Читать книгу That Stranger Next Door - Goldie Alexander - Страница 9

Ruth

I woke this morning with two thoughts - both of them incredible. One, that our next-door neighbour was or might be Evdokia Petrov. This would normally have been exciting news in my ordinary life, but was almost insignificant compared to the other thought, which was: Patrick Sean O'Sullivan.

Basically, I couldn't get Patrick out of my mind: how nice he was; when I could see him again to return his hankie; hoping he liked me enough to keep meeting me; and, most of all, how, because he was a St James boy, how I had to hide this from Mamma.

I was most definitely not allowed to mix with any Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, Baptist or Methodist boys.

I walked very slowly to and from school that day, and the next, with Patrick's clean and carefully folded hankie in my pocket and the right words on my lips, but I didn't run into him again.

I was perfectly happy at St Margaret's Anglican College, but sometimes I wondered what my life would have been like if I'd gone to University High, with my friend Nancy.

Maybe I wouldn't just dream about having a boyfriend. Maybe I would already know what 'making love' is all about. All the anatomy texts in our school library had certain chapters - all the ones on reproduction - carefully scissored out.

I felt ignorant about all those things, and others like: why some women are described as loose; and why a family Nancy knew were going through 'a messy divorce'. The last time this came up, Nancy and I were talking on the telephone. She told me: 'Mum says she was having an affair and her husband put this detective onto her. It got written up in the Truth newspaper. Now she'll probably lose her kids.'

'That's a bit harsh,' I murmured.

'Not really.' Nancy's righteous-mother voice explained. 'I mean, she was having an affair…'

'You know,' I confessed. 'I'm not really sure how you have an affair, like what do you do?'

A long silence was followed by one of Nancy's loud giggles. 'The guys use their willies.'

'How? What does they look like?'

'Well, we know what Leon's willy looks like.'

'Sure.' But, as I've never seen Papa naked, I said, 'I don't know what a grown-up willy looks like.'

'The statues in the national gallery have willies.'

'But they're covered in fig leaves.' A truck roared past. I changed the receiver to my other ear. 'I might know what Leon's looks like, but he's a boy. Maybe a grown-up willy is different. Anyway, I'm not sure how Leon's works except for peeing. Sometimes in the bath when I'm washing his hair it sticks up.'

'Selma says that the willy goes into the lady's bottom,' Nancy sounded all knowing. Maybe she would have said a lot more but the telephonist had butted in scolding us for holding up the line.

When I first got the curse, Mamma took me aside to say: 'Ruth, now you are all grown up, this means your body is ready to make babies.'

'How does it do that?' I asked. Mamma's answer was to look flustered. 'Well, it's important to keep yourself clean down there,' she pointed to my crotch. 'Never let anyone touch your breasts, and don't shampoo your hair when you have your period or you'll catch cold.'

That was it!

I didn't tell her that sometimes I've walked into her bedroom and seen Papa's hand on her breast. It always brought tears to my eyes, though I didn't know why.

If ever I tried bringing this subject up again, she always changed the subject to something I should, or shouldn't be doing, so I usually tried to escape. How stupid it was to be ignorant about something this important. How could I know what to do if I ever got a boyfriend? One of the Form Five girls at St Margaret's had a reputation for being fast. All I ever glimpsed was her pashing on with a St. James boy in the milk bar down the road.

Did kissing give you babies?

Nancy and I talked a lot about boys. That was fine for Nancy as there were several in Form Five she rather liked. Right now she was eyeing off Ben Levy. She never stopped talking about him, how good looking he was, how he sometimes smiled at her, and did this mean he was interested? And what did I think? And anyway, what did she have to do to get him to talk to her?

That was all very well for Nancy. But at an all girls' school, where was I supposed to meet any boy except by accident, like running into Patrick Sean O'Sullivan?

Nor would Mamma ever say anything about what it was like to be grown-up except: 'Ruth, your major aim when you are older must be to marry a nice boy.' And by nice boy she meant a nice Jewish boy with prospects of a good profession.

Of course she would always add: 'And you must know how to look after him, cook a good meal, run a clean house and know how to bring up your children.'

By now I knew there was no point in arguing, no point in reminding her that many women were famous for taking on professions run by men. Sometimes I secretly hated her for trying to turn me into someone I wasn't.

As the week continued, Eva kept approaching Mamma with more errands for me to run. Each time we went through the same routine. She'd invite me into her hallway, slam the door behind me and hand me too much money. I was sent to the butcher for a pound of steak and a pound of sausages; the greengrocer for apples, tomatoes, onions, beetroot, half a cabbage and a carton of Craven A cigarettes; then downstairs to Papa's milk bar for milk, butter, a small dish of Mamma's egg salad, and two slices of walnut and apple strudel.

For these I earned another five and sixpence. The newsagent down the street had second hand copies of Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby. I bought both.

One day she asked me to hang her washing on the line. She didn't own any pegs, so I borrowed Mamma's. There were towels, sheets, underwear, blouses. Everything, even her underwear, looked brand new. This time I got no payment, instead she took me further into her flat, seated me at her kitchen table and offered me a biscuit and a glass of milk.

'No thanks,' I said, but as I wanted an excuse to hang around I asked for a glass of water.

Eva rinsed a glass, filled it from a jug in her refrigerator and handed it to me. 'Spasiba,' I said. 'Thanks.'

She watched with a slight frown as I drained the glass. Then she said, 'You no tell Eva here. No tell anyone.'

'Of course not,' I said quickly. 'This is a secret between us.'

'Sikriot? Secret?' Her face cleared. 'Yes, secret. You, me, have secret.'

All this time I was looking around for some hint that would tell me more about her. Apart from a few dishes on the sink, and the contents of her refrigerator, there was nothing to suggest that anyone lived here; no paintings, ornaments, books, photos or records. The flat was anonymous. No hint of her previous life.

I wanted to ask why she was too frightened to go outside, but there was something so private about her, I just didn't dare. My strongest impression was that she was scared. But of what? The only logical and rational explanation I could come up with was that she really was Evdokia Petrov, and therefore frightened of being dragged back to Russia by the terrifying secret service, the KGB.