Boys & Girls

by Paul Burston

  ‘Slower love, slower. The gentle gobble’s what the bloke’s after, aren’t you mate?’

  Punter and girl look up, Jill’s smiling, as much as you can smile with your gob wide open miming the mouthing. The girl slows down, the punter nods relief and grins, winks at Jill. The kid’s probably only about fourteen, no fucking idea yet.

  ‘That’s it love. You’ve got him now. He’s happy now well done love, that’s it, keep on, good girl.’

  The bloke’s smiling, eyes closed, pants down. Jill reaches for his wallet, poking out of his trouser pocket, grabs a twenty for herself and pushes another into the girl’s bra top. Poor bitch must be freezing. All the while Jill’s sweet talking the pair of them through it.

  ‘Now you’ve got it, good girl, that’s the way. Soft and slow. See love, there’s some things your mum’ll never teach you.’

  He’s grinning and moaning to himself and the girl’s sucking and slobbering for all she’s worth, eyes wide and delighted.

  We walk on, maybe ten yards and once we’re almost at the bridge Jill shouts out, ‘That’s it! Good girl. You’re doing a great job, great job. Soft and slow and get them going and now—’

  The girl looks up, mouth full, the punter opens his smiling eyes, grateful inquisitive looks towards the pair of us from both of them, ‘Now bite the fucker off!’

  Jill screams with delight, girl chokes with laughter, man freaks, cock shrivels, nothing to blow. God knows why they do it, men are a fuck of a lot braver than us. I’d never trust anything that tender to the teeth of a stranger. We run off and Jill can’t get over herself, fucking delighted she is. Twenty quid richer too.

  First trick. Jill’s idea. We’ve both done it, Jill figures we might as well start getting paid for it. Jill figures. I’m fifteen, she’s sixteen. Legal. Real. I’m nervous about it though so she tells me to watch her, see how she goes and if she can do it, then so can I. A fuck’s a fuck, right? And I can just stop with a blow job if I really want to. I don’t know. Seems to me your actual fuck – eyes closed, all noise and panting – is a damn sight less personal than having some stranger’s dick in my mouth. Anyway, she’s street-cornering herself and I’m stopping in the dark part, under the arches, watching her, and these lads come up. It’s a stag party. They want her for the groom. What’ll she do for twenty quid? We didn’t know much about market forces at the time. She offered the lot. Quite a show, best man got a handjob, bride’s little brother got a blowjob, and then Jill’s feeling a bit knackered so she calls me out of the corner and asks the groom how does he fancy me and her together? This is all out in the fucking street, mind. Anyway, course he does. So I’m there right and Jill reckons it’ll be fine and then we’re fooling about and now the groom’s got his dick out and Jill reckons I should do him, get it over with, at least she’s there with me. So I turn to do him and then I see it’s all of them that are waiting. Not just the groom and this wasn’t the deal and Jill’s saying no, this wasn’t the deal, but that’s not the fucking point, right? The best man’s not quite so drunk now. She did half a dozen of them and I did six of the others. This was not voluntary. Except when they left the little brother ran back and gave us another twenty each. So it wasn’t really rape either. Was it? We got better at it after that. More fucking careful anyway.

  So I’m thinking about that girl and how I’m so bloody happy to be running round winter with Jill and not on my knees by the canal and we’re coming back up to Holloway Road now and Jill says that’s auspicious. It’s a sign. Yeah, it’s a fucking road sign. Not what she means. And there’s lights and cars and a few drunks and some young people in groups, pissed and laughing on their way out for the night, and Jill’s speeding now, really fucking speeding, God knows what on. Cold and potential and the twenty quid in her pocket I guess. And she’s looking all around and thinking who can we do? What can we do? Then she sees it, other side of the road, furniture shop. And in the window, a bloody fairy tale bed. Really fairy tale. A four poster straight out of Sleeping Beauty. All over girlie shit and frills and pretty and embroidered roses, wide curtains with white flounces and I can’t believe that Jill even thinks that looks like anything, but she’s just completely taken with it, and they’ve done some special lighting on it too, it’s all soft and golden, glowing in the cold street. And the cover turned down and a silk nightie laid out just waiting for the Princess to float in and sleep forever, no night dancing to wear out her shoes, no hidden pea to bruise her delicate skin. Perfect.

  And then Jill’s got a rubbish bin and it just goes right through the window, before I can say not to, before I can even ask what the fuck she’s doing and the glass only takes two hits and then it shatters, glass mountain collapses with sparkling prisms all around us, glitter snow on the ground and the ringing of alarm bells. And Jill just takes her time, gives me her clothes, one by one, like I’m the fucking palace maid and I fold them up and put them on the ground because what else can I do and then she’s naked and she climbs in through the broken window, glass under her feet but that doesn’t matter and I help her put on the nightie and she just gets into bed. Climbs into the bed. I plump up the pillows and tuck her in and kiss her goodnight, pull the curtains around her. I’d turn out the lights but they’re flashing blue.

  First night in the girl place. It’s OK. Really it is. Lots better than I’ve been in before, that’s for sure. It’s really not bad. The lady on the radio was right. I mean it is Holloway, but it is pretty flash too. Jill doesn’t know though. It all took ages working out what had happened, if they were going to do her or section her. I was easy, accomplice, best friend, no nutter me. Not now. Only then they figured same for her – she was bad, not mad this time. True too. She’s not mad. Pissed off but. Jill turned twenty while we were on remand, they reckoned she’s too old for this. Too late for it to do her any good. Fucked her off no end. I didn’t think it would be all right being here without her. But it’s not that bad. Not as bad as I thought anyway.

  Still, it’ll be summer soon.

  KNITTING FOR BEGINNERS, 1960

  VG LEE

  At school everyone is pony mad although nobody, not even Joanna Bayliss the richest and most popular girl in our year, have their own pony or take riding lessons. Joanna and her two friends, Estelle and Lesley pretend to be horses in the playground. Joanna’s horse is pure white and named Silver Star - Estelle and Lesley make do with a chestnut and a pinto. Nobody dares to be a black horse as that would annoy Linda Portman who is always Black Beauty and has a nasty temper if another horse tries to drink from the same puddle.

  If Linda Portman didn’t exist I’d have been a black stallion called Midnight. I’d gallop gracefully up to Joanna, nuzzle her two friends out of the way, and then together we’d gallop through the school gates our hooves striking fire off the rocky terrain.

  Joanna Bayliss has a grown-up brother living in New York. He sends her broderie anglaise party dresses, also at least three angora boleros, a fun fur coat and a pair of red leather bootees with a small heel. Joanna’s clothes never seem to get dirty. She isn’t the kind of girl to have a leaky fountain pen and she isn’t the kind of girl that boys flick their own leaky pens at.

  On my last school report our form teacher Miss Wozencroft wrote ‘Bonnie is a bright likable child who fails to concentrate’, which isn’t true. I concentrate very hard on Joanna; the length and darkness of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek, her ringlets. Joanna tosses her ringlets at least a dozen times in every lesson. I’ve counted, making a pencil mark in the margin of my exercise book. Her highest score for ringlet tossing is twenty-three. Then there are her surprisingly chubby wrists with the silver charm bracelets Miss Wozencroft confiscated but was forced to return after Joanna’s mother wrote a letter of complaint to the school governor.

  All around the playground is a low brick wall with iron railings set into it. There is a wooden bench where I sit and eat my sandwiches during the morning break. Usually I have the bench to myself but to my surprise one morn
ing, Joanna sat down next to me and took her packed lunch from her shiny leather satchel. Sticking out of a side pocket was a recorder. I hadn’t known Joanna played an instrument.

  I said, ‘Are you good at the recorder?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said, ‘But mummy thinks it would be nice for me to accompany her on the piano at family parties.’

  ‘I expect you come from a musical family?’

  ‘No.’

  Silently she ate her sandwiches.

  ‘What’s in your sandwiches?’ I asked.

  ‘Ham and pickle,’ she said.

  She didn’t ask me what was in mine. At any moment she’d finish, pick up her satchel and leave me. I said, ‘Do you want to play a game?’

  She pulled a face, ‘What sort of game?’

  From my own satchel I took out a wooden ruler and pointed to her recorder, ‘We run round the playground hitting the boys with these. Not hard but hard enough to get them to take notice. They’ll chase us and try to kiss us.’

  ‘Will they?’ Joanna looked impressed.

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Okay.’

  We raced up to where a group of boys were playing cricket. I shouted ‘Tally-ho’ and was pleased when Joanna also shouted ‘Tally-ho’. We poked and batted the boys in the ribs or their backs. ‘Bet you can’t catch me!’ we cried. Together we ran across the playground, jumped onto the wall and clung to the railings. The boys did chase us. As we held on tightly they banged us on our shoulders before rushing back to their game. No boy actually tried to kiss us. I was quite glad about that and Joanna didn’t seem bothered either.

  In the afternoon break we played the same game and at the end of the day Joanna walked arm in arm with me to the school gates. Her mother was leaning against the open door of their two-tone Vauxhall Victor. Joanna waved and her mother waved back. Joanna turned to me. ‘That was the best day’s play I’ve ever had,’ she said.

  I bumped my face into hers and kissed her hard on the cheek, my nose hitting against her eyelid.

  ‘Ouch!’ she said laughing, ‘You’re a complete nutcase.’

  Gran was late collecting me. I’m often the last one waiting at the school gate but I didn’t mind. I was friends with the most popular girl in our year. I’d made up our play and she’d found it, ‘the best’.

  The next morning I couldn’t wait to get to school. I kept telling gran not to dawdle whereas normally she kept telling me. As I came into the playground I saw Joanna, surrounded by her usual group of friends. She had her back to me but I knew she knew I’d arrived by the way everyone else looked at me and then at her.

  ‘Hello Joanna,’ I said.

  Her head swung round, thick curls brushing my face and then she moved a step away. ‘Mummy said I wasn’t to play with you anymore,’ she said, her expression quite friendly but as if she was speaking politely to someone she didn’t like very much.

  ‘But why?’

  My face and ears felt boiling hot. The other girls stared at me, their eyes sharp with interest.

  ‘Mummy said your game was most unladylike.’

  ‘But you said you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Not that much,’ she answered, ‘Anyone going to the canteen?’

  They all were.

  On Friday afternoons Miss Wozencroft teaches us Practical Work. We’ve learnt how to make a sailing boat and Nelson’s tricorn hat out of several sheets of newspaper, how to cover our exercise books with jolly pictures taken from a pile of old magazines and the week after Joanna and I fell out, ‘how to knit’.

  Miss Wozencroft stood on the dais at the front of the class, ‘Hands up all those who can knit?’

  Only three children put up their hands.

  ‘Well good gracious. At ten years old I could knit a raglan sleeved pullover,’ she said, ‘Our first project will be a hot water bottle cover.’

  John Seton, the tallest boy in the whole school groaned and said, ‘Miss, boys don’t knit.’

  ‘But men do,’ Miss Wozencroft replied.

  Immediately I began to consider what colours I’d choose; pale blue and mauve in soft baby wool. If it turned out really well I’d give it as a Christmas present to my favourite aunt.

  Bonnie you darling child, I’ll treasure this.

  ‘Bonnie, would you like to be knitting monitor?’

  ‘Yes please miss.’

  I jumped to my feet; I’d never been a monitor for anything before.

  From a cupboard at the back of the classroom Miss Wozencroft took a brown paper bag and a cardboard box and put them on her desk.

  ‘One pair of needles and an ounce of wool per person, please. Remember children, this is not a toy,’ she held a knitting needle in front of her, ‘any silly behaviour could result in a serious accident.’

  The wool was like string and string coloured. My favourite aunt wouldn’t call me a darling child if I gave her a hot water bottle cover made of this. It would have to be for gran

  Miss Wozencroft showed us how to knit a square ten inches by ten inches in plain stitch. At the end of the afternoon the finished squares with our names pinned on them went back in the cardboard box.

  ‘Joanna, have you handed in your square?’ Miss Wozencroft asked.

  ‘It’s not finished yet miss.’

  ‘Well finish it off at home please.’

  I was knitting monitor again the following Friday. After handing out the needles and more wool I concentrated on casting-on for my new square, while daydreaming of progressing from knitting monitor to class prefect to Head Girl. At first I didn’t notice the rustle of movement, heads turning, and then someone giggled. I looked up. Miss Wozencroft’s neatly laced brogues stepped smartly off the dais and headed for Joanna sitting two desks back from the front.

  ‘What is that?’ She pointed to Joanna’s casting-on. Her wool was bright pink.

  ‘Mummy said there’s no point me making something that won’t be used, Miss Wozencroft.’

  From her satchel she took out a finished bright pink square.

  Miss Wozencroft’s face changed colour. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks.

  ‘Where is the piece of knitting you failed to finish last week?’

  Joanna handed her the half square; all the stitches unravelling. Miss Wozencroft opened and closed her mouth twice, then holding the piece of knitting by one corner as if it were a dead mouse; she carried it back to her desk and dropped it in the waste paper basket.

  She said, ‘Get on with your knitting. There is merit in completing a task satisfactorily. Next week we will sew up.’

  Afterwards in the playground, a crowd gathered around Joanna. Even Linda Portman joined in, banging Joanna approvingly across her shoulder blades.

  ‘You were so brave,’ someone said.

  Joanna shrugged, tossing her ringlets, ‘Mummy’s right. It would have gone straight in the dustbin.’

  Everyone agreed that theirs were going straight in the dustbin. Suddenly Joanna looked at me, standing a little apart from the group, ‘Well Bonnie, what will you do with yours?’

  I had a brainwave; a memory of a word gran used. My chest felt as if it would explode.

  I said, ‘My gran likes things that are robust.’

  Joanna looked disconcerted, ‘What does robust mean?’

  I swallowed, a little unsure, ‘Strong, hard wearing.’

  She frowned, then tossed her ringlets again, ‘Anyway we have electric blankets in our house.’

  I made my way back into school. Under my breath I hummed ‘To Be a Pilgrim’, my favourite hymn. One day if I couldn’t be a horse or a cowboy, I intended to be a pilgrim and do good works, but not immediately – after all Jesus didn’t get going with his miracles till he was thirty.

  Our classroom was empty. I hurried across to the waste paper basket and retrieved Joanna’s piece of knitting. I held it against my cheek, imagining the wool feeding through Joanna’s fingers.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Joanna stood in the
doorway.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘That’s mine – give it back.’

  ‘No,’ I said and put it in my blazer pocket.

  ‘You are a flipping nutcase,’ she said.

  Yesterday was the last day of the Christmas term. The previous week Miss Wozencroft had brought in a post box she’d made from cardboard and red crepe paper. I wasn’t sending anyone a Christmas card. I’d mentioned them to gran but she’d said, ‘I’m not made of money’. I didn’t expect to receive any either, but when the post was sorted out and Miss Wozencroft wearing a white beard and a Father Christmas hat had delivered them all, two cards sat on my desk. One was from John Seton who is now so tall he will probably soon be classified as a giant. This wasn’t completely unexpected – he is the least popular boy in our year and I am the least popular girl, so we make a natural pair!

  The other card was from Joanna; a wintry scene of reindeers pulling sledges, snow made of silver glitter dotted the night sky and also showered my lap.

  Underneath ‘Happy Christmas’, she’d written, ‘It was the best day’s play ever.’ She hadn’t signed her name.

  I looked across to her desk by the window. Joanna was watching me. Our eyes met. She hunched up her shoulders and stuck out the tip of her tongue which made me think of the aggressive behaviour of an armadillo, although I know nothing about armadillos except that they’re poor swimmers and I don’t know how I know that!

  I could have cried – but gran has instilled into me not to show weakness when unsure of an enemy, although at that moment Joanna Bayliss seemed like she might not be such an enemy after all.

  PARADISE

  THIS HOUSE BELIEVES

  SOPHIA BLACKWELL