Miss Purdy's Class (40 page)

Gwen blushed. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said defiantly.

Lily nodded. ‘Well, I can understand it. But if I were you, dear, I’d keep very quiet about it when you’re at school. Mr Lowry doesn’t hold with that sort of thing. You don’t want him finding out.’ She squeezed Gwen’s arm for a second. ‘See you about the place.’

As she walked away, Gwen saw a tall, bearded man join her, at her side. Gwen watched, fascinated. Was that Lily Drysdale’s secret lover, whom Millie had told her about? No wonder Lily knew when to keep quiet!

‘Letter for you.’

Millie slipped the envelope under Gwen’s bedroom door with a slight grunt. It was the following Tuesday and Gwen was getting ready to go out again. The writing was familiar but it took her a moment to recognize, with a horrible jolt, that it was her father’s hand.

The reality that she was supposed to have been marrying Edwin this coming Saturday flooded in on her. She had behaved so badly, not going home to face things, to sort it out! When Edwin had left here, the pain of her answer to him written on his face, she had known he would be the one to tell her parents. How shameful that she had left him to face it for her! She sat down on the bed, her heart thudding, telling herself she was lucky to get away with just a letter. Her parents might have arrived on the doorstep to remonstrate with her. At the same time, the fact that they hadn’t taken the trouble to was hurtful. She was the one in the wrong and should have gone home. Yet they didn’t care enough to come and find her.

She stared at the envelope. Perhaps she’d delay opening it until tonight. But then the dread of it would hang over her all day. Shakily she got up and found her paper knife to slit it open. The letter did not even cover a whole side of the paper:

Gwendoline

Just her name. He couldn’t even bring himself to write ‘Dear’. He wrote in deep blue ink, with his precise, pharmacist’s handwriting.

Your mother and I have waited for you to come home and explain yourself, the least you could manage in the circumstances. Instead, it was left up to poor Edwin, who has been treated atrociously. You have behaved in a deceitful, cowardly and selfish manner, bringing shame and acute embarrassment to your mother. Have you even given a thought to all our friends and to all the preparations which were in train? I would never have expected anything like this from my own child. A complete disgrace.

It’s no good coming back now, thinking you can make amends. Your mother and I feel that we have washed our hands of you. She can’t bring herself to communicate. Since you seem to want to live an independent life you’d better consider that you have left home. Don’t think you can just come running back when it suits you.

Your Father

Thirty-Six

‘Ah, come on – dance with me!’

John was squatting by the grate, trying to rouse a fire to cook on for when Christie came home. The doors were all open and the summer breeze blew along the hall from the garden. They lit the fire even in daylight now, risking it. The evenings stayed light too long to wait that late for food.

Siobhan was worrying at his shoulder, trying to force him.

‘What’s with you, John? . . . John, John, John . . .’ she chanted in a sing-song voice. ‘Will you not come and have a dance with your little Shiv? You’re a funny kind of a fella, John . . .’ She jigged around him like a sprite, dark hair lifting and falling, then prodded him again.

John kept his head down, blowing on the smoking sticks in the grate. Joey was crouched beside him, wrapped in a filthy old curtain that had been left in the house. Underneath, he was naked as a babe, except for his boots. He could feel the heaviness of the curtain’s dusty fabric against his back. Inside him was a tight, swelling sensation.
Why
did John bring the stuff for her?
Why
the bottles?
Why
make her be like that? Her voice was sweet now, cajoling, but he knew it wouldn’t last, that her mood could turn in a split second. Joey sat with the edges of the curtain gripped tightly in his fists.

Siobhan snatched her hand away from John’s shoulder.

‘You’re not natural!’ Her tone was hard, and edged with spite now. ‘You’re not a real man, are you, John? What’s the matter with you – you’re a girly, John Cliff, that’s what you are!’

Joey got up and ran over the loose tiles out into the garden. He didn’t like the feel of being naked. The curtain wafted round him, puffing little breezes against his skin. It made him remember the Christmas play at school, the kings adorned in old curtains. That was before Miss Purdy came, Christmas was. He knew she hadn’t been there then. This curtain, under the dust and filth, was a deep red with gold swirling patterns across it.

Earlier Siobhan had been tender with him, and motherly, as she could be sometimes, though that frightened him too because sooner or later her mood would change and you could never tell when. The deep, frightening hunger to be held welled up in him. It had been different when Miss Purdy held him. But Siobhan was dangerous.

‘You’re a filthy urchin, sure you are,’ she said when he and John came back that evening. She had seemed quite well, cheerful even and with sudden energy. ‘We’re going to wash those clothes of yours, what’s left of them, God love you. Will you look at those shorts – there’s no arse left on them! John, can we not get hold of something else for the child to wear? These rags are almost dropping from him!’

‘S’pose so,’ John said in his wooden tones.

‘Come on now, fella, get them off – you can give yourself a scrub then cover yourself with this.’

Joey looked down at his little pile of clothes when he had removed them. They were nothing more than a pile of rags. He gave himself a quick wash with the cold water, feeling strange with the air on his skin.

Siobhan kept going on at him. ‘Come on, now – get some soap round that neck. Will you look at the filth on you!’ She was strange and overexcited. He didn’t like it and escaped as soon as he could, wrapping himself in the curtain while he was still wet. Siobhan pummelled at the clothes in the old sink at the back with a sudden burst of energy. She had wrung them out and now the clothes were laid across the bushes and brambles outside. The vest was worn so thin you could see through it and there were holes all over it. The clothes weren’t yet dry, but he put them on anyway and felt safer.

The air was warm and balmy. Now that summer had come and the leaves were all out, the house was completely secluded at the back. They had all relaxed about the worry of being discovered. The house next door was empty and in bad repair and no one further along seemed to want to know. In the spring there had been pink and white blossom on the two apple trees and now they were covered in tiny, unripe fruits. Joey had given himself belly ache by gnawing at them long before they were ripe. He had had to stay in that day, curled up with cramps.

Sitting on the back step, he shivered in the wet clothes. His boots were dry and bleached, the leather moulded to his feet. At least they fitted now. The feet had gone from his socks, just rotted away, so now he wore the boots with nothing inside. He pulled them off, enjoying the feel of air on his feet, and wiggled his toes. His feet were filthy and callused, with rough, discoloured patches. He stared at them indifferently for a time. Then he realized he could hear Siobhan’s voice inside, high and aggressive.

Things had got worse since Micky died and that priest came. That’s how Joey remembered it. Before, there had been more times when she was peaceful, motherly to him. Those were the worst times. When she wanted to cuddle him and sing him songs like a baby which made him ache inside so that he had to push her away. He saw her as wearing a mask that would split open at any second to show her other face: crazy and frightening. At least when she was drunk and screaming like a witch he knew he was seeing the real thing: there could be nothing worse hidden underneath to leap out and hurt him.

Since that night she had been forever on at John for drink, begging and wheedling. Joey never understood why John bought it for her. It was almost as if he wanted to cause devilment. He bought cheap, harsh liquor, which was all he could afford, and night after night now she drank and sobbed and picked fights. Finally she would slump to the ground and sleep. But sometimes she just went out, slamming the door so that the house shook and returning long after Joey was asleep. She was never awake when he and John left in the morning. And she had money after those nights, which she gave to John for ‘another drop’ for the next night.

Hearing her again now, Joey got up, carrying his boots, and moved away into the shelter of the tunnel through the brambles, where there was no shouting and the light was green.

Christie stood with his head under the water pipe, washing the plaster dust from his face and hair. His trousers and boots were white with it. He stepped back and flung his head back, showering Joey with water.

‘Oh – sorry little fella – didn’t see you standing there!’

Christie tried to sound chirpy, but Joey could hear the flat exhaustion in his voice.

‘All right, are you?’ He pushed back his hair with his hands, trying to flatten it. Water dripped from his chin and rivulets ran down from his hair.

Joey nodded.

‘Cat still got that tongue?’ Christie’s rough fingers chucked his chin.

Joey nodded again. Couldn’t seem to find words.

‘There’s taters over the fire. Come on, now.’

Joey followed him. Things felt safer when Christie was there.

But not for long. Siobhan was swaying in the middle of the room, the bottle in her hand.

‘He won’t talk to me. He won’t dance with me.’ She looked down and after some time, managed to take a step forwards. ‘He’s . . .’ She had to take time to think. ‘He’s a bastard . . . A freak . . . He won’t listen to me. Won’t take any notice of me . . .’

‘Siobhan, for the love of God . . .’ Christie’s tone was despairing. He seemed past being able to summon anger with her. ‘Sit down and we’ll get some food into you . . .’ He pulled the bottle from her hand, despite her struggle. She was too drunk and weak to be able to fight back and Christie flung it against the far wall. It smashed and Siobhan started to cry.

‘You bastard, Christie, taking away my one bit of comfort in this world. I hate you . . . I do . . . you bastard
priest
of a brother!’ The word priest held all the contempt she could muster.

She gasped all this out between sobs as Christie seized her arm and pulled her over to the mattress. Joey could sense a new intensity in Christie’s mood. Joey stood stock still in the corner by the door. In his head he went back outside to the quiet green peace among the brambles and trees.

‘No!’ Siobhan shrieked and yanked away from him. ‘Don’t boss me! I hate you, Christie!’

‘Sit down, I’m telling ye!’

In search of shelter from the shouting, Joey sank down in the dark corner, arms round his knees, rocking back and forth, his back slamming against the wall.
Not Christie . . . not Christie . . .
Christie was the one who didn’t shout or drink, who was safe . . . He squeezed his eyes closed.
Make it stop . . . make it stop . . .

Christie pushed his sister down roughly onto the the mattress.

‘Why d’you bring it to her?’ He turned on John, completely beyond control. ‘How many times have I told you? A thousand times I’ve told you not to bring it to her!’

John stared dumbly at the pan of potatoes over the fire. This time it was Christie who went and shook him violently by the shoulders. ‘What is it you’re wanting, John, eh? The ruination of us? Can you not see it’s like feeding poison to her – that she can’t help herself . . .’

‘She asks me for it,’ John said without looking up. ‘She wants it. So I give it to her.’

‘You don’t give me anything else, though, do you, you freak show?’ Siobhan’s harsh shriek rang across the room.

‘For the love of God!’ Christie was still shaking him. ‘Can’t you see what it’s doing to her?’

Peering through his fingers, Joey thought Christie was going to throttle John. ‘What is it – are you stupid? You’re an idiot, John . . .’

John got to his feet, hurling Christie away from him. He was taller than Christie and, roused to anger, he looked fearsome with his great curling beard. He stood with his legs apart, arms working. In his strange nasal voice, he yelled, ‘I’m not an idiot! I’m not . . . Don’t call me that!’

‘Yes, you fecking well are for giving strong liquor to my sister – just look at the condition of her!’

‘Don’t call me that! Don’t call me that!’ John was howling, over and over, springing up on the balls of his feet as he did so, like a crazed jack-in-the-box.

‘I’m going from here.’ Siobhan dragged herself to her feet and started to make for the door.

‘No, you’re not – come back here . . .’ Christie flung himself over to the door and stood backed up against it.

‘Are you going to stand there all night to stop me?’ she mocked. She could not stand without swaying.

‘You’ll not leave this room . . .’

It went quiet for a moment. John stopped shouting. Christie was panting and he and Siobhan stood close, their eyes blazing into each other’s.

‘There’s you, Father Christie,’ she goaded him. ‘Always the hero, weren’t you? Mammy’s favourite – the priest, the family saviour . . . Couldn’t save me though, could you, Christie boy? Couldn’t stop me spoiling myself.’

‘Shiv – for God’s sake . . .’ His anger was gone. He sounded close to weeping.

‘I’m going to hell anyway, Christie. It’s too late. My sin cries out to heaven for vengeance . . . and yours . . . you helped me and you know it . . .’

‘You didn’t leave me any choice.’ It was barely more than a whisper.

‘Move, brother. You’ll not be able to stop me.’ She seized the door handle and pulled on it impotently. ‘Are you going to stand there all night? Just get out of my way, Christie!’ It was a harsh shriek. ‘You can’t save me.’

He did not move immediately, but at last, caught in her burning gaze, released his weight from the door. In a moment, Siobhan was gone.