Huts 13

I made a dive for the bathroom as soon as I got home. The newly lagged boiler was on and it made all the difference. It was my turn to use all the hot water. I quickly ran the hot tap and tested it. It was still hot which was encouraging. Usually, hot water lasted up to your ankles in the bath. After that it was a value judgement: how much you wanted to lie in lukewarm sludge, or how much you wanted to be clean and cold. I chose to remain, like the water, lukewarm. I smelled my armpits. I didn’t smell that bad. My purple shirt had held up well. I might be able to wear it again, but I’d probably need to put it in the wash.

Dad had on his old Perry Como 33 r.p.m. album, on my new record player. The old gramophone had a picture of dog on it listening to a trumpet, with the trumpet still attached. Dad kept it in case we needed it again. I’d told him, till I was red in the face, not to touch my new record player. But somehow, lying in the bath, I didn’t really care. I could clearly hear every song, and screwed up my face waiting for every crackle and jump in his records. Next it would be Al Jolson. Two LPs. Any more than that was needless extravagance. You could only play one at a time. Mum didn’t need to remind me to wash down below.

I was no longer a virgin. Now that I had time to think about it; my pride also swelled. I wondered if I should tell anyone. Not boasting, of course, but just casually mention it, fling it into a putative conversation with my pals. Something along the lines of ‘… aye , Gillian Ambrose. She wasn’t a bad ride…’.

I had to hurry or mum would start banging on the bathroom door. She was always a worrier. I didn’t have long until I had to return to the Hospital, to the class auditorium, for that meeting I wasn’t going to go to. It didn’t really matter now. We’d be in and out in five minutes. I was more concerned about seeing Gillian Ambrose. I wasn’t sure if I loved her or not. I mean she was ok, but a bit old and she’d that skin disease that made you ugly, but she had nice…It wasn’t as if we were girlfriend and boyfriend.

‘Have you drowned in there?’ mum shouted. She always said that.

Friday was a non-meat day, a fish day. We religiously had chicken pie and mashed potatoes. Chicken was a Catholic vegetable. It was sitting waiting for me on the new Formica table, when I came out of the bath. It looked as if it had been waiting some time, but I didn’t want to be seen as a picky eater and I was that hungry I’d have eaten the pictures on the place mats. Mum and Dad had already eaten.

Mum patted me on the head, when she went to put the kettle on, as if I was a scabby cat. She knew I didn’t like that. I was trying to get my hair just perfect, but she didn’t care. I felt myself relax for the first time that day. I know it was stupid, but I wanted everything to just stay the way it was.

Mum put a boiling hot cup of tea in front of me in it, the way I liked it, four not five, just enough sugar.

‘That nice girl dropped into see you,’ said mum.

I almost chocked on my tea. I didn’t know why Gillian Ambrose had come to the door. Maybe, she was going to tell mum and dad that she was pregnant, and I was the father. But she wouldn’t know that she was pregnant by now. That was just stupid.

I had a common sense epiphany. It might not even be Gillian Ambrose. Mum thought that every girl under 20 was nice. Myra Hyndley could have come to the door and mum would probably have described her to the police as being nice. It wasn’t Gillian Ambrose. It was Maureen Hargreaves. I smiled. Mum was right. She was nice.

I yawned and stretched myself out.

‘What she want mum?’

‘Don’t know,’ said mum, ‘she never said,’ but then mum contradicted herself, ‘something about a meeting. She’ll pop in later. She’s an awful nice girl, and pretty too!’

Jesus, mum had me already married to her. I had to escape. Dad was even worse. Ever since I’d started growing my hair long he’d called me ‘The Playboy’.

I quickly scooped up my fags and jacket. I’d go and chap on Maureen Hargreaves’ door. I’d never done that before, not even when we were at school and used to walk in tandem, going to the same place at the same time. She lived just around the corner. The two of us could walk up to the meeting together.

Maureen Hargreaves answered the door on the first chap, as if she had been waiting for me. She'd on this amazing red dress that I'd never seen. I could see her little brothers and sisters peeking out of the bedroom window. I don’t know what they were looking at. Had they never seen a shirt with sequins? I was just out of the bath, but Maureen Hargreaves looked as if she had been steam cleaned. Her long blond hair looked newly spun. She had done it up in that fancy French way with an elaborate knot and a big stick thing through it. I think it was called a chignon. Her eyes were like doe eyes, but she did something to her eyelashes so that they looked even bigger. Her skin looked as soft as a kid glove. But the best thing about her was she was wearing black sandshoes, as if we were just nipping back to Glendevon High School for running practice. I almost loved her for that.