was marooned amongst the slip roads and the elevated section of the motorway. Somehow my Mum did, catching the early-morning bus through the grey dawn. I cherished that shower cap. It was made of the thinnest, crinkly plastic. It was made for overnight visitors but I made it last for months, until it was all torn around its frail elastic band.
It wasn’t just for the money that my Mum worked long hours. It was because she didn’t want to come home. It was only later that I realized this, with a thud. As I said, you take everything as normal when you’re a kid. What my Mum and Dad were like together, for a start. What they were like with me and Teddy, that’s my little brother. How we never seemed to eat the same food at the same time, sitting around the table like a family.
Gwen’s family did. Soon after I’d started at the big school, I went home with her. There was her Mum, making clucking noises because Gwen’s hem was coming down; but fond cluckings, I could tell. She called me by my name, saying how much we’ve all heard about you, Heather. ‘We’ kept cropping up in the conversation, quite naturally. In Gwen’s too. I felt included but excluded, if you see what I mean. They had a lovely lounge; it had a big electric fire with the coals radiant as a mountain range, you could dream yourself away into that fire. And little lamps, and a copy of the Radio Times. I mean, at home nobody thought about deciding what they snoozed in front of. And then her Dad came home, and he was ever so nice to me but cross with Gwen because she hadn’t done last night’s homework. He minded, you see. He said he was angry because she wasn’t doing herself justice. Oh yes, they sometimes shouted at me, my parents, but never for anything like that.
When I got home I shut myself in the bathroom. The lock didn’t work; you had to wedge yourself against the door. When I cried nobody could hear because the wind was up and the loose guttering was banging against the wall. I cried about Gwen. Not just Gwen but the other people in my class too. Their homes must be like hers. I realized it then.
And I cried because I’d made up my mind to tell Gwen about me and my Dad. She was the only
person I’d ever known who I thought I might be able to tell. I was twelve years old; I longed to speak to someone.
But I couldn’t tell her, after this. And if I couldn’t tell Gwen, there was nobody. I thought I’d been lonely before, but I’d never felt really lonely until that moment.
I tried to feel the same towards Gwen but I never did, though we stayed best friends for years.
Chapter Two
I MUST TELL you about him now. I can tell you how he smelt. He smelt of old cigarettes and warm skin. He smelt of wool, with a sharp, sour whiff about it. He wasn’t really a dirty man, despite the mud around his trouser legs. He washed every day – not that I saw him, because he kept the bathroom door shut. I never saw him or my Mum bare, they were both modest about that. When he’d been sitting out the front, watching his car park, then, when he took me on his knee, his skin smelt baked and biscuity. His face was reddish-brown but it stopped at his neck. Below that, when he opened a button of his shirt, his skin was white and quite smooth. He was a big, fleshy man. I thought he was really handsome, but you’d say he’d gone a bit soft. His hair was brown but his moustache had all these colours mixed in it, I used to point them out to him and count the red ones. He said I was the only person who’d noticed; he hadn’t, for a start.
Let me get one thing straight, though you might not believe me. He was an innocent kind of man. In the paper, he never paused at the busty brunettes, he turned straight to the cartoons. My Mum didn’t really understand us children, but he did. He said he was just a kid at heart. He liked the sort of games we did, though I could never quite trust him. He would suddenly get impatient, or the romps would get too boisterous. He liked tickling us breathless; he liked hiding our toys.
Just an edge of me used to feel wary. He could get violent, you see. It hardly ever happened with us, though; he was much nicer with us. It happened with my Mum. Our bungalow had thin walls. One night I remember lying curled, all clenched, the pillow pressed on my head so I wouldn’t hear the words being shouted in their bedroom. ‘Bitch, bitch!’ The morning after that, my Mum went to stay with her friend Oonagh in West Drayton, a couple of miles away, and didn’t come back until the Monday, when she returned from work as if nothing had happened. He’d fed us sweets all weekend.
Porky Page 1