What We Hide (7 page)

“Auntie Bren?” Christopher jiggled and waved like a demon puppet at the end of the bench. Michael twisted around to look, covering his crotch with his hands.

“Christopher! Sorry, gosh.” Brenda jumped up. “Sorry, Michael. Duty calls, be right back.” She whisked the boy up into her arms, trotting away from the bench. How much had he seen?

“Don’t wobble me,” he said. “I have to wee.”

“Wee in the garden.” She pointed to the scrap of earth next to the library steps. “It’ll keep the villains away, if you do that.”

She helped him tug down his pyjamas and assured him that yeah, showing a bare bum outside was odder than seeing a frog in britches, but if you had to wee …

“Did you get the code yet?” he asked. She tucked his little thing back in, got him set.

“Not yet,” said Brenda. “Did you see I was trying?”

“Yeah,” said Christopher. “Inside his mouth?”

“Yes,” said Brenda. “Not much longer, I promise. Here.” She put two more marshmallows into his hand. “Now go on back and look after your brother.”

“I told them you’re a wizard,” said Brenda. It didn’t seem right to dive straight back into kissing without a bit of chat first.

“I used to know some card tricks,” said Michael.

“I hope proof won’t be necessary,” said Brenda. They had a laugh and he put his arm around her. That was nice, cozy, like they were friends already.

“Christopher is my middle name,” he said. His other
hand was fiddling with her top, trying to slip his fingers under. She shifted a bit. He didn’t seem to know exactly what he was groping for.

“Michael Christopher Stern. What’s yours?”

“Oh!”

“Did something bite you?”

She could hear Hairy Mary’s voice.
“Dr. Sterrrn is running behind schedule.”

“No, sorry, I … maybe a fingernail …” She shuddered, without meaning to. Michael Stern, the doctor’s son.

“It’s awful,” she said. “My middle name, I mean. I’m named for my dad’s nan. Brenda Winifred Parson. Dad says we must have had a vicar for an ancestor, that’s why
Parson
. Like
parsonage
, you know?” She was blathering, willing him to give up on the untucking activity. Should she tell him?
Your dad has seen me with my top off
. How would that go over as a first-date conversation? Brenda was never so happy to hear little boys giggling. Both of them this time, standing right there.

“We saw our mum,” said Jerry. “I saw her first.”

Brenda cranked her head around, and Michael’s hands fell away.

“In a car.” Christopher gestured vaguely down the road, to where lights twinkled in a row of houses. No car in sight.

“Can we have more marsheymals?” said Jerry.

“Was it really your mum?”
Let it be a mistake
.

“Mumm
eee
!” Jerry raced past Brenda toward, yes, his mother, striding across the library lawn with a thundering glare.

“She’s going to wig out,” said Brenda. “You’ve got to go.”

“But I—”

“Go. I mean it.”

Michael slipped around the corner of the library building. In the half second before Kath arrived and was slapping her face, Brenda wondered if he’d ever speak to her again.

“I saw you up here and thought I’d gone bonkers,” said Kath. “Why would the boys be running around at night in their pyjamas?”

Brenda held a cold hand to her flaming cheek.

“Oh, because I left them in the care of a selfish, skanky slag, that’s why!” Kath raised her hand again, well practised in using it, but Brenda ducked. “A slag who steals my bleeding clothes the moment she’s alone in my closet!”

Christopher started to cry. “Is something wrong with you?” Kath gave him a shake. He shook his head and shivered.

“No thanks to your
minder
.” Kath put her face close to Brenda’s. “What were you
doing
, anyway? On a
bench
? With a randy flipping schoolboy?” She jerked her head at her sons. “How do you think I got these?”

As if Kath were anyone to listen to. A kiss and a cuddle wasn’t the same as having it off, being stuck with a kid for all time. Jerry was the sweetest thing on earth, but Lord, no thank you.

“I’d smack you back,” said Brenda. “Don’t think I wouldn’t. But it’s not right. Your kids—”

“Oh, preach away, you righteous cow. Would you know the
right
thing if it conked you on the head? Keep this nonsense
up and you’ll be sitting next to me down the launderette wondering what hit you.”

“That is the
last
place you’ll find me! I’m taking A-level exams next year! Ever heard of those?”

Kath took a deep shaky breath. Brenda’s point had landed like a dart.

“Right, then.” Half Kath’s wind power was gone. “You just remember. You’re the one chance our family’s got. The best thing our dad ever did was sign you up when Ill Hall offered scholarships for locals. You could be a nurse. Or a teacher. Move out of the council flats. Buy a car someday! So don’t go wasting time with schoolboys on benches, you hear me?”

Brenda heard. She gazed into the darkened bushes that flanked the library building. Had Michael raced obediently off? Or was he hiding, hearing Kath too?

“You could actually
be
something. More than bleeding rubbish.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And I want those boots back, you thieving cow.” Kath put a hand on each boy’s head, steering them into the evening gloom.

Christopher tugged free after a few steps and ran back.

He leaned against Brenda with all the force a six-year-old could muster, giving her middle a squeeze with skinny arms. She hugged him before nudging him off to join his mum. She wouldn’t follow just yet. Let Kath get the boys to bed before Brenda crept in to fetch her shoes. She’d wait on the bench, let the wobbles subside.

“Brenda?” Michael loomed out of the shadows.

Ouch
. He’d heard.

“Better than a radio play.” He took the spot next to her. “Not meaning to make light. That was harsh, no question.”

“Not quite what you want a new boy to hear. Family secrets.”

“You held your own.” He tapped her hand.

“The awful thing,” said Brenda, “is that it’s no different from any other day.” Try coming up with an answer to that. Her ugliest colours on display.

“Not to sound daft, but I sometimes wish my parents would have a proper go at each other. Better than chilly quiet, where you can practically hear the scuttle of black beetles.”

Brenda laughed. He was dead nice, this boy.

“We’ve got the whole hornet’s nest,” she said. “Buzzing like hell on the high street.”

Did Michael’s mother guess anything off about her husband? That’d be a mighty big black beetle to swallow.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Brenda reached for his hand. “Leave the insect world behind.”

oona

F
IRST WEEK
!!

Dearest friend-of-all-friends, my darling Sarah
,

Oh, the woe in starting term without you! I’m in Brontë dorm with Caroline, Esther Madwoman McKay, and Sally, Tamsin, and Fiona from the fourth form, and a couple of other nobodies. Tamsin smuggled back a pineapple from Mauritius, which we ate last night after Lights-Out and I have never tasted anything so
divine.
Penelope and Kirsten are in Austen, of course, and they’ve got the new American girl (sent from Philadelphia to represent North America in place of you, but of course no one could replace you). Her name is Jenny and she happens to have the most perfect skin I’ve ever seen along with sort of golden hazel eyes and terrible clothes. She clearly had the wrong idea about Illington because she packed nothing other than dire school uniforms, which, needless to say, are rather useless here. She went to work with the scissors and now has a wardrobe consisting entirely of tatters, as if she inhabits a schoolgirl horror movie
.

What was looming in my last letter is now distant past. Yes, I went to the Algarve in Portugal with my parents and my foul sisters for the final week of holiday. It was a très posh resort but deadly dull except for one small interlude on the last night, with a boy named Alexandre—that dre, not der, to indicate there was an ACCENT involved—but of course my brat sister Lizzie squealed on us before we’d even opened the nicked bottle of vodka, so that was that
.

But here I am, chattering on, and what you’re really waiting for is … drumroll …
The Nico Report
.

Has he written to you himself? Has he rung you?? Whatever your answer to those salient questions, surely you will be riveted by an objective opinion.…

He arrived back from holiday with his mother in Italy—very tan, longer hair, possibly even taller and more handsome. Yes, you should be squirming. I’d send you a photograph but that would involve me taking one, which would mean approaching him, and as I am a mere mortal and he is a god, this is not a possibility. He spends all his time in the sixth form common room, which of course I am not permitted to enter unless invited by a sixth-former and that has not happened. His mates are still the rat-nosed Adrian and poor spotty No-Face (ticket to aforementioned common room). No-Face is so distinctly unmemorable, physically and personality-wise, that I suspect Nico of selecting him as a friend for the sole purpose of highlighting his own particular gifts. Percy the brown toad also lurks about in their company but that may be a hallucination. The detail you have been waiting for? NO FEMALE COMPANION … as yet. Needless to say, there is plenty of competition for that position. You would be ready to decapitate Penelope, for instance, whose tops get smaller and smaller as she masquerades as a Love Child. Despite her soldier beau, the new girl, Jenny, asked me specifically on the way to Sunday meeting when Nico was walking ahead of us with his trusty sidekicks
, Is the tall hot one attached?
Rest assured that I quickly informed her of his status as my best friend’s boyfriend, and insisted that he is no doubt still mourning your departure
.

Will let you know when his tan fades
.

Meanwhile, I must leave you for a while to turn my attention to the question of British Constitution and the fascinating question
What is the role of the House of Lords?
Thank your Canadian soul that such matters no longer engage you
.

What’s going on in Toronto? How was the reunion with your old sweetheart, Tony? Rawther short next to his English competition? Tell me all. Write back, you slag, or I will tie your knickers in a knot around your kneck.…

From the incomparable Oona-licious      
xxooxxoo
                                          

* * *

A WEEK LATER

Oops, just found this in my binder
.

Will now continue …

Your (first? of many?) letter has finally arrived from Toronto, apparently overland via the Arctic Circle, considering how long it took to get here. Life is barren without you. But there are a few little scraps of gossip to pass along.…

Remember Jasper, the English master? He has become a total psuede, growing a straggly little goatee. Penelope had a blazing row with Adrian in the middle of tea and threw a cup at him. Esther supposedly got lost on the moors during half-day last Wednesday and wangled a lift home with a shepherd. Caroline was FINALLY blessed with her period. Percy continues his efforts to appear mysterious by scribbling away in his journal. Luke is as delicious and as cold as ever
.

Food is still inedible. Speaking of which … must go scrounge some coffee from somewhere … Will I approach Nico the Great to borrow sugar? Stay tuned.…

Back. No coffee. Got sidetracked witnessing a morbidly embarrassing incident. A crowd of boys in the courtyard were teasing
your beloved Nico
because apparently there was a review on the BBC at the weekend about his mother’s most recent book and then some panel discussion about some of the more lurid scenes. Out of nowhere, Percy pipes up and says, “Yeah, I get what you mean about seeing your own mum through other people’s eyes. My dad’s a bit famous too.”

“Who’s your dad?” asks Nico. Percy flushes seven shades of crimson and mumbles, “Mick Malloy.”

So Adrian quacks out a nasty laugh. “Dangerous stuff you’re sniffing, mate. Mick Malloy is, like, thirty-two years old! And famous!”

“He
is
pretty young,” Percy says, not backing down, but looking as if he’d welcome the flagstones parting for his exit through to the centre of the earth. What a daft delusion! No one knew what to say
.

L
ATER
 …

Last night was the Autumn Follies, aka the night where we are herded into the theatre to stand around listening to somebody’s idea of young people’s music while streamers dangle from the ceiling and the lights flicker from behind red and amber gels. I think five people danced: Billings, by himself, Susan Splat and the other weirdo in second form, and, of course, the exhibitionist Penelope with her current drooling sex toy, Adrian
.

Attendance was mandatory. Anyone with a grain of self-respect headed to the top of the theatre seats and crouched as far into the shadows as possible to avoid the notice of the staff. Thus I found myself next to His Royal Highness, Nico
.

After some wry witticisms, we strayed over to the topic that most consumes us both
.

YOU
.

“Have you heard from her?” he said
.

“Only once! Today! How about you?”

“She’s written a few letters.”

“And have you answered?”

“I will.”

You can put aside your worries right now because it would be hard to call a winner in the Who Misses Sarah Most Sweepstakes. I believe I still have a slight edge
.