The Good Mother. A. L. Bird
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Название: The Good Mother
Автор: A. L. Bird
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
isbn: 9781474049566
isbn:
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
The girl gets into the car that’s waiting for her. She looks over her shoulder first, like he’s told her to, to check Mummy isn’t watching. Would Mummy really mind? She can’t be sure. But he seems to think so. And he knows best, right? So she does the covert glance then slings her school bag into the back seat, like all the other times. He holds his cheek towards her for a kiss, which she dutifully bestows. Then he starts the engine with a vroom. Familiar buildings pass by. Buses on their way to places she recognises: Muswell Hill Broadway; Barnet (The Spires); North Finchley. There are a couple of kids from school. She raises her hand to wave but the man, seeing her, says, ‘Best not.’ So she lowers her hand and plays with the hem of her skirt, gazing absently out of the window.
Gradually, the territory becomes less familiar. The other man, the man they are going to meet, always insists on meeting outside of her home area. Says it’s safer that way. She hopes he’ll buy her a hot chocolate again. That was nice. Lots of whipped cream. Mummy always says whipped cream is bad: ‘You’ll end up big-boned. No one wants to be big-boned.’ The girl commented that the women at Mummy’s cupcake studio don’t seem big-boned. And they have lots of cream. ‘That’s because they spend a lot of time in the bathroom after each session,’ Mummy explained. That didn’t make much sense. But still, after the last visit, she hung round in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, so that the cream didn’t invade her bones and make them puff up.
And if there is hot chocolate, the girl thinks, it will be something to keep me busy. Because there’s not a lot of talking on these trips, so far. The other man doesn’t seem to know what to say. He looks at her a lot. Taking her in, from top to toe. She can feel his gaze travel down then up, up then down. Sometimes he gives a little smile. Other times a frown. She wants to please him, of course. She wants to please everyone. But when she tells him about the usual stuff – school, Mummy, music, boys even – he doesn’t say much back. And the two men glare at each other whenever they’re not looking at her. She can’t figure out why they keep hanging around together. Or what they want her to do on these occasions. So perhaps better just to concentrate on pushing the little wooden stirrer stick up and down in the hot chocolate to make holes, revealing the hot chocolate below. You have to get it to just the right meltiness to drink it. Then it’s delicious. She licks her lips in anticipation. Last time, the other man, the man they’re going to visit, looked like he was anticipating hot chocolate the whole time. Kept licking his lips. If he wanted some of her drink, he should just have said.
This might be the last time at this place, though. Because the previous time the other man, the man they’re going to see, had suggested they meet at his home. More relaxing. They could learn more about each other. He’d even given directions.
‘I just want us to be close, Cara,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be quite safe. You’ll have your chaperone there throughout.’ He said ‘chaperone’ in a funny way. Like he was making a joke. Perhaps he only used that word because he didn’t know what to call the man who brought her. She didn’t, either, not really. Not once they’d had the little chat that evening in the car, his hand on her knee. Everything changed after that. She couldn’t be herself around him, couldn’t think of anything to say to him at all, never mind his name. She’d settled into the pattern after a while. But it was still odd. Of course it was odd. She would have asked Mummy. If Mummy were allowed to know.
Anyway, whatever he was called, the chaperon didn’t seem to like the idea of going to the other man’s home. So here they were, driving fast to the usual café. A bit faster than usual, maybe? Were they late? She looks at her watch, then realises she doesn’t know what time they’re meant to be there. And she doesn’t really know where ‘there’ is.
So there is nothing to do but sink into the seat. It’s out of her hands. But she’s perfectly safe. Of course she is. It would be like all the other times. See the men. Then go home to Mummy. She looks across at the chaperone to smile, to show him she still trusts him after everything. But he doesn’t smile back. He looks ahead and he frowns.
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