Reasons She Goes to the Woods Read online

  Mer-children

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  Pearl and her brother are in the bath. He’s at the tap end. She squeezes a sponge and says that, really, she’s too old to share a bath with him. I know, he says as he busily soaps her feet. Now can I play? Pearl sighs and closes her eyes, so he starts talking to her toes. He likes to pretend they are his children. Wriggle them, he says. You have to wriggle. It’s warm in the bathroom, and her brother’s echoey whisper soothes Pearl. She imagines the damp bathroom whirling through space, past the streaking stars, little puffs of steam solidifying as they’re pulled through the window’s opening. But it feels too lonely out there, and Pearl opens her eyes. She keeps wriggling with one foot, and plants the other on her brother’s chest. He looks like a mer-boy with his sprouting tendrils of new hair and wet eyelashes. Through her foot she can feel his steady heartbeat. If you like, she says, you can lean on me. So he turns around and rests between her legs, his back against her stomach. Their brown knees break through the milky water. Shall we play being mer-people? Pearl asks, her mouth against his soapy hair. Imagine; we could swim and swim and explore the whole ocean if we liked. We could dive into caves and see all the beautiful sea-creatures stuck to the walls. What would we eat, though? her brother asks; fish is horrible. No problem, she says. We’ll feed on delicious plants. She can tell he’s thinking. Will our parents be there? he says. No, Pearl answers. Mer-children don’t have anybody, just each other. Okay then, he says, and starts to make elaborate swimming gestures.

  Dreams

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  There are some nights when Pearl lies in her bed, serious as a small effigy, while outside, creatures with gills like open wounds and wings ragged as winter cabbage leaves gather at the garden gate. There is no one to look after her; she is perfectly alone in the world. In the dark street, the lamp posts writhe with gleaming white serpents. All sorts of eyes are focused on the open window of Pearl’s room. For hours she hears halloos and snickering, her name being called by voices trying to sound friendly, nails screeching against the flimsy front door. She knows that in two bounds the stairs could be breached. In her small room Pearl’s naked, unwashed foot is hanging over the side of the bed, inches above the pongy, bone-strewn lair of a wet-skinned animal who is waking up, feeling famished, testing his jaws. And here’s Pearl’s delicious, swinging foot, dangling like a pasty at a picnic. She’s determined not to hide it; this is some sort of test, after all. She slits her eyes and sees a shape woven through the slatted headboard of her bed. It leans out and watches Pearl unkindly, dribbling on the pillow. Hot breath paws her cheeks, but she keeps her chest still, still, still. Finally the thing sighs and undulates away. Then, like a needle of silver thread piercing the neck of an old black dress, a bird shouts three radiant phrases. The stars faint, the sky blinks and Pearl stretches, throwing off the night, wanting a glass of milk and a breakfast of bacon and eggs. All the creatures rear up, appalled, and gallop away on soft, heavy hooves, or dissolve in spurts of moisture.

  Clearing up

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  Like a cold white hand held up to Pearl’s face, her mother’s bedroom door remains closed. The Blob has been taken away, and strange people are in the house when she gets home from school. Usually, Pearl grabs something to eat, edging round whoever’s in the kitchen, and runs out again. No one tries to stop her, or asks where she’s going. Sometimes she hides in the airing cupboard and chews energetically. Am I invisible? she asks herself; no one seems to see her these days. Often she has no clean socks or pants to wear. Once she crept into her mother’s room. It smelt sickening. Pearl stood by the bed and looked down. Finally, her mother’s eyes opened and she whimpered, who are you? Pearl could see crusty deposits around her lips. It looked as if someone had chopped off all her creamy hair. She sank into the bed when Pearl loomed over her. You won’t hurt me, will you? she asked. Pearl felt herself growing huge, filling the small, warm room. She bent over her mother and whispered, you’ll just have to wait and see. Screams followed her as she slipped quietly out. Most evenings Pearl hovers in the gloomy lounge. One night she unravels her mother’s knitting and burns it. Another time she gathers all the stupid pieces of bric-a-brac and smashes them behind the shed, scrabbling at the dank, wormy earth to cover the sharp bits. Late in the evening her father will come down, and Pearl can rest her head on his shoulder and stroke his hands. He doesn’t seem to notice that, gradually, she is removing all traces of her mother.

  Now what?

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  Pearl walks home from school a new way, thinking about her house, how it feels like an empty, two-storey fridge. She’s thinking so hard she bumps into a girl who has been standing, arms crossed, in the middle of the path. This girl is taller than Pearl, with a red mouth and black, stringy plaits. Fight? she asks, punching Pearl’s chest. Immediately, Pearl swings her school bag with such conviction at the girl’s head that the girl falls sideways, twisting her leg. Then they struggle. Pearl has to work hard, but she finally pins the girl to the ground. Now what? Pearl asks, trying not to pant while she straightens her clothes. The girl’s leg is bleeding and one plait has been pulled into a messy bundle. Why are you hanging round here, anyway? the girl asks, scrambling to her feet. Pearl doesn’t answer. Come on home with me, the girl says. Her name is Nita. It’s fuggy inside the house, and Pearl can smell fish, burning coal and cigarette smoke. I like your house, she tells Nita. In the lounge Pearl sits alone next to a sleeping dog. A tall boy slides in through the partially open door. He’s carrying a short bamboo stick, which he swishes about. Pearl notices he has one overlarge, staring eye. Why don’t you look at me? he asks. Am I too ugly for you? Yes, Pearl answers. He tells her to stand up. Okay, she says. The boy uses his stick to lift Pearl’s skirt up. Then he jabs it into her crotch. Pearl eyes him coolly. Now what? she says. He hears Nita coming so he deftly uses the stick to rearrange Pearl’s clothes. Gotta go, Pearl says. Will you come again? Nita asks. You bet, Pearl tells her.

  Ever ready

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  Since he’s come home, her brother seems smaller, more tearful, trailing after Pearl with his tiger under his arm. She gets angry, seeing him this way. Come here, she calls in their dark room. He dashes across to her bed. Under the covers, cross-legged, Pearl sits up and makes a space for him to nestle. He curves his body around her. Where’s your tiger? she asks, turning on her pocket torch and shining it on him. The Blob pulls the tiger out from inside his pyjama top. Give, Pearl says, and holds out her hand. The tiger’s eyes have gone, and his mouth is unravelling. Pearl gently smushes him into her brother’s face. You know he’s disabled, don’t you? she says. The Blob looks as if he’s going to cry. I’ll sew some new buttons on, she tells him. Now stop dripping and say what story you’d like. Soon Pearl is telling him about nasty aliens. How they lean out over the tops of the craters they live in and look down. They plan to zoom earthward on moonbeams, and suck children up through their long, alien noses. Why? her brother asks. Food, of course, Pearl says, and goes on describing how, maybe, at this very moment, the million-eyed aliens are hungrily gazing down at them. The Blob puts his hands over his ears. Pearl can see how their little wigwam, aglow with torchlight, would shine out into space. Let them come, she states, holding up her torch to show him the words on it. Her curl is standing out like a crescent moon and her eyes glitter. Watching Pearl, her brother hugs his tiger and smiles. Ever Ready, she tells him, thumbing her chest. That’s me.

  Winner

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  In the garden, Pearl and The Blob are having one of their periodic competitions. I’ll choose a challenge, Pearl says, and we’ll see who’s the best. Her brother is listening as he lies in the tussocky grass under the apple trees, playing with his white guinea pig. Pearl stands over him. You’re not scared, are you? she says. There’s always hope, you know. Then she nudges him briskly with her foot until he gets up. He disappears behind the shed to the hutch. In you go, Dave, she hears him say. I’ll bring you a treat later. Yeah, Dave, she calls, y
ou keep out of this. You might get your fur dirty. The Blob nods as Pearl explains that they both have to climb the tallest apple tree and jump down onto the sloping edge of the old wall. Me first, she says, scrambling up the knotted trunk. The branches are covered with a crumbly, bitter-smelling lichen that sticks to her palms. Pearl sees tight bunches of apples pocked with fungus as she goes higher. Some of the branches give way under her feet. There’s a place where a gap appears through the foliage, and far below she can just make out the top of the wall. Pearl launches off and flies through the leaves, landing like someone balancing on a surfboard. Then she jumps to the ground and her brother is on his way up. She’s startled by how fast he’s climbing these days. He shouts wildly, crashing through the branches. Then there is the sound of collapsing stones and muffled screaming. Pearl rushes over. Her brother is gasping, flat on the grass, his forehead wet with blood, his leg partially covered by stones. Pearl surveys him, hands on hips. I win, she says.

  Choke

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  In the lounge The Blob sits at their mother’s feet while she feeds him dripping chunks from a huge orange. The evening light is shot through with bursts of zest. Saliva drenches Pearl’s mouth, but she hugs her knees in a corner of the settee, unable to shake off the feeling that something is going to happen. Each time she checks, the two of them seem happy enough, chomping their orange, so Pearl closes her eyes and decides to count; maybe her father will come home before she has even got to fifty. Suddenly there’s a noise that doesn’t sound right. Pearl sees her mother stuffing pieces of orange into her brother’s mouth, steadying his struggling head with her free hand. For a moment Pearl can’t move. Her mother drops both hands and watches, fascinated, as The Blob’s face turns scarlet and his lips swell. Pearl knows he is struggling to breathe. Do something, Mother, she manages to say. But her mother does nothing. Her brother’s grunts are the only sounds in the room. He collapses onto his hands and knees while her mother, still transfixed, says tonelessly, no Pearl, you should do something. Suddenly, Pearl feels her muscles release. She dashes across the lounge and shoves her finger and thumb into his throat, pulling out a lumpy membrane of semi-chewed orange. The Blob sits up, sobbing, and Pearl makes her way unsteadily back to the settee. They both stare at their mother. Her lap is full of curves of peel. Well, she says, gathering them up in her apron, I can’t just sit here, I have things to do. Then she leaves the room.

  Sick

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  The gang are bored. Pearl watches Chris and Steven listlessly punch each other on the arms, then calls Honey over and whispers briefly into her thick hair. Dragging the boys apart, she shouts, attention you lot, follow me. Hon’s parents are out, so we’re going there. By the front door she tells Fee and the boys to wait. In the kitchen she and Honey fill bowls with all sorts of food from the fridge and cupboards. Some things they defrost in boiling water. Shoes off! she tells the gang, before leading them into the kitchen. I will choose two items of food for each of you, she explains, you have to eat them without throwing up. They all think this is a great idea, and start boasting to each other about how they are never, ever sick. Order! shouts Pearl, and selects Fee first. Seriously, she chooses a blob of corned beef and a teaspoon of cough medicine as the gang watch. Fee sniffs the spoon and starts to whine, her big front teeth winking. Pearl shovels in the spoon. Fee runs to the sink, retching, while everybody laughs. Not bad, Pearl says. Next! Not one of the gang can stop themselves being sick. Honey manages to chew hers the longest. Will refuses. Honestly! Pearl says, tapping him on the head. Now me. You can each choose one thing. Soon the big spoon is towering with, among other things, a soft sprout, peanut butter, a slick of Vick’s rub, a prune and a crumbled stock cube. Give, Pearl commands, and pushes the whole lot in. Tears fly from her eyes while she chews vigorously. Then, tipping her head back, she swallows. The gang let out a sigh. Awesome, Will says, speaking for everybody.

  Perky

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  Nita pulls the key on its string through the letterbox and opens the door. So, who’s stick boy? Pearl asks, and sniffs, checking that the house smells the same. Nita makes a face. My brother, she says. The big dog who’d slept beside her on her first visit trots up and lifts his front paws onto Pearl’s chest. Usually he bites people, Nita says. Don’t you, Perks? Pearl ruffles his ears. I don’t believe it, she says. His shaggy legs flump as they hit the carpet. Through the kitchen window the garden looks as if it’s been ploughed. A TV lies in the mud, and there’s a deflated paddling pool with brown water in its folds amongst a stand of nettles. Pearl sees Nita’s brother, so she goes out. The name’s Ken, he says, slashing weeds with his stick. He looks Pearl up and down. Big girl in some areas, aren’t you? he says. Even I can see that. Pearl gazes at him. He’s about seventeen, and his face is odd. Finally she clocks he has a false eye. He flourishes his stick, then uses it to circle her breasts. Stepping behind her, he smacks her buttocks with it. Pearl stands still. Well, you’re a little toughie, he says, facing her again. He slips his stick under his arm. Pearl is silent. His smile fades. Do you want to hold my eye? he asks. Putting one hand over the socket, he performs a scooping movement with the index finger of the other hand. Pearl is ready. He plops the moist, oval eye onto her open palm. Backing away, she feels how warm and heavy it is. Oi! Give it back! he shouts, his empty lid like a sad little mouth. The dog is sniffing around the bins. Fetch, Perky! Pearl calls, lobbing the eye into the ruined paddling pool.

  Wind chime

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  Pearl wishes her father would read to her like he did when she was little. You can read to yourself now. My little girl is far too old for that sort of thing, he’d said from behind his newspaper when she asked him to come up after she was in bed. In her room Pearl slowly takes her clothes off, not caring if she wakes her brother, and drops each item one by one. Nothing is the same, she thinks, remembering her father’s deep voice flooding over her as she used to lie all safe under the covers. She tries to make herself cry, but no tears will come. From the shelf she takes down the book her father liked most, and lays it, flopped open, on the floor. Then with bare feet she stands on the spine, listening for the tiny breaking snaps. As she picks the book up, pages flutter loose and zigzag to the carpet. Oh no, Pearl says quietly, and gathers them up. Then she lays everything out on the bed and puts each page in order. She spends a long time trying to Sellotape the pages back into the book, but now it’s unstable, scruffy, useless. As she struggles with the reel of sticky tape she starts to cry. At last she lies on the bed and allows the ruined book to fall to the floor, using a forearm bristling with torn-off segments of tape to wipe her wet face. Once her eyes are clear she looks around and notices her skeleton girl hanging from the hook on the bedroom door. She’s trying to make Pearl laugh by shaking herself about. Pearl can’t help smiling slightly; the clattering sound is almost like a cute little wind chime. But even so, there is no sound of footsteps climbing the stairs.

  Not any more

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  At last, The Blob has been given a bedroom of his own. Pearl has their old, shared room. She should be the one to have a new room. It’s only right. But then, she thinks, does it really matter? The room feels new, now all his rubbishy boy-things are gone, and Pearl’s private bits and pieces are on the windowsill; just her clothes and shoes are in the wardrobe, just her dressing gown hangs on the back of the door. And she won’t have to listen to his weird, stop-start breathing. Now she can do certain things she couldn’t do before, when he was in her face all the time. On the first night they are left alone, she and The Blob go to their rooms and shut their doors. It seems important to celebrate, so Pearl decides to dance for a while, and is dizzy when she finally gets into her nightie, turns on the bedside lamp and settles with a book. She wonders what he’s doing, all alone. Eventually there’s a knock. Really? thinks Pearl, and smiles. She listens until he knocks again. Get lost, she shouts, and sits up. The door swings open and she sees her brother standing, a fuzzy glow emanating fr
om his silhouette. He is naked, and his penis is thick and long. He stares at her and she stares back. He waits with his hands on his bony hips, swaying so that his penis looks as if it’s shaking its head. Pearl picks up her book and thinks about the man on the canal bank, and how the red tip of his penis emerged from his filthy trousers. Well? her brother says. Sighing, Pearl starts to read. Well, she answers. You’re certainly not The Blob any more, are you?

  Bleeding

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  On Friday afternoon there is a special class. This is s’posed to give you all the info you need, you know, to be an adult, Honey tells Pearl as they sprawl on their back-row chairs. Pearl thinks that’s stupid. Prepare to be sick, Honey says, making retching sounds. It’s periods today. Pearl sits electrified throughout the class. Blood? she thinks, really? It’s disgusting. The boys snigger, shifting in their seats. Stop being so childish! the teacher shouts. But, Pearl thinks, just what’s wrong with being a child? On the way home from school she’s unable to speak. Honey is trying to guess who’s started their period and who hasn’t. Have you, Pearl? she asks. ’Course, Pearl says shortly. Then she runs, feeling as if someone is trying to grab her by the hair. At home she can’t eat any food. Please yourself, her mother tells her, and turns back to the oven. Don’t think there’ll be any snacks later, madam. Pearl goes to her room, closes her curtains and lies down. So, soon she’ll be bleeding every month. It’s hard to take in. How can that be right? she wonders. A person only bleeds when they’ve cut themselves. And it’s hard enough, say, bleeding from your arm. She thinks of all the women and girls she knows. At any time, any number of them might be bleeding into their pants. It’s so gross she can’t stand it. Then she thinks about her mother. The idea of her mother oozing blood from between her legs makes Pearl feel faint. She dashes to the bathroom and throws up in the toilet. Wiping her mouth with her hand, she catches her breath; her father must know about this. How does he feel?