Porky by Deborah Moggach Page B

some humdrum moment; it might be days or months later. My first inkling had been when I’d lied to the flower-lady; something had shifted inside me, then.
    The second stage was more complicated, and gradual. It wasn’t until I was thirteen, and Dad and I had been having sexual intercourse for a year, that I let myself begin to realize what was happening. Pretty stupid, you might think. It may seem odd, not to dare for so many months, but it didn’t seem odd at the time. It seemed the only way I could manage to walk down the drive each morning to catch the bus, and sit just like a normal pupil in class, and mooch around the playground, one of a huddle, just like the others, and help my Mum just like an ordinary daughter without a care on her mind, trotting down to the phone box to call up the electricity, sucking my Biro over the shopping list and even chiding my Dad, oh yes, quite jauntily, when he trod mud across the lounge. And loving Teddy, who kept me sane. Slapping him, and getting maddened, but loving him all the time.
    It’s a wonderful object, the mind. What you can stop it doing. For months I did manage to keep myself separate – just – from what was happening. I was still innocent, you see, somewhere deep inside. It wasn’t so bad, in the beginning. During my first year at the big school he sometimes kissed me, in that hot, uncomfortable way, and fondled me as he had in his bed. It didn’t happen often; not even once a week. He didn’t have that many opportunities because those months Mum was working early and she was home by four. And I’d also got to know the signs. I’d be in the hen-house, for instance. The hens were my job. I’d be crouched down, searching for the eggs, when darkness fell. He was behind me, standing in the doorway and blocking the light.
    â€˜What we’d do without our Heth,’ he’d say. ‘You’re a good girl, know that? What would your Dad do without you?’
    Then he’d come in, all affectionate.
    So I stayed away from the hens. Now I was in the big school, in Class One, I had homework to do, so I stayed indoors in the lounge. Mr Talbot was ever so pleased with my progress. He said,
    â€˜Heather’s an example to you all.’
    Another thing I did was to use the toilet at the garage. As I said, our bathroom door didn’t lock. Dad wouldn’t come in, I was nearly sure of that, but I never felt quite safe. I could get down to the petrol station without being seen, by wriggling through the hedge and trotting down the depot road; it ran alongside our drive but it was hidden by the hedge.
    The toilets were out of sight of the booth; nobody seemed to use them, and the attendant had to stay at the pumps. A few years later the garage was modernized into a self-serve. This struck me as appropriate; after all, I’d been doing it for years.
    Sometimes I’d wander into the forecourt, all
insouciante
, and look at the bags of sweets on the swivel stands. There was a shop, with plush Snoopies in it and car deodorants on golden chains. The walls were covered with that plastic panelling I told you about, which Dad had nicked for Kanga’s house. The attendant I remember best was the Indian one. He didn’t seem to mind me wandering around; he was just right – not too aloof and not too familiar. In fact, he once gave me a packet of Polos. I felt relaxed at the garage. Nothing was demanded of me. I was reassured by that big public road.
    I wasn’t exactly escaping. You must remember that in those days, when I was only twelve, I still loved my Dad and felt I shouldn’t be avoiding him. That’s why I did it on the sly. If he knew, then he might turn cold on me and I couldn’t bear that. I still adored him being pleased with me and taking me on his knee. I kept my wariness well hidden and I soon learned to distinguish the times when this was safe – in company, or when he was being vague