In a Good Light (22 page)

When the influenza B diagnosis was confirmed, Christian was brought home to convalesce. There was never a patient less suited to immobility: poor Christian, who couldn't conduct a conversation without fast bowling or practising his golf swing, was reduced to dragging himself around the floor by his arms, or sliding bumpity-bump down the stairs like Winnie-the-Pooh. Having reached the ground floor he would be stranded there all day until Dad came home to help him back up to bed, so he resorted to this measure as little as possible.

‘When am I going to be able to play cricket?' was his regular refrain, once the fever had passed.

Although it wrung my heart to see him so low, there was a dark, selfish corner of me that was glad to have him housebound. You're ours again, I thought. It was the Easter holidays, so I was able to spend all my time ministering to him. I brought him damp flannels, hot waterbottles and paracetamol, and then later, cups of tea and hot cross buns. I fetched and carried his books so that he could study for his A levels, and jumped up and down to plump his pillows and adjust the curtains. Sometimes I just sat with him while he dozed.

‘Don't worry, Christian,' I said one morning, when he had had a disappointing session with the physiotherapist, where almost no progress seemed to have been made, ‘I'll always look after you.' He had given me a wan smile in reply, and slumped a little further down the pillow.

It was during this stage of his recovery that Penny Two appeared. I had been tempted away from the invalid's bedside for the morning by the promise of an outing with
Dawn and Pam to look at bridesmaid's dresses, but when I arrived at the Clubbs' the house was in uproar. Andy had been seen out and about with the local tart, Pam was in hysterics, the wedding was off, and the Old Bastard was threatening to go and string Andy up from the scaffolding. There wasn't going to be any trip to Pronuptia, Dawn was busy comforting Pam, and Mrs Clubb was too overwrought to be bothered with batter, so I thought it was best to leave. It struck me that at times of crisis families tend to close up and repel outsiders: it had been just the same with us when Christian was in hospital. I thought about this idea on the bus home, and resolved to make a note of it, and any other insights that occurred to me.

As soon as I reached home I bounded up the stairs and into Christian's room without knocking, and then stopped short. Sitting on the bed, with her back to the door, was a girl. She had shoulder-length hair that had the colour and gloss of a fresh conker, and she was wearing a skirt that appeared to have been made of multi-coloured silk scarves. Her jacket, and the pixie boots which protruded from the drapes of the scarf-skirt, were lilac suede. Christian was looking at her with a misty, adoring expression, which switched to impatience when he registered my presence.

‘Can't you knock?' he said, not angrily, but politely, with no trace of warmth.

The stranger turned towards me and I found myself looking into the slate-grey eyes of a girl – young woman, I suppose – of such intimidating beauty that I couldn't hold her gaze without blushing. I was painfully conscious that I was wearing the first things that had fallen out of the wardrobe that morning – namely, brown socks, a denim skirt, tartan shirt, and a variegated tank top knitted by
Mum – and that I had no memory of the last time I'd washed my hair.

She smiled at my confusion, as though the effect was familiar to her. ‘Hello,' she said. ‘You must be the famous Esther.'

‘I'm not famous,' I said. This was the best I could do.

‘Oh well, I'm sure you will be one day. I've heard what a star you are.'

Christian rolled his eyes at this, to let me know that from him at least she had heard no such thing. ‘You've been looking after Christian,' she went on, giving him a prod with the toe of her boot, ‘and I bet he's been a really grumpy patient.'

He slung his pillow at her and they tussled for possession of it for a minute until she bought him off with a kiss. Feeling spare, I looked down at my feet, shod in a pair of beaten-up Clarks' Nature Trekkers. Perhaps not the thing with a skirt, I decided.

‘Well,' the girl slid off the bed. ‘I've got to take the dogs out. I don't suppose Captain Interesting wants to come.' She gave Christian another playful poke, and he just laughed. ‘Hmm. Pity. Such a nice day, too. You don't fancy a walk in the park with a couple of mad dogs do you, Esther?'

‘Three mad dogs,' said Christian, and received another kick.

‘Oh . . .' I was so surprised I didn't reply straight away, but looked to Christian.

‘You don't need his permission,' the girl said, indignantly. ‘Come on,' and she grabbed my arm and practically dragged me from the room.

‘Men are the pits when they're ill,' she explained, as we made our way downstairs. ‘They just want you to be Mummy.'

I grinned at her. It was strange hearing Christian come in for some criticism: uncomfortable but exhilarating. It was the same feeling I'd had when I was left all alone in the house while Mum took Grandpa Percy to the chiropodist, and I stood in the hall and shouted FUCK over and over again, at the top of my voice, just because I could. That sort of opportunity wasn't likely to arise again, as Grandpa hardly went out now, and I couldn't do it with him in the house, deaf as he was.

‘I'd better say goodbye to your mum,' she went on, before putting her head in at the kitchen door. Mum was sitting at the table sorting through a stack of bills. A nimbus of hair had come adrift from its moorings, and there was a diagonal crack across one lens of her glasses, which gave her a slightly deranged appearance. She'd trodden on them months ago and still hadn't had them mended. ‘Oh, it can wait till my birthday,' she'd said, when Dad chivvied her.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Fairchild,' the girl called. ‘I'm off now.'

‘Goodbye, dear,' said Mum, pausing with her pencil pressed to the page, midway through some complicated arithmetic.

‘I'm borrowing Esther, if that's all right with you,' my new friend added.

‘Yes, fine,' Mum said, vaguely, her mind still turning on columns of figures. ‘Drop these in the post box on your way, would you?' And she handed over a pile of reply-paid envelopes. Those that required stamps would be delivered later, by hand.

Out in the lane, safe from the bramble snare of the driveway, stood a bright yellow Mini. I had passed it on my way in without giving it a thought.

‘I don't even know your name,' I said, as the girl unlocked
the doors and slung her handbag onto the back seat. For a second she seemed unsettled.

‘Christian's never mentioned me?' she asked lightly.

‘No, but that's because he's really secretive about that sort of thing,' I replied, eager to reassure her. ‘We never even met the last one . . .' That mouth of mine, I thought, as the troubled expression returned to her face.

‘Who was that, then?' she asked, this time without any attempt at nonchalance.

‘I don't know. Someone called Penny. I only saw her from a distance. She didn't last long,' I said. It was only later, as I ran through the conversation in my head, that it occurred to me my final remark might not have been as heartening as I'd intended.

‘That's funny,' she said, snapping her seatbelt home. ‘Because I'm called Penny too.'

‘Penny Two,' I murmured. ‘Well, that's easy to remember.'

She looked sideways at me and laughed. I think she was starting to find my lack of tact entertaining.

‘I like your skirt,' I said, as we drove along. Now that I looked closely at the material I could see it was printed to resemble patchwork, but was in fact seamless, sliding over Penny's legs as she drove.

‘Thank you,' she said. She glanced at my faded denim skirt, which had a dark patch where a pocket had fallen off, and a ridge around the bottom where the hem had been let down. She opened her mouth to speak and shut it again, and we both burst into giggles. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I was going to return the compliment, but that is a truly terrible outfit.'

‘I know,' I said, still laughing, though not without a
twinge of pain, for even affectionate ridicule hurts when it's deserved. ‘All my clothes look like this.'

‘Is it some kind of political statement?' she asked.

‘What do you mean?'

Penny explained, as she threaded the car down the lanes to the main road, that there was something almost heroic about my indifference to prevailing standards of taste.

‘I haven't got any nice stuff,' I said. ‘We get all our things from jumble sales. Mum gets first pick, because she organises them. She doesn't believe in spending money on new clothes.'

‘God,' said Penny. ‘My mum doesn't believe in anything else.'

We were heading into the suburbs now, away from familiar territory. The streets grew wider, and the houses larger and further apart, until we finally turned through some gates into a private avenue of detached mansions, set in immaculately tended front gardens, which bled into the wide grass verges. Few of them were as big as the Old Schoolhouse, but they proclaimed Money, where the Old Schoolhouse whispered Neglect. In the driveways of most of the houses stood various vans, belonging to the legions of staff who arrived each day to service the inhabitants' needs. Swithin's Pool Care; Chislehurst Tree Surgeons; Green Fingers Garden Design; Molly Maids; Browns' Bespoke Bathrooms.

‘I wonder if you'd fit into any of my stuff,' Penny was musing, as we pulled up outside one of the mansions. ‘I'll have a look.'

I didn't think this was likely, given that I was an average-sized thirteen-year-old and she was a taller than average eighteen-year-old, but I was enthusiastic in principle. Even
Mum could hardly disapprove of a fresh source of hand-me-downs, however luxurious they proved to be.

Penny put her key in the lock, setting off a frantic scuffling from within, and as she opened the front door two Old English Sheepdogs flung themselves on us, barking joyfully.

‘All right, all right,' Penny commanded, fending off their slobbery advances. ‘Don't drool on my jacket you little sod.' She waited until she had subdued them sufficiently for us to gain admittance, and shut the door. Once they were crouched, quivering at her feet she rewarded them with a vigorous rub behind the ears, which sent them springing up and down again, turning frenzied circles.

‘They need a W-A-L-K,' she explained, shutting them in the kitchen. ‘We'll take them to the park in a moment.' I followed her up the wide staircase, my Nature Trekkers leaving treadmarks in the blond carpet. From one of the rooms the sound of a Hoover issued. ‘Hello Maria,' Penny called to the closed door. ‘It's only me.'

Penny's bedroom was vast, and furnished with every necessity for a modern princess: thick, white carpet, four-poster bed with muslin drapes, a dressing table with lights around the mirror, writing desk and bookshelves, TV, music centre, even a corner with slipper chairs and a coffee table, for relaxation and grown-up talk. French windows led out onto a small balcony overlooking the garden. Another door was ajar to reveal the white tiles of a private bathroom.

‘Now, let's see,' said Penny, approaching the built-in wardrobes and sliding the doors across to reveal a sweep of beautiful clothes, arranged by category and colour. Some were evidently unworn as cardboard tags still swung from the hangers. ‘I wonder if any of these would fit.' She began
to pluck dresses, skirts and blouses from the rail, slinging them onto the bed. ‘Try them on,' she instructed. ‘Take anything you fancy.'

‘You can't just give me these,' I protested. ‘Some of them are brand new.'

‘Oh, those are just things Mum bought me. I never wear them. She's a compulsive shopper – it drives my dad insane. But it seems to appease her conscience if she buys stuff for other people as well as herself, so every time she goes out spending, I get something too. I wish she wouldn't.'

I wriggled out of my jumble sale bargains, feeling like a child given a free hand with the dressing-up box. Fortunately, ever since the affair of the Mighty Whities, Mum had relaxed her spending rules to allow for the purchase of new underwear from a cheap department store, so my bra and knickers, though plain, were not a source of further mortification.

Most of the skirts were too big, and swivelled freely around my hips, but after further rummaging Penny produced a black and orange kilt with an adjustable waist. Its original partner, a black angora sweater, was discovered at the back of the wardrobe, still in its bag. It was a roomy fit, but I was glad of that because it itched like crazy where it touched. Still, it looked great, according to Penny, to whose expert opinion I was only too happy to surrender.

‘Now we can't have you covering it all up with some hideous old anorak,' she said, rolling back another door which concealed a row of coats and jackets. After some deliberation Penny pulled out a hacking jacket in black needle cord. ‘This might work,' she said, then had second thoughts. ‘Oh no, the lining's torn.'

I had to physically restrain her from throwing it out, explaining that I would consider myself fortunate indeed to own a garment with a lining, torn or not.

‘As long as you're sure,' she said. ‘I don't want you to think you've been fobbed off with the old tat.'

I assured her I didn't. Clothed in my new finery, and basking in the thousand-watt glare of her dressing table lights I felt a new warmth stealing over me. This was how spoilt girls felt every day.

Behind me Penny was stuffing jumpers, dresses, and silk shirts into a shopping bag. ‘Take them home with you. You can chuck out anything that doesn't fit. I don't want them back.'

‘Won't you get into trouble, giving all this away?' I asked.

Penny shook her head. ‘Of course not. My older sister used to do the same for me when I was your age.'