What We Hide (6 page)

Brenda thought sick bay sounded wonderfully girl-school-y, as if there’d always be sunlight through white
curtains, dishes of rice pudding, and cool, clean sheets. Someone tending you instead of the other way around.

The doctor strode along the corridor, smiled at the waiting patients, nodded at Hairy Mary, and banged through the clinic door as if announcing that rescue was at hand. The matron slipped in behind him with her clipboard.

“He’s quite dishy, isn’t he?” whispered Brenda. “For an older bloke. My family goes to Wallace, in town.”

“Dishy, and he knows it,” said Penelope. “You watch. He’ll have your top off in under five minutes.”

“I’ve only got a sore throat and a bit of a cough.”

“No matter.” Penelope shifted to a more alert position. “Why do you think we call him Dr. Sperm?”

“Ew,” said Lilly. “That’s gross.”

“Trust me, a vast improvement over Death Breath who was here before. We only got Sperm last term.”

Hairy Mary opened the clinic door. “Brenda? I believe you were first?” She settled herself at her little desk. “Go on in, the doctor’s waiting.”

Penelope shot Brenda a big, fat wink before closing her eyes again.

“Hallo. Brenda, is it? I’ve not seen you before, have I?” He’d changed from his wool jacket into a white coat with a stethoscope stuffed in the pocket.

“I’m a day girl,” said Brenda. “I usually go to Dr. Wallace in town. Only I’m not often sick, so …”

“But today you’ve got a bit of a throat, have you? It’s going around Illington like fleas on a dog. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Brenda sat where he told her to, tilted her head, opened
her mouth while he pointed a wee torch and flattened her tongue with the wooden depressor.

“Mmm,” he said. “It’s pretty pink, but no nasty white spots, so you’re lucky there.” He tugged out the stethoscope and fit it into his ears. “I’d like to have a listen, just to be sure. Could you”—he nodded at her blouse—“unbutton?”

Heat raced to her cheeks. Brenda undid her top two buttons, showing half her bra, which, thank goodness, was the pretty lilac one that Kath had given her last birthday.

He was warming the pad of the stethoscope by rubbing it on his sleeve. “Breathe normally to begin.” His fingertips were colder than the instrument that he pressed against her chest, moving the disc, listening, pressing again.

“It would be more comfortable if you’d slip out of your blouse,” said the doctor. “Instead of me poking around underneath it. I want to listen from the back as well.”

Penelope’s prediction of five minutes had been generous.

“You’re not shy, are you?”

Her arm got caught coming out of the sleeve, and he held the shoulder so she could wriggle it off. Her tits suddenly seemed gi
nor
mous.

“There we go,” he said. “That makes the task easier for the doctor, doesn’t it?”

Brenda felt the press of smooth metal, here, here, here, as the doctor listened. And then, whoa! His palm cupped her entire left tit, fingers grazing the nipple under its lilac sheath, making it stand up in surprise. Brenda jerked back on the chair, eyes springing open when she hadn’t known they were closed.

“Oops-a-daisy,” said the doctor. “I should have warned you I’d need to shift things a bit.” His hand remained firmly in place, lifting the breast to press the stethoscope beneath it. Brenda shut her eyes again, ears buzzing. Did Penelope feign illness, she wondered, just to let him have a feel?

“Keep breathing.” His voice seemed to be right next to her ear. She realized that her lungs were clamped shut as well as her eyes. “Good, that’s better. Your chest is not congested. Matron will give you drops for the scratch in your throat, but you needn’t miss any lessons.”

Brenda buttoned up so quickly that she missed one and had a shirttail dangling, but never mind now. She opened the door to the hallway.

“Goodbye, Dr.—” She couldn’t call him Sperm but couldn’t remember for the moment what his name was. “Doctor.”
Dr. Doctor
. She must sound a complete ninny.

The end of the week came finally. Part of Brenda wished more than ever that she could dump her books under a dormitory bed and toddle down the woods to sit with the smokers before tea and a night of fun with a throng of girls. The other part was thinking about her promise to meet Michael on a bench beside the library at half seven. What if Michael thought she was dull and fat? What if, up close, he was spotty and posh? What if, alone together, they neither of them was bold and funny as they’d been the night they’d met?

Ah well, Friday to get through first.

Leonard often showed them paintings when he taught history lessons, his true love being Art. “In good conscience, however”—he twiddled a piece of chalk between his fingers—“there are very few pictures of the Anglo-Boer War in South Africa that are not upon the battlefield, and these I do not wish to show in the classroom of a Quaker school.”

“Here he goes,” muttered Adrian, sitting behind Brenda. “Yoko bleeding Ono.”

“I wish to keep you mindful,” said Leonard, “of the words declared in 1661, by the Religious Society of Friends, to King Charles: ‘We utterly deny all outward wars and strife and fightings with outward weapons, for any end or under any pretence whatsoever—’ ”

Nico put up his hand. “How can we learn history without knowing about the wars? Aren’t wars what
make
history?”

Brenda wondered if there was a boy on earth who didn’t think war was so almighty. Her little nephews made weapons out of sticks or shoes or forks. Nothing they liked better than bashing each other to bits.

“The battles themselves are not central to our understanding of history,” said Leonard. “We need instead to consider the
cause
of strife. To reconstruct the world that allowed—”

Percy waved his hand and began to speak before Leonard was finished. “The
cause
of strife was the British Empire stomping around sticking its nose in wherever it wanted.”

“A simplified version, perhaps,” said Leonard, smiling.
“But colonialism was indeed a large contributor to the conflict in South Africa.”

“Like the Americans now,” said Percy. “In Vietnam. Big fat bullies.”

“That is not colonialism so much as … an assumed right by the Americans to influence the politics in other nations,” said Leonard. “A greed for territory and for power is not, as you say, limited to the British. But we’re getting off-topic. We haven’t time today for all of mankind’s misguided wars.”

“Point being,” said Penelope. “
Man
kind. It’s men who fight wars. And women who bring the bandages.”

“Nicely put, Penelope.” Leonard sat on the corner of his desk, still holding the chalk. “I would say women
and Quakers
who bring the bandages. And, sadly, it is not usually men who fight, but
boys
.”

What if Michael had been wearing a uniform in the chip shop, the way Brenda’s dad had been when he’d met her mum way back? Michael holding a rifle, likely upside down, cheeks flaring pink in confusion. He didn’t seem the army type, did he? Not one of the ones who’d be strutting about with bravado in the muck of a training field for the manly love of it. But what did Brenda know about who Michael was?

Next to her, Jenny was leaning forward, hair falling like gold blinds to hide her face. Brenda saw that she was crying only because tears splashed onto Jenny’s hands, lying flat on the scarred wood of the desktop. Brenda scrabbled to find a tissue in her bag, feeling a hot drip on her finger in
the half second it took to pass the tissue over. Here she’d been, wittering on about far-fetched maybes while Jenny sat beside her with the real thing happening, her very own boyfriend being pelted by bullets or blasted with chemicals, and for what?

Jenny squeezed the tissue into a ball but didn’t lift it to her eyes.

“Do you want to leave?” Brenda whispered. Jenny shook her head but then nodded, strands of hair shimmering.

“Leonard,” said Brenda. “Jenny’s unwell. May I take her to Matron?”

“What was
that
about?” Penelope asked later, on the way to maths. “Did she get the curse or something?”

“It was all the blather about war,” said Brenda. “Made her feel dead sad about her boyfriend.”

“Do you think he’s real? Jenny’s boyfriend?”

“Of course he’s real!” An otherwise hadn’t occurred to Brenda.

“She says so,” said Penelope. “But she doesn’t seem … I dunno … ex
per
ienced.”

“Speaking of which.” Who better to ask? “Could you give me some advice …?”

What should Brenda wear? She’d not be home before the appointed hour, but she couldn’t be seen in this rubbishy pleated school skirt. She’d have to nick something from Kath’s closet while minding the little boys. That brought her to the next horror. Kath had a date. Brenda had no way to tell Michael she’d be late, never thought to ask for a
telephone number. Not that she could ring his house! But waiting for Kath to stumble home … what if Michael got ticked off and was long gone?

Brenda prayed to a rarely glimpsed God that her sister might work out a fair trade on time for romantic interludes that evening, but Kath was in a temper, what else was new?

“Give me a break this once, Bren, with no cheek, right? How often do I get out with a fella, after all? I’ll be back by bedtime.”

Whose bedtime?
But Kath was gone.

Brenda made fish sticks for their tea, with fat dollops of tartar sauce, carrot pennies, and a bag of crisps divided between them, exactly the same number each and the broken bits for Brenda. “That’s the chips part of fish-and-chips,” she said. “Crisps are called
chips
in America. There’s a girl at my school from a place called Philadelphia.” Full-of-filthia, Christopher turned that into, thinking himself very clever.

She sat them down to watch
Doctor Who
, even if it baffled them. She needed time to devise a plan while she nicked something to wear. Lucky that Kath was doughier than Brenda, what with two babies, so the jeans fit fine. And she found a burgundy top with a scoop neck and pretty buttons, not too snug. Shoes, though,
ugh
. Her trainers were dead tatty. Her sister’s new lace-up high-heel boots sat on the closet floor. Kath’s feet were a size bigger than Brenda’s, easily fixed with an extra pair of socks.

“You look fancy,” said Christopher, when Brenda interrupted telly time.

“Eye shadow,” said Brenda.

“You look tall,” said Jerry.

“Lip gloss.” She got them started with pyjamas. “We’re having a treat, you two, what’s called a Jammie Walk. Only it’s a secret. Once you’ve got these on, we’ll do shoes and jackets. Top-secret Jammie Walk outside, even though it’s nearly night. Oh, and hats. Hats are good for hiding.”

Worked like a charm and she hadn’t needed the marshmallow tactic. Mouldering in Kath’s kitchen cupboard was half a packet of stale marshmallows, which Brenda stuck in her bag for later. They’d have to go the long way round, avoiding Bigelow’s and the Red Lion on the high street, but no matter. Her trusty boys were ready for adventure.

Brenda’s saunter was a bit uneasy in Kath’s boots but she trundled on. What was a blister, compared with a
boy
? She spotted Michael on the bench as they turned the corner.

Brenda crouched down for a whispered conference. “See that boy? Looks ordinary, right? He’s got one of the best disguises I’ve ever seen. In real life, he is the Mastermind of Magic. A very dangerous wizard, unless approached with care.”

Jerry slid an arm around her thigh, and Christopher edged closer.

“I’m going over there to trick him into giving me the code,” said Brenda. “And I’m trusting you to keep watch.” She pointed to the library steps. “Up there. Do
not
be seen. Are you brave enough?”

They checked with each other and nodded at her. She
tucked a marshmallow into each little hand and nudged them onward.

“Auntie Bren?” said Christopher, very intent. “The code for what?”

The code for what?
Michael had noticed them and raised a hand. “The code for making your mother happy,” she said. “Now, scoot. I have to perform my mission. Do not come near us unless one of you is bleeding.”

Michael grinned when she sat down. “Your kids?” he said. “Secret life?”

She laughed. “My sister’s,” she said. “Last-minute emergency.”

“Do you need … Should we make it another time?”

“No, it’s fine. They’ll be fine for a bit.”

They looked over at the steps, saw the boys settle into spy positions. She glanced at him and away.
Now
it was awkward. Exactly as she’d dreaded.

“Listen,” he said. “I just … when we met at the chip shop … I thought, you know …”

Boys could talk for ages and say nothing, Penelope had coached.
“Don’t wait for him. Boys are sissy. You make the move.”
Pen would have had the kissing under way by now.

Lights on the high street gleamed in the dusk. The chip shop was doing a bang-up business, nobody noticing two people on a bench. Brenda closed her eyes and leaned forward. In less than a second, his mouth met hers. It worked! This was … smashing! She was getting off with a boy who had hair on his face! Her thighs went warm with the thrill of it. Wait till she told Penelope!