Maybe she would tell them, once she’d done it. But not before. Their hurt and disapproval would make her words come out all sullen and rebellious and this wasn’t about that. About her life with them. It wasn’t about them at all. This was about her – just her.
Marjorie
They were about to eat when the slam of the front door signalled that Nina was home.
‘It’s on the table,’ Marjorie called out, and returned to cutting up the quiche.
Stephen noticed first. Made a little strangled sound and then glanced anxiously at Robert and Marjorie.
Oh, dear Lord. She’d shaved her head. Her lovely glossy red curls all gone, just stubble, like something from a concentration camp. ‘Oh, Nina.’
Her daughter smiled and had the grace to colour a little.
Robert swivelled in his chair and dropped his cutlery. ‘What in God’s name . . . ? What on earth have you done?’
‘It’s the fashion. Suedehead, everybody’s doing it.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. Have you any idea what a sight you look? What will people think?’
He was saying all the wrong things. Marjorie could see Nina recoiling then her chin rising, the defiance stealing into her piercing blue eyes.
‘I don't care what people think.’
‘That’s ruddy well obvious. Well, you needn’t think you’re coming to Church looking like that. Like a ghoul.’
‘Robert!’ Marjorie tried to intervene. Yes, she looked a sight but teenagers were like that, well, some of them. It really wasn’t the end of the world.
‘I’m not going to Church any more anyway so you needn’t bother. It’s all a load of rubbish.’
A stunned silence greeted that little bombshell.
‘It’ll grow back,’ Marjorie said.
‘I’m not growing it, I like it.’
‘Look in the mirror,’ he said, ‘you look ridiculous.’
Nina flinched. Marjorie felt her own pulse speed up as Robert’s voice rose. ‘Do you deliberately set out to hurt your mother and I? Do you get some perverted sense of satisfaction from causing upset? Eh? Are they going to let you go to school like that? You’ll have to wear a scarf or something.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ her face was set, nostrils flaring.
‘Oh, yes, I can, young lady. I’m your father and until you’re . . .’
‘You’re not my real father.’
‘Nina!’ Marjorie felt as if a bomb had burst in her chest. ‘Nina, stop.’
‘He’s not, and you’re not my real mother and I wish you’d never adopted me.’ She ran from the room banging the door shut behind her.
She could see Stephen’s mouth working hard to contain his emotion. It was so hard on him. He was so settled, so grounded.
‘It’s all right, love.’ She touched his hand. He shook his head.
‘I’ve no appetite.’ Robert pushed his plate away.
Please, she thought, looking at him. His eyes were lined now, the sandy hair sparse on top. Please don’t go. She didn’t say anything. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
He pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll pop up to the club.’
The blessed golf club.
‘See if anyone’s up for a game. Stephen?’
Stephen shook his head.
What about me? she thought. She ran her hands through her blonde hair, pressing her fingers on her scalp. He walks away and leaves me with the mess. He’s always shouting about how Nina has upset me but he never does a thing, not a damn thing, to make me feel better. Couldn’t he just for once stay, give me a hug or just sit and hold my hand? Talk about it. Instead of running away.
‘I’ll be back in time for Mass.’
Marjorie could still feel the burning in her chest. You’re not my real mother. She blinked to clear her eyes, hoping Stephen wouldn’t notice. She wanted to ask Robert to stay but she couldn’t, because then she would see that look in his eyes like a trapped animal and he’d pace about the house, his temper simmering, reproaching her, and she would feel she had made unreasonable demands. So she said nothing.
After he had gone she sat until Stephen had finished eating and then she cleared the table and began washing the pots.
She felt the misery settle on the house, soaking into the floors and the walls, seeping round the rooms like gas.
She listened for sounds from upstairs, for a movement that might mean Nina was coming down. Because this time Marjorie was not going to be the one bearing the olive branch. She wanted an apology. Nina’s words had cut her to the bone. I’m the only mother she’s got, real or not, she told herself. She had made allowances for her and given her the benefit of the doubt until she was fed up to the back teeth with it. She pressed her lips together and took a sharp breath. She rinsed the sink. Dried her hands on the tea towel. She looked with resentment at the pile of ironing: white shirts for Robert and Stephen, Nina’s uniform, bed-linen, tablecloths, her own skirts and blouses. With a sigh she went to fetch the iron.
Megan
She always did the monthly accounts sitting at the table in the front room. She could watch the street from there, see the world go by in-between filling in the columns and sorting the subtotals out. She had two months to do tonight and she wouldn’t put it off any longer. But she was distracted. There had been a programme on the telly last night about adopted people tracing their parents. She wouldn’t have had it on if anyone else had been in but Brendan had gone down the local, Francine was at her mates, Aidan God knows where and Chris tucked up in bed, so she was on her own. Brendan wouldn’t have liked it.
‘We have to put it behind us, Megan,’ he’d said just before their wedding. ‘It doesn’t do any good this dragging it all out, look at the state of you.’
He was right. She upset them both when she started on about it all. It didn’t help really.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘OK.’
So they didn’t talk about it anymore. When Francine came along they acted like she was the very first. They thought of Frances at first but Megan liked the French ending, made it a bit different. ‘Besides, people might think Frances is a boy, you can only tell when its written down.’ She was a real peach. A little doll with creamy skin and golden freckles and red curls like Shirley Temple. She won the May Queen when she was six and when she took her First Holy Communion she really was the best one there. Like an angel from an old oil painting. She turned out nice-natured too, no backbiting or whining. They got plenty of that from Aidan and Chris. Aidan was hell on legs, intent on a showdown with anything that drew breath, and Chris could whine for England, but she loved them all. Francine though, thank God she was the eldest. Lulled them into a false sense of parenthood, she did. Slept well, ate well, barely cried. She was out there now, hanging round the gate with her mates. Twelve years old and at high school.
She was already talking about doing nursery nursing. Loved the little ones. Megan didn’t care what she did as long as she stayed happy and didn’t get caught or end up on drugs. She didn’t want her having a baby before she was grown herself. Not like Megan. Too young.
Course things were different nowadays, and a good thing too. At least you could choose what you did about it. Half of Manchester were single parents, no one batted an eyelid at teenagers pushing buggies. Some girls did it instead of getting a job, something to make them feel worthwhile. That was sad. But what else could they do. They watched telly and it was like the world was an Aladdin’s cave of stuff you could have, places to go, but that wasn’t the real world. Not if you lived round here.
She drew her thoughts back to the ledger and totted up the outstanding debtors column. Thank God for calculators.
While she had watched the telly programme she’d been on edge the whole time, holding the remote control in case someone came in. She watched these women talk about having babies adopted, things she had never told anyone except Brendan. Some of it rang bells, whole bloody sleigh–fulls, and she had to get the Kleenex before they got to the first ad break.
There was a helpline number at the end and she started to memorise it and then thought what the hell for? She’d never use it. And if she did she’d be on for hours talking her whole bloody life away and she’d promised it was behind them, hadn’t she? Best left, like they agreed.
She’d three great kids, even Aidan had his moments and maybe he’d settle as he grew up. They’d a roof over their heads and now they’d enough money to manage, so why stir it all up?
Two of the women in the film had met the children they’d given up, grown-ups by then. She couldn’t imagine that. When she thought of hers, she saw a baby or the little one in the picture she kept. What would she be like now? Three years older than Francine. Be nice to know if she’d turned out all right. To tell her that you’d done it for the best. That if they’d let you, you’d have kept her and got married soon as you could. One of the women had hired a detective to find her son. That wasn’t right. It turned out OK in the film but you hadn’t a right really, had you? You signed that away when you signed the papers. Imagine the upset if she tried that. Not just her and the girl but the younger children. What would they think? They hadn’t got a clue. Laughter from outside made her look. Francine was pushing playfully at her friend Stacey. Then the pair of them doubled up with laughter again. Megan smiled. They were happy, weren’t they? Only a fool would risk spoiling all that.
Nina
The music was very loud – 10cc blaring out and all the lights were off. Nina could see the tip of the joint glowing across the other side of the room and the glow lit up Chloe’s face when she took a drag.
Nina had already had some, she felt giggly and sleepy and desperate for something to drink. She couldn’t snog Gary until she’d had a drink. He was kissing her neck. She nudged him and told him.
‘What?’
‘A drink,’ she said into his ear.
He stood up and was back in a few minutes with a bottle of cider. She drank from the bottle. It was very fizzy and cold and she had to stop every so often to let the bubbles go down. They shared the bottle for a while then Gary told her to come on.
He dragged her over the prone bodies and out into the hall. There was a red bulb so it looked like a film or something.
‘Gary?’
‘Come on.’ He moved towards the stairs.
‘What?’
‘Nina.’
He was gorgeous-looking – soft, clear skin, wide cheekbones, a dimple in his chin. His hair was shiny and brown and fell to his shoulders. Hers was growing out and she looked like she had a red afro. They’d been going together for four weeks. It was her record. He lived near Chloe and was a friend of her brother.
‘What if they . . . ?’
‘Nina,’ he said again. Not bossy but with a longing sound like he couldn’t wait and it made her feel randy.
Upstairs there was a bedroom where all the coats had been put. Gary moved them on to the floor. She lay down on the bed and he turned out the light.
She let his hands roam up and over her breasts, squeezing them. She had a mini jumper on. She shifted position and pulled it over her head, let him fiddle and undo her bra strap. She could smell fresh smoke in his hair as it fell over her face, and the scent of the new Matsumi perfume she’d used. His breathing quickened. She moved her hand down and stroked the bulge of his crotch. He kissed her, his tongue warm and soft and tasting of cider. The last time they’d been together she’d made him come, rubbing his willy up and down. He had told her when to go slow or harder and he’d been really nice afterwards. He’d given her a finger-fuck till she was dizzy and gasping and wet, but she was too embarrassed to tell him what else she needed to make her come.
She undid his zip and touched him through his underpants. His erection stretched the cloth and she felt a ripple of excitement herself. She wanted him to touch her again. She slid her own tongue into his mouth, in and out, hoping he’d cotton on. He wasn’t very bright, not school-wise. She wasn’t exactly Einstein but she managed. His writing, she’d been shocked, it was like a little kids’ and he couldn’t spell for toffee. He wasn’t clever with words, they didn’t talk much, but he wasn’t thick when it came to turning her on. He slipped his hand between her legs and pressed against the seam of her jeans. She moved against his hand, still fondling him with her own. He ended the kiss.
‘Take your jeans off,’ he said hoarsely.