Separate tracks, p.5
Separate Tracks, page 5
Susan shook her head.
“Don’t you want to go? Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Put your coats on you two and don’t keep Emma waiting,” interjected Mrs G., and they ran into the kitchen. Emma was embarrassed. They obviously didn’t want to go. She would feel an idiot dragging two unwilling children down the street. She didn’t say anything else until she’d got them on the pavement, out of Mrs G.’s hearing.
“Don’t you want to go for a walk?”
Delia looked at her expressionlessly, then suddenly said, “No.”
“Oh.” Emma glanced helplessly back at the house. “Oh, well—what do you want to do?”
“Skipping,” said Susan.
“Skipping?” Susan started to giggle and whispered to Delia. “OK. Well, have you got a rope? A skipping rope?” Susan ran back to the house.
“Where do you skip?” Emma asked Delia. Delia began to pull leaves off the privet hedge. “Delia, do you skip in the garden?” The child continued to ignore her. Emma squatted beside her. “Delia, listen. We’re going to play skipping. Shall we go in the back garden?” Delia looked at her as if she were an irritating insect, and walked slowly towards the house, throwing privet leaves at the ground as she went. Emma stood up, chewing at a fingernail. What now? There was a noise from the house—Mrs G. tapping the kitchen window. Heavily, Emma went to see what she wanted.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs G. mouthed.
“We’re not going for a walk, they want to skip,” said Emma. Mrs G. shook her head, as if to say Emma should know better.
Emma smiled brightly. “I like skipping.”
Susan emerged with a rope and they went round to the bald lawn at the back of the house. Susan tied one end of the rope to the french windows and backed away holding the other. Delia obediently stood in the middle and jumped as Susan began to turn the rope. There was nothing for Emma to do. She leaned awkwardly against the fence, then went and squatted beside Susan, almost overbalancing as she did so.
“That’s very good, Delia. Can you both skip together?” Susan stopped turning and gaped at her. Emma intensified the enthusiasm in her voice. “Look, I can turn and you can both skip together, can’t you?” Susan looked dubious. “Try!”
Susan went and stood next to Delia. She was quite a bit taller, startlingly fair next to the black girl. Emma started to swing the rope.
Susan jumped and Delia didn’t. “I can’t see,” she muttered.
“Come and stand in front of Susan, then.” They swapped places, and after a couple of false starts, got going well. Nobody said anything. Emma’s arm was already aching, she stood turning the rope mechanically, watching the four feet push off from the ground and land again—thud, thud-thud, thud, thud-thud. What a stupid activity. As she continued to turn to the regular thud and lash of the rope on the ground, the skipping seemed infinitely sad. She watched the two pairs of feet straining up to tiptoe and pushing off from the ground, to fall back again immediately. Susan skipped lightly but Delia always thumped down, landing jarringly. Emma watched her taut skinny ankles taking the strain. She wished Delia could have wings and take off.
Both girls were panting. “Do you want a rest?”
Susan shook her head. “Go on—till—one of us—is out!” she gasped. Delia turned to face Susan, and they continued jumping.
It seemed as if she had been turning the rope for hours. Emma’s arm was in agony. “You’re both too good, we’ll have to stop.” The girls remained facing one another, while Emma rubbed her arm and swung it by her side. “What do you want to do now?” she asked brightly. Delia started to walk away. “Delia! Where are you going?”
“To watch telly.”
“Well—what—” Emma scrabbled desperately for something to suggest. Once they went in to the TV, she would have lost them for the evening. “What about me? That’s not fair, is it? What about letting me have a skip?”
Susan took a step towards her. “Can you skip?”
“Yes, of course I can.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” Susan started to giggle. “Come on,” said Emma, “your turn to hold the rope for me.” She positioned herself in the centre and saw through the corner of her eye that Delia had drifted back to watch. Susan turned the rope sharply and it lashed Emma’s neck. It hurt. “You’ll have to move closer, else it won’t go over my head—here—that’s it.” The rope began to turn again. Now it was too slack for Susan’s height and dragged slowly along the ground under Emma’s feet. She jumped over it. It seemed to be going terribly slowly.
Susan began to count. “One, two, three, four, five, six . . .”
Emma was breathing heavily. Something moved behind Delia, and the boy came into the garden—the oldest one. He stared for a moment, and Emma flushed. He would think she was an idiot. He vanished. She ran out of the turning rope. “That’s enough. I’m puffed.” She smiled, and Susan actually smiled back. Delia followed the boy into the house.
“The others are home from school,” Emma said cheerfully. Susan looked at her. “I’ve just seen Anthony,” Emma explained.
Susan giggled.
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s called Orph.”
“Anthony?”
“Yes, he’s called Orph.”
“Orf?” Susan nodded. “Why?” There was no reply. “Is it his nickname?”
Susan smiled.
“Do you all call him that?”
“Yes. He gets mad if we call him Anthony. He’s called Orph.”
“Ah.” Emma was immensely pleased with this breakthrough. She untied the skipping rope for Susan and followed her into the house.
Mrs G. was buttering bread. “You can make some tea,” she told Emma. “What happened to your walk?”
“They didn’t want to go.”
Mrs G. pursed her lips. “You mustn’t give in to them,” she said. “They’re not used to it—they’re not like ordinary children, they need to be told what to do.” She paused. “Or they can make life very awkward for you, you know—they need to know there’s some discipline. It’s security for them, you see—and they’ll walk all over you if you don’t make a stand.” Emma counted spoonfuls of tea in silence. “I hope you’ll take it as it’s meant dear, I just don’t want to see you making trouble for yourself—that Susan’s a little minx, she’ll mess you about something shocking if you don’t put your foot down.”
Emma could not restrain herself. “But surely, they don’t have to go for a walk if they don’t want to.”
“They don’t know what they do want,” said Mrs G. simply. “And they certainly don’t know what’s good for them—do they, my chuck?” she added to Jeremy as he came in.
“What?”
“Know what’s good for them.”
“Who? The kids?”
“Mmmmmnn.” Mrs G. had lost interest and was spooning jam out into a dish.
“How old are you, Jeremy?” asked Emma.
“Six.”
Her irony was lost on both of them. “And how old is Orph?”
“Orph?” Mrs G. raised her head from the jam and shook it as if Emma had used an obscenity.
“Anthony . . .” faltered Emma. “Susan told me—”
“It may be,” said Mrs G., “but I don’t see afflicting the poor child with it here as well.”
Emma blushed. “Why—what does it—?”
“They call him that at school, some of them, you know—I sent a note about it once but it doesn’t do any good.”
“But, what’s it from? It’s nothing to do with his name?”
“Orphan,” said Mrs G. shortly. “Some bright spark thought it was funny and started calling him Orphan—they wrote it on his shirt in felt tip and in his books—the shirt was ruined—I sent a note about it, but I don’t think the teachers can do much.”
“So they call him Orph for short?”
“They do, but not in my hearing. I’ve told them it’s not funny.”
“But does he mind?”
“Him? he doesn’t care about anything, he doesn’t care for man or beast, he’ll be behind bars before long.” There was silence. Mrs G. sighed. “But that doesn’t mean he has to be given outlandish names, even if he hasn’t got the sense to mind—and I’ve told them so.” She stamped off to the dining-room with a pot of jam in each hand. Emma was surprised by the depth of feeling she betrayed. If she thinks he’ll end up behind bars, why does she care what he’s called? It wasn’t logical, though it did show that the woman had some sort of a heart. Orph. The boy intrigued her.
Chapter 11
Mealtimes were appalling. Over the silence of chewing and the clinking of cutlery Mrs G. brazenly discussed the children as if they were cattle at an auction. “What are you smirking about, Leroy Atkins? Just look at him, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt—we know better, don’t we? Have you told Emma about that nice new parka you ‘found’ at school?”
The boy blushed and smiled foolishly, as if she were genuinely praising him for an achievement.
Mrs G. shook her head. “You’re too like your dad for my liking, young man—how many times has he been inside now—eh?”
The boy coughed. “Four.”
“Yes and there’s no need to grin about it either,” she said sharply, “if you had any sense he’d tell you it’s not much fun—you want to turn your hand to an honest day’s work and earn the money for a parka, if you’re so keen on them, you want to pull yourself together my boy.”
Emma sat back from the contaminated table. What right did the woman have to humiliate them publicly? What did it have to do with Leroy anyway? Nothing. He and his father were separate people. It disgusted her, and there was nothing to do but sit and listen. The children didn’t show that they minded. In fact they seemed self-consciously pleased to be singled out for attention. But it was always the same—reminding them what they were and where they had come from. As if they were being firmly planted in deep concrete. It was possible to be anything, do anything. She could be a singer, doctor, politician, artist—anything. And so could they. They were new people, separate people—everyone was; that glittering array of possibilities was their birthright.
Mrs G. seemed very fond of Marcus who was thirteen. One day he brought back a wooden teapot stand that he had made at school and they all admired it throughout tea time. “He’s a nice steady worker, and it’ll pay off,” said Mrs G. in her manner of speaking about them as if they weren’t there when they were. “You should see his reports—I’ll show you them, they’re lovely. All his teachers say he tries hard. He’s not brilliant, well, we can’t all be, can we?” (Emma was conscious of the barb in this.) “But he tries his hardest, well, what more can you ask? And he’ll get good references when he leaves that school, which is more than some other people sitting round this table Anthony Childs.” She peeled a cupcake. “No, considering what Marcus has come from I think it’s a miracle—I do really.”
This did not please Emma either. It wasn’t a miracle at all. It was perfectly natural. She was cloyed with embarrassment. It was as if Mrs G. was confidentially discussing the antics of a pet. She hated the association between Mrs G and herself; the children would think them the same, it would be impossible for them to relate to her differently. But how could she dissociate herself? Only by leaning back from the table and not answering. Mrs G. did not take hints. Emma became continuously conscious of what she was not. Not like Mrs G. And not anything consistent with the children—since their responses to her were far from consistent. What she was she did not know.
After a week Susan suddenly became embarrassingly affectionate. She would creep up to Emma sitting stiffly in front of the TV and grasp her hand. “I love you!”
Emma was touched and awkward; she stroked the girl’s straggly hair and whispered, “And I love you, Susan,” hoping that Mrs G. would not hear.
Susan followed her around everywhere, insisting on holding her hand. She relayed Emma’s words to the others: “Emma says we’re going for a walk. Who’s coming?” “Emma wants the bread, Leroy.” “Emma says we must take our wellies.”
Of course it didn’t help with the others, as Emma was only too aware, and Susan seemed happiest just mooning around her, combing her hair or having soppy nonsensical conversations which Emma couldn’t join in. “My mummy’s got the biggest house. She lives in a palace, like the Queen. And she’s got all—loads of white dresses. All white and silver, she’s got cupboards and cupboards full. And jewels.”
Emma would smile and say, “That’s nice.” What else could she say?
Mrs G. obviously took a dim view of it, and said kindly one day, “There’s no point in letting them get too fond, dear, it only upsets them when you go.”
Emma was humiliated. She would go, this was simply six months “off” for her—and she was encouraging the poor child’s affection to make herself feel better. Susan would just be hurt. Emma was guilty at the pleasure the girl’s attachment gave her, but aware that there was something not at all right about it. Susan seemed to be regressing, becoming more and more childish. She would play with Emma’s fingers as they sat watching telly, making them talk to each other in baby talk. “Ickle piggy say, me hungry mummy. Naughty, naughty, no more sweeties today, waa waa—wanty sweetie—” tapping the two fingers together to register a smack. She wanted Emma to herself, and planned little games and outings involving the two of them. But Emma was determined not to appear to have a favourite. She must get through to the others.
The others were not in the least interested in her bright attentions. Tracy, the oldest girl, ignored her coldly. She suggested to Leroy and Marcus that they do some drawings or paintings for their walls. They looked at her as if she was mad. One day Delia brought home from school a blobby blue mess on a big sheet of paper. Emma enthused and went to put it up. Delia and Susan stood in the doorway watching her.
“What’s that?” asked Susan. There was silence.
“Go on, Delia, tell her what it’s a picture of.”
“It’s—it’s—it’s a BOTTOM!” shouted Delia.
“It’s stupid,” decided Susan. “I’m going to throw it away.”
“Oh no you’re not,” said Emma.
“It’s my wall,” said Susan.
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s near my bed.”
Emma sighed. “Listen, Susan, this is a big wall and there’s room for lots and lots of pictures. I’ve told you, if you want to draw some pictures we’ll stick them on the wall too. Next to this one. Or here. See, there’s plenty of room.”
Susan snorted.
“D’you want to do a picture?”
“I do,” said Delia.
“Go and sit at the dining table, both of you, and I’ll get some things.” She found paper and pencils. There were some paints in little pots, but they were all dried up. When she had got the girls organized she gouged the paint out of the pots into saucers, and started mixing one up with water.
“Here.” Susan thrust a scribbled-on piece of paper under her nose.
“Mmmn. Very nice. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Susan.
“Oh, well, it’s not finished is it?”
“Yeah, put it on the wall.”
“Come on, Susan. You can do better than that. Do a really nice one for the wall.”
“It is nice. Put it up. You put up hers.”
Emma mashed at the lumps of paint with a fork. “Look, you’ve only spent about two minutes on it. Do something carefully. Do a picture of somebody. Do a picture of yourself.”
Susan stamped back to the table, and there was an angry shout. Emma hurried out of the kitchen. Delia had used five or six sheets of paper, putting a huge scrawl on each then throwing it on the floor. “See, look what she’s doing.”
“Delia!” Emma picked up the papers and took away the remaining blank ones. “That’s silly, you’re meant to do a picture, not just a horrible scribble. Draw something nice. We’re not putting that on the wall, it’s a mess.”
Delia looked at her coldly.
“Colour it in. You’ve hardly used the paper at all—look at all this blank space. I’ll give you some paints in a minute, when they’re ready.” She went back to the kitchen and continued to mash the paints, listening for further argument.
Leroy suddenly came in. “What’re you doing?”
“Mixing up these paints. Do you want to do some painting?”
He looked over her shoulder. “OK.”
“Well, they’re all lumpy. Try and mix this one.” She handed him a saucer of green and he attacked it with a fork. Susan was shouting again. It was beginning to feel as if things were out of control. Emma noticed that both she and Leroy were making little spatterings of paint on the floor. Marcus appeared. “Leroy, do it over the sink—look, we’re making a mess.”
“Can I do some?” asked Marcus. She gave him her saucer and went to see Susan and Delia. Delia was stabbing her paper with the pencil, marking the table through it. Susan was working diligently on a minute blotch in the corner of a sheet of paper. Emma gave Delia a newspaper to rest on and admired Susan’s creation.
As soon as she did so, Susan stopped. “It’s finished.”
“But what about all this? It’s a shame, can’t you draw something else here?” Her voice lacked conviction. She had given them drawing materials so they could express themselves. Susan’s squitty little blobs and Delia’s scribbles were perfectly valid expressions of their feelings, weren’t they? “No, all right, we’ll put it up. It’s very nice. Are you going to do another?”
There was a shout and scuffling noise in the kitchen. She hurried to the door. Marcus was crouched behind the washing machine, shielding his head; Leroy was standing over him with a forkful of paint. As Emma stepped forward he flicked it onto Marcus’s head.
When Emma finally chased them out of the kitchen, it, and they, were covered in paint. Delia had gone off; only Susan sat, labouring over yet another tiny blob in the corner of another blank sheet of paper. Emma cleaned the kitchen. Mrs G. was due back at six. Emma buttered the bread. The boys weren’t in the garden. She didn’t know where they had gone. She hated the idea of them coming back in those clothes. But it would be impossible to wash them without Mrs G. seeing. Natural enough for children to get dirty when painting, wasn’t it? Not if they hadn’t painted at all. Not if they hadn’t put on one of the eight old shirts that hung on hooks in the hall specifically for that purpose. Not if she had screamed at them to stop and they hadn’t. No one had even enjoyed the painting session. Emma was close to tears. Mrs G. wouldn’t say anything about their clothes, but Emma couldn’t bear her to see the evidence of her own incompetence.
