Woman Last Seen(32)



Obviously, Mum was more sad than I was about him dying because while he was my granddad, he was her dad and dads trump granddads. My dad said the way my mum grieved was indulgent and that it was disrespectful to the memory of my granddad, who liked people to be happy and would not want us crying. I don’t know but I did try not to cry in front of either of them because it upset them both in different ways. Because my mum cried so much, my dad made friends with Ellie. He’s explained it wasn’t his fault.

I think I must take after my granddad because I like people to be happy too. I think I am a person who is happiest when everyone else is happy. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

Waiting rooms are not peaceful; people always have a sort of jumpiness about them. I suppose they are worried they are going to miss their train. I know I worry, not if it is late but what if it was canceled? What would I do then? Where would I go? But I like the place anyway. It feels safe, not one place or the other, just where I get to be me. Today it is rainy, so there are puddles of water on the tiled floor which are always tricky for the ladies in high heels, and umbrellas are inconveniently shaken, scattering rain over me. Even so, I think this is where I am happiest because there’s no one to make happy here but me.

The journey starts well. The train is on time. I get a seat with no one next to me, and no one talks to me or so much as smiles in my direction. It is best if they don’t because I’m not allowed to talk to strangers, but some strangers are women who look like grandmas; they don’t know the rules about talking to children, I don’t think. Then it’s embarrassing because my choice is to a) look rude by ignoring them or b) talk to them, which is against the rules. The journey starts to go wrong when there is no one to meet me off the train. There isn’t always. Sometimes I have to get the bus, but I thought today that Dad was going to pick me up. That’s what he’d said. So now I have to think do I a) get the bus but what if he is on his way and he arrives, and I am already gone. That will make him cross or b) wait for him here at the station but it is getting dark and it’s the last bus—if he doesn’t come and I miss the last bus I’ll be in real trouble.

I get the bus.

It’s a ten-minute walk from the bus stop to Dad’s. “Nothing at all,” he says, although I have never seen him catch a bus ever. He drives a BMW car. It’s raining hard now so I walk as quickly as possible, sometimes running, although it is hard to run carrying a suitcase. I do it in seven and a half minutes. I time myself.

I quietly let myself in with my own key. I saw a report on the news about latchkey kids. It made me feel a bit sad. Until then, I thought having my own key was grown-up, now I lie to my friends about it, so they don’t think I’m weird. I pretend there is someone waiting for me with milk and biscuits too.

I take off my shoes and coat at the doorway, because I definitely don’t want to drip rain on the shiny tiled floor. I carry them and my suitcase straight upstairs because I don’t want to leave anything lying around for other people to trip over, because that’s just selfish and asking for trouble. Upstairs I can hear sounds coming from Dad and Ellie’s bedroom. I know I have to sneak past their room without them noticing me because I’m not stupid and I know what sort of sounds they are. Making sex sounds is even worse than rowing sounds. Their bedroom door is open. This is bad for two reasons a) because there is a greater risk of them seeing me b) because I might catch a glimpse of them, which would be gross!! I try to keep my eyes on the floor. I really do. Why would I want to see that but somehow my eyes don’t listen to my brain and I find myself just quickly flicking a glance that way. I don’t even know why I couldn’t stop myself. It’s utterly awful. Worse than I could have imagined. I can see my dad’s hairy bottom thrusting forward and backward into Ellie, who is not lying on her back, like in the picture of women making sex in the textbook we were shown at school—Ellie is on her knees, bent over. They’ve got it all wrong. The sounds they are making—grunting, screaming, breathing fast like they’ve been running forever—prove that it’s wrong! He’s hurting her.

And something else is more wrong. The woman who Dad is thrusting at is not Ellie. She’s a totally different shape. She’s not pregnant for a start, she has huge boobs and my dad is reaching forward and grabbing at them, with the same enthusiasm as he grabs a handful of caramelized peanuts when Ellie puts them in a bowl as a treat.

“Oh,” I say. I don’t mean to. The oh must come out quite loud. Maybe I shouted it or screamed it. I must have, to have been heard above their groans. The woman turns my way, she sees me at the door and starts scrabbling away from Dad, reaching for the sheet, pulling it around her. Dad doesn’t notice me at first, he lunges after her, laughing, “Come here, you little tease!” he says.

I run into my bedroom, slam the door behind me.

When Dad comes to see me a bit later, I am not sitting on my bed. I feel funny about beds now. I am sitting on the floor with my back against the radiator. The warmth is comforting.

“How’s school?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say as usual.

“Good, good.” I’m expecting him to tell me to wash my hands, come downstairs to set the table.

“Who is she?” I ask quickly, before I can decide not to. I think I deserve to know. I am not like Ellie’s best friend or anything, but if I am going to have a new stepmum, I want some warning.

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