Porky Read online

  ‘Wotcha, Jon,’ said Terry, nudging him. ‘You been somewhere?’

  But Jonathan ignored the remark, and eased his way through the crowd.

  More people were dancing now. I found Gwen glued to Nick. Her father was going to pick us up; we’d arranged a sleepover at her house.

  I grabbed her arm.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘My Dad’s turned up,’ I hissed. ‘I’m going home with him.’

  ‘OK.’ She closed her eyes again, in bliss.

  I snatched my coat and was out of the house before the record finished. Clutching my fur collar I started running, clattering along the street. Tears were streaming down my face. I had no idea where I was going. My heart bumped against my ribs.

  I left the houses behind. I couldn’t run any more; my shoes were crippling me. Now I was walking fast along the lane, with bare hedgerows either side. It was foggy out here. In the orange sodium mist the lane looked like some nightmare when you can’t close your eyes. Eventually I reached the main road. Headlights swung round; I was at the big roundabout two miles from home, right the other end of the airport.

  It would only take half an hour to walk down this road, our own A4, back home; but home was the last place I could face. Opposite stood the Cosmos Hotel. It’s built like a concrete tower; you’ve seen it if you’ve been down here. I looked at my watch. I thought it had stopped and held it to my ear. It was still ticking. Amazingly enough, it was only 10.45.

  I crossed over the road. Inside the foyer there were plenty of people milling around, and suitcases stuck with airline stickers. It was too big and anonymous for the reception men to catch my eye, thank goodness. On the walls hung lights like slabs of rock. I found my way to the ladies’, to calm down. Two women stood at the mirror, painting their lips.

  ‘I could tell he was mad at me,’ said one, ‘because he started picking on Barbara.’

  Sitting in the lavatory, I inspected my tights. There was a hole on the thigh, where I’d grazed it climbing down from the roof. My high heels were streaked with mud; I spat on some toilet paper and rubbed it off. My heart would not stop thudding.

  The women had gone. My hair was flattened, damply, from the fog. I brushed it. Jonathan had kissed away my lipstick so I renewed it, painting a crimson mouth. I kept on my coat, as security I suppose.

  The bar was dimly-lit. Some people sat at a table, roaring with laughter. Otherwise the customers, mostly men, were scattered here and there. I looked so adult, in my suede coat, that the barman scarcely paused.

  ‘Rum and Coke, please.’

  Beside me, two men turned back to their conversation.

  ‘It was Wolverhampton.’

  ‘Should’ve told me. I have influence in Wolverhampton.’

  A snort of laughter. ‘I was under the influence in Wolverhampton.’

  The other one patted him on the back. ‘Must toddle. Patrick’s waiting in the lounge.’

  He left. There was a silence. The barman brought my drink. The only money in my purse was a ten-pound note – if you remember, my dad had given me twenty pounds recently.

  On the next stool the remaining man watched the transaction. His eyebrows rose.

  ‘Ah . . . a kept woman.’

  A pause. I could think of no reply to this.

  He leaned over and patted my shoulder. ‘Only my little joke. Don’t mind me.’

  I put all the change, all the crumpled notes, back into my purse.

  ‘Drives my friends bananas,’ he said.

  I looked at him for the first time. He was nearly bald. In the dim light his face was as round as a moon. He had loosened his tie.

  ‘All forgiven?’ He must be waiting for a response. ‘Shake hands and kissy-kissy?’

  He held out his hand. I shook it, and turned back to sip my drink. Trouble was, I had difficulty lifting the glass. I don’t think anyone noticed.

  ‘Now we’ve got that straight, may I introduce myself? Name’s Jim.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘And who do I have the pleasure . . .?’

  ‘Heather.’

  ‘Heather . . . lovely name for a lovely girl. Use these, Heather?’ He offered a cigarette.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘And what’s a girl like you,’ he flicked his lighter, ‘doing in this den of iniquity?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t tell me, Heather – you knew I’d be here.’ He snorted with laughter.

  ‘I live down the road.’

  ‘Do you, Heather? Can’t say I know this area myself. Pass through it often enough.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘Well, Heather, as my Nan would say, I’ll be popping up to Bedfordshire.’

  ‘Bedfordshire?’

  ‘Beddy-byes, for my beauty sleep.’

  ‘I thought you meant you were going there . . .’ I gulped down my drink.

  ‘What, me?’ He snorted with laughter – it was a snort, I can’t think how else to describe it. I told myself it was jolly. ‘No, no, I’m off to Eytie-land. Six-thirty at the airport.’ He looked anxious, but added, ‘Still, always time for a drink with such a charming young lady. That need freshening?’

  He swung round on his stool and clicked his fingers. From the side I saw his stomach, plump in the white shirt.

  ‘Rum and Coke for the young lady, and a tonic water.’ He turned back, tapping his head. ‘Got to keep my facilities, as they say. Big day tomorrow.’

  He took the tonic. I’d hoped he was going to be drunker than this.

  ‘Big day, Heather. Got to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Heard of Milan, Heather?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That’s where our fair’s held. Bang in the middle of pastaland.’ He paused, his voice sombre. ‘Seriously, Heather, that man you saw me with just now – that man is Bernard Goodall, our vice-chairman.’ He paused. ‘Bernard and I get along fine, you might have noticed that. I think he enjoys my little jokes . . . Know why you have to have a few jokes, Heather?’ He paused. ‘So you’ll be remembered.’

  I glanced around the room. The barman was clearing the tables now. There were only two other men left; I couldn’t start all over again. In the corner of my eye, I saw this man looking at his watch. How many months ago had Jonathan pinched his watch, to look at its light?

  ‘I’m a lucky man, Heather. Bernard usually stays at the Sheraton, but there was some balls-up – pardon my French. Double-booking I expect. So he’s here. As you saw, Heather, we had the opportunity for a good chin-wag. On a social, relaxed, level. That’s very important, you know. I always say: one hour in the bar’s worth eight hours in an office situation.’

  I drained my drink. Thank goodness my head was starting to feel swimmy. It had taken long enough.

  With a clunk the grid crashed down. There was a silence. I gazed at the caged bottles. Sue’s parents would be home soon. What would he be doing?

  ‘And what do you do with yourself, Heather?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  ‘Well well.’ There was another long silence.

  ‘You’re staying here?’ I asked.

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘Are the rooms nice?’

  ‘Sure. All mod cons. Oh yes, Bernard appeared satisfied. May not be the Sheraton, I told him, but what can you expect for twenty quid a night?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  There was a dead silence. As Gwen would say, you could hear the dandruff fall. This man was too bald for that. For some reason, I suddenly started giggling. I couldn’t control it; I clutched my fur collar, juddering.

  A hand touched my shoulder. ‘I say, are you all right? Did I say something funny?’

  My giggles had gone as fast as they’d come. ‘Can I see it?’ I said this quickly. If he didn’t reply, I’d make a getaway.

  ‘Sure, Heather. Sure, if . . . er, that’s what you’d like.’

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nbsp; ‘Oh yes please.’

  ‘Fine, fine . . .’

  ‘What floor is it?’ I asked wildly, for something to say.

  ‘The third . . . Now where are those keys?’

  He rummaged around, fiddling with this and that. He spent some time searching for his cigarettes. ‘Where are the blighters . . .’ he said.

  We went outside. In the bright corridor he looked older. The pink skin hung on his face. He looked terribly tired. I wondered what his polished head would feel like under my fingers.

  ‘Er, let’s take the stairs.’ He led me that way. By avoiding the lift, I saw, we also avoided passing the lounge, where his boss might still be sitting.

  We walked along the carpet. Two hours ago I’d been scrunching along a garden path. Hard to believe, really, that it had happened at all.

  ‘Bit of a pigsty, I’m afraid.’ He was fiddling with the keys. ‘Wasn’t expecting . . .’ He cleared his throat, ‘er, such charming company.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said politely. ‘Honestly.’

  He opened the door. I went over to the window while he shuffled behind me, humming determinedly, pulling suitcases off the bed and doing something furtive with the underwear on the chair. He must have had a shower, all unsuspecting, when he’d arrived. Outside lay the airport, twinkling, and black office blocks. I suddenly thought: from Sue’s upstairs windows they could read I LUV HEVER on the garage roof.

  No doubt it would soon rain; it was a filthy winter. I pulled the curtains closed; they hissed like indrawn breath.

  The chair was ready now. He pulled it out for me to sit down. He’d switched off the main light and put on the bedside one, with its tasselled shade.

  ‘Nice and cosy,’ he said, rubbing his hands and trying to sound happy. The poor man just wanted to get to sleep. ‘Afraid I can’t offer us a nightcap.’

  He sat down on the bed, which creaked. ‘Phew,’ he said. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ He jumped up and took off his jacket. ‘Shall I help you off with that, Heather?’

  I unbuckled my coat and he took it.

  ‘Nice piece of skin, this.’ He was feeling the suede. ‘How much did this set you back? No, wait, I’ll hazard a guess . . . Thirty-five?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘I’m in the leather business myself, Heather. The skin trade, ho ho . . . On the wholesale side.’ He hung my coat behind the door. ‘Shame I didn’t know you sooner. Could’ve got it at cost.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  He sat down on the bed again. There was a silence.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘nice piece of skin.’

  ‘My boyfriend bought it for my birthday.’

  At once the atmosphere eased.

  ‘Boyfriend, eh?’ He patted the counterpane. ‘Come and tell me about him, Heather.’

  I went over and sat beside him.

  ‘What’s he doing, letting a lovely girl like yourself out on her ownsome?’ I felt an arm slide round my shoulder.

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘Naughty naughty. You’re how old? Sorry, I know ladies don’t like to –’

  ‘Eighteen,’ I lied.

  ‘A lovely, well-built girl like yourself.’ He kneaded my woolly red shoulder. ‘When you sat beside me, Heather, I can tell you now, yours truly couldn’t believe his luck.’

  We sat side by side in silence, gazing at his suitcases. They must be full of skins. I imagined them packed away there: bald brown skins, tan skins, blue skins, folded on top of each other.

  ‘Shy, are we?’ he murmured. ‘Let me tell you something, Heather; I’ll be frank. I’m not really in the habit of doing this either . . .’

  He turned my face, to kiss me, and paused. ‘Something’s caught in your dress.’

  I helped him pull out the cabbage-leaf. It tore, and the stalk stayed stuck in my buttonhole.

  ‘Fancied a bit of gardening, did you?’ he said, smiling.

  I scrunched up the leaf and leaned forward to throw it in the bin. Behind me the bed creaked as he moved back, at long last, to switch off the light.

  I shifted back, close to him. It was dark now. The one thing I didn’t want was him to kiss me, so I started stroking his thigh.

  ‘You do that to your boyfriend?’ he murmured. ‘Like that?’

  I shrugged, pretending to be casual. His hand was round me, stroking my woolly breast.

  ‘I’ll be gentle, Heather . . . If this is what you want . . . If you’re sure . . .’ His voice was shaking now. ‘Trust me . . . you can trust me . . . I won’t take advantage –’

  I moved my hand up his thigh. He gasped. My bold hand worked on. I felt for a button but he wore different trousers, proper tailored ones, with a metal clip. He was breathing hoarsely.

  ‘Hey . . . Heather . . .’

  My hand worked swiftly. I slid open the clip and pulled at the zip. It grated down. His underpants felt big and straining. I was breathing heavily too; for the first time in my life, I wanted it. He was shaking and very hot. Perhaps he’d get a coronary – salesmen did, didn’t they?’

  He shifted his position and I pulled down his trousers and underpants, right down to his ankles. I think both of us wanted to get it over quick. I kicked off my shoes and we keeled over. He pulled up my dress and I wrenched down my tights and knickers, dragging them off my feet.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ he muttered.

  I was still sore from my Dad, that afternoon, but I wanted this so much I didn’t care. I took it in my hand and it slid in easily. My face was burning and my mouth was full of saliva. He was trying to kiss me but I twisted my head away. I didn’t want to touch any of him; I kept my hands on his clenched, surprisingly smooth buttocks, pressing him in. He was a short man and not as heavy as my Dad, on top of me. His stomach was soft and he smelt of perfume. My Dad just pushed in and out but I knew what I wanted now. I gripped this body against me, wrapping my legs around him, and ground him into me, backwards and forwards. Heat was spreading through me, hotter each time, right up to my scalp. He was trapped around the ankles, his trousers hobbling him; up above, his shirt rubbed against my bunched dress. He pushed inside me harder now and then suddenly he cried out, a high, dying wail like a cat – a weirder sound than I was used to.

  He lay panting, and much heavier.

  I tried to nudge him on; I tried to keep grinding him against me. He mustn’t stop. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  He stroked my hair. At last his breathing settled.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘you’re a hot little number, aren’t you . . .’

  He couldn’t stop like this.

  ‘. . . super little mover.’

  I lay under him, rigid. He planted a kiss on my forehead.

  ‘I don’t think I’m flattering myself,’ he murmured, ‘if I said that you seemed to enjoy it too . . .’

  I remained silent and in a moment his breathing grew deep and regular. In the pillow, his lips made a rubbery noise as the air blew out.

  I offloaded him. We both grunted but he stayed asleep. I lay there, gazing into the blackness.

  At some point during the night I think I slept a little. The room smelt stuffily perfumed, and sour. It seemed an age before the light showed dully behind the curtains. I climbed up and went into the bathroom. Then I came back and pulled on my tights. The room was growing visible. One of my shoes was kicked under the table. As I knelt down, I saw his order forms on the table; I’d jogged the leg and they’d shifted. Underneath lay his wallet.

  He must have hidden it when I stood at the window. I looked at the plump little man lying there, curled up, his trousers round his feet. He’d actually hidden his wallet, just in case.

  I opened the wallet. No, he needn’t have worried, I wasn’t going to pinch his money. I found his business cards and held one to the light.

  Walter, he was called. Not Jim. South Midlands Sales Representative for El-Dee-Kay Modern Leathers.

  I pulled out a photo and went to the window.
It was a colour snap. He wore a paper hat, and on his knee sat a little girl as plain as himself. They were both smiling, their eyes red as rabbits in the flashlight.

  I put it back, put on my shoes and took one last look at him. Not Jim, but Walter. He hadn’t even told me his name. I didn’t feel anything; just numb.

  As I tiptoed out, I wondered idly if he’d remembered to set his alarm. He did have to be bushy-tailed, next day.

  I didn’t really mind; it was no concern of mine.

  I bet he had set it, though. He was that sort.

  The rest of term I avoided Jonathan. He tried to stop me in the corridor.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’ he cried, in front of the whole Lower Sixth too.

  I just shook my head and pushed past, holding my books like a shield. He sent me notes; I read them and hid them in my bedroom. Once he actually came to our home. I saw him, tall and sudden in his black school blazer, walking up our drive. I ran to the caravan and crouched amongst Teddy’s sweet wrappers. My Dad bellowed for me but I stayed there in the rubbish.

  In the end Jonathan had to give up, and I learned where not to look in morning assembly. Summer came. In June I passed four O-levels and left school, and left those friends I had long outgrown. Or who had outgrown me.

  Chapter Nine

  YOU’RE PROBABLY FEELING less sorry for me by now. I can’t help that. In fact I couldn’t help anything. When you’re young it’s obvious that you’re helpless, isn’t it? But when you’re older it doesn’t show, and people don’t know how to be sorry for you because you don’t let them. By the time I was sixteen you wouldn’t have liked me so much, not if you’d met me. Somebody said I had a ‘blank look’; this was helped by the thick black eyeliner I used then. Another man, who I met at the Holiday Inn, said I was dead from the waist up . . . But then his pride was hurt and he was saying all sorts of things. None of them guessed that I was so young. Most people took me for twenty-one, which is what I told them if they asked.

  If I’d had a stronger personality, who knows, I might have overcome my past. But misfortune doesn’t just happen to people like that; it doesn’t choose people who can cope. In my Golden Book of Bible Stories there was a tale about a man who’d lost his sheep, and his ass, and his children, and his house, and still managed to forgive everyone and become a nicer person. He knew that God was waiting to reward him. On the opposite page there was this beautiful painting of a staircase into the sky and masses of clouds, all molten, with the steps leading up through them, through a golden gap. When I was small I loved that picture. But soon I stopped believing in God, and later I even stopped believing the picture, which was more of a wrench. Unlike that man, I didn’t become a nicer person.