The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls. Sarah May

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      ‘I was conceived under gunfire.’

      ‘You talk about that stuff?’

      ‘I’m her daughter—who else would she talk to about it?’

      Vicky, walking beside her, couldn’t even begin to contemplate initiating a conversation with Sylvia about her conception. Would Sylvia even remember?

      Fifteen minutes later, they were crouching behind the line of conifers that ran alongside Mr Sutton and Ms Webster’s front lawn.

      ‘Webster’s car’s still there,’ Ruth noted, whispering.

      Just then the front door opened and Julia Webster herself appeared, yelling something over her shoulder back into the house. She was wearing a North Face jacket and a lot of fleece on her outer extremities.

      ‘My God—have you seen the fog?’ she called out.

      ‘She looks like she’s going on a field trip,’ Vicky observed.

      Ruth let out a muffled snort.

      Julia remained poised in the porch. ‘I’m going,’ she said into the fog.

      After a while Mr Sutton appeared, barefoot, a tea towel in his hands.

      Ruth and Vicky gripped each other’s arms.

      ‘Why does he have to look so fuckable?’ Vicky hissed, taking in the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing.

      Ruth murmured faithfully, in agreement—her mind elsewhere—and they continued to watch through a natural peephole where some of the hedge had died.

      Julia tilted her face up and as Mr Sutton leant dutifully to kiss her, she grabbed deftly hold of his chin and kept their faces together.

      ‘Grotesque,’ Vicky mumbled. ‘Like—genuinely grotesque.’

      Julia checked his face briefly as they pulled apart, unsure how to read what she saw there—despite the fact that he was wearing a smile—and went over to the sports car, opening the door.

      ‘Don’t forget—IKEA tonight,’ she said lightly.

      ‘Shit.’

      ‘You forgot.’

      He nodded and pulled his shoulders up to his ears before letting them drop again. ‘Do we have to?’

      Through the peephole in the hedge, Vicky and Ruth were still holding onto each other.

      ‘It’s bookshelves for you we’re going for. I just thought you might want your art books out of those boxes they’ve been in all summer.’

      ‘Okay—’ he responded, flatly.

      ‘You don’t sound like it’s okay.’

      ‘I don’t?’

      ‘No, you don’t.’

      Ruth and Vicky worked hard at stifling the excited laughter that was threatening to erupt from behind the line of conifers.

      Julia stared at him. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ She hesitated, forcing a smile. ‘You’re sure you don’t want a lift?’

      ‘No—I’ll cycle.’

      ‘Well, don’t forget your lights. You’ll need them in this fog.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      Julia hesitated again then got in. She gave a light wave before putting the car into gear and reversing off the drive.

      Mr Sutton continued to stand in the porch, slowly drying his hands on the tea towel he was holding as the car’s engine revved without resonance, pumping out carbon monoxide fumes that hung in the fog and had nowhere to go.

      Vicky felt suddenly nauseous.

      Eventually the car moved off and Mr Sutton waved vaguely as it disappeared into the fog. After a while, he went back inside.

      As the door shut, Vicky clutched at Ruth’s arm.

      ‘They’re not going to last,’ Ruth said, jubilant.

      Vicky shook her head, rapidly.

      ‘Vick? What is it?’

      ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

      ‘You can’t,’ Ruth said as the colour left Vicky’s face and she started retching uncontrollably over the hedge, shaking with the force of it.

      ‘Vick?’ Ruth, worried, pulled back as much of Vicky’s hair as she could while Vicky held onto the street sign for Ypres Drive, panting and waiting for the shaking to subside. This part of Burwood had been developed in the sixties and seventies, built on land once farmed by tenant farmers who lost their lives in the First World War. Without the men to labour on it, the land became untenable. By the time there was the labour force the world had changed and the men had changed with it.

      ‘Tissue,’ she said, through her nose, trying not to swallow in case it triggered another gag reflex.

      ‘It’s got Olbas oil on it,’ Ruth said, trying to shake the pencil shavings off. ‘Mum got a box of them when I had flu that time.’

      ‘I don’t care what it’s got on it, I’m puking my guts up here, Ruth.’

      Vicky blew her nose, wiped her mouth then spat into the tissue before pushing it into the hedge.

      ‘D’you think you should go in today?’

      ‘I’m fine. Apart from the fact that my mouth tastes disgusting.’ She took a bottle of water from her bag, swilling a couple of mouthfuls and spitting them into the hedge as well.

      ‘You just puked in a hedge, Vick.’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘You’re taking too much Valium.’

      They started to move away then stopped suddenly as the front door opened and Mr Sutton appeared, carrying his bicycle over the threshold.

      Ducking again, they watched him try to put on his helmet, struggling with the catch until, frustrated, he finally managed to get it done up. Then he switched on his lights and cycled off into the fog, the red light on the rear of the bicycle blinking at them.

      ‘They’re never going to last,’ Ruth said again as the red light disappeared.

      Vicky didn’t say anything. She took a couple more sips of water and held onto her stomach. Her throat hurt and she could taste nothing but vomit.

      They started walking in the direction of school again—Ruth waiting for Vicky to comment on the row they’d just witnessed.

      ‘What if I’m pregnant?’

      Ruth СКАЧАТЬ