Meeting the English by Kate Clanchy

And Struan dropped his eyes and wondered how he knew.
    â€˜Are you going to wait?’ he said. ‘She won’t be long.’
    â€˜Oh no,’ said Jake, dimpling, ‘can’t wait, can I? Can’t stay. Cos you’re in my room, Strew-anne. Aren’t you?’
    This had never properly occurred to Struan. He was in Jake’s place. He was doing for Jake’s dad what he had done for his own dad. He was stopping Jake from doing it. No wonder Jake was being funny with him.
    â€˜I do believe,’ said Jake, ‘you’re even wearing my trousers.’
    â€˜Look,’ said Struan, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll move, I’ll go home. I was just thinking about it anyway. You have your room back. You take care of your dad.’
    Jake slapped his hand on his skinny white-clothed thigh. He actually laughed. ‘Change Dad’s nappies?’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
    Struan’s eyes stung. He turned away. He picked up the serrated knife and put it in the dishwasher. He started to wrap the ham in its waxed paper. He thought about his own father, at the end, stranded and hairless in his wheelchair, and of the vast, insuperable difference between himself and this gilded wheeling stranger. He could only say it in his native tongue.
    â€˜How no?’ he asked. But the window was wide and Jake was gone.
    *   *   *
    At four in the morning, Juliet was sitting on Seal’s window seat doing her thigh-pinching. Each pinch drained the flesh of blood, turned it the new fashionable colour; the one Mum had done the living room in the flat, magnolia. Juliet pinched harder, then let go, and surveyed the red line. It would show in the morning, but it didn’t matter. No one saw her in her swimming costume anyway. No one saw her without her clothes. No one ever would.
    She wondered if she should do the cutting yourself thing, she’d read about it in Cosmopolitan, but then she thought how much fat she’d have to razor through to reach a vein. Like slicing a French Fancy for the jam. And it just wouldn’t look right, anyway: razor cuts on fat arms. Like so many kinds of rebellion, tattoos, and leather, and transvestism, like going to the comp or losing your virginity, you just had to be thin to pull it off. She wished it wasn’t so hot. Dawn, and hot enough for her fringe to stick to her forehead, for a single drop of sweat to run down her back.
    Silent and light, Celia slipped from her bed and sat beside her on the window seat. She laid a slim flat paw on Juliet’s shoulder.
    â€˜Are you OK?’ she said.
    â€˜I’m in love too, you know,’ said Juliet, ‘me and Struan. At it every night. He’s gorgeous you know, he’s really tall.’
    In the half-light, Celia unzipped the cushion cover, and slid a hand under the cushion, and pulled out a blister-pack of pills.
    â€˜Juliet,’ she said, ‘listen. I’ve got just the right thing for you.’

9
    The next morning, Struan overslept. It was nearly nine when he staggered downstairs, his ribs bruised from the assault by the Velux, his tongue dry in his mouth. He was prepared to resign if there was any funny business: that was what he was thinking. He could just go back to his gran, and start over. He could get another job. He’d found a magazine called The Lady lining the vegetable box in the kitchen, and it had ads in the back, stuff he could do, no problem. But here was Shirin, neat in white jeans in the hall, picking up the estate agents’ brochures that were scattered all over it and rolling them up in her hands. She turned to him and smiled.
    â€˜Struan,’ she said, getting the stress perfectly. He loved her voice. Her accent was hardly foreign at all, just had a little fur and creak to it: chamois leather over glass. ‘I hope you’re OK.’
    â€˜I overslept,’ said Struan. ‘I’m