Gone Missing. Jean Ure

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СКАЧАТЬ met that lives in Glasgow”. I begin to feel rather pleased with myself. I’m obviously good at this sort of thing!

      I do a bit of thinking about Rory, wondering whether he’s really a wimp or just that mythical creature, a boy that’s sensitive. But no, that’s truly sexist. I’m sure there are boys that are sensitive, they just don’t like to show it. Soper wasn’t, of course. He’d have bashed someone’s head in, if they’d suggested he was sensitive.

      I think for a while about Soper. I try to remember what his first name was, but I can’t. He was always just Soper; he was that sort of boy. The sort of boy that Dad thought should be locked up and the key thrown away. I know he was a bit mad and bad, but it was just totally humiliating when Dad actually chucked him out of the house. It was like, “Never darken my door again”. We had the hugest row of all time over Soper.

      That was when I finally rebelled and said I wasn’t going to his stupid church any more. I did it to pay Dad out! I knew if there was one thing that would really upset him above all else, it would be having to admit that he’d lost control. That one of his daughters was leaving the Family. That was like heresy! That was like denying God.

      The church thing had happened just a month ago; things had been getting steadily worse ever since. Dad was cold and tight-lipped, I was defiant. Sometimes I thought he hated me. Sometimes I thought I hated him. He was convinced I did things for no reason than to annoy him, and I have to admit that he was partly right. But I had to assert myself! I mean, otherwise I would just have been ground down.

      Later that day I gaze at Rory across the assembly hall. He catches me at it, and blushes. I think to myself that Dad would probably approve of Rory–well, as much as he’d approve of any boy. But even if he did, we’d still fall out. Dad and I are fated to disagree about pretty well everything. In any case, he’s not my sort. Rory, I mean. He’s too nice! How could I go out with a boy that Dad approved of??? It’s not worth staying on to be oppressed and humiliated just for the sake of going out with any stray male that happens to be available. I have more pride than that!

      On the other hand, as Marnie reminded me, I haven’t been out with a boy for simply months. That’s not normal! Leave it too long and people will think I’m not interested. Plus I shall forget how to do it. How to talk to them. How to be with them. Cos being with a boy is definitely not the same as being with a girl.

      It’s Dad’s fault. It’s all Dad’s fault! How can I ever hope to grow up sane and well balanced with him thwarting me at every turn? I feel in such a muddle!

      When Honey asks me, on the way home, whether we are still going to do it–“That thing that you were talking about?”–I tell her yes, I’m working on it. Honey says, “So when do you think it will be?”

      What does she expect me to say? It’s not something you can put in your diary, like a dentist appointment. I tell her that I’m waiting to see what happens. “I’m giving him one more chance.”

      “Oh.” Honey nods. “All right.”

      I say, “Why? You didn’t want to go right now, did you?”

      “I just thought you’d decided.”

      “I haven’t decided anything! Have you?”

      “No. I thought you had.”

      I tell her that I haven’t made up my mind. Yet. “But if he comes on heavy just one more time—”

      “That’ll be it?” says Honey.

      I say that that will definitely be it. “Cos I have had enough!”

      three

      Sunday was looming, with its roast and two veg. Dad insists on his roast and two veg, even in the height of summer. He sits there, sweating, and forcing himself to eat, like it’s some kind of holy ritual. Like God has spoken to him. “And on Sunday, thou shalt consume flesh.” Just so long as he didn’t expect me to consume it. Dad, I mean, cos I don’t believe in God. At least, I don’t think I do.

      I really didn’t like having rows with Dad. I didn’t go out of my way to have them, which Mum seemed to think I did; they just happened. I wasn’t looking forward to another meat argument. I knew it would end in Dad banging on the table and me shrieking, the same as it had last Sunday, but I was determined to stand my ground.

      Sunday morning, when she came back from Gathering, Mum called me into the kitchen. I thought she was going to warn me not to make a fuss, just eat what everyone else was eating in order to keep Dad happy. Mum would do almost anything to keep Dad happy. I was all prepared to put up a fight when she kind of took the wind out of my sails by saying, “Your father and I have been talking. He is still waiting for you to repent, but there is obviously no point in forcing you. It has to come from the heart. In the meantime you must make your peace with the Lord as best you may. I just pray he forgives you.”

      I said, “Forgives me for what?”

      “Rejecting his bounty. It is not up to us to reject what the Lord has seen fit to provide.”

      Whew! Mum doesn’t usually talk like this; she is usually quite normal. I guessed they’d been discussing me at Gathering. It was probably Dad who’d written the script for her.

      I said, “Does that mean you’re not going to nag me to eat dead stuff any more?”

      Mum suddenly switched back to being Mum. “Not as long as you promise to eat everything else. I don’t want you getting anorexic.”

      I assured her that I would glut on vegetable matter as much as she liked. I have no objections to potatoes and cauliflower. I said this to Mum. “Vegetables aren’t pumped full of antibiotics–plus they don’t have their throats cut.”

      Kirsty, who was laying the table, at once said, “No, they just get pulled up by the roots! How’d you like to be pulled up by the roots? Vegetables have feelings too, you know.”

      “Girls, please don’t start,” said Mum. “We don’t need any smart mouth. Just remember, your dad’s been working hard all week, he deserves a bit of peace and quiet on his day of rest.”

      Dad may have agreed there wasn’t any point in forcing me, but he obviously wasn’t pleased about it. He was in a foul mood from the word go. You could always tell when Dad was in a mood. He’d be ominously quiet, and his cheeks would turn a purply pink and his lips purse into this thin line. I guess what it was, he resented me being allowed to get away with something. Cos that’s how he would have seen it. He’d have gone to Gathering all stiff and self-righteous, thinking everyone would be on his side and say how he’d got to tie me to a table leg and force-feed me, or lock me in my room and starve me into submission. He’d have liked to do that. He’d have felt he was carrying out God’s mission. As it was, he sat and simmered all through lunch, seething as he watched me eat my vegetables. When he finally blew, it was like Vesuvius erupting. And over something utterly trivial.

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