Boys and Girls (34 page)

‘Have you been attending the sex education classes, Amanda?'

‘Yeh. No. Some.'

‘Mm. Not maybe enough. You do realise that what you did was wholly irresponsible?'

‘Yeh. Suppose.'

‘You suppose correctly. Well the good news is you're not pregnant, at least. You don't seem very pleased.'

Well no I wasn't, if you want the truth. That's what I came to find out. Because yeh, I've been seeing Harry again. OK, right – I know he's a shit and everything, but I just like bumped into him in the newsagent, right, and he goes hi and I go hi and he says, so what – you want to like, do something? And I'm like what, and he goes I don't know – just stuff. Hang out. And I'm like cool, OK then. Yeh. But it's not like I want a
baby
or anything – God, I'm not stupid. Messy little shitbag puking and screaming? I so don't think so. But I'd been kind of rehearsing going up to Mum all like sorrowful and pious,
you know? Slow low voice like I'm doing a sermon in church. ‘Mum … I'm late. I think I might be …' – and then she just so totally losing it? So great. Anyway: not.

‘But luck, Amanda, we simply cannot rely on. Can we? Now I do not recommend any sexual activity whatsoever for girls of your age. Let me be clear. You are fortunate that it is the school's custom not to immediately inform your parents. But if you do find yourself in a … situation, then you really must be prepared. You cannot depend upon the boy. And quite apart from the risk of pregnancy … are you actually listening to me, Amanda?'

‘Yeh.'

‘Quite apart from the risk of pregnancy, there are some very nasty diseases out there if you fail to protect yourself. Some of them fatal. Let me be clear. There are videos, Amanda … I'm sorry, Amanda: am I taking up too much of your time? Am I keeping you from an urgent appointment? Will you kindly do me the goodness of hearing me out?'

‘Yeh.'

‘So obliged to you. Videos, Amanda, that would make your hair stand on end. Believe me. So – take care, my girl. Care – that is the watchword. Let me be clear. So – off you go then. And if anything else should arise, anything at all you'd like to discuss, you know where my office is, don't you?'

‘Yeh.'

‘And that the door is always open.'

‘Yeh.'

‘Well goodbye, Amanda. And you will remember, won't you? Care – that is the watchword. Let me be clear.'

‘Yeh.'

Yeh. And
shit
: that is the watchword – let me be fucking
clear. So-called adults, you know – they're more like kids than we are. They just never grow up. And as for sexual bloody activity – puh-
leese
! What the fuck does Miss
Levin
know about it? I doubt she's ever had a shag in her life. Like – who would want to? Who, oh yuck –
could
? And look how she's ended up – a Miss in a school telling girls to always pack a rubber. Gross, right? And like really really sad, and just so totally creepy.

I cut the last class of the day and went home. Went to the fridge soon as I got in because I was like really starving, and then I was going to go up to my room and have a slug of vodka because I've got a bottle in there now and it really, like – cheers me up? But Mum was in the garden as per bloody usual, yacking away to bloody Herb the gardener, yeh – and don't get me on to like how she went on and on when she discovered his name was Herb: what a simply
wonderful
name for a gardener, yeh yeh, on and on, like I could give a fuck. And then she was like calling and calling to me so I had to kind of go, but I crammed into my face all this like really tasty Polish sausage? So I could talk through it, which so really gets to her.

‘Oh Amanda – it is you.'

Amanda's wide eyes looked down at herself in wonder and then they stared at each of her open palms in turn.

‘
Yeh
 …? Yeh – it really is …'

‘Yes well I couldn't quite see through the glass. Please finish whatever is in your mouth before you speak. Say hello to Herb.'

‘Pa-lurrgh, Burb.'

‘Amanda!'

‘Jesus. You said talk and don't talk. What am I supposed to do?'

‘I apologise for my daughter's behaviour, Herb.'

Herb put on his cheesy grin – big on cheesy grins, is Herb. I think he thinks it makes him look kind of, I don't know, boyish or something – but Jesus, he's got to be like thirty.

‘No problem, Susan. No problem at all. OK are you, Amanda?'

‘Yeh.'

‘Black and your father are doing the dinner tonight, so it might be a weeny bit late. Have you got prep?'

‘Yeh.'

‘Well it'll give you a chance to get it all done then, won't it?'

‘Yeh.'

‘How long does it take, Herb? This hedge. To grow.'

‘Oh it's a real fast worker, this one Susan. Next summer, you won't recognise it. Basic shape will be there. Then we can clip it.'

‘Mum – can I talk to you?'

‘What is it, Amanda?'

‘Well like – in private?'

‘Can't it wait? I'm right in the middle of …'

‘Not really.'

‘Oh … all right. Sorry about this, Herb. I won't be a couple of minutes.'

‘No problem, Susan. No problem at all. OK are you, Amanda?'

‘Yeh. So – you coming, Mum?'

Susan followed Amanda through the double doors and into the kitchen.

‘Well what is it, Amanda? I was right in the middle of …'

Amanda looked sorrowful and pious, and in a slow low voice she murmured:

‘Mum … I'm late. I think I might be …'

Susan clutched at the counter top and was gaping hard-eyed at Amanda.

‘Oh my God. You
think
you … have you—?'

‘Yeh.'

‘And is it …?'

‘Yeh.'

‘You're
sure
 …?'

‘Yeh.'

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh Jesus, Amanda. Jesus. Right: that's
it
!'

Susan wheeled away in a rush, grabbing up her car keys and barging her way through Alan and Black who had just ambled into the kitchen, in their matching butcher's aprons.

‘Hey hey! Steady on! What's all the rush?'

‘Oh get out of my
way
Alan, God curse you. Just get out of my—! I'm going out. I don't know when I'll be back. Your darling daughter will fill you in on all the whys and bloody wherefores, stupid little tramp.'

Alan and Black just stared at the blur of her as she hurtled out of the room.

‘Perfectly extraordinary …' Black was muttering. ‘Amazing display. What was all that about, Amanda?'

Amanda shrugged. ‘Couldn't tell you. Just Mum being Mum, I guess.'

‘But Amanda,' said Alan. ‘She must have had a
reason
. I mean – even Susan, she doesn't just become the lunatic without a simple
reason
, even if it's often a very small one indeed.'

‘I don't know. I just said hi, I'm back from school – got heaps of prep. And she said you two were doing dinner, yeh – and then she like just lost it. Go figure.'

Amanda smiled her sweetest smile, and wandered out of the room. Hee hee hee hee hee bloody
hee
. Well shit: how could I resist it?

‘Do you think,' Alan was wondering idly, ‘that if you couldn't eat fruit … I mean if all fruits were inedible, just sort of, you know – looked nice … do you think people would still go on growing it? And buying it? Just because it, you know – looked nice?'

‘Mm …' thought Black, as he deftly diced a pepper. ‘Working on the principle of flowers, I assume to be your train of thought. Same goes for some vegetables, of course – such as this rather beautiful red and rubbery pepper I have here, for instance. Not potatoes, though. If you couldn't eat potatoes, that would be the end of them, obviously. Ugly bugger, your potato.'

Alan was tilting a pan over a flame, this way and that, coating the base with butter, and adding just a gloop of extra virgin.

‘It's the rotting, I think, that might upset folk, you know. Fruit I'm talking about now. I mean to say – yes, flowers die, course they do. In a vase. There is though, with some, isn't there – that final blown-out glory? As if they know their time is due and they sort of generally rally round and put on all of their whorish greasepaint and tattered crinolines for a last and vast, final gaudy hurrah. Anemones come to mind. Ranunculi. Roses, most obviously. But a bowl of fruit … a bowl of fruit, if you couldn't eat it … have you done the onions, old fellow?'

‘Spring onions. Less vicious. In the little bowl there, look.'

‘Ah yes, got them. Now then, what was I …?'

‘Full-blown blooms. Fag-end of glory.'

‘Christ. Well remembered.'

‘Sometimes I amaze myself.'

‘But I'd gone on from that, hadn't I? Moved on to something else?'

‘Well I'm the last person to ask, aren't I Alan? Really. I mean if you remember your thread I'm sure I'll be right there behind you, but until that moment, well …'

‘Oh yes – I know. Fruit. The fruit in a bowl. Well you see it's the rotting factor, isn't it? Unlike flowers, you'd have to ditch them the second they were less than perfect. Too much like flesh. Memento mori. Specially peaches.'

‘I think peas with this, you know. Usually we do beans, don't we? But peas, I think. Agree? Yes? Jolly good – peas it is. Yes I take your point, but the Bard – didn't he use flowers in a lot of his analogies? A rose must bloom, it then must fade: so does a youth, so does the fairest maid? That's him, isn't it? Fairly sure it is. Or else some other poet. Take the point though, don't you? Women, you know – never understood how they could
stand
a vase of flowers, never mind love it so bloody much. Just watching, within a week – the fading, the sag, all the colour going out of them, the sheer bloody stink … and then bits – bits drop off. Jesus. I can't go on.'

‘Chicken in strips, pork in chunks. Think that's best. Yes well – all in all, I think we're pretty fortunate that you can eat fruit, really. Gets no chance to rot. Very alluring, fresh fruit.'

‘Mm. Like girls. Not original, but there you are.'

‘When they're fuckish, you mean.'

‘Quite. You know it occurred to me, Alan – what would a woman say, what would she think if ever she heard us saying all of this? Might call the police. Certainly there would be odium, if not outright hostility. Amis, he came in for a good
deal of that. Fine writer, Old Amis, I mean, not the young shit.'

‘The thing about this meal is, when you've done all the preparation, the actual cooking takes no time at all. The tomato, the sauce, that's been ready for ages. Just have to heat it up. Don't quite know what to do now. You've read a lot of books, haven't you Blackie? Christ knows when Susan will be back. What did she have to go storming off for, when she knew we were just about to get going on the dinner?'

‘It was my life, you have to remember, Alan. Always loved books. Wanted to write them once, but had to face the facts. Actually … thinking about it, I'm not at all sure I
did
, really Want to write them. I wanted to have written them, that's the key. That's what I wanted. Like so much bloody else. Just to have it done without all the endless palaver of actually
doing
. Publishing, though – it suited me better. More in control. Or used to be, anyway. Not recently, obviously. And writers, you know – well, when you meet them on a daily basis, when you get to know one or two of them, well … nuts, for the most part. Pathetically insecure. And, unless you've heard of them, broke of course. Not, now I come to think of it … that he is young any more, the young shit. Not broke either. Mm. But all in all, I think it turned out all right for me. You should probably turn off the heat, you know. We'd better wait for her.'

Alan nodded, and did that.

‘I've, you know – started one. A novel. I expect that's true of everyone you've ever met.'

‘Pretty nearly. Depressing, sometimes, I can't deny it. And all these adverts you see – they don't help. You've seen them, haven't you? “Why Not Become A Writer?” Christ. They never run adverts saying “Why Not Become A Plumber?”, do they? No – because with plumbing, you see, they assume
you require a modicum of skill. Ignorant bastards, the lot of them. But you're a bit of a dark horse, aren't you Alan? Never mentioned this before. Had no idea.'

‘No well … I got out of the way of mentioning it. I also got out of the way of writing it. Susan, of course. She used to say that if I was a writer, then she was a trapeze artist. Or a mountaineer. Lion-tamer. Deep-sea diver. Varied in detail, but the thrust and intent were always made plain. She's not that savage, these days. Not since you came along. She continues to sneer and ignore – that's just her stock reaction with me, of course. But the blades, they come out less frequently.'

‘Shall we have a drink? Might as well. While we're waiting. What's it about, Alan? This novel of yours. Actually, writers always hate that. When you ask them what it's about. But what else are you actually supposed to say? And nine times out of ten, it's not as if one actually
cares
, or anything. It's only politesse. Not in your case, obviously, Alan old man. Of course I want to know. Scotch, do you think? Or finish off this wine and open a good deal more?'

‘I refuse to bore an eminent ex-publisher with any of the non-news about what Amanda would doubtless refer to as my
so
non-novel. A Scotch would be good, actually. Or maybe wine … Oh hell – let's have a Scotch, and then we can have some wine. Touch of a mild hangover. Only known cure.'

‘
Mild
hangover …? How fond. How very blissfully nostalgic. I do just distantly remember those. Mine's been an absolute sledgehammer all day long. Cheers, dear boy. As to your novel, well … if you really don't want to talk about it …'