Reasons She Goes to the Woods (9 page)

Pearl is thirteen now, and she thinks things will surely be different. The day after her birthday she wakes up in her usual position and the usual curtains are hanging at her usual windows. Everything is nauseatingly the same. Finally, she throws back the covers, lifts her nightdress up to her chin and stretches out in the bed. It’s as if the room is filled with twinkling fireworks. She was right, after all. Overnight, she has transformed. In just eleven hours her breasts are different; the hard lumps at their centres have softened, expanded, filling out each pillowy globe. Her fawn-coloured nipples sit like two beautiful kisses in exactly the right position. She stands at the mirror and takes off her boring nightdress. Her waist has contracted, and the shape of her hips is stunning. Her legs are longer. There’s her head, just the same, but the body below is new. Pearl’s heart is whacking against her ribs. She feels as if she’ll burst, or float, or explode, it’s all so great. She dresses and drifts downstairs. Her family are at the breakfast table. No one looks when she comes in. Her brother hoovers up cereal, her mother absently sips coffee and her father is snatching mouthfuls of toast as he reads the paper. Pearl waits to see what will happen. Eat, her mother says, and stretches her lips back to her cup. Pearl climbs onto a chair and stands, hands on hips. Daddy? she says, see? But her father looks up briefly, and then falls on his toast again. Pearl stamps her foot and shouts, Are you blind, or something
?
Then she jumps lightly down, and leaves them all gaping.

Pearl is in the highest nook of her beech tree, but something doesn’t feel right. Maybe she will lose her balance and fall. She knows she won’t, though: there is no wind, and the trunk is solid under her palms. It’s my head, she thinks. My head is weird, and she shakes her hair out to clear it. Nothing works. So she sits and tunes into the feeling. Then she shivers. Heavy insects are lumbering over her scalp. She lets go of the tree and starts to rub her head with both hands, even though her scalp is its usual smooth self. Now she feels a damp tongue of heat licking upwards from her chest to her face. Deep inside her body a fist is dragging everything down. Pearl clutches the trunk of the tree. This must be what it feels like to faint, she thinks. The insects on her scalp skitter and her eyelids droop. Then a leaf-sweet breeze runs a refreshing hand over her neck and cheeks. It seems to blow the insects out of her hair, and Pearl is able to climb down. She lies flat and places trembling hands on her hip bones. All around, the air is green. Down inside, something is grinding slowly, and it hurts. What’s happening to me? Pearl thinks. Her new breasts are burning, and saliva gushes into her mouth. Without any effort she is sick, neatly, onto the grass. Somehow, she gets home, pushing through the ferns and red campion. Mother, look! she calls, falling through the front door. Her mother half turns from the window. They both watch as a thin rope of blood runs down Pearl’s leg. What shall I do now? she asks. Work it out for yourself, her mother says, turning back to the window.

Pearl and her brother are playing draughts in the garden shed. Their father’s jars of screws, his oiled tools and work gloves are all in the usual places. I’m so hungry, The Blob says, I can’t concentrate on thrashing you. Oh really? Pearl says. That’s a new one. She gets up from the floor. Won’t be a mo, she tells him. I’ll see what I can find. At the shed door she turns and adds, touch the pieces and you’re a dead boy. Pearl slips up the unlit path into the kitchen and begins searching through the cupboards. Then she hears noises from upstairs and quickly grabs what she can. Soon, she and her brother are crunching their way through a jar of pickled onions. And for afters, she announces, holding up a block of orange jelly, we have this. Actually, we’re quite privileged, she tells him, being allowed to eat anything we want. Silently they pull the stretchy, sticky cubes of jelly apart, each thinking what they would really like to eat tonight. Pearl wins every round of draughts easily. How does it feel, you know, being defeated over and over again? she asks. Her brother leans back and puts the last jelly cube in his mouth. It’s no problem, he says, smiling. I never mind you beating me, Pearl. Finally it’s time to go to bed, and they both creep up the stairs. Don’t forget to wash, you disgusting little twit, Pearl says. On the landing they bump into their father. Oh, you two, he says vaguely, rubbing his forehead. You must be hungry. Pearl puts her hand on her brother’s shoulder and squeezes. No thanks, Daddy, she says. We’re absolutely full. And she reaches to kiss him goodnight.

Pearl and Honey meet up under the hedge as a shower falls. Now they’re bigger, it’s a tight squeeze, but it’s dry inside, and they watch as raindrops punch puddles into the lawn. They sit facing each other, cross-legged, and breathe in the yeasty, soaking earth of the garden. As rain falls on the baked concrete path, it gives up a smell that always reminds Pearl of the school holidays. I have a plan, she tells Honey. The next day Honey rounds up all the boys in the street. She makes them wait outside the old brick shed behind the garages. She’s strict, and wants to know how much money they’ve each got. Next to some bushes covered with puffy white berries, she sorts the boys into line. Shut it! she shouts at the smallest one. And wipe your nose. Will stands apart, arms folded. Finally Pearl calls from the shed and the first boy gives his coins to Honey, shouldering his way in. The others shuffle, watching the closed door. Then in they go and out they stumble, looking stupefied, until it’s Will’s turn. Inside he can just make out Pearl tucking in her top as she lounges on a chair. He sits on her lap and puts an arm around her. She rests her head back and tells him he doesn’t have to pay, but he says it’s only fair. He kisses Pearl’s forehead just where her hair flips up, and feels her hands with his, touching her palms, pushing his fingers between hers. Then he has to go home. Pearl and Honey walk to the sweet shop. Later, under the hedge, surrounded by chocolate toffee and sherbet fountains, Pearl stops mid-chew. It’s amazing, she says, how no one’s thought of doing this before.

Pearl, Honey and Fee are in the park. It’s evening and they should all be going home. They sit on the swings and watch little bats flitter about like black scraps under the trees’ scribbled canopy. They look happy, Pearl says. I love bats. The other two make shuddering noises. In the dusk, Pearl smiles as they talk about the things they hate. Periods, mind, says Fee. Re-volt-ing. Oh yuck, agrees Honey. Then she gets off her swing and shows them the little zip-up purse her mother has given her. Inside are pads and wipes. Fee starts to jerk her swing higher. Me wants a cute, periody purse too! she gasps, her thin red hair floating. Bloody periods! Honey shouts into the empty park as she twirls around. Pearl’s hands grasp the chains as she leans back from her swing; her head is to the ground and her legs up in the air. Her eyes search the mole-grey sky for the first evening star while she thinks about how she has to hide all her used pads in her cupboard. How she loathes the way they smell and stiffen. Gotta run, girlies, she says suddenly. At home, before she goes to find her mother’s handbag, Pearl peeps into the bathroom and looks at her mother’s rounded, semi-submerged legs spread apart in the bath. Safe in her room she sits on her bed and examines the conker-shiny leather bag with its white stitching and pointed corners. She has to use two hands to click open the tight clasp. Then Pearl empties her musky heap of stuck-together, soiled pads into its depths, snaps the clasp shut and quickly puts it back where she found it. Work this out for yourself, Mother, she thinks.

Pearl and her father are going on their December visit to relatives. They have to catch two buses to reach the little village where her father was brought up. Pearl counts all the sparkling Christmas trees in the silvery-dim front room windows they pass. Every year she loses count. It doesn’t matter; she leans against her father’s rough overcoat, feeling his arm and leg against hers, and watches endless snow slanting outside the bus. At intervals her father passes her a tiny oblong of gum, and they chew together. Every year they go to the same houses, in the same order. At the first house, they are welcomed into an unbearably cosy, cramped hall, and as Pearl takes off her coat and mittens, an old lady exclaims how tall she’s become, how grown-up she looks. Then they sit by the fire while slowly the kettle boils. Pearl carries a teapot and plates of cake in from the freezing kitchen. Wakey, wakey, says the old lady and scoops up a drooping cat. Conversation putters on while Pearl holds her teacup in both hands and stares into the fire, the iced cake on her plate neglected. Soon it’s time to go. The old lady wraps the cake up for her. Outside, night is filling the streets, and windows shine yellowly as Pearl and her father walk up the silent hill, she with her arm through his, the snow wavering against their bulky coats. They almost bump into a woman laden with bags, who recognises her father and stops to talk. Pearl stands quietly, holding his hand. She studies his face, listening to the way he laughs gently when the woman asks him, and is this your
wife
?

Pearl decides to study her mother’s every move when her father’s away. Each night she sits in bed, her nightdress done up to the neck, and makes notes in a book she was given as a birthday gift. Using her new fountain pen, and doing her best writing, she creates headings. Each subject gets a new page. Carefully she watches as the days unfold. Some things are simple; cooking, say, or cleaning. Others are so boring she doesn’t bother to write them down. Her ideas on ways to do things more easily, or quickly, or better, are garlanded with flowers. There is a special section for her thoughts on lovely things to do, points she feels would make the house so much nicer to live in. And the biggest, most important thing doesn’t need to be written down at all. Pearl knows that until the big thing is sorted out, nothing is possible. She has another, invisible list inside her head about that, and every day she tries to find something, no matter how small, to tick off it. Her mother begins to notice that she’s being watched. Go away, she says at first, when Pearl appears from behind a door as she’s preparing a meal, or knitting, or standing at the lounge window, or biting the skin around her scarlet nails. After a few days she starts to cry if she sees Pearl observing her. Finally, she loses her temper and screams until she exhausts herself. Why are you looking at me? she yells, while Pearl steadily stares her down. Go away, please, she wails. After a few weeks, Pearl has enough material. She reads right through the notebook, ticking as she goes. Sitting up in bed, she shuts the book. Yes, I can do all these things just as well, she thinks. If not ten times better.

Pearl sits in front of Nita’s huge TV with Perky beside her. How come you always have tins of Quality Street? she asks. My brother gets them, Nita says, settling herself on the rug, her mouth full of chocolate. Ken goes out now when Pearl appears. I don’t know what you did to him, Nita says. But thanks. Poor Ken, Pearl thinks. He’s right not to hang around. Nita can’t believe Pearl’s family don’t have a telly. What do you do all evening? she asks. Pearl doesn’t have an answer. She’s mesmerised by the TV screen. The swollen face and wobbling mouth of a woman who’s being strangled gives her a weird feeling, but she likes it. The chocolate melting in her mouth is somehow mixed up with it all. Turn this off, she says. It’s stupid. Nita changes channels. Pearl rests her head on Perky’s rough flank and thinks about her own lounge with its stiff chairs and empty fireplace. And, always on the coffee table, her mother’s stupid, spiky work basket. When she gets home she’s surprised to see her father pacing the hall. Are you waiting for me, Daddy? she asks. Then she stops. He is angry. What have I done wrong? she says, shocked. This is horrible, Pearl, he shouts, holding up her mother’s handbag. I do not ever want to see disgusting female things like this again! Do you hear me? Then he slams the lounge door behind him. Pearl feels as if someone has raked out her insides. Her father has never before shouted at her like that. She sinks to the floor in the lonely, tiled hall and feels the thousands of seconds race up and over her body. Poor Daddy, she decides, after thinking until her legs are numb. Yes, it’s understandable he should feel this
way.

Pearl’s grandmother gives her a rickety desk for her room. Pearl’s been busy, putting her books on a shelf above it. She loves to sit at her desk and write stuff. The desk has drawers, and what’s really good is they’re lockable. In one of the drawers she puts all the little messages she’s written to herself. Pearl’s room is damp. In the wardrobe, her clothes sometimes grow mould. In winter they clump together. Her shoes bloom with grey powder if she doesn’t wear them for a while. Black specks appear at the back of the wardrobe after it’s rained. None of this bothers Pearl; she thinks her room smells like a mysterious dungeon. Now, after everything is sorted out, she takes a limp book down from her shelf and starts to flick through it. The wavy pages give off a mushroomy smell. Her eyes begin to water and she drops the book to rub them with both hands. Once she’s started she can’t stop. Her eyes burn and she grinds both knuckles into her sockets. Tears sting her cheeks. Her nose is blocked and she feels odd. She gets up and looks in the mirror at her wet face until she hears her father come through the front door. She practises a few sobs, then dashes downstairs and stumbles into the kitchen. Her mother and father are facing each other. What’s happened? he asks, turning. Has someone upset you? Pearl runs and presses her cheek into his chest. He puts his arms around her heaving shoulders. Have you said something? he asks her mother. Pearl keeps sobbing, but she can hear his lovely voice coming through his muscles and skin, through his shirt and jacket as she gazes with one inflamed eye at her mother.