Boys and Girls (14 page)

Harry grinned and made to joshingly cuff her about the jaw.

‘You're a right little schemer you are – aren't you? Hey? I'm going to have to watch you, I can see that. OK. OK. I'll read you a poem, I'll get you a glass of wine and I'll play the bloody guitar for you. Happy? Satisfied?'

Amanda was beaming as she nodded her head and then shook it quite rapidly as she sucked in her breath, simpering at the absurdity of even her gestures. She drew up her knees and hugged them tightly while he was gone (keeping close within her all this secret pleasure) and then she idly glanced about her. There were two big squareish armchairs that matched the caved-in sofa which every so often seemed to tip and lurch as if in an attempt to swallow and digest her. One of them was over by the bay window in front of the not-quite-meeting flimsy and orange curtains and looking relatively spry and resilient, though piled up with what seemed like just hundreds and hundreds of old newspapers that looked as if they had been there for years. The other one was drawn up close to an old gas fire, tiny and mean under the overscaled mantelpiece. The pockmarked and chalky elements were sporadically blackened and tinged with a singeing of tan. This chair was misshapen and looked truly on the very verge of complete disintegration, the back cushion's velour quite shiny and balding and creased into a permanent depression. On one of its arms was what looked like a tin lid, thick with cigarette ends and carefully crafted spirals and cups of silver paper. On the mantelpiece itself was a wooden clock that was wrong by about five-and-a-half hours and a large blue pottery pig, or an ox it could have been, with pink and yellow daisies painted on its back, and one of its hefty legs snapped off and just lying alongside.

‘I won't keep the bottle in the freezer any more,' said Harry as he sauntered back into the room. ‘I think it could explode. Wine glasses are all dirty, so …'

Amanda hunched forward, away from the maw of the rapacious sofa, and smiling warmly as she grasped the tumbler that said Hofmeister in both of her hands. Her nose quickly wrinkled as she bobbed it down to have a sniff. Harry fell into the sofa beside her, swigged a bottle of Bud that he held in just the tips of two fingers at the top of its neck – spread his legs wide and set to rootling around in the pocket of his jeans for the sheet of paper that he now drew out and set to passing the chop of his hand repeatedly over it, failing to smooth out the worst of the crinkles.

‘Oh my
God
, Harry—! You had it on you all the time, your poem. You had it ready all the time!'

Harry smirked and gulped more beer.

‘Always as well to be prepared. Boy Scouts.'

‘You were a Scout? I so don't believe it.'

‘No – wasn't actually. But it's just what they say, isn't it? Be Prepared. Now listen – this one I wrote just yesterday. I was up all night composing it. Listening?'

‘I was a Brownie … hated it. Really like loved the uniform, though. Little scarf. Woggle …'

‘Yeh. OK. Ready? Listening?'

‘My mum wanted me to go on and be a like – Guide? But I said no way.'

‘Right. Now look – you want me to read this poem, or don't you?'

‘You know I do.'

‘OK, then. OK, right. Well listen. Here goes.'

‘This wine … it's quite, I don't know – bitter, maybe.'

‘Oh bloody hell …'

‘Do you mind if I don't drink it? I mean I know you've just like opened the bottle and everything, but it really does taste a bit …'

‘Leave it. Don't drink it. I don't care. Now listen – it's quite short.'

‘Because I would've been just as happy with like a Diet Coke, or something …'

‘Well we might have some – I'll look in a minute. Now do you or don't you want to hear this bloody poem?'

‘Course I do – I can't wait. I mean it doesn't
have
to be Diet Coke – I mean, Tango or even like Ribena, don't really mind.'

Harry slapped the paper with finality.

‘OK. That's it. Forget it. I'm not going to read it. You clearly don't want to hear it, so to hell with it, OK?'

Amanda was all big eyes and indignation.

‘What do you
mean
I don't want to hear it? I've
said
I want to hear it – I
keep
saying I want to hear it. What's wrong with you?'

‘What's wrong with
me
! Oh that's good, that is. I've been
saying
I'm going to read you a fucking poem and all you do is keep on
talking
 …!'

‘I haven't said a single word! I'm just waiting, that's all. Why don't
you
stop talking and get on with it?'

‘Man … OK. Jesus. Last chance: poem – yes or no?'

‘Yes! Yes! I
told
you yes …!'

‘Right then. Shut up and listen. It's free verse, OK? You know what free verse is?'

‘Yeh. No, not really.'

‘No formal metre. Not, like, a sonnet. No strict rhyme. You know the Beats?'

‘Yeh. Beatles, you mean? My Dad loves them.'

‘No! Not the—! The
Beats
 – Ginsberg, Corso, those guys.'

‘Oh yeh. No, not really.'

‘OK. Well this is a sort of …
hommage
, but not an
actual
one. It's not, you know –
like
them or anything. It's all me. I have found my voice. See?'

‘Yeh. If you say so.'

‘OK then. Right. This is it. It's called “The Awakening With A Plum”.'

‘Plum. OK. Go on, then.'

‘A perfect poem, right, is when nothing can be added and, um, nothing can be like, you know – taken away. Keep that in your head. OK? Right. Here we go. Ready? OK. The night was cold and I looked up at the stars. I was bright like them. Then it was dark. I slept. I must have. Then it was morning. The awakening. And next to me a bowl of fruit. There was a plum. And I ate it. It filled me up with light and knowledge. Now I rest content. Right – that's it. What do you think?'

‘Mm. Yeh. Was “Right – that's it” the last line of it? Or was that you just saying “Right – that's it”?'

‘That wasn't … that was … I just said “Right – that's it”, because that was it. Over. The poem ended with …
fulfilment
. See? “Now I rest content.” Fulfilment. It's quite deep, if you think about it.'

Amanda was gazing at his profile – he just looked so artistic, and he just knew all this stuff!

‘Do you want to like – kiss me?' she said.

Harry put the bottle and the paper down on the floor.

‘Yeh.'

‘Yeh? Well go on, then. If you want to.'

‘I do.'

‘Yeh? Well go on, then. If you want to, do it.'

Harry put the flat of his hands lightly on her shoulders, twisted his head sideways and gently laid his lips on hers – Amanda's were pouted, and rushing forward to meet him. After it had been savoured, Harry drew back, licking at the taste.

‘You're lovely …' he murmured. ‘You know that?'

‘I only feel lovely when I'm with you …'

Harry then suddenly threw himself back into the sofa, his head now lolling cockily in a cradle made up of his intertwined fingers.

‘Naughty little skirt you got on.'

Amanda smirked, and looked down at it.

‘It's actually my netball one, but I double the waistband over. The top I got in Topshop.'

‘Yeh?'

Amanda nodded eagerly, and fingered the neckline.

‘Viscose. It was in the sale. Really cheap.'

‘Yeh? So listen, Amanda – what you want to, er, you know, like – do?'

‘Less than half the original price …'

‘Yeh? So, Amanda? What you reckon you want to do?'

Amanda just looked at him imploringly – begging him or anyone alive to let her in on the secret: to tell her loud and plainly what she reckoned she wanted to do.

‘And I really liked the colour … so I bought it. I've got some shoes that nearly match it, not quite but nearly. Really close. But I didn't wear them …'

Harry sat forward now and leaned his elbows across his knees, hanging his head low, and letting his hair fall over his eyes.

‘So listen, Amanda. I really like you, yeh? And you trust me, don't you? Don't you?'

Amanda was taut and uneasy, and so all she could do was put everything she had into sounding as careless, as breezily casual as she thought she could get away with.

‘Yeh. Course. Course I do, yeh.'

Harry nodded slowly and brought up his eyes to meet hers.

‘So … why don't we go upstairs, then? You like that?'

Amanda just looked at him, blinking once.

‘What – for your guitar, you mean?'

‘No I don't mean—! No. No, Amanda – listen. Let's go upstairs. To my room, yeh? Or another room, if you like. My parents, they got this really big bed …'

Amanda now was standing, and smoothing her skirt and pulling at the hem of it.

‘No, Harry. I can't. What about this movie you wanted to watch? Boonwell. Let's watch that, yeh?'

Harry stood up too and softly touched her shoulders. He peered into her eyes as if attempting to detect there a strain of something that really shouldn't be.

‘Yeh you can. Course you can. Why can't you? Hey? Why can't you?'

Amanda bit her lip and looked up at him frankly.

‘Because.'

‘Yeh? Because? Because what? What? Why can't you?'

‘Because I can't, that's all. I maybe ought to go.'

‘Go? Don't be stupid, Amanda. You can't go. Can you? Where you going to go? Can't go home, can you? Not now. Not at this time. And anyway – you don't even want to. I know you don't. So come on, Amanda. Let's stop messing about, yeh? Let's go upstairs now, hey?'

Amanda's arms were straight at her sides and she shook her head vehemently, detaching Harry's finger that had begun
to describe a series of arcs under her eye and then over the cheek.

‘No, Harry. Please. I said no, didn't I?'

‘Yeh I know – but why? Tell me why. I know you want to.'

‘Not the point. I just can't, that's all.'

‘Yeh well let's talk about it upstairs then, hey? Who knows? You might change your mind.'

‘Harry – no. I'm not. I can't.'

Harry drew back his head and hissed out his exasperation – bringing up his two rigid arms and letting them clap down against the sides of his legs. He stared at her now.

‘OK. Fine. You can't. But just tell me why. That's all. Think I'm entitled. I mean, what – I'm repulsive, that it? Can't stand the sight of me?'

‘
Silly
, Harry … Course not. I think you look great. It's nothing like that.'

And Harry's face reddened.

‘Well bloody
why
then, fuck's sake?'

Amanda's eyes were full and wet and she had begun to snuffle quite badly.

‘Because! Because! Because, Christ – I'm only fourteen—!'

Harry looked as if he had been hit, and she ached at the sight of it. And then a sly and creeping grin was working its way all over his face.

‘Yeh
right
 …! Fourteen.
Course
you are – and I'm still, what – in kindergarten, am I? You're never
fourteen
 – what you take me for? You're my age – older, if anything. What's all this fourteen crap? Hey? Because I tell you one thing, Amanda – if I'd ever thought you were fourteen or anything bloody near it, I never would've talked to you in the first fucking place. And you don't really think I would've asked you here, do you? Hey? I
mean – why are you jerking me around like this? Hey? No look – it's no good bloody
crying
, Amanda – you got to answer me, OK? You get off on this, or what? Like, what the fuck do you reckon you're
doing
here, Amanda? Hey? What – we going to play cards now, are we? Pass the fucking Parcel? Now I don't know what this new little game of yours is all about, right – but if you're going on with it, if you're going to stand there and tell me that what I got here is a bloody fourteen-year-old
kid
 … well then you can walk right now. Got it? Out the bloody door. And I don't
care
, all right? Where you bloody go. But you ain't bloody staying here, I tell you that now.' And the light of fury was up and blazing in his eyes. ‘I mean Jesus fucking
Christ
 …! First you're telling me to like
kiss
you, and then you turn round and say your fucking nappy's needing changing! I mean what the fuck is going
on
here …?!'

The flicker of indecision before she knew she had to turn and run away and somehow stop making this awful and pitiful mewling noise had now just sizzled an instant too long, and she was shocked and then speared by the agony of still and helplessly standing there, her mouth hanging open, sensing that she would be screwed by all that was about to fall out of it. The pained smile, as she tried to assume it, hurt her whole face, though still it felt as if it were someone else's. She forcibly brightened – she attempted to sound quite light and delighted.

‘Yeh … OK, Harry. Yeh yeh.
Fourteen
 …! Ha! As if.'

Harry first stared, and now let his limbs go easy as he laughed out loud, and jubilantly.

‘You're quite the little
bitch
, that's what you are Amanda! Oh my God – you really had me going there, with all that load of shit! You nearly had me believing you, you know that? Jesus – you're really dangerous, you are.' And then his eyes
were narrow, and aiming right at her. ‘Come here, you
bad
girl …'

And she hadn't liked it when he just pulled her towards him, forced his face right into hers, his mouth so hard and dry and attacking her, this time – hadn't liked it, no, as so many hot and unaccustomed hands were quite suddenly juddering over her, uncomfortable and helpless as bits of her clothing were half tugged out and dragged aside. And so she said things like Wait – she said Don't Be So …! She even said and yearned for Gentle, because she distantly remembered that it somehow might belong – and although her stomach was walled with tension her mind was resigned then to what she had invited, but she did now urgently say to him Have You Got A …? But he just grunted, and there was spittle on his face. The old brown sofa, the smell was really bad and stale when your face was deep down and into it, and that was maybe now the thing that made her feel the sickest. She didn't know if he was trying at words or if they were just more animal noises as her mauled and bruised discomfort gave way to outright pain – and equally suddenly, when things were apparently done and she was abruptly left alone, clammy and quaking, her eyes struck wide with shock, the whole of her heaving with a billow of nausea, lurching into illness – as she unseeingly pulled her lumped-up and twisted-about clothes from under and around her, she shivered and nearly cried, but just a little cough came – wishing she was back at home and warm in bed and then her mum would come in from wherever she had been to and ask Amanda what she had done today, what she had learned at school, and then she could make up something nice.