If you’d eaten your tea, May says. I need those for the scones.
Jennifer used to be so perfectly dressed. She used to be a model child. These days she is pale and thin with a miserable long face on her and wears such terrible old scruffy-looking clothes and leaves her hair a mess. May is forever telling her. Cheer up, you! It is her age. Also, she is hanging around with girls who are too old for her, the too-clever girls in the year above her at school, and spending far too much time with that boy, whose hair is too long and whose parents May and Philip don’t know anything about. She is spending too little time thinking about school. You can’t be a translator in Europe, which is where the jobs will be for people doing languages not science, without proper qualifications. She is always going around the place with that boy, and if she’s not with him then she’s on the phone to him. She is fourteen. She is too young to have a boyfriend.
He’s not my boyfriend, is what Jennifer says when May or Philip says this. He’s my friend. I don’t want a boyfriend. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. We’re friends.
She doesn’t say it brightly. She says it darkly. She says everything darkly now, and she used to be so bright when she was a child. Her face has changed, got longer, hollow, as if adulthood has tried her on like a glove that doesn’t quite fit yet, then pulled out of her and left her stretched out of her shape. Her shoulders are round because she never straightens her back. What she doesn’t realize is that she’ll never get on in life walking around with round shoulders.
Jennifer is behind May at the machine now, leaning with her back to the kitchen counter. She is wearing the terrible denim jacket. She swings herself up on to the counter like she did when she was a child.
If you scuff that cupboard, Jennifer, May says without turning round.
She can hear Jennifer’s legs against the doors of the units. She’s after something, that’s for sure. Money? May ignores her. She presses the pedal down and pulls the material through. The cotton reel spins on the top of the machine. She puts the scissors down on the table with a slam and turns the leg of Philip’s new work trousers round under the needle.
You know my friend, Jennifer says in one of the short silences between May’s foot lifting off the pedal and pressing down on it.
What friend? May says.
He said this thing, Jennifer says.
May sighs.
He said when he was small, Jennifer says, and his grandfather was still alive, his grandfather would have him to the tunes off the soundtrack record he had at his house of the Mary Poppins film.
May presses the pedal down. The machine whirs. She takes her foot off again.
You mean, May says in the loud absence after the whirring noise, that his grandfather would have him over to listen to the tunes off the soundtrack record he had at his house of the Mary Poppins film.
She presses the pedal. The machine whirs.
When she takes her foot off again Jennifer speaks behind her.
Yeah, but that’s not what he said, Jennifer says.
There is a silence for a moment.
He said it always started when the tune about I Love To Laugh came on, Jennifer says.
May presses the pedal. The little reel of thread on top of the machine spins like a mad thing. Jennifer slides off the counter and leaves the kitchen, swings out through the door with her hands in her pockets, whistling a tune. The kitchen door shuts behind her by itself.
May sits at the machine with her foot off the pedal and her head has something like a storm wind roaring through it.
When she next looks at the clock several minutes have passed.
She gets up from the machine and goes to the sink. She turns the hot tap on and she puts her hands under it. She leaves them under it until the water is too hot to keep doing it. She pats her reddened hands dry on a clean tea towel.
She goes to the back door and calls her husband out of the garage. Philip stands at the back door in the light summer dark. He sees her face and a look of alarm crosses his own. What? he says.
When Jennifer gets back in later that night from God and all the angels only know where, she is whistling the same tune she went out whistling earlier.
They see her through the window coming up the garden path, her hands in the pockets of the awful jacket, and they hear her come through the front door and make to go straight up the stairs.
Her father gets up and switches the television off. He calls her, asks her to come into the front room for a bit. She stops halfway up the stairs, then she turns and comes back down and does as they ask. Her father asks her to sit on the sofa. She does.
Why is the TV off? she says.
Is this about me whistling? she says.
Come on, what? she says.
They forbid her from seeing the boy again. Her mouth falls open. Then she says they can’t forbid her because she and the boy are in all the same classes at school.
They forbid her from seeing him in the out of school hours. She shakes her head.
They forbid her from speaking to him on the phone. She says they can’t do that, it isn’t fair. They explain to her about troublemaking, attention-getting and lying. She crosses her arms and looks them both in the face and says they are being unfair. They tell her they are saying it for her own good, that people who tell manipulative troublemaking lies to cause a drama are not decent. She goes to say something but she decides against it. She stops herself. She stands up. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
May and Philip exchange glances. Philip gets up and switches the television back on.
May and Philip watch TV. Then they go to bed, when it’s time to.
What happens next is that there is no talking to Jennifer for days. In fact, what happens is, Jennifer stops speaking. Jennifer won’t speak. Morning, dinnertime, night, if she’s in their company at all she sits insolent and silent.
Mealtimes are particularly difficult.
Then thankfully it all settles down a bit. Eventually it is like nothing ever happened. Nobody ever mentions it again.)
Nothing but shame, now.
What’s a shame? the girl said.
What’s a shame? May can’t remember. All she can see in her head is a butterfly, but in the winter too, so no hope there, a butterfly out and about in winter’s good as dead. What was a shame? She tried to remember. It must have been in the war, whatever it was.
A periscope on a torpedoed sub. It got dredged up, oh, forty years later it was. Covered in, in, that stuff that covers things under the water. Barnacles, you know, and the, the coloured stuff.
Like you mean coral? the girl said.
On the TV.
Wow, the girl said.
Oh the artfulness the sinfulness the wickedness of men. You’ll fall and break your neck off the height of them boots, girl.
You’re worse than my mother, the girl said, telling me what to do. And I don’t even know you.
You’ve come for me. Eh?
I’m just here for the day, the girl said. You took some finding, but we found you.
The girl showed her a piece of paper with writing on it, but May hadn’t her glasses and couldn’t read the writing.
Uno Hoo.
What? the girl said.
Philip had bought May a camera for her Christmas once. It was the latest thing, a Kodak Disc, like a normal camera but a little round thing inside it instead of a spool. It didn’t catch on; it wasn’t long before it was hard to get the round things to take the photos on in the shops any more. But May still had it in its box in the top cupboard above the wardrobe. Keep it alive. Keep it with Kodak. Because it was a Christmas gift, it had a place on its cardboard box where you could write who it was to and who it was from. Next to To was May’s name, in Philip’s handwriting. Next to From he’d written UNO WHO, then crossed out with the pen the word WHO and written, under it, HOO.