Harlot

“Ow, that hurt!”

“Should get a comb to it more often then, scruff bag,” I say.

Debbie is letting me do her hair.  It’s her only beautiful feature: her crowning glory.  It’s long, thick and glossy.  I love to feel its heaviness in my hand, but even though it’s the best thing she has, she doesn’t take care of it.

My hair’s fine and mousy, but I’m not jealous.  I’m glad Debbie has something of her own, that she can be proud of.  She’s got so many brothers and sisters; she gets nothing new, nothing for herself.

She shares a bedroom with her little sisters, but they’re downstairs watching telly.  Debbie has to wear her older sister Gail’s cast offs.  She even has to wear her old bras.  My first training bra was bought special: Mum took me to M&S and let me choose one.  I even got fitted by a grumpy lady with a tape measure round her neck and pursed lips.  “Mouth like a cat’s arse,” Mum said, when she left us in the fitting room, and we both giggled.  Debbie never goes shopping with her mum – apart from Asda.

“Let’s play beauty salons,” I say and feel embarrassed that such a childish word has slipped out.

Debbie doesn’t notice though, she’s too busy making a fuss about me pulling her hair.

“It was full of lugs,” I tut, “but it’s gorgeous now.”

Debbie turns to sit opposite me and I admire my handiwork.

“Shall we sneak into Gail’s room and borrow her make-up?” I suggest.

Debbie looks worried, but she’s always nervous at home.  They all are, even Debbie’s mum.  They tiptoe around like they’re holding their breath when her dad’s around.  He’s always shouting.  One night, when I was there, he started going on about evolution and Adam and Eve.  I started laughing, but Debbie looked at me and shook her head – a small motion, hardly moving, but the panic in her eyes made me shut up quick.

“I’ll get it,” I say, and before she can protest, I’m across the landing and rifling through the drawers of Gail’s dressing table.

I come back with a couple of bottles of nail varnish, a coral crème blusher and some blue eye shadow.

“She didn’t have much,” I say, disappointed.

“Dad says she’s not allowed, that’s why.”

“But she’s fifteen!”

“Dad called her a harlot and scrubbed it off in the bathroom.  She wasn’t allowed to go to the school disco after that.”

“She should sneak it out in her handbag,” I say, amazed at her lack of guile.

“What’s a harlot?” I ask eventually, after I’ve painted all the nails on my left hand a glittery purple.

I blow on them, like I’ve seen mum do.

“It’s like a prozzy.  He called her the Whore of Babylon too.  That’s something really bad out of the Bible.”

“Oh,” I answer and Boney M pop into my head.

“By the rivers of Babylon…” I sing and we both laugh.

…………………………….

The next day at school I look out for Debbie in the playground, but I can’t see her.  Yvonne and Dawn are playing ‘two ball’ up against the wall, only she’s not with them.

“Over the garden wall,

I let my baby fall,

Mother came out and gave me a clout,

Asked me what it was all about,

Gave me another to match the other…”

“Over the garden wall” I join in and Yvonne drops a tennis ball.

“Thanks a lot Diane!” she glares and flicks the ball with the toe of her trainers, so it ricochets.  Dawn catches it.

“You seen Debbie?” I ask.

We always get to school early, so we can chat before lessons begin.

“Perhaps she’s off sick?”

The bell rings for class.

In the classroom, my eyes seek out Debbie’s long brown hair, but she’s not in her usual seat.  My stomach flips because there’s a new boy in her desk.  I stride up to him, ready to turf him out, but when I get there she looks up at me with red rimmed eyes and I realise.

“What happened Debbie?”

I feel a tingle behind my eyes, like I’m going to cry.  Her beautiful hair!  It’s not even cut nicely: it’s like a boy’s, short over her ears and sticking up in the wrong places.

She can’t look at me and she keeps swallowing hard, gazing out of the window, like she’s pretending to find the playground really fascinating.

She says really quietly, almost in a whisper.

“Dad cut it.”

And then she turns her back towards me.

……………………………………………….

I’m sitting in the pub with Yvonne, reminiscing about school days.  We didn’t see each other for ages, while we were both at college, but then I found out that she only works round the corner from my office, so we have lunch together every now and then.

“I was thinking about Debbie the other day and d’you know what?  That afternoon, I bumped into her - hadn’t seen her since junior school.”

“What’s she look like now?” Yvonne asks me.

“Scraggy - thin like her mother.  Caked in make-up.  She’s grown her hair back, but it’s dyed blonde.”

“I thought she always had long hair?”

“Yeah, she did ‘til her bastard father chopped it all off in the last year of junior school.” I say, remembering how Debbie always blamed me.  He’d come in and found her plastered in make-up one night when we’d been playing beauty salons.

“Oh, I remember now.  He was such a creep.  Her mum used to walk about ten paces behind him, poor cow.”  Yvonne pauses for a sip of lager and lime.  “She’s dead now.”

“Really?  What of?”

“Who of,  d’you mean?  Didn’t you know?  Debbie’s dad beat her to a pulp one day ‘cus she was late getting his dinner.”

“No!  Is he in prison?”

“Nah, died of a heart attack during the court case.”

“Bloody hell.  Who told you that?”

“Debbie’s sister Gail – she works as a barmaid in the Saracen’s Head.  Where was Debbie when you saw her, anyway?”

“Under the clock in town.”

“Blimey – she’s really gone off the rails then.”

“How d’you mean?”

Yvonne laughs.

“You’re so funny Diane – you’ve lived here all your life and you don’t know that’s where the pros hang out.”

“Fuck me!  Do you think Debbie’s a prostitute?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me” Yvonne replies, then adds, “Her dad must be rolling in his grave.”

She laughs, but I don’t.  I think about eleven year old Debbie with her lovely hair and frightened eyes and I miss her.

“Burning in hell more like,” I say, hoping I’m right, and I get up to see if there’s any Boney M on the jukebox.