‘Did you go to hospital with that one, then?’
‘Are you kidding? They’d have the SS on us in no time, a Walker coming in with a knife wound.’
‘What’s the SS?’ asks Bel.
‘Social Services. People that come and take the kiddies away,’ explains Jade. ‘They don’t approve of people like us. I’m on the At Risk register,’ she adds proudly. ‘’Cause of Shane. ’Cause he fell off the garage roof when Mum wasn’t looking and that’s why he’s like he is.’
‘Really?’ Bel’s thrilled.
‘Stupid,’ says Jade. ‘Could’ve happened to anybody. Got any more?’
‘I’ve got no toenail,’ says Bel, kicking off her shoe.
Jade studies her big toe admiringly. ‘Woah,’ she says.
Bel feels rather proud. She was too small when it happened for her to have any memory of it, and the lack of it makes her nervous in crowds, when she thinks people might be careless where they step – but to impress a Walker is an achievement. She wonders whether to show the scar on her scalp and decides not to. She’s already learned that there’s such a thing as too much information; and besides, it, too, didn’t merit a hospital visit.
‘D’you want to go on the swings?’
‘Sure.’ They jump off the roundabout and walk across the grass. ‘They’re crap now, these swings,’ says Jade. ‘They’ve gone and put stops on them so you can’t go too high. Steph says you used to be able to go all the way over the top.’
‘Who’s Steph?’
Jade rolls her eyes as though it’s the stupidest question in the world. ‘My sister. She lives over at Carterton now.’
‘Where’s Carterton?’
Jade shakes her head again. This girl really does ask some stupid stuff. ‘Miles away,’ she says, ‘but she’s got a Ford Cortina. Only, her boyfriend won’t let her drive it without him there, so she has to wait to come over. She says the swings used to be on rings, so if you swung and swung, you could loop the loop.’
‘Wow. I bet that was fun,’ lies Bel.
‘Yeah, and they used to have competitions. See which of them could jump the furthest by letting go at the top of the swing. She says she used to be able to get all the way to the sandpit. Only then Debbie Francis went and landed on the see-saw and knocked her front teeth out, and then the council came along and fixed it so’s you can’t go higher than halfway now.’
She pauses as she selects her swing, climbs on board the yellow one. ‘Debbie Francis spoiled it for everybody,’ she announces.
Bel chooses the red swing, settles on to the seat. Kicks her feet up in front of her and starts to fly. ‘So how many brothers and sisters have you got?’ she asks.
‘Six,’ announces Jade self-importantly. ‘Shane, Eddie, Tamara, Steph, Darren, Gary.’
‘Are you Catholics?’
‘No,’ says Jade suspiciously, as though the question has been designed to catch her out. ‘We’re Christians. You can’t say we ain’t. We go church every Christmas.’
‘No, no,’ says Bel. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant… Never mind.’
‘I’m the youngest,’ says Jade, proudly. ‘My mum says I’m her afterthought.’
Bel kicks higher. She can see over the hedge at the top of her arc, and notices a group of teenagers walking up the lane towards them. They’ve got a littlie in tow; keep stopping to yell at her to keep up. ‘Well, I’m a bastard,’ she announces.
Jade frowns at her reprovingly. ‘Who says that?’
Bel shrugs. ‘Everyone. It’s a fact.’
‘You shu’n’t let people call you things like that,’ Jade says. ‘My dad says, if someone wants to disrespect you, you bloody well show them what disrespect means.’
‘No,’ says Bel. ‘Really. I’m a bastard. A proper one. My mum had me without being married.’
Jade is scandalised. ‘You’re joking me! You know what you’re saying, don’t you? You just said your mum was a slag!’
‘No I didn’t,’ says Bel.
‘Yes you did! Oh my God! You did!’
‘She was nineteen years old and she made a mistake.’ Bel parrots the summary of her own existence.
‘So that kid, your sister. Is she a bastard too?’
‘Half-sister,’ corrects Bel. ‘No. She’s a real daughter.’
‘And your dad’s not your dad?’
‘Course not. My so-called “real” father runs a bar in Thailand. I’ve got two bastard half-sisters, but no one seems to mind that.’
‘Have you met ’em?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve not even met him. Lucinda calls them Nong and Pong.’
‘Who’s Lucinda?’
‘My mother.’
‘Wooah,’ says Jade. ‘My mum’d slap me all ways to Sunday if I tried calling her Lorraine.’
‘Lucinda would kill me if I called her Mummy,’ says Bel. ‘She says I make her feel old enough as it is.’
The teenagers have reached the gate. There are seven of them, all dressed in uniform. Both boys and girls sport huge hair and eyeliner. Great streaks of blusher slash across cheekbones, headbands encircle foreheads and gobs of panstick cover the volcanic surfaces of their faces. The boys wear grandad shirts tucked into jeans so tight they probably threaten their future fertility, and the girls have layered the entire contents of their wardrobes, one on top of the other, in imitation of Madonna. It’s actually inside-out dressing, thinks Bel. Bra on top of vest on top of T-shirt.
‘Oh shit,’ says Jade. ‘It’s Darren.’
Bel looks up, interested. Even she has heard of Darren Walker. He’s sixteen and something of a local celebrity. And not in a good way. Since Darren was expelled from Chipping Norton Comprehensive at fifteen, six months before he was legally able to leave without help, he’s been circulating between the Bench, the war memorial and the playground, with, as rumour has it, only the occasional hiatus for a bit of house-breaking in the villages down the road to finance his fags and cider. In village terms, he’s the equivalent of a gangland warlord and, as a mystery winner in the genetic lottery, is blessed with the sort of strong-but-silent good looks that result in regular catfights in the village-hall toilets. Despite his family’s reputation for smells and parasites, Darren’s been through half the girls in his school year and half of the year above.
Bel drinks in the Adam Ant bone structure, the mop of fine chestnut hair, the long, lean, hard body, and wonders how this god-like being can be related to the pug-faced girl beside her. As someone who’s never had much luck on the popularity front, Bel’s already lining Jade up in her head as a potential Best Friend. But even so, she has to admit that the girl looks like she’s been carved out of lard. Darren’s got his arm slung loosely round the shoulders of Debbie Francis, the girl who once head-butted a see-saw, and Bel feels a surge of envy at the sight of it. Then he sneers, and her temporary illusion falls away.