sUnwanted Truthst (4 page)

Charlie's glass eye sat staring and forbidding on the bathroom windowsill. Jenny hated seeing it, and normally refused to go into the room until Charlie had finished washing and shaving. But today an early start was necessary. Aunt Doris was coming.

Jenny opened the bathroom door warily, her eyes shut and her face crinkled and distorted. Groping her way to the wash basin she splashed her face and hands with cold water, and dabbed them with the towel from the rail under the sink. She then felt along the windowsill for the toothpaste and toothbrush that stood in a blue plastic mug by the wall.

‘Argh!' Jenny stiffened and recoiled. She had touched it. It was cold, hard and in the wrong place. As her heart slowed, she peeped through one eye. There it was, sitting next to the mug, the pale blue iris gleaming, a shade lighter than her father's intact eye. It stared at her, daring her to touch it again.

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu
– her father's quotation repeated in her mind as she ran from the room.

*

‘When your dad asked if you could stay with us again, I thought, it's summer; why don't I come down and collect you? I love Brighton. There's something exciting about being beside the sea. We can have a day out together and then go back,' said Doris. The turnstile clanked behind them and they stepped onto the wooden slats of the Palace Pier. A red and white striped kiosk, its skirts flapping in the wind, stood to one side. ‘Would you like some candy-floss?'

‘Yes please.'

‘Your dad's given me some money, so get me a choc ice as well.' Doris pressed some coins into Jenny's hand.

They sat on a wrought-iron bench that faced the sea and watched a speedboat tearing through the waves. Doris took several deep breaths. ‘Sea air is so bracing, I always feel better for a day at the seaside.' She turned to Jenny. ‘You're quite a young lady now aren't you? I prefer children when they're older. I'm no good with small children. I wish I was, but I don't have the patience, not like your mum.'

Jenny thought how much friendlier her aunt seemed, compared to before. ‘Do you still go dancing with Desmond?' she ventured.

‘Not with Desmond.' Doris continued to stare out to sea.

‘I can still remember the dance he taught me. I practise it all the time at home.'

‘He'll be thrilled to hear that. He's still staying with us.'

‘Good,' Jenny looked forward to dancing with him again.

‘I expect you find it hard, with your mum being ill so much?'

‘No, no it's alright.' Jenny looked down and stared at the waves foaming beneath the gaps in the boards. She wasn't going to admit that she worried about her mother, and how she longed for her to be like other mothers who never seemed to be tired.

‘Sometimes I wish…' Doris paused. ‘I always wanted a daughter. Boys are no fun – all grazed knees and noise – at least not until they're grown up.'

Jenny scrutinised her aunt. Boy's games were exciting, not like some of the games girls play. How could they be more fun when they're grown up?

‘Don't stare at me like that Jenny, you're always doing that, it's rude. You know, I could style your hair for you, while you're with me. It looks a bit wild. That page-boy style would suit you – like Audrey Hepburn.' She handed her ice cream wrapper to Jenny. ‘What do you think?'

Fruit machines clanked rhythmically in the arcade behind them as Jenny thought that she didn't want her hair cut, and she knew that her mother would not be happy about it. ‘It's only the wind making it untidy. It's better when I do this.' She licked the sticky pink sweetness from her fingers and smoothed her hair back behind her ears.

‘Well anyway, we can go up the West End – Regent Street, Oxford Street – it will be lovely to have some female company. You'd like that wouldn't you?'

Jenny didn't reply, she was thinking about seeing Desmond again and showing him her dance steps. Doris leapt up and shook her head vigorously as if trying to rid herself of her thoughts. ‘Let's go and look at the helter-skelter, we can walk around the top of the pier, then when we've had enough sea air we can have lunch. I'll have to watch my heels in these slats though. I won't be able to dance if I break my ankle, will I?' she laughed.

‘There's a café in the gardens across the road. Mum and I go there sometimes; we could have our lunch there,' Jenny said as she turned and pointed at the onion domes of the Royal Pavilion. She always imagined she was in India when she was there.

*

Two weeks later, Charlie came to visit. After their initial greeting, Doris asked Jenny to go to the corner shop to buy her some cigarettes. She lingered in the hallway and heard her father say to her aunt and uncle, ‘She's had it all taken away you know, huge scar right down her front. The doc says she needs to take it easy for at least three months, and if we can afford to go away for a week somewhere, we should.'

*

On her return home, Jenny abandoned her travel books for the medical section of
Pears Encyclopaedia
. Every night before going to bed she would scan her body. Any spot was now smallpox; a galloping rash that would cover the whole of her body, leaving her scarred for life. Every stomach ache meant an immediate admission to the accident and emergency department at the children's hospital; where she would emerge six weeks later, with a scar from hip to hip and an empty stomach.

*

One evening a few days before they were due to leave for their one week holiday in Guernsey, Jenny was in the sitting room reading the encyclopaedia. There had been a cluster of polio cases reported locally and she was worried about pins and needles in her left foot. She saw her father open the door to the cupboard on the landing and pull out a step ladder. That meant only one thing. She jumped up, the encyclopaedia dropping to the floor. Charlie climbed the wooden steps and pushed up the hatch to the loft. The space was empty, apart from a deep brown trunk with leather straps and rusty buckles. It was ceremoniously lowered to Alice and Jenny who waited below with outstretched arms. They laid it on two spread newspapers on the settee. The lid of the trunk was covered with faded coloured labels – Gibraltar; Aden; Colombo and Bombay – Jenny had never seen it before and was impatient to see what exotic treats lay inside. She fumbled with the stiff leather straps and released the buckles. She lifted the lid. A musty smell crept into the room along with clouds of dust. The trunk was empty.

‘I can never understand why your dad didn't bring back any souvenirs of all his years abroad,' Alice said. ‘I asked him once. I said a pair of ivory elephants would look really nice on the mantelpiece – one at each end. All he said was, he didn't need to bring anything back. I mean what sort of answer's that?'

Jenny looked at her mother. Since that day on the bus she felt uncomfortable whenever her mother spoke to her about her marriage. She didn't want to hear any more revelations. She might mention her dead baby again.

‘Dad's always talking about India, isn't he?'

‘Yes, that's what I can't understand. Everybody brings something back if they go abroad. I mean one of those Indian rugs with tassels on the end would really suit our landing. Mrs Rowland has one that her husband brought back from somewhere. You know, the red patterned one in their hallway?'

Jenny nodded as she remembered her mother cleaning it.

Charlie slapped his hands against his trousers releasing more dust. ‘That's given Bill Gardner something to think about Gal. I told him today we're going abroad for our holiday. He's always going on about owning his own house, thinks he's a cut above everyone else ‘cos he's got a mortgage. He's never been anywhere or done anything. He's never been out of the country in his life. I remember in Peshawar, there were these Pathan tribesmen, tall, good-looking men with turbans and long beards, some of them had blue or green eyes. They were fierce. Kill you as soon as look at you. Brilliant marksmen though, you could never see them. Little Johnny Parr got killed by one. We were out on patrol one day when he needed a crap…'

‘Charlie, language,' said Alice.

‘The silly bugger thought he'd go behind a rock, didn't he, sitting target with his white topee. He should have gone behind our truck like I told him to – right, are you ready Jenny?'

‘Iceland.'

‘Reykjarvik.'

‘Sudan.'

‘Khartoum.'

‘Hungary.'

Jenny looked up. ‘That's too easy – make it harder.'

‘Yemen.'

‘Sana'a.'

‘Venezuala.'

‘Caracas.'

‘Zanzibar.'

‘Zanzibar City.'

*

Jenny imagined the uniqueness of each capital city, and longed to visit every one. In New Delhi, she would see white domes and bejewelled women in brightly-coloured saris. In Cairo she would hear the call of the Muezzin from the minarets, and smell the spices in the souk. In Paris she would climb the Eiffel Tower, and from the deck of a riverboat she would gaze at the Notre Dame, and have her first romance.

Jenny failed the eleven-plus. Alice said that there were two reasons why; the first was the attack of mumps that Jenny had caught earlier in the year; and the second was the emergency appendectomy six weeks later, that caused her to miss the mock interviews. Charlie said that they had made a big mistake. ‘How could they not want my girl – who knows every capital city in the world?'

Jenny thought differently. She had been thrilled that trawling through the encyclopaedia had finally produced results. She had known she would fail from the moment she had been ushered into the interview room at the local grammar school. Two women had sat on either side of a fair-haired young man. They faced her across a large desk.

‘Don't be nervous, Jennifer. We just need to have a little chat with you,' said the man, smiling, but she knew that when grown-ups wanted to talk to you, there was good reason to be nervous, even if they smiled when they said it. The younger of the two women fiddled with some papers. She had fluffy hair, and wore a gold tulip brooch pinned to her beige jumper.

Jenny fixed her eyes on the brooch, travelling along the edge of the leaf and stem, then up and across the bloom and down the opposite edge and leaf.

‘Tell us about your hobbies, Jennifer. What do you like to do in your spare time?' said the fair-haired man. The jumper under his corduroy jacket was decorated with a Fair-Isle pattern that Jenny recognised from her mother's knitting book.

‘I enjoy watching the birds in our garden. I love reading, especially travel books, and I know the name of every capital city in the world.'

‘That's very interesting,' the young man sounded surprised. ‘What's the capital of Egypt?'

‘Cairo.'

‘And Uruguay?'

‘Montevideo,' Jenny thought that he looked impressed.

‘What would you like to do when you grow up, Jennifer?' It was the turn of the older woman. She looked fierce and spoke in a gruff voice. She wore a grey suit that matched her hair, which was short and coarse like a Brillo pad. Jenny panicked. She should have known they would ask this. Grown-ups always ask this. She usually replied ‘I don't know' which always seemed to satisfy them, as they never asked anything else. But she realised this answer would not do for today. She panicked and glanced out of the window to the playing fields that stretched into the distance. A ginger cat scampered past.

‘I think I'd like to work with animals.'

‘Do you mean you would like to be a veterinary surgeon?' The young man's voice sounded hopeful.

She couldn't remember her parents ever discussing her future. Even if they had, she doubted that veterinary surgeon would have been on the list.

‘No, I don't think so,' she said.

‘Which school subjects do you enjoy, Jennifer?' It was the turn of the fluffy-haired woman.

‘English, nature study and geography are my favourites; and I know the name of…'

‘Thank you, Jennifer,' the woman interrupted.

The man leant towards the elder woman and spoke quietly; his hair flopping over his forehead. He scribbled something on the paper in front of him. Jenny heard the elder woman whisper something that sounded like, ‘But she wouldn't benefit.'

‘That will be all, Jennifer, you may go now.' The fluffy-haired woman smiled, stood up and walked her towards the door.

Three weeks later a small brown envelope dropped through the letterbox, informing Charlie and Alice that a place had been allocated for Jenny at the nearest secondary modern school.

*

Two bull-nosed coaches stood in the school drive. It was the annual fourth year day trip to the Tower of London, and additional help had been enlisted from six willing parents, who were assigned to the children from class 4B. According to the deputy head, children from 4A were too intelligent to misbehave; and the children from 4C too stupid. But first there was the obligatory photograph of pupils, teachers and helpers who lined up in rows in the playground according to height. Then pandemonium, as the children jostled and clambered onto the coaches in their hurry to sit with their friends. No one wanted the humiliation of an empty seat beside them.

The children cheered as their coach pulled away and negotiated the roads to the edge of the estate. It passed the flint barn that carried the weight of the windmill, and with a sharp turn rolled downhill. Leaving behind abandoned farm buildings, the coach lumbered up a steep incline, lined on one side with a field of barley. The panorama at the summit stretched from the sharp chalk face of Seaford Head, to the mystical dark circle of Chanctonbury Ring. To the children it was the top of the world, their very own Tibetan plateau. The coach sped down the other side, under the railway tunnel, and finally onto the main London road.

‘Look Miss, fifty miles to London!' shouted the boy sitting opposite Jenny, who had already eaten his round of cheese sandwiches, a packet of crisps and an apple.

‘ ‘When are we going to get there, Miss?' Jenny recognised the voice of Spencer Whittacker, a puny boy with glasses and a perpetually runny nose. He was always ignored by his classmates and sat on his own at the rear of the coach.

‘There's a long way to go yet, Spencer. Just settle down and enjoy the trip.'

The children began to name call between the sexes, their voices rising to a crescendo.

Miss Bruce stood up at the front of the coach. ‘Be quiet, all of you.'

Jenny sat next to Gail; their dark heads, one straight and one wavy haired, conspiratorially close. In the seat behind them sat Wendy Nowak and Pamela Edwards, who, with a third girl formed a superior clique in the fourth year. Wendy, who was destined for the grammar school in September, looked and acted at least two years older than her classmates. Jenny put this down to her father being an American. Wendy had told her, ‘Actually he comes from Canada; he came to England for D-Day and stayed on to marry my mum.' But for Jenny and her friends, this distinction was unimportant. He spoke with an American accent, so he was American.

‘Guess what? I caught my brother with his hand up his girlfriend's skirt last night. They were on the sofa and didn't hear me come in,' Pamela said loud enough for at least half the coach to hear. ‘They were slobbering all over each other and I heard him say, “When can we go all the way?” Soon as she saw me, she pulled her skirt down and tried to pretend nothing was happening.'

‘What does that mean?' Gail said, turning her head to peer between the seats at the two girls behind.

‘What does what mean?' said Pamela.

‘Go all the way. What did he mean?'

The coach fell silent. Gail had managed what Miss Bruce had failed to do.

‘Surely you know that,' said Wendy, spitting the last word. A small sliver of saliva landed on the headrest in front of her.

The coach was heavy with anticipation. No one wanted to appear ignorant in front of Wendy Nowak. Jenny was as eager as her friend to know what the words meant, but wasn't going to admit it.

‘No,' said Gail, her face now scarlet.

‘It's how babies are made, you dummy,' Wendy giggled.

‘Yes, the man puts his thing inside you, and wiggles it around,' Pamela added.

‘But she doesn't want a baby, does she? Anyway I don't believe you, that's disgusting,' said Gail.

Jenny changed colour in sympathy with her friend. She also thought it was disgusting, but she believed them. She wondered where his thing could be put. She certainly wasn't going to ask Wendy Nowak. She decided it must go into the girl's belly button; because that's where babies grow.