One Day at a Time

by Susan Lewis

  He looks down at his file again. ‘You don’t seem to be doing as well in your lessons as you did during your first year,’ he comments. ‘Are you finding the work more difficult?’

  The truth is, I’m not, but coming bottom of the class all the time is part of my plan to get expelled. I can’t tell him that though, and I don’t want him to think I’m stupid either, so I say, ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you ever ask a teacher for help?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. He must be joking.

  He picks up a pen and makes a couple of notes. ‘Tell me some things you like about the school,’ he says.

  I have to think for quite a long time before I can come up with anything. ‘Chocolate-spread sandwiches for tea. Warm crusty rolls for breakfast on Sundays. Listening to records and dancing in the rec room.’

  ‘What about lessons? Which are your favourites?’

  That’s easy. ‘French and history. Oh, and English I suppose, if we’re reading an interesting book.’

  ‘What kind of books do you find interesting?’

  ‘Um, Shakespeare’s my favourite.’

  He looks surprised and I think he might know I’m lying.

  ‘Any others?’

  I think of the rude stories I’ve got tucked away in my cubicle that one of the day girls smuggled in. I wonder what he’d say if I told him about them. ‘Little Women,’ I say, ‘and Alice through the Looking Glass.’

  He writes the titles down, then says, ‘Do you enjoy being in detention at school?’

  ‘No!’ Is he mad?

  He looks a bit puzzled. ‘You seem to have acquired quite a number this term, so if you don’t enjoy them, I have to wonder why you behave in a way to earn them?’

  ‘I get them because the teachers all pick on me,’ I tell him.

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘They give me detentions and make me stand on the landing.’

  ‘For no reason?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  His eyebrows go up, and I think he knows I’m lying again.

  I’m starting to get fed up now. These questions are boring and aren’t getting us anywhere, so why doesn’t he just let me go? I’m sure he’s got some real loonies he has to take care of.

  It seems he’s read my mind, because he gets up and goes to the door. ‘I’ll speak to your dad now,’ he says, ‘if you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room.’

  Eddie

  So much has happened over the last week that I hardly know whether I’m coming or going. The session with the psychiatrist is a bit of a blur now, with it being the day before our dad’s funeral. I don’t know how helpful I was with my answers, or how well our Susan did either. By the time I took her back to school she looked all in. It couldn’t have been easy for her, getting dragged across town to be interrogated, then over to our dad’s to see Beat, before having to go all the way back again. I’d have kept her home for the night if it was allowed, but I hadn’t asked permission, and with the funeral happening the next morning, it was best she wasn’t around. Funerals are no place for children.

  Dear old Beat, she looks a proper lost soul now our dad’s not there shouting at her and giving her something to do. Someone had obviously been round to clean the house before we went back for the wake, because everything was looking crisper and shinier than I’ve seen it in a while. I wonder why it’s called a-wake, when the sleep is endless, eternal?

  Not many came, just a couple of his mates from up the Legion, me and Beat and some neighbours. No one made it up from Wales, and our Nance and Doreen didn’t put in an appearance either. Made me feel really sorry for the old soul, who’s only crime was to get married again after our mam died. I wonder if Susan and Gary would turn on me if I ever decided to marry again. I don’t think Gary would, but I’m not so sure about our Susan. It won’t happen anyway, so no point bothering myself about it.

  I’m afraid Susan’s turning into a bigger worry to me as each day unfolds. I’ve started dreading the post in case it brings yet another letter telling me she’s in detention, or some equally upsetting news like they’re stopping a shilling a week out of her pocket money until she’s repaid what it cost them to repair the window. She’s signed something called the punishment book now, which she calls the black book, and heaven help us, she seems proud of it instead of ashamed.

  We have to go back for another session with the psychiatrist in the new year. Perhaps he’ll tell me then what he made of his first meeting with her. It’s going to need several visits to get to the bottom of things, he’s already warned me about that, and I’m inclined to let him make the decisions about how often we should go. What else can I do? I’m at the end of my tether, and if Dr Leigh can’t help us I’m not sure that anyone can. Just thank goodness no one outside the family knows, because it’s a terrible thing having to go and see a psychiatrist.

  I’m having a sit-down now, next to the fire. Gary’s at the table with one of his friends playing blow football, so I’ll leave him be for another half-hour while I carry on writing things down. I don’t want to dwell on our Susan, or our dad, so I’m going to write some thoughts I think about myself.

  I’m wondering if I’m the landlord of my body, or the tenant of a greater landlord. If I am the tenant then I have a lot of duties which I would not have if I belonged to myself. No need to bother if you are only to live ten years, but if for ever, I’d better bother. My bad temper, jealousy, greed, cowardice, conceit … Does God know? Did He take Eddress as a punishment for my wrongdoings and failings? Have my communist tendencies angered Him? I sometimes wonder if it’s why the doctors let Eddress die. Someone high up in government told them to withdraw treatment in order to teach us commies a lesson. So is it my fault our Susan and Gary don’t have a mother?

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Can I have a brown-sauce sandwich?’

  I look round and see to my surprise that Gary’s friend has gone. ‘You’ve just had your tea,’ I remind him.

  ‘I know, but I’m still hungry. And then can we write a note for Father Christmas?’

  Only yesterday he was saying that there was no such thing, but today he seems to be hedging his bets. Do I deserve the gift of such a wonderful son? Will he be taken away, the way our Robert was?

  I go and make him his sandwich, then sit down at the table with him to write his list. A Beano annual; some battling tops; a box of Lego with animals in; an Action Man; a new football; a Bristol Rovers scarf; a puzzle and some crayons with a crayoning book.

  ‘Is that all?’ I ask, making him laugh.

  ‘I expect I can think of some more.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. So shall we send it up the chimney now?’

  He folds the list into a neat little square and is just handing it over when he says, ‘Do you think we should send one for our ‘Susan too?’

  Loving him for thinking of her, I say, Have you got any idea what she might want?’

  He looks defeated. Then suddenly brightens. ‘What about some record tokens? She’ll like that. And we could ask for a Sindy doll, she likes them.’

  ‘It’s been a while since she played with her dolls,’ I remind him, wishing we were back at a time when she did.

  ‘All right then, we could ask for some smelly things, like bubble bath and scent, and I know she likes red liquorice so we could put that on the list too.’ He frowns. ‘Except I was going to buy her that, and I won’t be able to if Father Christmas brings it.’

  ‘We’ll leave it off then, and put some new gloves on instead. How does that sound?’

  ‘Yes, the furry ones that don’t have any fingers. They keep you the warmest.’

  ‘Are you going to write it down, or shall I?’

  ‘You can do it. I want to go to the toilet.’

  He runs to the door, then hopping from one foot to the other, turns back and says, ‘Don’t forget to put a Monkees album on her list, she’ll definitely want one of those. Oh yes, and …�
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  ‘Up the stairs now, before it’s too late,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Get her some book tokens,’ he shouts as he thunders up the stairs.

  As I sit writing out our Susan’s list I’m trying to stop my thoughts from anchoring in troubled waters. I must think of buoying subjects that will allow me to chart calmer seas and improve my mind. A sound taste in literature is a guarantee against boredom, the key to a fuller mental life. The man or woman who can talk intelligently about books bears the hallmark of a cultured mind, and therefore, apart from any consideration of personal enjoyment, a knowledge of literature is a great social asset.

  By the time Gary comes down again I’m ready for our dispatch to the North Pole, so making him stand well back, I remove the fireguard and send the notes on their way. I then quickly replace the guard before he can stick his head up the chimney to make sure they’ve gone, and going back to the table I sit listening as he tells me, between mouthfuls of sandwich, about our new home help, Sarah – or Mrs Moon, as I’d prefer to call her. She’s much younger than Mrs Jewell, mid-twenties I’d say, and Gary’s obviously taken quite a shine to her. That’s a relief, because I know he missed Mrs Jewell when she went. He’s talking now about getting Mrs Moon a sachet of bubble bath for Christmas, and he thinks it would be a good idea to buy them for Gran, Auntie Nance, Auntie Doreen and young Doreen too.

  ‘Oh yes, and Auntie Beat, we mustn’t forget her,’ he says.

  ‘No, we certainly mustn’t,’ I agree.

  It’s going to be a funny old Christmas this year without our dad, and our Robert. Two more big holes in our family, left for time to fill, except it never will. Still, won’t do any good getting maudlin about it, it’s not going to bring them back, and whatever else I do, I have to keep a stiff upper lip, if only for the children’s sake.

  Susan

  Christmas was all right, I suppose. We had quite a nice time up Auntie Nance’s and then Gran’s, and I had some fab presents (and some grotty ones too), but it wasn’t the same, not being at Auntie Doreen’s. We saw her on Boxing Day, because she came over for Dad’s birthday (Gary and I gave him some Brylcreem and a bar of Bournville), but she didn’t stay long. No one talked about Robert, but I know we were all thinking about him. I wonder if he could see us, or hear our thoughts. He’ll know how much we all miss him if he can.

  I still really love him and I always will.

  After Auntie Doreen left we went to see Auntie Beat. She cried about Grampy, so I cried too. Then Gary did, and Dad ended up making us all laugh by mimicking the cockerel Grampy gave us. (The cockerel’s gone to live on Critchley’s farm now, because the neighbours complained. Still, it’s better than having him served up as a Sunday roast, which Uncle Graham was threatening to do. I’ve seen him wring a chicken’s neck, and it’s not very nice when they carry on running round the yard even though they’re supposed to be dead!)

  Auntie Beat’s still got her chickens, but Dad’s arranging for someone else to have them now, because she can hardly take care of herself, let alone a coop full of hens. I explained to Dad, after we left, how good it would be if I was going to The Grange, because Auntie Beat’s is on the way home, so I’d be able to cook and clean for her too.

  ‘I could even make her breakfast in the morning, if I left early enough,’ I said, which I think was very nice of me, but as usual he didn’t seem to be listening.

  He’s always somewhere inside his head, thinking about politics and religion and all kinds of stuff that make him say really weird things sometimes. Like last night, when he started going on about English.

  ‘Our language is a growth from Anglo-Saxon, which is German,’ he said, even though no one had asked, ‘and Old Norse, which is from the Vikings. Then in 1150 there was a transition to Middle English. Early modern English started around 1520, which is about the same time as the printing presses were first used.’

  Sometimes I think he reads too much and it’s not good for him, but if I say that we only end up rowing, so I just let him drone on and then, as soon as I can, I escape.

  It’s three days after Christmas now, so it’s taken me quite a long time to be able to sneak out and meet Mandy. We’re in the bus shelter over on Anchor Road, tucked into a corner each, while it pelts down with rain outside. It’s bloody freezing, so, grotty as they are, I’m glad to have my new furry gloves to keep my hands warm. If Kev comes along I’ll stuff them straight in my pockets before he can see them.

  Mandy had three lush new minidresses, some hipsters and a white polo-neck jumper for Christmas, plus loads of other stuff like records, and Estée Lauder talc, and some Fry’s Turkish Delight, which she loves and I hate.

  She looks really cool tonight in the new Afghan coat she bought when her mum took her downtown to spend her Christmas money. I thought Afghans were supposed to be hippyish, but if Mandy’s wearing one I must have that wrong, because we’re definitely mods.

  We’re not sure if Kev and his mates are going to come tonight. We don’t have an actual arrangement and with all this rain, they probably won’t. Still, it’s nice to be here chatting with Mandy about everything while we wait, just in case they do turn up.

  She hasn’t seen them at all over Christmas, or even very much before, mainly because of not being able to go into Made for Ever club, or the pub, which is where they usually are when the weather’s bad. Still, we’ve decided to walk up and down past their house tomorrow in the hope they might see us and come out, and if they don’t we’ll wait outside Brains about five o’clock in case they’re already back at work.

  I’ve definitely decided to go all the way now. I’m not scared. I understand a bit more about what will happen, and it’s quite funny how I managed to find out. There’s this first-former in our dorm called Ros, who’s really pretty and lively and is struck on me. Anyway, she sleeps in the next bed to Sadie and one night when I was tucking her in she only asked me, ‘Su, do you know what a virgin is?’

  Honest, I don’t have a clue why she asked, but she did, and then I had to give her an answer, didn’t I? Lucky for me, Sadie was listening, so I said to Ros, ‘Are you saying you don’t know what a virgin is? You are so juvenile. Sadie, tell her, will you?’

  So Sadie did. ‘A virgin is a girl who’s never had sex,’ she said. (I don’t know how Sadie knows, but it sounded right to me.) ‘Do you know what sex is?’ she asked Ros.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ros replied, ‘it’s when a man puts his thing inside a woman’s thing and moves it up and down to make babies.’

  Of course, I knew it was that, but I wouldn’t have put it that way exactly, and I had to wonder how she knows so much when she’s younger than me! It’s probably because her mum’s a doctor. It must be handy that, having a mum as a doctor.

  I’m trying to think what I’d like my mum to be if she was still here. I decide I wouldn’t mind just as long as she was here.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Mandy whispers.

  I go very still and listen. The rain’s muffling the sound of voices and footsteps, but I can definitely hear them coming our way. We wait, hardly breathing, hopeful and excited, until a man and woman hurry past under an umbrella. I’m just biting down on my frustration when someone comes into the shelter and to my horror it’s Dad.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I cry.

  ‘I might ask you the same thing, young lady,’ he says in a deep, angry voice. ‘Now get yourself home.’

  ‘No!’

  I‘m not arguing with you, you’ll go home now or I’ll drag you there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Oh yes, I would.’

  I can tell he would too. I think about trying to dart past him and running away, but he’s blocking the exit and even if I managed it he’d chase me and probably catch up.

  I look at Mandy, who’s still hunched in her corner. ‘Are you coming?’ I say.

  She glances nervously at Dad.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he tells her, and grabs hold of my arm.

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nbsp; I snatch it away. ‘I can walk on my own,’ I snap.

  He stands back for me to go by, then says to Mandy, ‘She’s too young to be out with you …’

  ‘Shut up!’ I seethe. ‘I’m not a child, so stop treating me like one.’

  ‘Home,’ he barks, and taking my arm again he begins marching me along the road.

  If Kev and his mates come round the corner now I’ll die.

  Luckily they don’t, and there’s no sign of anyone outside the Anchor either, so no one to witness the awful humiliation of being dragged home by my dad.

  By the time we get there we’re both soaked through, so he tells me to go upstairs and get ready for bed, then to come back down again. I know I’m in for it, so once I’ve got my nightie on I snuggle up in bed, instead of going downstairs to get shouted at. I’m really worried, because I know he’s going to try and stop me going round with Mandy, and if I don’t see her I’ll never see Kev.

  In the end, when he comes into my room, he stands next to the bed looking down at me so angrily that I suddenly want to shout at him.

  ‘I don’t want you going out with that girl again,’ he tells me. ‘She’s too old for you …’

  ‘It’s up to me who I go round with.’

  ‘If you chose girls your own age …’

  ‘They’re just childish and stupid.’

  ‘And so are you, saying things like that. How many more times do I have to remind you that you’re twelve years old …’

  ‘I’m nearly thirteen …’

  ‘Not until next August.’

  ‘… and anyway, everyone says I’m really mature for my age.’

  ‘Then act it and stop behaving … That’s enough,’ he shouts as I start to speak again. ‘I’m turning out your light now, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you till morning.’

  After he’s gone I lie in the darkness trying not to cry, but I can’t stop myself. Everything’s always going wrong for me, and I don’t know what to do to make it go right.