Everything She Forgot (5 page)

The smallest girl, who had seemed to George to be an unwilling participant, suddenly crouched to the ground and then hurled a stone at Moll, which hit her satchel.

Moll began to run faster and the noise of her pencils inside her bag became loud and rhythmic, like a drum. George quickened his pace.

The larger girl ran at Moll suddenly and pushed her to the ground. When she was down, all three girls made a ring around her, calling her names and laughing.

Monster eye.

Pirate.

What you crying for, crybaby?

“I'm not crying,” Moll screamed, struggling onto all fours to pick up her satchel, which had fallen from her back.

“Are so, crybaby,” screamed the redhead.

George couldn't stand it any longer.

“Enough,”
he said, taking the redhead by the shoulders. “What do you think you're doing? Shouldn't you be at school?”

Her face darkened in fear for a moment, then recovered.

“She started it.”

“She started nothing. Get along with you, before I tell your teachers.”

The girls looked down embarrassed, then they turned and ran. George waited until they were around the next corner before he knelt to help Moll to her feet.

“Are you all right? Can you get up?”

“Yes, but I can do it myself,” she said, pulling her arm away from his ready hand. Her knee was grazed and bleeding a little from the fall.

She brushed off her skirt and inspected her knee, then glanced upward at George. “Thank you,” she said, very quietly.

“What a shower of eejits. Do you have to deal with that a lot?”

Moll shrugged and looked up at him, her one eye narrowing against the cold autumn sun as she tilted her chin.

“Who needs that crap when you're just going to school?” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. He shouldn't have sworn, he thought, castigating himself. He felt strangely nervous before her. He still remembered the newborn weight of her in his arms and he wanted to make a good impression.

“Do you know who I am?” said George, offering his most charming smile. It was inappropriate, but it was the one he used when he wanted a lumber.

Moll shielded her face from the sun and shook her head. As she peered up at him, he saw that she was missing her two front teeth.

“I know who
you
are,” he said, rocking back on his heels. He
felt pleased with himself. He could always tell when a woman liked him. Fortune was smiling on him today.

She tilted her hips and her chin at the same time, as if to doubt him.

“Are you . . . Moll?”

The child pressed her lips together, paused, then nodded once.

“Well, if I know who
you
are, don't you know who
I
am?”

She shook her head, shifting her patent shoes against the pavement.

“I know you, because you've always been in my heart. I can prove it to you.”

George knelt on the pavement and Moll giggled, her head cocked to one side. Slowly he began to unbutton his jacket. Her smile faded a little then froze on her face and her single eye blinked.

“It's all right,” he said to her, “it's just a surprise. You like surprises don't you?”

Moll nodded warily, but her smile was gone now and he could see her face was washed with worry. He hadn't spent a lot of time around children but he could read a face, and his daughter looked afraid.

“I could give you three guesses,” he said, winking at her and giving her his special smile again, “but you'd never guess, so I'm just going to show you.”

Moll's lips twitched again into an uncertain smile.

George unbuttoned his shirt. He showed her the name that was written on his chest.

“What does that say?”

“Moll. My name.”

“Your name. And you see where it's written? It's right over my heart, see?”

Moll nodded.

“Why would I have
your
name written right above my heart?” Moll shook her head. The single eye looking back at George was icy blue, but not focused clearly. It unnerved him. He was still kneeling before her, as he would kneel in church. He was penitent, but full of exaltation. She was his wee girl; he was meeting
his wee girl
. He wanted her to know him.

“Because I'm your daddy,” he whispered.

“My
real
daddy?”

George inhaled. Kathleen must have told her.

“Yes, your
real daddy
. You're as bonny as the day you were born.” George smiled another of his best smiles. George's smiles were world renowned, or at least renowned in Glasgow. When he was a wean, George could simply smile and get a free ice cream while his brothers and sister had to stand in line, sweating a coin in their palms.

Only the nuns had been immune to George's charm.

“I like my own daddy,” said Moll, turning on her heels, hitching up her satchel and continuing on her way.

“Don't you want to know about me?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Yes, but what?”

Moll stopped and looked up at him. She scratched her cheek with her close-clipped nails. Her face was suddenly worried: a neat frown between her eyes. “My mummy said you're trouble.”

“She's wrong,” said George, surprised by the well of feeling that came with the word
wrong
.

“My mummy said you were nice to her, but not very nice to some other people.”

“She's wrong,” said George again. “I
am
nice.”

This time, Moll didn't even turn to look at him. He could see the school gates and the cluster of parents and children in the distance. He was now one hundred feet from his car. He knew this was his only chance.

“You're half mine, and
you're
nice. Half of me is in you, and look how lovely you are. I stopped those girls from hurting you, didn't I? Don't you want to decide for yourself? Aren't you even curious to know what I'm
really
like?”

“Maybe,” said Moll. She seemed tired suddenly, rubbing the skin around the Band-Aid covering her eye.

“I could run you the rest of the way to school.”

“It's only over there, I don't need a run.”

George considered. He stood up tall and looked over at the school gates. She was right. There was no need to drive there.

She seemed so small by his side. He wanted to lift her up, so that he could look at her properly, but resisted. At the end of the road, he saw that the three bullies were watching.

“Well . . . you want to pull up to school in the coolest car, don't you? Come and I'll take you, m'lady. Ride in my chariot. They'll all be impressed!”

Moll's left eye peered up at George. She bit her lip. “My mummy said not to go with strangers.”

“Your mummy's right, but I'm not a stranger, am I? I'm your daddy.”

“But I can still walk to school . . .”

“I know you can,” said George, throwing his arms out wide. “You can do whatever you want, but you've already had a bad start to your day. Look at your knee.”

Moll looked down at her grazed and bleeding knee, then looked back up at George, her lips shiny with spit.

“Wouldn't you like to get your day back on the right track? Let's have some fun before you start school.”

Moll was still wary, but he could tell that she was coming around to him.

He stooped and held out his arm. Moll considered for a second and then slipped her hand through.

George started the car and drove slowly through town. “Do you want to go to school, or do you want to go on an adventure?” he said, winking at Moll.

“I should go to school,” she said, slipping her hands between her knees.

“I thought maybe we could drive around for a bit—have a chat, get to know each other?”

She shook her head vigorously. She had started to look anxious as soon as he pulled off the school road. As she was staring straight ahead and her right eye was patched, it was hard for George to see her expression without taking his eyes off the road, but he guessed she was nervous, from the tension in her long thin limbs.

“You really like school then?” he asked, driving slowly, smiling at her as he talked. His mother had always told him he could charm the hind legs off a donkey, and so George smiled and carried on, even though Moll had begun to pull and twist the skin on the back of her hands.

“Yes,” she said, her voice brittle. “Can we go there now? I'm late.”

“School'll be there tomorrow, but this adventure won't.”

“I don't like adventures,” she said.

The skin on the back of her hand was now red. She was a strange eyeless creature, sitting erect beside him. He could almost feel her panic. She was like the bird that had gotten
trapped in their kitchen when he was a boy, which had killed itself battering at the panes of glass to get out, even though they had opened the window.

“OK,
OK
.” He turned the car and began to drive back to the school gates. There were no more children around, and George assumed she was right about being late. It was not yet nine o'clock, but he had long forgotten what time school started; even when he had attended school, he had rarely been on time.

“When you're at school,” said George, trying another tactic, “those girls still push you around?”

“Sometimes,” said Moll.

“In class . . . the teachers . . . they let them pick on you?”

“They don't see it happening.”

“That's not right. How tall are you, do you know? Does your mother measure you?”

“On my birthday, I was four feet ten.”

“That's tall for your age, isn't it?”

“Me and a boy in my class called Stuart are the equal tallest.”

“How old are you now? You must be seven?”

“I'm seven and three-quarters.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised in emphasis, and he saw that his questions had calmed her down.

“Why don't you tell someone . . . tell your teachers what they do to you?”

“Nobody likes people who tell tales,” said Moll, as if by rote.

“Did you not tell your mum?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“I reckon you could take them, you know that? I can teach you a few tricks, so that even if they come at you in a three again like that, you can still do them some damage.”

“My mum says to say, ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names'll never hurt me.'”

“Names maybe not, but they laid hands on you; they pushed you to the ground. I saw them.”

Moll sighed. “I should go anyway. Can you take me back now?” As she turned to him he saw the scorching intensity in her single blue eye.

“We're here,” he said, drawing up outside the school gates. “No need to get your knickers in a twist. I see you take after your mother, after all.”

He kept the engine running, then turned to her. “I've got an idea.”

“What?”

“Let's spend the day together.”

“I need to go to school.”

“They won't miss you for one day.”

“I want to go to school.”

“All right, all right.” She opened the passenger door herself, but George jumped out and ran around to the other side to hold it open for her.

Her long legs were tangled in the straps of the satchel at her feet. She managed to free one foot, but then tried to get out of the car while the other was still caught.

She fell out of the car before George was able to catch her. Her knee, face, and arms hit the pavement.

“Whoops,” said George, reaching for her too late, not realizing that she had hurt herself. For a few silent seconds she lay still on the pavement, silent.

As she looked up, George put two hands over his face. Her nose was bloodied from the fall and she was crying, a string of spit between one lip and the other.

He took her arms and lifted her to her feet, but she pulled away from him. She was crying so loudly, her face smeared with blood and tears and holding her arms out from her body, as if she was a puppet.

“Hush,” he said to her, bending down and trying to thumb a tear from her cheek, but she only cried louder. He looked at his hand and saw a spot of her blood. He glanced around nervously in case anyone was watching. She was making so much noise and he realized that it would look as though he had done it. There was no one in sight.

He knelt on the pavement. “Hush, I know it hurts, but you're OK.”

She was trying to speak to him through her tears, but he couldn't understand. Above her cries, he heard a single pulse of a siren and looked up to see a police car two hundred yards away at the junction.

“Jesus Christ.” He scooped her up in his arms and put her back in the car, then locked the door and ran around to the driver's seat.

Inside the car her cries seemed louder and George was suddenly full of panic. He tried to keep his speed down on the narrow roads but headed straight for Olrig Street on the A9. He kept his eyes fixed on the mirrors, wondering where the police car had gone. He was driving a stolen car with a bag of used banknotes in the boot and a young, hurt child at his side, and George knew that could only go badly.

She stopped crying suddenly and dabbed at her nose with the fingers of both hands.

“Put your seat belt on, eh?” said George, preparing to accelerate as soon as they were on the main road.

“Where are we going? Take me back.”

“I can't take you back just now, button.”

She began to cry again. It sounded different this time, no longer the low wail that came after she hit the pavement. Now it was quick gulping sobs. She sat up on her knees and began to slap the window with her palms.

He pulled her back into her seat. The tires screeched against the tarmac as he turned on to Olrig Street.

“Put your seat belt on,” said George, but she couldn't hear him. She tried to open the button lock on the door once or twice but George reached over and took her hand away, driving one-handed for a while with his left hand pinning her hands in her lap.