Moth Girls (9 page)

She heard a noise and sat up straight. It was coming from outside the front door of the flat. Was it her dad back? So early? She stepped out into the hallway and looked at the glass, lit up by the balcony lights. There was a shape and it stayed there for what seemed like a while. Then there was an exclamation, the sound of a man’s voice swearing, and the bell rang.

She walked along the hall then ducked into the kitchen. There was no light on so she pulled the blind to the side. A man was standing out on the balcony. Petra had never seen him before. He was tall with long hair and was wearing a checked shirt but no coat as if he’d just jumped out of a car for a few moments. He leant close to the door and began to call out.

‘Jason! Jase! You in there? I need a chat. Jason!’

Then he stopped and stepped back and leant on the balcony wall with his arms behind him. Petra wondered if he would stay there for a while, maybe wait for her dad to return. He looked like he was going to do that when he suddenly stood as if to attention, gave the front door a last knock with his fist and walked off.

She waited at the kitchen window for ages in case he came back. She thought about ringing her dad but decided not to. She wrote a note.

A man came knocking for you. He seemed quite upset. I didn’t open the front door.

Then she went to bed.

It was Friday. It was pouring outside and they were in the dinner hall. The table they were sitting at was sticky and there was the lingering smell of food in the air. The hall was half full of students keeping out of the rain. From behind the kitchen doors came the sound of pots banging together and chatter from the dinner ladies.

‘I would come but I’m going shopping with my dad’s girlfriend tonight,’ Petra said.

‘Oh,’ Tina replied.

Her face was red from where she’d been crying. Mandy had produced tissues from her bag. Petra looked at the small cellophane packet. It was brand new, unused. Mandy opened the flap and pulled a pristine tissue from inside. She shook it out and handed it to Tina who blew her nose.

‘Dad wants me to stay over tonight but Mum won’t let me. She says I’m not allowed to go to his flat. She doesn’t want me to meet Janice.’

Tina’s dad’s beautician was called Janice.

‘She says, as a treat, I can have someone to stay.’

‘I would come over but I’ve promised …’ Petra said.

It wasn’t the new clothes that were uppermost in Petra’s mind. She was looking forward to spending time with Zofia.

‘I’ll come,’ Mandy said.

‘Are you allowed?’ Tina said, patting her nose with the tissue.

‘My mum can speak to your mum on the phone and then I could come round.’

Mandy looked at Petra. Her expression was calm but her eyes appeared to sparkle.

‘That’s if it’s all right with you, Petra.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be all right with me? Tina can do what she wants.’

‘I know that. I just thought you might feel left out.’

The bell went for registration. Petra got up.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

She walked ahead of Tina and Mandy all the way to the classroom.

Zofia was outside Angel tube station when she got there. They edged across the busy road and went into the shopping centre. It didn’t take long to buy two pairs of jeans, a jumper and a shirt. Petra was thrilled and stopped thinking about Mandy going round to Tina’s house where Tina’s mum would probably be making them some food and allowing them to watch whatever they liked on Tina’s huge television.

They walked back to Zofia’s and picked up a pizza on the way. By the time they got to her house the pizza was beginning to cool, so Zofia put it in the oven for five minutes and made Petra wash her hands and sit down at the table. She got a tub of coleslaw out and Petra grimaced. She didn’t like coleslaw. There was something unpleasant in its texture and this coleslaw had Polish writing on the outside. Zofia scooped spoonfuls of it onto her plate.

Zofia loved eating. She was always talking about food she liked and how she missed the food she had in Poland. ‘Not enough meat in this country,’ she said. ‘No beetroot soup.’ Her fridge was full of Polish products: strange-looking sausages and half-full jars of sauerkraut. It made Petra shiver to look at it.

After washing up they went into Zofia’s pink bedroom. This was Petra’s favourite part of her visit. The walls were painted light pink and the curtains were a deeper shade. The duvet had scarlet flowers all over it and there were scatter cushions at the top with sequins sewn on them. It was really a child’s bedroom but Zofia didn’t care. ‘I love these colours,’ she’d said. ‘Why shouldn’t I have pretty bedroom?’

‘Can I try my stuff on?’ Petra said.

‘Go ahead,’ Zofia said. ‘Maybe I can do your nails? No school tomorrow?’

Zofia’s mobile rang. She pulled it out of her jeans pocket. She mouthed, ‘Marya.’

Once Petra had got one of her new pairs of jeans and the shirt on she sat on the bed and waited for Zofia to finish her phone call. She was speaking in Polish so Petra couldn’t understand what she was saying but her tone was light with a few exclamations so she guessed that she and Marya were gossiping. She looked at the wall beside Zofia’s bed. There were six small framed photographs. Each one of them was of her sister, Klara. Two were baby pictures but the others had been taken when she was older. Klara had short dark hair and a very serious expression. Petra peered at the picture of a small girl in what looked like a wedding dress. It was her first communion dress, Zofia had explained, because they were Catholics and it was an important ceremony for every girl. Just above Zofia’s bed, attached to the wall, was a crucifix.

There were other things of her sister’s too. In the past Zofia had brought out a small wooden box containing a variety of items that’d belonged to or were associated with Klara. Zofia had insisted that Petra have a look through. There was a lock of hair in a tiny plastic bag. There was a gold chain with a cross on it and two small rings. There was a passport with Klara’s photo in it. When Petra opened it some photographs fell out. They showed Zofia and her sister in Paris, next to the Eiffel Tower. A couple of birthday cards were in among the things too and Petra read them, taking in the lines of kisses that started big and bold and got smaller as they marched across the page. Petra had replaced these things tidily because she knew they were important to Zofia.

‘Now we are ready!’ Zofia said, tossing her mobile on the bed.

Petra sat with her hand rested on the underside of a sparkly cushion. Zofia produced a bottle of deep red nail varnish.

‘This one I think. For your girl band. You can take bottle and do Tina’s nails. Maybe do new girl, too. So she doesn’t feel left out.’

Petra frowned. Zofia raised her eyebrows.

‘OK.’

‘Not nice to feel left out.’

Zofia took each finger and held it in the air while she painted the nail. She was humming a tune and mouthing some words, her face tight with concentration. When she’d finished she studied the nails over.

‘Is good.’

Petra started to wave her hands back and forth. Zofia looked thoughtful. Petra could tell that she was going to say something about her dad.

‘Jason is a bit depressed at the moment? No?’

‘He’s a bit stressed,’ Petra said. ‘He worries about money. Being a cab driver doesn’t pay a lot.’

Zofia nodded as though she’d thought as much. Then Petra noticed a dark mark at the edge of Zofia’s T-shirt. Like a dirty finger mark. Zofia noticed her looking and pulled at the sleeve as if to make it longer. Petra averted her eyes, a tiny question mark flashing in her head.

‘And,’ Petra said, hurrying on, ‘we’re due a visit from the social worker in the next couple of weeks and he always gets worried when they come. They’re so nosey. They want to know absolutely everything. He’s afraid they might not think he can look after me. Since my gran died they come round regularly.’

‘Is usual? For social worker to visit?’

‘Well, no, but dad was kind of unwell after my gran died and he couldn’t look after me very well so …’

Petra pretended that she was studying her nails. She didn’t know what her dad had said to Zofia and she didn’t want to contradict him.

‘Your dad loves to look after you.’

There was a silence while Petra tried to think of something good to say about her dad. He couldn’t handle stress, that’s what her gran had said. Sometimes he was out of control of what he was doing. She didn’t say this to Zofia but eyed the edge of her T-shirt and then looked her over, her eyes searching for any other marks that shouldn’t be there. Zofia’s forehead wrinkled up as if she knew exactly what Petra was doing. She suddenly stood up, full of energy.

‘He will be here soon to pick you up! Why don’t we watch some
Friends
while we wait?’

Petra nodded. Zofia loved
Friends
. Petra did too but she’d seen them all so many times that she almost knew the lines off by heart. Zofia had seen them all in Polish but it pleased her to watch them in English. She was always saying, ‘This bit very hilarious,’ and then laughing after it came on. Chandler Bing was her favourite. Petra’s favourite had changed over the years. She’d liked each of them best at one time or another.

Her dad came about eight. The bell rang for a long time, as if he’d just kept his finger pressed on it. Zofia seemed startled and then made a dash to open the door. Petra could hear his footsteps following Zofia up the stairs. Her stuff was all packed and ready, her school clothes in her rucksack with the other new purchases.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she said.

His face was closed. There was no expression that she could read.

‘Everything OK, Jason?’ Zofia said, smiling.

The laughter from
Friends
was loud and Zofia picked up the remote and put it on mute. The room seemed bare without the noise.

‘Just a fare. Didn’t have the full money. I had a choice of getting the law involved or just taking what he had.’

‘Never mind,’ Zofia said, going on tiptoes and pulling his head downwards so that she could give him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Come on then. Let’s get home. Chop, chop.’

‘Bye,
Kochanie.
See you soon.’

‘Thanks for the clothes and the nails.’

‘Thanks, Soph,’ her dad said. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

‘Tonight? Tomorrow?’

‘Maybe Sunday. I’m not sure.’

As they got into the car Petra looked back and saw Zofia standing at the garden gate. She waved to them. The car moved off and she was still waving. Petra waved back but her dad did not.

The music in the car was loud so there was no need to talk. Petra looked at her dad’s hands tapping on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Now he seemed perfectly relaxed. He’d lost the stiffness that she’d seen when he’d been at Zofia’s. From time to time he sang along with the song and when they stopped at lights he pushed his phone at her.

‘Listen to the ringtone,’ he said.

She accessed the page and pressed the buttons and heard his latest ringtone. It was a football anthem playing on a keyboard.

‘Good or what?’ he said.

At least he hadn’t said ‘cool’.

Inside the car smelt of people. That was the problem with having a dad who was a cab driver. Strangers left their scent behind in his car. Sometimes they left other things: wallets, phones, once a walking stick. Her dad said he always handed them in to the police but Petra had found the walking stick weeks later in his wardrobe.

They turned into Princess Street and slowed down. The indicator was on and the car pulled up in front of number fifty-three. Her dad turned round and pulled a plastic bag off the back seat.

‘I said I’d get some ciggies for Mr Merchant,’ he said. ‘You OK here? I’ll be five minutes.’

She nodded.

The door shut and she watched her dad walk round the front of the car and head for the house. There was one light on in the whole building. It was the living room, although her dad had described it as a kind of bedsit room. The street lamp threw light onto the front garden. It looked stuffed full with shady clumps of hedge and other bushes spreading across it.

Her dad had unhooked the front gate and walked around the front garden, heading for a side door to the back garden. He seemed to have a bit of trouble opening it but then he went through and closed it behind him.

She wondered if Mr Merchant had heard the sound of the gate and knew that someone was coming to see him. Petra knew cigarettes were not a good thing to bring for somebody in ill health but her dad had told her that Mr Merchant was old and lonely and that a few ciggies weren’t going to make things any worse for him. Mr Merchant had a carer who came in to see him once every day but she was not allowed to bring him anything like that. Her dad had known Mr Merchant for a while. When he wasn’t so ill he’d used his cab frequently but in the last year he hardly went out. He even had to use ambulances for hospital out-patient appointments.

Her dad said it was his way of doing a good deed.

It made her feel
proud
for a moment. Mr Merchant was old and lonely. Most people in the road probably didn’t know he existed but her dad made an effort, even if it was just for cigarettes. She watched him emerge from the gate at the side of the house. His coat was flaring out behind him. He was smiling. She wished he’d been smiling when he’d called at Zofia’s for her.

‘That’s done,’ he said.

‘Is he well enough to let people in?’ Petra said.

‘No. Poor old bloke sits in a chair or stays in bed. There’s a key on a hook by the back door. It’s hidden by ivy so only people he trusts know about it.’

Petra smiled at her dad. Mr Merchant
trusted
him.

‘Off we go,’ he said.

When they got home there was a man outside the door of the flat. He was leaning back against the balcony as though he hadn’t expected anyone to be in. Petra recognised him at once. It was the man who had come to the door a few evenings before. Tonight he looked rough. His hair was sticking up and his lip was swollen as if someone had punched it.

‘All right, Jason?’ the man said as they got closer.

‘All right, Nathan,’ her dad said, his voice offhand as though he wasn’t particularly pleased to see him.

Petra gave a polite smile and used her key to open the front door.

‘Go on in, Petra. Shut the door. I’ll be in in a minute,’ her dad said.

Petra closed the door behind her. The flat was cold so she turned the central heating on. She went into her room and tipped out her rucksack. She sorted the contents into three piles: her new clothes, her uniform and her school books. Then she went into the living room, picked up the remote and put the television on. She flicked around for a few moments to see what was on. She left it on and walked into the hallway. Her dad was still talking to the man. The conversation outside was loud and they were interrupting each other. She wondered if they were having a row or just an animated conversation. She headed for the kitchen but paused when she heard a familiar name.

‘Merchant.’

She stood very still and listened.

‘Don’t feel sorry for him, Jason. If he can’t pay then he’ll have to suffer the consequences. It’s not personal. It’s business. That’s all.’

‘Leave it. I’ll sort it out. Don’t get involved. Leave him to me.’

‘As long as you’re OK with it.’

The sound of her dad’s key in the door made her dart into the kitchen and straight across to the fridge. She opened it and stared inside as her dad came into the room.

‘Petra? You OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said, taking out a can of drink and closing the door.

‘That was an old mate of mine.’

‘He was the man who came round the other night,’ she said, taking a gulp of fizzy drink.

‘Nathan Ball. He was the one who helped me get the driving job.’

She wanted to say something.
Why were you talking about Mr Merchant?
Instead she just fiddled with the cold can that was in her hand. Her dad’s eyes dropped to her hands. His face creased up.

‘What is that rubbish on your nails? Did Soph do that?’

Petra nodded, confused. Zofia had done her nails lots of times. He had never said anything about them before. He swore under his breath and his mouth hardened.

‘I don’t like it, Petra. You’re … That colour makes you look … Well, like a
tart …’

‘It’s just for the girl band,’ she said.

‘You’re only twelve. I don’t want you going out looking like that. She’s got no right to …’

‘It wasn’t her idea.’

‘I told her to lay off. She just goes ahead and does what she wants … She takes no notice of what I say!’

‘No, I
asked
her to. I think
I
picked the colour.’

Her dad’s face had flattened out. Things were going through his head, Petra knew, but she had no idea what he was thinking. He walked a few paces then turned and leant on the worktop. She could only see his back, his shoulder squared off like he was a door closed against her. The atmosphere was uncertain. She tensed herself, her eyes screwed up, ready for something.

‘I’ll take it off, Dad. I’ve got nail varnish remover. But like I said don’t blame Zofia. I asked her to.’

He seemed to deflate. He turned back and exhaled loudly. She’d misread him. He was just momentarily angry. There would be no trouble tonight.

‘I’ll get rid of it now,’ she said, walking past him.

He caught her arm though and held it. His hand was like a loose cuff on her elbow. She braced herself in case he tightened his grip.

‘Don’t get too close to Soph. She could just pack up and go back to Poland at any time. She’s a nice girl but …’

He let her arm go. She went to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. He hadn’t hurt her but she still felt emotional, as if she might cry. She heard the volume of the television go up and she walked towards her drawers, searching for the nail varnish remover and cotton wool pads. She sat on her bed and began to wipe the colour off her nails. The cotton wool became quickly red, as if it were mopping up blood from a wound. She used one after the other and placed them on her bedside cabinet in a line. The smell of the liquid was strong and medicinal.

Her dad was wrong.

Zofia wouldn’t go back to Poland. She liked it here.