She's Leaving Home (9 page)

‘Ah, Colette darlin’.’

The whiff of vinegar had entered with him, and the smoky smell of the pub. And the unspeakable sourness of undigested beer on his breath. Once he had been so drunk he had needed to vomit first; he had leaned over the bed to try to reach the floor, but his aim had been so bad that some had landed on her shoulder. Its acrid stink had barely made things worse. He had been clumsily apologetic. He had not meant to do that.

He did not mean to do anything: he could not help it. That was the most he ever said by way of excuse.

She shrank away and curled up as tightly as she could into a ball. Her breathing became shallow and rapid and she strove to make it silent. If he thought she was sound asleep, mightn’t he stop and think again –?

‘Ah, no, Colette, don’t be like that. Be a good girl for me.’

A hand on her shoulder pulled her roughly on to her back. She could not see his face in the shadows above her. She would not look at him and kept her teeth and lips clamped shut. She would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. That would recognise him as a human being. He wanted that.

He fumbled in the dark with his clothing. She heard the clank of a belt buckle as it hit the floor.

Then he climbed roughly on to the bed and thrust his hand under the bedclothes. Rigidly she resisted him, but tonight it was no use. If she fought back, as she used to, he would hit her hard across the face until she subsided, sobbing. Or he would reach for the belt and strop it across her body, creating weals she’d have to conceal for days. Then he would carry on, so there was no point.

No point in resistance. No escape. Nowhere to go. What idiots those kids at school were. How little they knew.

Yet school was the only way out. If she could take those exams next year – if she could hold on – she could get away –

He had it in his hand. He seemed to be testing it for size and strength, and little grunts came from him. She suppressed a scream and turned her face away, but tonight he didn’t want that. He tugged the bedclothes back and knelt up over her.

‘Now then, little girl. Open up.’

She was trembling violently, all over, as he pushed his other hand roughly between her knees to make room for himself. The skin on his fingers was rough from his work and the endless exposure to cold and wet. Big fingers. Rummaging around inside her. If she were too dry he complained she made him sore. He seemed to think that was her problem, not his. He’d have been pleased if she had done something about it, like Vaseline. Mostly, like tonight, he was in too much of a drunken hurry to care.

Then he was inside her, and his heavy body flopped down on hers as he grasped her bony shoulders and heaved himself in and out. His breath came in rasping spurts, interspersed with a loud belch which interrupted his rhythm. For a moment she was terrified that he might be sick right there on her face, but he wriggled deeper inside and carried on. She tried her hardest not to move with him, but the momentum of his body made the bed rock and creak for them both.

Then suddenly he shuddered, and shook himself like a dog. In a moment he had raised himself up. A sliver of light from under the door glinted on his teeth. He must be smiling.

‘God, Colette, but I needed that.’

She was shivering, lying there exposed. With a shamed movement he shoved the blanket roughly over her. She clutched the edge and pulled it up to her chin. She had made not a sound.

At the bedside he pulled his trousers on again and fastened buttons and belt. Then he bent and kissed her wetly on the cheek.

‘It’s good for you too, little girl, don’t forget that. In fact I’ve a treat for you tonight.’

He had never spoken that way before. Usually he was shamefaced, almost despairing. He would slouch off mouthing phrases about mortal sin and his doomed soul. This bravado was new, and no change for the better. She wondered dully who had been talking to him at the pub. Who had he come home with?

He went to the door, opened it and went out. The light-bulb in the hallway illuminated his sweaty unshaven face. A bubble of spittle hung on his chin like foaming pus. He was not looking in her direction. Then she heard him call out, and froze in horror.

‘So, Jimmy, my man, are you ready? She’s here and waiting for you. Got the hots tonight, has my little darling. Come on now.’

One supposed advantage of Liverpool, Helen reflected, was that it seldom suffered prolonged cold weather. When reports on the radio described blizzards elsewhere, when Derbyshire or Scotland were snowed in, Liverpudlians faced chill winds but not much worse. The Gulf Stream on the west side of the country kept the climate mild. The price was more wet days. Whatever else it did not do in Liverpool, it rained a lot, and often.

Every morning that week, in fact. While the rest of the country was still gripped by the worst winter in recent memory, they had rain instead, though weather reports gleefully predicted more snow. Becalmed in the sixth-form cloakroom with sodden raincoats swinging wetly around her shoulders, she groaned at the prospect of either.

It would have helped had chairs been available for that handful of pupils whose parents withheld permission for attendance at the morning religious service. The excuse paraded was that there were too few to make such a fuss worthwhile. Instead they had to sit on the narrow benches under the coathooks where children would perch to remove their outdoor shoes, surrounded by the rubbery smell of mackintoshes.

Helen and Roseanne Nixon were the two oldest Jewish girls, with a handful of others from younger forms. One abstainer came from a strict Unitarian home where her father was a Minister; she was forbidden to take part in prayers which referred to the Trinity. In a corner apart sat two shy Muslims, the dark-skinned daughters of that Pakistani whose shop adjoined Mr Feinstein’s. Their father had tried to obtain agreement for them to wear trousers and had been rebuffed by the chairman of governors with a snort. They were lucky to be at Blackburne House at all, he was informed. Lastly came three girls, two sisters and a cousin, from teacher Mrs Egerton’s family who proudly proclaimed themselves humanists. The teacher herself remained discreetly in the staffroom. To the others, each a believer in her way, humanism meant denial of the existence of God. At times that provoked heated arguments in the cloakroom, as distorted snatches of Church of England hymns floated in from the assembly hall nearby.

‘’Gainst all disaster. Appropriate, this morning,’ Roseanne commented. She had forgotten her beret and her limp hair dripped.

Helen looked up from the back page of the
Daily Telegraph
on which she was attempting, unsuccessfully as usual, to complete the crossword. It would help to find fourteen letters ending in ‘ent’ meaning circular bravery. The hymn had moved on:

Ah, yes. ‘Discouragement’ would do.

Roseanne prodded her crossly. ‘Wish we weren’t in this stupid school.’ Helen shrugged. The two were much the same age, but Roseanne’s laziness condemned her to the lowest class in her year while Helen was in the top stream of the next year upwards. Since Helen had chosen sciences for her A levels the gap between them had widened; for Helen had become a member of a small elite open to girls with qualities and aspirations which Roseanne lacked, and rather resented.

‘My mother is thinking of moving me to the King David.’

It was intended to be a provocative remark, and succeeded. Helen folded the newspaper and laid it in her lap.

‘What would you gain?’ she asked. ‘This is a grammar school and that’s a comprehensive. However brilliantly you got on there it’d never have the cachet of this place.’ And why, was the unspoken query, might you think you’d do better there?

‘I’d meet boys: it’s co-educational,’ Roseanne smirked. The two Pakistanis covered their mouths with their hands and whispered to each other.

‘Better not let Jerry hear you talk like that. Jealous lover, that one.’ Helen meant to tease but Roseanne reddened and gestured towards the younger children who were pretending to do homework in the dim light.

‘Hush. Not inNEMS front of the babies.’

Helen turned. ‘Are you and Jerry serious? I thought it was a bit of fun. He’s a flirt, you know.’

‘Certainly we’re serious.’ Roseanne tossed her head. ‘We plan to get engaged on my eighteenth birthday.’

The idea seemed so incredible that Helen could not stop herself smiling. It was evident that Roseanne knew little about her putative fiancé. Girlish solidarity required her to warn Roseanne even though they were not close friends. Yet she hesitated. It was safer for Roseanne, who was headstrong and tended deliberately to misheed advice, to discover for herself. If she, Helen, were to recount Jerry’s Sunday morning lurches she would promptly be accused of making the play. The broad rule frequently annunciated by Miss Plumb, that if you can say nothing pleasant about a person you should say nothing, would serve. She preferred her name not to be linked with Jerry’s anyway.

Roseanne was clearly put out that her announcement had failed to impress. Although she had blurted it out on the spur of the moment, on cursory reflection it seemed like an excellent notion. A schoolgirl who was engaged was one step ahead of a schoolgirl taking exams, any day. She began to repeat it, then thought better of it. She pointed. ‘Anything in the paper?’

Helen turned to the front page and scanned it quickly. ‘Mr Wilson is expected to be chosen as the new Labour leader. He says he’s proud to represent Huyton.’ Roseanne sniffed. ‘Pity he doesn’t sound as if he represents a Merseyside seat, then. He talks odd. Yorkshire, isn’t it? I don’t like it.’

‘He’s called for a General Election.’

‘Won’t affect us.’ Roseanne was not interested.

From the hall came the low murmur of voices. The rhythms of the Lord’s Prayer indicated that the devotions would soon be finished. Helen felt a need to mend fences with Roseanne, whom she did not actively dislike. These morning sessions of exclusion in the cloakroom conferred an element of comradeship: at least between themselves they should not fall out.

‘The Beatles’ new single is out next week. It’s called “Please Please Me”. They played it in the Cavern yesterday for the first time. Have you heard it yet?’ This might be a better subject.

It was. Roseanne’s eyes widened. ‘Ooh! You are lucky. I put an order in to NEMS but they won’t sell it till the day. Said they want it to go straight to the top and not dribble out. D’you think it will?’

Helen nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Number one. And the next one, and the one after that –
they’ll be so big, you watch.’

‘Then they’ll be off – Royal Command Performance and that. And we’ll never see them again.’ Roseanne was wistful.

‘Stuff. They’re Liverpool boys. They won’t leave.’ Even as she spoke Helen could not recall where recently she had heard a similar assertion. It sent a frisson down her spine.

The doors of the hall were thrown open and the small band of dissenters trooped in under the gaze of the entire school.

Helen went first, her head held high. Though she hated this moment of humiliation it also gave her legitimate communion with the long line of those who had suffered for their faith through the centuries: Rabbi Akiva, Galileo, Joan of Arc. That made her proud, and secretly pleased. The decision which led to this moment was significant. Her parents cared enough to insist on her removal from the pernicious influence of alien incantations and had had to answer questions and sign papers. Yet her ears burned each time. Whenever possible she would avoid it. That was how she had missed the announcement of Founder’s Day: instead she had hidden in the Library and buried her nose in a book. This morning however she had been warned that Miss Plumb required her presence. She could not escape.

Each class stood in lines, youngest at the front, with staff ranged like guardsmen down the sides of the hall. The girls were told to sit, and did so, row upon navy-skirted row, cross-legged, knees red and protruding. Teachers posed primly, backs stiff, on canvas-seated tubular chairs, their hands folded in their laps. Most were dressed in simple tweed skirts and plain blouses fastened to the chin with cardigans for those who felt the cold, and no make-up other than a hint of lip colour. Miss Pennington who taught history wore a man’s tie and shirt. But the head of languages Miss Hodgson sported a red sweater and a tight black skirt and crossed her splendid legs in defiance of school injunctions while at her side her
assistante
daringly sported a vivid chiffon scarf at the throat. At the piano Miss Tyrone, a wizened relict from the first war, fussed over her sheet music. Mrs Egerton was absent as usual but her fellow chemistry teacher Miss Clive still nursed a bandaged hand. The acid injury was taking ages to heal.

Messages were given out. The results of sports fixtures at the weekend were announced and success rewarded with polite applause. The term’s charity, to which the pupils’ efforts both with the collection plate and regular sales of work would be devoted, was to be a mission in central Africa run by an old girl of the school.

Helen sat at the end of a row at the front, her back to the piano. Miss Plumb’s well-shod feet were a bare few inches away. Miss Plumb was not tall but had a trim, full-bosomed figure which showed to advantage in her narrow-waisted suits. She had been born soon after the Armistice: that put her in her forties. Her eagle stare was legendary. Helen kept her own eyes down. Miss Plumb had neat legs and ankles, not normally visible from an upright position. Under the pale seamed stockings faint brown hairs showed on the headmistress’s shins.

Miss Plumb’s plangent tones carried her words throughout the large hall with ease. Miss Plumb did not sound as if she came from Liverpool, nor from Yorkshire. Indeed Miss Plumb made no effort to hide the fact that she came from the south, from Kent, which to most of her listeners was impossibly remote on the other side of the country, further even than London. In Kent, had they known, she was not regarded as speaking with a Kentish burr either. In Tunbridge Wells polite circles that was not done. To the children at her feet, their parents and most of their teachers her speech was distinctly upper class, and very distant.

‘And so we offer our congratulations to the under fifteen netball team and send our good wishes for their further success in the semi-final.’ She turned over a piece of paper. ‘And would those first year sixth-formers who wish to be considered for Oxbridge entrance please come to my room after lunch.’ She glanced at Helen but mentioned no names. ‘We will discuss the matter together first,
then I will talk to each of you in turn. And now, Miss Tyrone,
if
you please.’

A lively if inaccurate march was struck up on the piano. In meek obedience pupils rose and marched out, the little ones swinging their arms at their sides while older girls did their best to slouch. Helen stood and waited. She caught Miss Plumb’s eye, and nodded. She would be there, and both knew it.

Sylvia Bloom was hard at work. In front of her on the dining table were propped a notepad, a small black address book, a card index in a lockable box, a folder stuffed with press cuttings mainly from the
Liverpool Jewish Gazette
and the
Jewish Chronicle
, plus telephone directories for Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds.

She nibbled the sugary edge of a Danish pastry then licked her fingers. Her best time was in the morning, after a cup of strong Viennese coffee, the kind her mother used to make. Her mother had embroidered the linen tablecloth on which Sylvia worked: she touched its curlicues and roses with reverence.
Olvershalom
: may God rest her soul. Morrie Feinstein stocked the same coffee. He’d charge her the earth, then his conscience would prick and he would slip in a wedge of fresh Wensleydale or a couple of roll-mop herrings for free, to keep her sweet.

Morrie Feinstein. Sylvia selected a press item of a recent wedding which showed guests and close relations lined up in their finery. Morrie was in the middle of the back row, slightly indistinct. She began to scribble on her notepad. A young man – well, youngish: well set up with his own thriving business, not ugly, and unmarried. It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right, for a start, that he lived alone. His son Jerry didn’t count, for the boy would be off his hands soon and would have his own place as soon as he could afford it. Bit of a
schlemiel
, that one. Jerry wouldn’t need a matchmaker – more likely a divorce lawyer to extricate himself from some mess he would be certain to get himself in. Probably more than once. She should warn her sister and niece Roseanne, who was sweet on him.

Morrie’s lifestyle was totally wrong. Weren’t Jewish people naturally gregarious? They eschewed solitude. Hermits were not honoured. Above all, celibacy was frowned upon. Hadn’t the sages urged the people to ‘Go forth and multiply’? The rabbis, the priests, were enjoined to set a fine example, to marry and have lots of children, at least four, though more might be regarded as overdoing the enthusiasm. That had been the pattern for centuries. In modern days the Holocaust had given more urgency, an obligation to replace those millions,
olvershalom
, who had been lost. In the community a single man was anathema. Didn’t that mean that her own calling was a sacred duty?

So, perhaps she herself was a bit old to ‘go multiply’ – and with Sarah, her daughter, she had done her bit. Grandmotherhood should beckon, though the daughter showed not the least desire to get hitched. With regret Sylvia finished the last crumbs of the Danish, wiped her hands on a paper napkin and wished she had bought two.

Not that Sylvia was keen to tell the truth about her own age nor that of most of her clients. That would not do at all. Exaggeration of wealth and minimalisation of personal faults were her stock in trade. The truth got in the way. Heavens, if she had a pound note for the number of times she’d glossed over imperfections or dodgy back histories – the times without number when her black book and index had held unsavoury information about a member of a family, imprisoned in Jersey, say, or facing bankruptcy proceedings in Glasgow, or with a tendency to drink, and she had kept quiet, or pooh-poohed the very suggestion – if she had a pound, she repeated, she would be a rich woman.