The Child(32)

“You little bitch,” Jude had snapped at me. She’d never used that word to me before. Never had to, I suppose. I was changing, too.

? ? ?

After Jude left, slamming the door behind her, I headed for the telephone box at the end of the road. It was almost eight o’clock and the box lurked in the dark pool between two streetlights. It was lit only by an ancient lightbulb that cast a nicotine yellow pall over the interior and stank of pee and joints. The concrete floor seemed permanently wet and stained in the corners as if the last user had just zipped up his jeans and left. But I loved that phone box.

It was my private space. There was a phone at home, on the wall in the hallway, but every conversation felt like a public event, with Jude listening and even joining in if she felt like it.

I lined up my coins on the metal shelf, picked up the receiver, and began dialing.

I asked Harry’s father if I could talk to her. I was always polite, using my most suitable-for-adults voice. He hated me disturbing her when she was doing her homework, but I would pretend it was about some schoolwork.

He used to say he didn’t know what we could have to talk about after being at school together all day. But he always gave in.

I’d hear the sound of Harry’s feet thundering downstairs and then her voice, high and cross. “Dad, stop listening to my calls. This is private.”

I told her about Jude calling me a bitch, and Harry was thrilled. She loved a bit of other people’s trouble.

“I’m sick of Jude and Will,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, but I knew she had misgivings. The trouble was she was secretly—or sometimes not so secretly—in love with Will. She said he was sexy.

“Harry! He’s so old,” I said, outraged when she’d first told me. I didn’t tell her that the word “sexy” made my stomach go all watery. I was trying to hate Will for barging into our lives, but I still liked it when he winked or smiled at me. I couldn’t help it.

The pips crashed into my thoughts, signaling that another three minutes had passed, and I pushed the remaining ten-pence piece into the slot so we could discuss Harry’s social life. I just tagged along.

I remember she’d nicked a five-pound note from her dad’s trousers to buy a new top. Her theft was all in aid of impressing Malcolm Baker, her latest crush. He had apparently smiled at Harry on the bus and her heart was clearly set on slow dancing with him at the youth club disco.

For me, romance stayed in the pages of my notebooks and diaries. I hadn’t ventured into love—or lust—in the flesh, uncertain of my looks and charms and unwilling to test the waters. There had been some smudged innocent kisses behind the youth club, informed by the stories in Jackie, but I preferred to write about the longing and imagined lovers. There was safety in my stories. And less saliva.

And I’d had Harry’s terrifying lecture on losing your virginity. I’d asked her what it was like when she told me she’d done it with Malcolm Baker’s friend after the Christmas disco.

“Did it hurt?” I said.

“Agony. Bloody agony, but it gets better,” Harry had said, puffing on a No. 6 on the top of the double-decker. I knew she’d probably only done it once but let it go. She liked being my older, more sophisticated friend.

“Agony? Really? God, maybe I’ll wait a bit longer. Do you want one?” I’d offered her a Cheese and Onion crisp and we’d moved seamlessly on to our favorite crisp flavors.

Then Harry had rung the bell and skipped down the stairs to get off the bus. She looked up and waved as the bus lumbered off.

? ? ?

Harry had long thought my failure to get a boyfriend was down to having no dad.

“Where are the men in your life, Emma? No wonder you are shy around boys,” she’d said when we’d last broached the subject, months before.

It had been her idea to bring up the subject at home, so I had. I tried to keep calm and pointed out that half my DNA was my mystery father’s. Jude had reacted with horror.

“But you’ve got me,” she’d cried. “And he wouldn’t be interested.”

She’d pointed out that he probably had another family by now and I would be making problems for him if I turned up. “He’d have to explain you to his new wife.”

That night, the night of the row, Harry said: “Sod them, Emma. You need a proper parent. Let’s go and find your dad.”

And I agreed.

We waited until the next time Jude was out and went up to her room to look through her things for letters and photos of old boyfriends. I was so worried she’d catch us, I stood by the door while Harry did the digging around. I was nagging Harry to put everything away when she found a scribbled note at the back of 1968’s diary. It said “Charlie,” and there was an address in Brighton.

“We should go there,” Harry said. “It’s around the right time and it’s not too far,” she added, practical as ever.

It was all moving too fast for me, but I’d agreed to start down the path and it felt too late to turn back now.





TWENTY-SIX


    Emma


MONDAY, APRIL 2, 2012

I’m supposed to be polishing the book I’m editing, but I keep drifting away from the sentence I’m reading. My boss has e-mailed to say the subject is about to be exposed in a Sunday paper as a cokehead and I need to get a wiggle on so the publishers can sell the serial rights to the press.