What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  Leonard often showed them paintings when he taught history lessons, his true love being Art. “In good conscience, however”—he twiddled a piece of chalk between his fingers—“there are very few pictures of the Anglo-Boer War in South Africa that are not upon the battlefield, and these I do not wish to show in the classroom of a Quaker school.”

  “Here he goes,” muttered Adrian, sitting behind Brenda. “Yoko bleeding Ono.”

  “I wish to keep you mindful,” said Leonard, “of the words declared in 1661, by the Religious Society of Friends, to King Charles: ‘We utterly deny all outward wars and strife and fightings with outward weapons, for any end or under any pretence whatsoever—’ ”

  Nico put up his hand. “How can we learn history without knowing about the wars? Aren’t wars what make history?”

  Brenda wondered if there was a boy on earth who didn’t think war was so almighty. Her little nephews made weapons out of sticks or shoes or forks. Nothing they liked better than bashing each other to bits.

  “The battles themselves are not central to our understanding of history,” said Leonard. “We need instead to consider the cause of strife. To reconstruct the world that allowed—”

  Percy waved his hand and began to speak before Leonard was finished. “The cause of strife was the British Empire stomping around sticking its nose in wherever it wanted.”

  “A simplified version, perhaps,” said Leonard, smiling. “But colonialism was indeed a large contributor to the conflict in South Africa.”

  “Like the Americans now,” said Percy. “In Vietnam. Big fat bullies.”

  “That is not colonialism so much as … an assumed right by the Americans to influence the politics in other nations,” said Leonard. “A greed for territory and for power is not, as you say, limited to the British. But we’re getting off-topic. We haven’t time today for all of mankind’s misguided wars.”

  “Point being,” said Penelope. “Mankind. It’s men who fight wars. And women who bring the bandages.”

  “Nicely put, Penelope.” Leonard sat on the corner of his desk, still holding the chalk. “I would say women and Quakers who bring the bandages. And, sadly, it is not usually men who fight, but boys.”

  What if Michael had been wearing a uniform in the chip shop, the way Brenda’s dad had been when he’d met her mum way back? Michael holding a rifle, likely upside down, cheeks flaring pink in confusion. He didn’t seem the army type, did he? Not one of the ones who’d be strutting about with bravado in the muck of a training field for the manly love of it. But what did Brenda know about who Michael was?

  Next to her, Jenny was leaning forward, hair falling like gold blinds to hide her face. Brenda saw that she was crying only because tears splashed onto Jenny’s hands, lying flat on the scarred wood of the desktop. Brenda scrabbled to find a tissue in her bag, feeling a hot drip on her finger in the half second it took to pass the tissue over. Here she’d been, wittering on about far-fetched maybes while Jenny sat beside her with the real thing happening, her very own boyfriend being pelted by bullets or blasted with chemicals, and for what?

  Jenny squeezed the tissue into a ball but didn’t lift it to her eyes.

  “Do you want to leave?” Brenda whispered. Jenny shook her head but then nodded, strands of hair shimmering.

  “Leonard,” said Brenda. “Jenny’s unwell. May I take her to Matron?”

  “What was that about?” Penelope asked later, on the way to maths. “Did she get the curse or something?”

  “It was all the blather about war,” said Brenda. “Made her feel dead sad about her boyfriend.”

  “Do you think he’s real? Jenny’s boyfriend?”

  “Of course he’s real!” An otherwise hadn’t occurred to Brenda.

  “She says so,” said Penelope. “But she doesn’t seem … I dunno … experienced.”

  “Speaking of which.” Who better to ask? “Could you give me some advice …?”

  What should Brenda wear? She’d not be home before the appointed hour, but she couldn’t be seen in this rubbishy pleated school skirt. She’d have to nick something from Kath’s closet while minding the little boys. That brought her to the next horror. Kath had a date. Brenda had no way to tell Michael she’d be late, never thought to ask for a telephone number. Not that she could ring his house! But waiting for Kath to stumble home … what if Michael got ticked off and was long gone?

  Brenda prayed to a rarely glimpsed God that her sister might work out a fair trade on time for romantic interludes that evening, but Kath was in a temper, what else was new?

  “Give me a break this once, Bren, with no cheek, right? How often do I get out with a fella, after all? I’ll be back by bedtime.”

  Whose bedtime? But Kath was gone.

  Brenda made fish sticks for their tea, with fat dollops of tartar sauce, carrot pennies, and a bag of crisps divided between them, exactly the same number each and the broken bits for Brenda. “That’s the chips part of fish-and-chips,” she said. “Crisps are called chips in America. There’s a girl at my school from a place called Philadelphia.” Full-of-filthia, Christopher turned that into, thinking himself very clever.

  She sat them down to watch Doctor Who, even if it baffled them. She needed time to devise a plan while she nicked something to wear. Lucky that Kath was doughier than Brenda, what with two babies, so the jeans fit fine. And she found a burgundy top with a scoop neck and pretty buttons, not too snug. Shoes, though, ugh. Her trainers were dead tatty. Her sister’s new lace-up high-heel boots sat on the closet floor. Kath’s feet were a size bigger than Brenda’s, easily fixed with an extra pair of socks.

  “You look fancy,” said Christopher, when Brenda interrupted telly time.

  “Eye shadow,” said Brenda.

  “You look tall,” said Jerry.

  “Lip gloss.” She got them started with pyjamas. “We’re having a treat, you two, what’s called a Jammie Walk. Only it’s a secret. Once you’ve got these on, we’ll do shoes and jackets. Top-secret Jammie Walk outside, even though it’s nearly night. Oh, and hats. Hats are good for hiding.”

  Worked like a charm and she hadn’t needed the marshmallow tactic. Mouldering in Kath’s kitchen cupboard was half a packet of stale marshmallows, which Brenda stuck in her bag for later. They’d have to go the long way round, avoiding Bigelow’s and the Red Lion on the high street, but no matter. Her trusty boys were ready for adventure.

  Brenda’s saunter was a bit uneasy in Kath’s boots but she trundled on. What was a blister, compared with a boy? She spotted Michael on the bench as they turned the corner.

  Brenda crouched down for a whispered conference. “See that boy? Looks ordinary, right? He’s got one of the best disguises I’ve ever seen. In real life, he is the Mastermind of Magic. A very dangerous wizard, unless approached with care.”

  Jerry slid an arm around her thigh, and Christopher edged closer.

  “I’m going over there to trick him into giving me the code,” said Brenda. “And I’m trusting you to keep watch.” She pointed to the library steps. “Up there. Do not be seen. Are you brave enough?”

  They checked with each other and nodded at her. She tucked a marshmallow into each little hand and nudged them onward.

  “Auntie Bren?” said Christopher, very intent. “The code for what?”

  The code for what? Michael had noticed them and raised a hand. “The code for making your mother happy,” she said. “Now, scoot. I have to perform my mission. Do not come near us unless one of you is bleeding.”

  Michael grinned when she sat down. “Your kids?” he said. “Secret life?”

  She laughed. “My sister’s,” she said. “Last-minute emergency.”

  “Do you need … Should we make it another time?”

  “No, it’s fine. They’ll be fine for a bit.”

  They looked over at the steps, saw the boys settle into spy positions. She glanced at him and away. Now it was awkward. Exactly as she’d dreaded.

  “Listen
,” he said. “I just … when we met at the chip shop … I thought, you know …”

  Boys could talk for ages and say nothing, Penelope had coached. “Don’t wait for him. Boys are sissy. You make the move.” Pen would have had the kissing under way by now.

  Lights on the high street gleamed in the dusk. The chip shop was doing a bang-up business, nobody noticing two people on a bench. Brenda closed her eyes and leaned forward. In less than a second, his mouth met hers. It worked! This was … smashing! She was getting off with a boy who had hair on his face! Her thighs went warm with the thrill of it. Wait till she told Penelope!

  “Auntie Bren?” Christopher jiggled and waved like a demon puppet at the end of the bench. Michael twisted around to look, covering his crotch with his hands.

  “Christopher! Sorry, gosh.” Brenda jumped up. “Sorry, Michael. Duty calls, be right back.” She whisked the boy up into her arms, trotting away from the bench. How much had he seen?

  “Don’t wobble me,” he said. “I have to wee.”

  “Wee in the garden.” She pointed to the scrap of earth next to the library steps. “It’ll keep the villains away, if you do that.”

  She helped him tug down his pyjamas and assured him that yeah, showing a bare bum outside was odder than seeing a frog in britches, but if you had to wee …

  “Did you get the code yet?” he asked. She tucked his little thing back in, got him set.

  “Not yet,” said Brenda. “Did you see I was trying?”

  “Yeah,” said Christopher. “Inside his mouth?”

  “Yes,” said Brenda. “Not much longer, I promise. Here.” She put two more marshmallows into his hand. “Now go on back and look after your brother.”

  “I told them you’re a wizard,” said Brenda. It didn’t seem right to dive straight back into kissing without a bit of chat first.

  “I used to know some card tricks,” said Michael.

  “I hope proof won’t be necessary,” said Brenda. They had a laugh and he put his arm around her. That was nice, cozy, like they were friends already.

  “Christopher is my middle name,” he said. His other hand was fiddling with her top, trying to slip his fingers under. She shifted a bit. He didn’t seem to know exactly what he was groping for.

  “Michael Christopher Stern. What’s yours?”

  “Oh!”

  “Did something bite you?”

  She could hear Hairy Mary’s voice. “Dr. Sterrrn is running behind schedule.”

  “No, sorry, I … maybe a fingernail …” She shuddered, without meaning to. Michael Stern, the doctor’s son.

  “It’s awful,” she said. “My middle name, I mean. I’m named for my dad’s nan. Brenda Winifred Parson. Dad says we must have had a vicar for an ancestor, that’s why Parson. Like parsonage, you know?” She was blathering, willing him to give up on the untucking activity. Should she tell him? Your dad has seen me with my top off. How would that go over as a first-date conversation? Brenda was never so happy to hear little boys giggling. Both of them this time, standing right there.

  “We saw our mum,” said Jerry. “I saw her first.”

  Brenda cranked her head around, and Michael’s hands fell away.

  “In a car.” Christopher gestured vaguely down the road, to where lights twinkled in a row of houses. No car in sight.

  “Can we have more marsheymals?” said Jerry.

  “Was it really your mum?” Let it be a mistake.

  “Mummeee!” Jerry raced past Brenda toward, yes, his mother, striding across the library lawn with a thundering glare.

  “She’s going to wig out,” said Brenda. “You’ve got to go.”

  “But I—”

  “Go. I mean it.”

  Michael slipped around the corner of the library building. In the half second before Kath arrived and was slapping her face, Brenda wondered if he’d ever speak to her again.

  “I saw you up here and thought I’d gone bonkers,” said Kath. “Why would the boys be running around at night in their pyjamas?”

  Brenda held a cold hand to her flaming cheek.

  “Oh, because I left them in the care of a selfish, skanky slag, that’s why!” Kath raised her hand again, well practised in using it, but Brenda ducked. “A slag who steals my bleeding clothes the moment she’s alone in my closet!”

  Christopher started to cry. “Is something wrong with you?” Kath gave him a shake. He shook his head and shivered.

  “No thanks to your minder.” Kath put her face close to Brenda’s. “What were you doing, anyway? On a bench? With a randy flipping schoolboy?” She jerked her head at her sons. “How do you think I got these?”

  As if Kath were anyone to listen to. A kiss and a cuddle wasn’t the same as having it off, being stuck with a kid for all time. Jerry was the sweetest thing on earth, but Lord, no thank you.

  “I’d smack you back,” said Brenda. “Don’t think I wouldn’t. But it’s not right. Your kids—”

  “Oh, preach away, you righteous cow. Would you know the right thing if it conked you on the head? Keep this nonsense up and you’ll be sitting next to me down the launderette wondering what hit you.”

  “That is the last place you’ll find me! I’m taking A-level exams next year! Ever heard of those?”

  Kath took a deep shaky breath. Brenda’s point had landed like a dart.

  “Right, then.” Half Kath’s wind power was gone. “You just remember. You’re the one chance our family’s got. The best thing our dad ever did was sign you up when Ill Hall offered scholarships for locals. You could be a nurse. Or a teacher. Move out of the council flats. Buy a car someday! So don’t go wasting time with schoolboys on benches, you hear me?”

  Brenda heard. She gazed into the darkened bushes that flanked the library building. Had Michael raced obediently off? Or was he hiding, hearing Kath too?

  “You could actually be something. More than bleeding rubbish.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “And I want those boots back, you thieving cow.” Kath put a hand on each boy’s head, steering them into the evening gloom.

  Christopher tugged free after a few steps and ran back.

  He leaned against Brenda with all the force a six-year-old could muster, giving her middle a squeeze with skinny arms. She hugged him before nudging him off to join his mum. She wouldn’t follow just yet. Let Kath get the boys to bed before Brenda crept in to fetch her shoes. She’d wait on the bench, let the wobbles subside.

  “Brenda?” Michael loomed out of the shadows.

  Ouch. He’d heard.

  “Better than a radio play.” He took the spot next to her. “Not meaning to make light. That was harsh, no question.”

  “Not quite what you want a new boy to hear. Family secrets.”

  “You held your own.” He tapped her hand.

  “The awful thing,” said Brenda, “is that it’s no different from any other day.” Try coming up with an answer to that. Her ugliest colours on display.

  “Not to sound daft, but I sometimes wish my parents would have a proper go at each other. Better than chilly quiet, where you can practically hear the scuttle of black beetles.”

  Brenda laughed. He was dead nice, this boy.

  “We’ve got the whole hornet’s nest,” she said. “Buzzing like hell on the high street.”

  Did Michael’s mother guess anything off about her husband? That’d be a mighty big black beetle to swallow.

  “Let’s go for a walk.” Brenda reached for his hand. “Leave the insect world behind.”

  oona

  FIRST WEEK!!

  Dearest friend-of-all-friends, my darling Sarah,

  Oh, the woe in starting term without you! I’m in Brontë dorm with Caroline, Esther Madwoman McKay, and Sally, Tamsin, and Fiona from the fourth form, and a couple of other nobodies. Tamsin smuggled back a pineapple from Mauritius, which we ate last night after Lights-Out and I have never tasted anything so divine. Penelope and Kirst
en are in Austen, of course, and they’ve got the new American girl (sent from Philadelphia to represent North America in place of you, but of course no one could replace you). Her name is Jenny and she happens to have the most perfect skin I’ve ever seen along with sort of golden hazel eyes and terrible clothes. She clearly had the wrong idea about Illington because she packed nothing other than dire school uniforms, which, needless to say, are rather useless here. She went to work with the scissors and now has a wardrobe consisting entirely of tatters, as if she inhabits a schoolgirl horror movie.

  What was looming in my last letter is now distant past. Yes, I went to the Algarve in Portugal with my parents and my foul sisters for the final week of holiday. It was a très posh resort but deadly dull except for one small interlude on the last night, with a boy named Alexandre—that dre, not der, to indicate there was an ACCENT involved—but of course my brat sister Lizzie squealed on us before we’d even opened the nicked bottle of vodka, so that was that.

  But here I am, chattering on, and what you’re really waiting for is … drumroll … The Nico Report.

  Has he written to you himself? Has he rung you?? Whatever your answer to those salient questions, surely you will be riveted by an objective opinion.…

  He arrived back from holiday with his mother in Italy—very tan, longer hair, possibly even taller and more handsome. Yes, you should be squirming. I’d send you a photograph but that would involve me taking one, which would mean approaching him, and as I am a mere mortal and he is a god, this is not a possibility. He spends all his time in the sixth form common room, which of course I am not permitted to enter unless invited by a sixth-former and that has not happened. His mates are still the rat-nosed Adrian and poor spotty No-Face (ticket to aforementioned common room). No-Face is so distinctly unmemorable, physically and personality-wise, that I suspect Nico of selecting him as a friend for the sole purpose of highlighting his own particular gifts. Percy the brown toad also lurks about in their company but that may be a hallucination. The detail you have been waiting for? NO FEMALE COMPANION … as yet. Needless to say, there is plenty of competition for that position. You would be ready to decapitate Penelope, for instance, whose tops get smaller and smaller as she masquerades as a Love Child. Despite her soldier beau, the new girl, Jenny, asked me specifically on the way to Sunday meeting when Nico was walking ahead of us with his trusty sidekicks, Is the tall hot one attached? Rest assured that I quickly informed her of his status as my best friend’s boyfriend, and insisted that he is no doubt still mourning your departure.