“It’s nice to be able to shut the door and keep people out,” Janine said.
“It must be,” I said.
“Do you sleep in a dormitory?” she asked.
“Yes I do, but no we don’t have midnight feasts or anything fun you may have read about,” I said.
“I share a room with my brother,” Hugh said.
“What does he do?”
“He’s mad about Manchester United. So his half of the room is all football, and mine is all books.” Hugh looked uncomfortable saying this.
Janine bounced up and found me The Dark Is Rising, and she and Hugh started squabbling about whether I should read the whole series or whether it would put me off to start with the first one because it was kind of childish. Hugh didn’t seem to think I’d have time to read five books between now and Tuesday night.
“I will,” I explained. “I don’t have much to do except lessons and reading. At Arlinghurst the emphasis is on sport, and I can’t do sport of course. So I spend all my time in the library reading. I have hours every day, normally. I didn’t this week because of the exams, but they’re over now, so it’ll be back to normal.”
“Pretty dim of your family to send you to Arlinghurst in the circumstances,” Hugh said.
“Yes, wasn’t it,” I said.
“What is wrong with your leg anyway?” he asked.
Normally I hate that question, but the way he asked—just as it had come up in conversation, and as if he was mildly interested, in the same way Janine wanted to know if I slept in a dorm—I didn’t mind at all. “It was a car accident,” I said. “My hip got all mashed up, and my pelvis. It’s not so bad now. It doesn’t hurt all the time.”
“Is it getting better?” Hugh asked.
I should have just said no, it’s not, either that or that I hoped it would, but burning tears came out of my eyes for no real reason and I hid my face in a tissue. Janine fussed around and changed the subject and then it was time for me to go.
Hugh came with me to the bus stop, still carrying my library books. I had my shopping and also the Susan Cooper books I’d borrowed from Janine.
“About Wim,” he said, as we were turning the corner by KwikSave.
I looked at him enquiringly. My leg was hurting—Janine’s bed was too low for me to sit on comfortably, and getting up again had jolted it.
“We don’t know what happened. Wim has never talked about it. Wim has refused point blank to talk about it. And I see people condemning him and—this is a small place. Reputations are strange things. It’s a case of giving a dog a bad name and you might as well hang him. He dropped out of school, you know.”
“I know. He’s doing his A levels part time. Janine told me.”
“Janine. Janine thinks the feminist thing to do is to believe the woman all the time. But I think it means treating everyone the same as much as you can. I don’t know what happened. But I know I don’t know. I do know Wim’s making his life much harder because of it.” Hugh looked terribly serious. He’s shorter than I am and a tiny bit plump, and he has that freckle-face, so it’s easy to think of him as a little boy and a clown, but he isn’t like that at all.
“Why do you care?” I asked. We were nearly at the bus stop, but the bus wasn’t there yet. A whole scrum of Arlinghurst girls were milling about waiting for it. Hugh sat down on a wall, and I lowered myself onto it next to him.
“Wim saved my life,” he said, quietly. “Well, my sanity. He stopped a group of boys beating me up and instead of walking away afterwards he stayed and talked to me. He lent me Citizen of the Galaxy. I was twelve and he was fifteen, but he treated me like a human being and not like a snot rag. I think he deserves the benefit of the doubt?”
“Whatever he did to Ruthie?”
“No, not whatever he did, but until we know what it was he did.” Hugh shrugged, and blushed again. “For what it’s worth, I think they probably, well, did it, by mutual agreement. They were careless with contraception and Ruthie had a scare and panicked. That’s not something to condemn someone to the outer circles of Hell for.”
I didn’t know what to say. My father had been made to marry my mother because she got pregnant, and look how well that worked out. Fortunately the bus came around the corner and saved me from saying anything. I took my bag from Hugh and moved towards the queue.
“See you Tuesday,” I said, as I got on the bus.
Gill was just ahead of me. She turned around and gave me a look of utter contempt.
Sunday 16th December 1979
As long as I don’t think about them being puppets, I can have a really good time with them. Mostly yesterday I didn’t think about it at all. The whole thing with what I’d done, with the magic, just wasn’t in my mind, and I could act as if they were perfectly naturally part of my karass, both of them.
But today, thinking about it, of course I can’t help thinking about that.
When we were young, Auntie Lillian once bought us a doll that could really talk. Her name was Rosebud, and she was just the kind of doll little girls are supposed to want. Her eyes closed when you laid her down, and opened when you picked her up. She had a bland pretty face with no personality and a white dress covered in a rosebud pattern. She had pink shoes that slipped on and off and golden hair that you could really comb. She also had a string in her chest, and when you pulled it she spoke. She could say two things. “Hello, my name is Rosebud,” and “Let’s play schoo-ul!” If you pulled the string slowly, she’d say them in a deeper voice, and if you pulled it really fast, she’d squeak.
The problem with Rosebud and her really talking was that our other dolls could pretend talk, and that was better. Our collection of dolls (who mostly had some disadvantage like one arm or leg, or were animals rather than being humanoid) had epic adventures surviving after nuclear wars or rescuing dragons from evil princesses. Battered old Pippa, with her one arm and her ragged hair (Mor cut it when she was disguising herself as a soldier) could stand there vowing defiance and revenge against the evil Dog Overlord (the toy dog had a moustache which could be twirled, so he often got the bad-guy parts) and Rosebud couldn’t compete when all she could say was “Let’s play schoo-ul.”
I don’t want a karass like Rosebud.
I mean I don’t want a karass like Pippa and Dog and Jr. and the others either, so this isn’t a very good analogy. (I do not miss my toys. I wouldn’t play with them anyway. I am fifteen. I miss my childhood.) Jr. was a plastic boy on a motorbike, one of our few human male toys. His name came from Ward Moore’s “Lot.” I thought it daring and American to have an odd name like that with no vowels. We pronounced it Jirr. I was mortified for whole minutes when I found out what it really meant.
When Hugh mentioned that Wim had done a session on Delany, my first thought, my very first thought, though I know I didn’t write this down yesterday but that’s because I was ashamed, was that I could do a magic to make that not have happened yet. I could do a magic that would mean he’d do it so I could be there for it. I didn’t do the magic, or even really mean to, but I thought it. If I did it, I’d be making them into Rosebud. I’d also be risking what happened to George Orr, because so far, I might have made it all happen but I might not. I didn’t see it without. It could have been there all the time. If I didn’t exist, or if I had died with Mor, they could still have had a session on Delany. Maybe all the magic did was make me see the group was there and find them. I can’t tell. I won’t ever be able to tell. Deniable magic. If I did that, I really would be treating them as Rosebud, to say the same things when I pulled a string. And that’s if I even could do that. I think actually I couldn’t, it would do that thing Glory talked about where too many people create too much weight and you can’t change what’s happened.