Porky

by Deborah Moggach

  But the bleeding began early, when I was twelve. By that time I’d made a habit of going down to the toilet at the petrol station. I sat there in the concrete cubicle, my knickers round my ankles and my face swollen hot. I didn’t know what to do. Now it had happened, she was the last person in the world I could tell. The words thumped in my skull: I was bleeding because of what my Dad was doing with me.

  Perhaps it was true – that I started early because of him. I never knew. But that’s what I believed. Outside a car hooted for petrol, from the other side of the world.

  So I kept it a secret for months, more furtive even than my Mum. Just when I should have been getting closer to her – and when, I’m sure, she was feeling more interested in me – I was prevented. It must seem ironic to you . . . But there was no such neat word for how I felt.

  And it was all because of me. I didn’t blame him. It was my fault; I was the wicked one.

  Chapter Three

  IT ALL STARTED when Teddy was born. I was ten. I don’t remember my Mum being pregnant; I don’t think she liked to remember it either. She wasn’t keen on babies. I’d nearly killed her, she said, being born. The complications, she said, hinting and sighing, with dark remarks and exhausted, knowing looks. But though she went on about them she never actually told me what these complications were, she was secretive about that, so I could only guess. I imagined I’d pulled out her stomach with me; that accounted for her small appetite. Or that she was all tangled inside, like a mixed bag of knitting. Shirl, our sow, once dropped her womb, said Dad. I imagined Mum’s pulled out by me, by great big me, and her having to tuck it back inside with tears streaming down her face.

  She had a pile of Woman’s Realms in the lounge; she read magazines avidly. Inside were dreamy romances and Dear Doctor letters about athlete’s foot. When nobody was about I’d pull out the magazines and have a search. I found an article about having a baby, and at the end there was a paragraph about stitches, and how soon before you could resume marital relations. I thought this meant meeting your uncles and aunts. But we never did that anyway; perhaps the pain of having me had put an end to these weekend visits. I looked, but I couldn’t find anything called Complications.

  So she’d vowed never to have any more babies. But along came Teddy. She was away a long time. For a month before he was born she had to lie flat on her back, at Ashford General Hospital, suffering from something I couldn’t pronounce.

  And then she was kept in for some time after he was born. It was probably only a week or two but it seemed an age, because I felt responsible. I was the big lump of a baby who’d done the damage.

  It was a cool, blustery spring and the hens were laying again. Mum’s, though, was not as easy as an egg. It was the school holidays. Behind our sheds the hawthorns were sprouting green tufts. My Dad called them bread and cheese and said he ate them when he was a boy. He said he nibbled the hedges like a pony. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. I nibbled them but they tasted bitter; when his head was turned I spat them out.

  Our home felt different, without Mum. It changes, doesn’t it, when you know the person won’t be back. Time slowed down, like a watch someone had forgotten to wind. There was nothing to prepare for, no step at the back door. I always kept my bedroom neat, I loved my little room, and I tried to keep the kitchen and lounge tidy, but I wasn’t much good at that. Without Mum to shop, we ate pilchards and jam tarts. Dad liked the yellow tarts best, he called them ‘dirty boys’ ears’. The air felt empty and waiting. She must have felt the same over in Ashford, the other side of the airport. I can’t tell you how much I was longing for a baby brother or sister.

  One day Dawn farrowed. Dad had been on edge for some time. Dawn was a sow he’d bought in January, when the prices were cheap. Actually he hadn’t bought her; he had a mate in Slough and he’d swopped her for a generator. Ever since then he’d been uneasy about her temperament. She was a Large White, like our other sows Shirl and Celeste, but he’d raised the other two from birth and they were old friends of his.

  Dawn lay in the container. We stood at the entrance. He was silent; he was always stumped for words when he saw new-born piglets. Then he counted them: nine, pink and struggling, pushing for her teats as she lay like a slab on the muddy straw. Her small, sunk eye watched us.

  He didn’t give them names because they would be sold as weaners. He went off to the pub at lunchtime, his truck bouncing cheerfully down the track. Later he told me that Archie, the landlord, had poured him a pint on the house because he’d looked so chuffed when he came in. When Archie heard it wasn’t my Mum, but Dawn, who’d given birth he laughed so much that he gave Dad another drink. Dad brought me back a Bunty in celebration.

  Next day it was pouring with rain. I was lying on the settee reading the best stories in Bunty for the third time. He said he was just checking Dawn and then he was off. He was meeting someone who might be putting something his way, he said, and he’d bring me back a Tizer.

  He was outside for a long time. I don’t know how long, because our electric clock had been stopped for years. I only know that when I heard the truck door slam, and the gravel scrunch as he reversed and drove off, I was surprised that he’d been there all the time.

  It was still raining when I heard him come home. Outside in the yard, Rinty barked. I waited. The rain drummed on our roof. This being made of corrugated iron, I couldn’t hear many noises except the planes. I was lying on the settee watching the afternoon movie. I kept the sound off; I just liked the friendly picture. With my Biro I was inking in the ps, ds and os in my comic.

  The back door slammed; the windows rattled. He came straight in, boots and all, dripping with water. He flopped into the chair.

  I jumped up. ‘Give me your coat, Dad. You’ll catch your death.’ I’d heard grown-ups saying that.

  He leaned forward, like a rag man. It was difficult, getting the coat off his shoulders. I was used to this, but usually he thanked me over and over again while I was tackling it. I didn’t know how to start on his boots; they were plastered with mud, so I left them.

  He said something, but a plane was roaring overhead.

  ‘Pardon?’ I asked.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Six?’

  He shook his head in despair. Drops flew.

  ‘Couldn’t trust her,’ he said in a slurry voice. ‘The stupid . . . the stupid . . .’

  ‘What’s happened?’ It wasn’t Mum, I realized. ‘Shall I do your head?’

  He looked up at me then, under his sopping hair. His face was wet. He said, ‘You take care of your Dad, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I went to hang up his coat and fetch a towel.

  ‘Here.’ He patted his knee.

  I sat on his knee, as I always did. I didn’t mind it being damp. Something had happened but I didn’t want to ask him until he was ready, in case his mood changed. I rubbed his hair. I loved him letting me care for him. My hands felt clever and adult; I felt as stern as my games teacher. I rubbed briskly to and fro.

  Then his voice came muffled under the towel. ‘She went and laid on them, that’s what.’

  ‘Dawn?’

  The towel moved as he nodded. I waited, but he went on nodding.

  ‘They’re squashed?’ I asked at last.

  He was still nodding. ‘Know something? . . . There’s nobody dries me so well as you do.’

  I went on rubbing, pleased. I rubbed round his neck, then his ears. Then I was rubbing his face and the bump of his nose. I minded about Dawn, but not as much as I minded about him.

  He raised his head, his hair sticking up. ‘Heth,’ he said, ‘know what you’re looking at?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘Want me to tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re looking at a disappointed man.’

  He looked frighteningly sober. ‘Don’t say that, Dad.’ I flung my arms round his neck. The towel was wedged, a thick sausage, between us. I didn’t want to se
e his face.

  ‘A disappointed man . . . And I’m not just talking about the pigs.’

  Pressed against him, I could feel his jaw moving as he spoke. His skin was rough and damp. I whispered, ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘Buried ’em.’

  I clung tighter. I was so grateful that he’d stopped me seeing the piglets. But how could he be disappointed, with Mum’s baby on the way? I moved my face and pressed against the warm rubbery rim of his ear. I wanted to close off those words he’d been saying; I wanted to press the breath out of him so he couldn’t say he was a disappointed man. It must be me who’d disappointed him.

  His jaw moved. ‘Squashed ’em flat . . . her wee ones.’

  He squeezed me tighter. I could hardly breathe. I gripped him hard.

  ‘How could she do that?’ His voice hummed against my cheek. ‘. . . Her own wee babes.’

  ‘She must be mental.’

  I’d just learnt that word. I felt his body shudder. He was laughing. Why? But I was so pleased . . . I relaxed. Then he stopped. He said, ‘Where would I be without my Heth?’ He paused. ‘Jesus above, what would I do without my little girl?’

  I couldn’t think of a reply.

  ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said. ‘A kiss for your Dad.’

  I removed my face from his ear and kissed his cheek, as I always did. Then I drew away but he pulled me back. He kissed my lips. His moustache tickled. Then, with his lips he opened mine. His tongue slid into my mouth, warm and wet. Inside it moved around as if it was searching for something, deeper and deeper. Despite the smell of his breath, his saliva was as tasteless as my own. It felt uncomfortable. His mouth was bigger than mine; he was going to swallow my face. Not moving, I kept my arms gripped round him.

  He must be so upset. He’d pulled out the towel and thrown it on the floor. I couldn’t breathe . . . He was breathless too; I could feel his chest pumping in and out, against me. His mouth stayed glued to mine, his nose digging into my cheek. His hands rubbed up and down my front.

  Just when I was going to suffocate, he let me go. I stayed on his knee; I didn’t know whether I was supposed to get up, or what. His moods made me nervous. There was a silence, except for his breathing. I heard the rain, still drumming on the roof. Then he shifted a bit, and I jumped up. He was fumbling for something in his trouser pocket. He took out his handkerchief and wiped my face, ever so gently, as I stood beside him. He wiped round my mouth.

  ‘Don’t want our lipstick smudged,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘That would never do.’

  ‘I don’t wear any lipstick.’

  Silence, then he said loudly, ‘I know you don’t!’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘Don’t listen to me . . . Didn’t mean to shout.’

  His breath made a wheezing sound as he sat there, without moving. Then he said, ‘Do us a favour and fetch me fags.’

  I’d hung up his coat on the hook behind the door. I fetched the packet. He took a cigarette and tried to light the match. He must still be cold because his hand was wobbling.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I struck the match and lit it. I always felt special, doing that.

  ‘You’ll catch a chill,’ I said. ‘Just look at you.’

  I went into the kitchen. My ribcage ached from the squeezing, so I breathed several times, deeply. As the kettle heated up I refolded the tea-towels and put them in the drawer. I must keep the kitchen neater. I mustn’t disappoint him . . . I must keep the house as tidy as Mum did. While the tea was brewing I collected the foil cases from yesterday’s jam tarts and put them in the bag for blind children. Next term Mrs Mason, my teacher, would be so pleased with me; I’d collected a whole stack of meat pie containers too.

  He hadn’t turned the sound up. When I came in with the teapot, there he sat, just staring. Do you know, this frightened me more than anything else? Dad always turned the sound up. But there was John Wayne, mouthing at us.

  I pulled up the little table and set the tray down carefully, so as not to slop the tea. I couldn’t bear him being so upset.

  Pouring the tea, I tried to comfort him. ‘Dad, I’m so sorry about the pigs.’

  He stared at me. ‘The what?’

  ‘Sorry, I meant the piglets.’

  ‘The pigs?’ he shouted.

  I shrank back. There was a dead silence as we stared at each other.

  Then his face seemed to collapse. He jerked forward, stretching out his arms. The mugs clanked as the table rocked. ‘Oh Heather, Heather, I’m sorry.’ His voice was all choked up. ‘I didn’t mean it, honest I didn’t . . . Come and forgive me.’

  But I had the teapot in my hand and I tried to pretend his mug needed topping up. It alarmed me, the way he called me Heather. He never did, usually. I took my mug over to the settee.

  ‘Didn’t want to frighten you,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him. I tried to sip my tea, all calm, but it was too hot and burnt my lip. ‘It must’ve been horrid, burying them.’

  ‘Just meant to be affectionate . . . didn’t mean no harm.’ He lifted his head and looked at me. To my horror, his eyes were wet. ‘Won’t do that to you again . . . Honest I won’t . . .’

  ‘Dad, you only shouted. I don’t mind, really I don’t.’

  ‘Let’s you and me forget it . . . Nothing happened . . . OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, to make him happy. I still didn’t understand. Anything, though, to change that expression on his face.

  When we’d finished I took the tray into the kitchen. He stayed in the armchair in a thickening cloud of smoke. Why didn’t I go over and comfort him? I wanted to get out of the house, but for some reason I didn’t want him to hear. I crept out of the back porch.

  Outside the rain had stopped. It was damp and absolutely still, as if the world held its breath. I stood there for a moment; behind me, where the broken gutter hung, came a plunk, plunk, as the drops hit the concrete. I walked across to the gate. Shirl and Celeste were out, slurping around in the mud. They pulled out their legs with a sucking sound, like jellies. I walked over to Dawn’s container.

  She lay there, just as before. Her eye gazed up at me; a fly settled on her face and she flicked her ear. The three piglets were asleep, flopped across each other. They slept as lightly as puppies, twitching with their dreams. Hadn’t they noticed that the straw was smeared with blood?

  I didn’t stay long. When I went back I found Dad asleep too. I paused behind the armchair; his hair was dry now, his head slumped sideways. I’d never felt so alone. But then I couldn’t think who I wanted to talk to either, which made it worse.

  Blue Peter was on. It was the children’s programmes I’d been waiting for earlier that afternoon. They were showing the finals of the cat championship, and they had these children there, looking ever so grave, holding their pets. Valerie, who was my favourite, walked from one child to another, bending down, smiling, and asking them questions. I’d wanted to enter one of our cats but I’d never been able to catch them, they were that savage.

  I stood for a while. The winner was a girl my age, wearing plaits. Eyes lowered, she answered a question to the accompaniment of Dad’s snores. I wanted to see the rest of Blue Peter, and then the cartoon, but how could I turn up the sound when Dad was asleep? The one thing I didn’t want, for some reason, was for him to wake up. Then I remembered about the Tizer. I went over and felt inside his coat pockets, inside and out, but I couldn’t find a bottle. So I went into my bedroom.

  Later that evening it was Visiting Hours. I wanted to see my Mum badly. But when we got there I felt shy. There she lay as usual, propped up against the pillows, her face sallow in the strip light. She looked like an unknown person, with her neat features and her thin lips. She’d curled her hair and it looked like a wig around her face; below it were the knobs of her collar bone that I wasn’t used to seeing. My Dad sat looking cowed and oversized, as if he shouldn’t be there, with his hands hanging down. He’d stopped bringing her grapes and t
hings, she’d been there so long. He told her about the piglets, in a flat voice, but that lasted about a minute. There was a long silence. I felt the breathing bulk of him beside me, as if for the first time. I glanced at his clumsy, dangling hands . . . He was probably dying for a smoke. In official places he looked hunched and awkward; he shifted in his seat when a nurse passed by.

  The silence continued. I fiddled with the pin on my C & A kilt. Dad half rose when a trolley rattled past. With any luck it was their evening meal beginning. What could we talk about? None of us understood the technical things that were being done to Mum. I watched the bedclothes bulging with her tummy.

  It was hot. Hospitals always are. Dad took out his handkerchief and rubbed his forehead, then round his mouth. In the light I saw how grimy the hanky was. Then I remembered it rubbing my lips; I remembered his wet mouth, and his tongue squashing mine.

  Mum turned her head to me. ‘Lost your tongue?’

  That word started the blush. I felt the blush rising, hot and humiliating. They must both be seeing it, surely. All the people must be seeing it . . .

  But nobody seemed to notice. Or if they did, they weren’t letting on.

  Nothing much had happened that afternoon, had it? Nothing that dramatic; not the sort of shock-horror stories you read in the Sunday papers. Our little scene wouldn’t have made the headlines.

  And it hadn’t really disturbed me, him kissing me like that. After all, grown-ups did incomprehensible things all the time, like puffing horrible cigarette smoke in and out. They spread mustard on their food – how could they? – and got emotional about dull things while not minding the important ones, like me never having proper, long socks for school. No, that part wasn’t so disturbing . . . I’d always loved him hugging me. What terrified me was how he behaved afterwards. What had I done, that he’d shouted like that, with tears in his eyes? If I didn’t know, how could I stop it happening again? Wasn’t it my fault?