Chapter 5

When Terry Zobotnik died; Joan was upset. For perhaps the first time ever, or at least for a long time, she was genuinely upset. She cried, and these were real tear, not fake wailing about ‘poor so and so, I need to help’; this was different, she was crying with large rolling tears and gasping breaths. She was really, really upset. And no-one knew why. What was it about this particular cousin? She’d ‘helped’ and hindered at several other deaths.

“I don’t understand.” Mimi was telling Jacqueline, “She is really upset; she gets distraught. I found her in the kitchen.”

“Crying? Perhaps she’s starting to think about her own mortality.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m sure. She was sitting on the floor, crying her eyes out; she couldn’t stand. I helped her up and took her to the bathroom and tidied her up. She never once mentioned herself – that’s not like her either.”

Jacqueline turned over to face Mimi and kissed her. They were lying in bed together. They were in Mimi’s house, in her bedroom. Jack and Joan were next door, having tea. Jack’s version of tea tended to be fish fingers or sausages. Mimi and Jacqueline had gone to bed first, their dinner was still in the oven, warming through

In the other house, the two girls who were home were making themselves scarce. “Got homework to do.” said Susan

“Oh, I was never allowed to do homework on a Sunday.” said Joan to the retreating figure. Jack and Joan washed up the dishes, both girls having made sure they disappeared quickly.

“Really? You weren’t allowed to do homework on a Sunday?” asked Jack

“Mother was very ... religious. No, strict. She loved us dearly, but she was very, very strict. We went to a church that regarded Brethren as back sliders.” she laughed. It had taken a while, but the angular, humourless woman had slowly come out of her thirty year (or more) hibernation; she smiled more, and she didn’t look like a badly dressed scarecrow anymore. It was all right to say that – she had said it first, when she saw a photograph of herself once. “Sundays were for ‘The Lord’. Apparently the Lord didn’t like people enjoying themselves, so Sundays were for church and reading ‘good books’ - the bible, obviously; Fox’s Book of Martyrs, not a cheerful read; a book of sermons, providing they were drab, depressing sermons. The Sabbath was not for work, so homework was out. There were days when I got up at 4am on the Monday to complete my homework. That was acceptable to my mother.”

“What about your father?”

“He was an Elder in the church. Mother had been a Presbyterian before she married him; so she was on the right road to humourless views on life already.” again with a smile “But the converted are always the strictest aren’t they? Father even felt the glare of disapproval for digging the leeks in the allotment on a Sunday. He said it wasn’t work. She said that made it fun, which was also not acceptable. He couldn’t win. Since he worked half days on Saturday, he had little enough time for the allotment. But she did want the best for us; it’s just that what she thought was best was in the next life I suppose.”

“Your mum and dad aren’t alive anymore then?”

“No. Father died first, I felt sorry for that. I had the feeling that he might have opened up a little if he’d had the chance; but there we are. Mother died five years ago of a stroke, it was a relief really. She was getting dementia, I’m sure of it; she was slowly slipping away and then bang! Well, bang bang. The first one put her in the ambulance, and I followed it to the hospital. By the time we got there, she’d had another and was dead. I would have liked to have been there when she died, to hold her hand, despite her ... well despite everything.”

“You mean her religious views?”

“Yes, but not just that. She ... she was strong on discipline. Very strong.” Joan sat down and waved at Jack to sit to. What was coming had to be explained properly, not as an off-the-cuff conversation. “When I was fifteen, Theresa was too. We got on well, I was allowed to see her a lot, even though she wasn’t in the same church. Theresa lived down the road, her family were still Presbyterian. We liked each other. When we were alone we’d compete for who had the worst family. I usually won. Then her mother got sick. Ectopic pregnancy, I eventually heard, she could have died. Things like that weren’t discussed openly, and certainly not with children. Fifteen was still ‘child’ in our family. They seem to grow up earlier now. Anyway, her mother was rushed to hospital, and Theresa came to stay. Her father kept the boy with him, he was sixteen and a half. But apparently if would have been too much to have Theresa too.”

“Probably lucky for her, she’d have ended up doing all the house work.”

“As I said, we lived close by. Mother, Theresa and I used to go round to do it. The men apparently couldn’t find the on switch to a washing machine. They made some of their own meals. Which actually means that had fish and chips from the chippy, or pie and chips, or sausage and chips. You get the idea. Well, Theresa and I shared a room. We liked that. We shared some of our clothes too. Underclothes I mean. I shared hers, I mean. There is no way she would have wanted to wear mine. Theresa was stunning to look at. She was everything a boy wants, and everything a girl wanted to copy. I wasn’t allowed to, of course. She had a good bust for a fifteen year old, she had rosy lips without makeup, wavy hair like she had a perm, slim waist, good legs. Boys were always nearby. Oddly, Mother didn’t mind me going out with boys, as a foursome that is. So Theresa often got two boys to come out with us. We never got up to any hanky panky. It was all strictly a kiss at the end and that was it. I wasn’t meant to kiss boys, but that made it more fun. We’d talk in the bedroom after. Theresa would say things like ‘good job you were with us, he wanted to get in my pants; and so did Dave’ Dave was the boy I was with, and since I was borrowing her knickers – because they were sexier, in case they got seen for any reason; they never did – she meant that Dave wanted to get into her pants that I was wearing. I laughed with her. She was so rude! Then, one night she said ‘would you let a boy ... you know. If you liked him, I mean.’ I said not ever, if I was caught Mother would kill me. She said ‘is that the only reason?’ I didn’t understand. She told me that she didn’t mind them paying for stuff, and she didn’t mind a kiss to pay them, but really, boys were a bit awful. I didn’t understand. And before I knew it, she had scooted across the room and into my bed. We carried on talking, which was nice. And she told me things. Things that ... well things I suppose Mimi and Jacqueline do. It sounded nice, interesting. I knew it was all awfully sinful. Even kissing a girl, I said. Theresa kissed me, and it felt like the best. ‘There’ she said ‘the world didn’t open up, did it?’ It was true. I wasn’t struck dead. Later I was given to understand that the punishment from God was that a boy’s thing, his penis, fell off; and a girl couldn’t have babies. That’s what the church told us. I was getting doubtful on that score. I also enjoyed kissing her. Our bodies had to be close, you understand?”