Kylie

Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again
subsided, puffing at his pipe.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," she added quickly. His face had
begun to turn an odd purplish colour, like those cheeses you get at the
deli counter at Christmas, the ones with port in, she thought. She knew
about old men and high blood pressure and heart attacks. She watched
Casualty, Holby City, and ER. You had to be careful with old men.
She'd thought about becoming a doctor. They'd been encouraged to think
about career options when deciding on what exams to take. But the women
doctors in those programmes always seemed so glamorous, so in-control,
always arguing about appropriate treatment and denying getting
emotionally involved with patients, even when they were. She could
never do that, be like that, even if she were brainy enough, which she
didn't think she was.
He tapped the pipe on the chipped glass ashtray on the small round
table next to him. His face had gone back to its normal colour now:
mature cheddar.
"You'll be wanting children though, won't you?" he said.
"S'pose so, yeah."
"Or are you going to be one of those career women, burning your bra and
getting your tubes tied?"
He was staring at her now, as if daring her to say the wrong thing. She
didn't want to say the wrong thing. She didn't want him to start
shouting and turn purple again.
"I don't know"
"What do you mean, you don't know. It's not a difficult question,
Kylie."
He reiterated, enunciating slowly, like an irate newsreader: "Are you
going to be a housewife or have a career?"
Kyle fidgeted with a loose thread on her denim jacket and muttered
something into her chest.
"I beg your pardon, young lady?"
"I said," said Kylie, in a desperate rush "I didn't know I was supposed
to choose."
At this, Powell made a huffing sound and two spots of colour started to
swell above his saggy jowls.
"That's the problem with girls today, think they can take men's jobs,
have children on their own, get to the top of the housing benefit list,
any man will do, morals like barmaids...Kylie, you're still young, and
you're an attractive little thing. You're far too pretty to be a
feminist." His tone had changed abruptly from hectoring to pleading. He
hadn't turned purple, thankfully, but his eyes were glittering
oddly.
Kylie didn't know what to say. When she'd agreed to do some voluntary
work in the community as part of her bronze Duke of Edinburgh's Award,
she hadn't thought it would be like this. She'd thought visiting an old
people's home after school one day a week would mean tea and cakes with
a friendly old lady who liked knitting baby clothes. She hadn't thought
it would mean sitting in a stuffy room with some mad old git called
Powell (and what kind of name was that, anyway, she didn't even know if
it was his first name or surname).
"I've got to go now," she lied.
"But it's only ten past."
"I'm sorry, they've changed the bus times," another lie.
She was already on her feet, grabbing the strap of her backpack.
"I'll walk you to the bus stop, then."
He was grappling for his stick, lurching forwards out of the
armchair.
"No, I'm fine. Thanks."
And she was off, slamming the door behind her, stumbling down the
over-polished lino, banging through the swing doors with their wire
criss-crossed glass.
It took two breaths to rid her nostrils of the smell: tobacco, Deep
Heat, congealed gravy, old piss.
The concrete path ran diagonally across the lawn, past his window. She
pretended to believe the bus lie and ran the length of the path,
backpack banging awkwardly between her shoulder blades, her eyes firmly
focussed on the wrought iron gates and the main road beyond.
If she'd looked to her left, if she'd have turned her face just 30
degrees, she'd have seen an old man standing at his window, hand half
raised, ready to wave, a suspicion of wetness in the corners of his
eyes.
Of course, she didn't turn her head.
Kylie Jones never completed her bronze Duke of Edinburgh's Award, but
she did take an NVQ in childcare and eventually found a job in a local
nursery. Later, she married a soldier and gave up work to start a
family.
Hunter Powell's grave is in the new churchyard behind the playing
fields. Someone has paid for a polished granite headstone, but there
are no flowers in the urn.