Doreen Simpson knew now that she was invincible, for she had seen her invincibility mirrored in a man’s eyes, in a mixture of greed and desire, and she treasured the sight. It was something that made up for all the rules and duties and obligations inflicted on her nineteen years. Now she held a man in the palm of her hand. She smiled to herself as she sheltered in the church hall porch, wondering idly what she might exact from him. Some cool gear for sure, as a start, a beginning. Her imagination began to blossom. Perhaps he might then buy her a car, to take her here and there, and – for a moment she stretched credibility to fulfil desire – a flat of her own, a nice little maisonette, where she could toy with him on occasion, and be herself the rest of the time.
‘Sparky.’ A voice breaks into her reverie. ‘What did he do?’
Doreen considered the question for a moment, with all the superiority that comes from the knowledge of power. Then she shrugged. ‘He fancied me.’
‘Did you flash him, like you said you would?’
Her lip curled slightly. There is a time when a nineteen year old parts company from younger girls: it is a matter of knowledge and experience. ‘He were all eyes, weren’t he?’
It was a rhetorical question, and Susan, her companion, looked suitably impressed. ‘Whatcha gonna do nex’?’ She slurred her words together in a bid to sound coolly adult, but at sixteen she was still too coltish. She knew that Sparkles was a princess, several streets ahead of her, and that she must play handmaiden. One day her turn might come to be crowned.
‘Dunno.’ Doreen shrugged, trying to decide whether to make an immediate dash for home through the rain, or else wait for a while and hope that it would either abate, or that one of the people still in the hall might take pity on two teenage girls sheltering in the porch. She was gambling, she knew it, and playing for rich pickings. But she already has some skill at pulling men, and judged them a progression in experience. Perhaps Mr. Chapman might himself come out, instead of leaving the hall by the door to the carpark. Perhaps he might look hungrily at her again. Then she might crack her whip.
She fancied the idea of having a man eat out of her hand. Boys presented few challenges. Most sought conquests, markers on a path through adolescence, and crumbled at a smile. Some fancied themselves, true, but she generally scalped them nevertheless. Men presented more challenges: so many choices, so few guidelines. But she was young, and looked good in a mirror; and she could read most like a book. Chequebook, perhaps. She smile slightly to herself, it was a nice thought.
Now her line was out, and she only needed a good, solid take, for she has learned the skills of parlaying a twitch into a bite from Jason, her brother. Jason lived for fishing, and the two of them have spent many teenage hours together, watching and waiting beside the still waters of a canal behind their home as they whispered together of their future lives. Jason has taught her how to tempt and to tease, to draw a catch in, and land it deftly. But Jason is patient, whilst she needs action.
‘He’ll come lookin’ for me.’ She spoke thoughtfully, but she was already picturing herself out hunting. A couple of hours one morning at the station might do the trick, or else she could mount an evening patrol, watching for a big green Chrysler. She supposed that fish and married men shared much in common, comfortable in their snug little pools. But fish, and married men, might also rise to baits. She would invest in a new tank top, perhaps a touch on the small side, and rather tight-fitting, and a pair of tight jeans; high heeled sandals, and a trim to give her fair hair a tempting flick. No make-up, though maybe a little eyeshadow; no decoration, because none would be needed. She would be sweet, demure, and almost virginal, with a hint of suppressed fire. She smiled to herself. She knew that she was good at suppressed fires.
Susan looked suitably impressed. ‘Can I watch?’ She knew that she was too young to play any part in this new game, but her knowledge did not prevent her from being ambitious.
Doreen bridled. ‘You what?’ Fishing was an art, and she was no teacher. ‘Wait until you’re a big girl.’
She tossed the words out, and Susan squirmed as they landed right on target. She did not mention the subject again.
For a while they watched cars swishing anonymously past in the rain, and Doreen sighed. The hall behind them was now quiet, and it was plain the vicar, his wife and their helpers had packed up and gone. She took a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to get wet.’
The two girls ran across the road and across the village green, heading for the shelter of the small estate where they lived. Doreen could feel the thin cotton of her top cling to her, and her fair hair plastering her head, dribbling rivulets of rain into the corners of her eyes. She imagined she looked like nothing so much as a drowned rat. The thought might have triggered a wry smile at any other time: several young men had gaped admiringly after seeing her fall, fully-clothed into a swimming pool at a party. But now she just wanted to get home, and have a hot shower, and change into dry clothing.
She stood at her front door, fumbling for her key, too wet even to say goodbye to Susan, and dripped her way into the small entrance hall. The door to the livingroom was closed, but she could hear the telly, and pushed the door open. Marje and Len and Jason lay sprawled in a row on the sofa. Marje held a large bag of crisps. Her eyes flickered from the television to Doreen, and she frowned.
‘You’re wet.’
Doreen closed the door again. For a mother, Marje left much to be desired. She knew that she had been really pretty once – Doreen had seen photos. But now she was pretty much with the dogs: grown fat and frumpy, with long straggly blonde hair and a penchant for shapeless teeshirts and bulging jeans. She could still occasionally show a semblance of style, when she was in party mode, but she was drinking too much and popping far too many pills. Lager and Ecstasy are not a girl’s best friends when she is coasting up on forty.
She hurried into the bathroom, dumping her wet clothes in a heap at her feet. Len had a knack of creeping silently upstairs when she was likely to be in her undies. She locked the bathroom door, and turned the shower to its hottest, rotating under the steaming stream. Len was a dirty-minded man – she had disliked him from the moment Marje took him in, and she still does not understand why Marje took him in.
The Simpsons lived a strange, dislocated sort of life. Chris, husband to Marje, and father to Doreen and Jason, had vanished shortly after Doreen’s tenth birthday. He had been a skilled technician, working for British Airways at Heathrow. A dedicated man, devoted to his work, a proud husband and father. But there had been tensions, because Marje always wanted to be out and about when Chris wanted to relax, and she handed out too much encouragement. Then British Airways had sent him on an assignment to Brazil, and Chris had met up with Latin beauties. Perhaps one, perhaps a number. He had written to Marje a few times, and sent cards to Doreen and Jason. He wanted his children with him. But Marje had stuck out for custody, and Chris had relinquished his half of the house in a clean break settlement. He had sent alimony payments for about a year, and then they had stopped. Marje had appealed to British Airways, only to learn that Chris had moved on, possibly to the US. He had not written again, but simply vanished.
Marje had ground her teeth, and begun a new life, first finding work as a cashier at Tesco in Slough, and then a new man. Barry had lasted a couple of years, but had turned stroppy when Marje refused to have more children. He had trashed their livingroom, and Marje had called the police and the social. Then she had taken in a lodger or two, but some had made passes at Doreen, and even at Jason. A series of men had come and gone, and none had left any marked impression – though Doreen had sometimes listened with fascinated attention to gulps and gasps and brute animal sounds coming from her mother’s bedroom.
Now Len shared Marje’s bed and the family sofa. Doreen treated him with mistrust. But she was able to fend for herself, and he seemed to be keeping Marje happy: he was never short of a bob or two, and always ready to pub or club a couple of nights a week. None of the Simpsons were quite sure where he made his money – sometimes he was away for a couple of weeks at a time, and claimed to be driving a big truck to the Continent. Sometimes Marje had stopgap visitors to keep her warm meantimes. But she owned the house, Len looked after her ageing Fiesta, social paid the mortgage interest, and life rolled on.
Doreen warmed herself under the hot water, before turning the shower off to start drying herself. Then she unlocked the bathroom door, opening it a fraction to make sure nobody was on the small landing, and darted into her room. The room was tiny, little more than a bed, a built-in wardrobe, and a small chest of drawers with her TV and video. But it was a sacrosanct place, open to none, except by invitation, and she kept it spotless, always making her bed every morning – unlike Jason, who lived in a pit. Sometimes she tidied Jason’s room for him. Marje never bothered much with housework: she said she had not been to be a skivvy, and had shucked off domestic responsibilities on Jason’s fifteen birthday, some two years before. She looked after herself, of course: gentlemen friends expected clean sheets.
Doreen had nearly finished dressing when she heard a gentle tap on her door. She patted a couple of stray hairs into place and moved to stand close to it: she was careful about opening up when Len was in the house. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Jason.’
She turned her key in the lock. Jason stood on the landing holding a tray with a plate piled high with a steaming slice of pizza, surrounded by chips, a couple of Cokes and two glasses. He beamed at her.
‘Marje said she wouldn’t bring it up, you’d have to come down and get it.’
She stood back to let him pass, and then locked the door again. Len and Marje were probably now having it away on the sofa, being as they were on their own. Better that way – she wouldn’t have to listen to them through her bedroom wall. She took a knife and fork from the tray and cut herself a wedge of pizza, chewing on it with application before swallowing, then smiled in gratitude. ‘Thanks, I needed this. It was bloody dreadful outside.’
‘Where were you?’
She hesitated for a moment, before attacking the pizza again. ‘Just out.’
‘Hunting?’ Jason knew his sister.
She began to chew again, but paused for a moment to reply. ‘Fishing.’
‘Catch anything?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Round the church hall?’
She looked up sharply from her eating. ‘Who told you?’
‘You were with Susan, and there weren’t nothing else.’
Doreen chewed again for a few minutes, considering a reply. Then she decided that she might as well confide in her brother. They often shared secrets. Well, some secrets. She swallowed a mouthful of Coke. She had eaten most of the pizza, and quite a few of the chips, and felt replete.
‘There was this man, gave me the eye.’
Jason settled himself comfortably at the pillow end of her bed. He was a soft looking sort of boy, quite pretty in a way. Doreen thought sometimes that he would have made a nice sister. He was also an ace angler.
She was silent again for a moment, and then spoke with a kind of defiance. ‘I could see he fancied me.’
Jason waited for a moment, and then prompted. ‘What’cha do?’
Doreen tossed her head. ‘Gave him something to think about, didn’t I?’
‘Something?’
‘I made him want me.’
Jason considered her answer for a moment. There were limits to what a teenage girl could do in a church hall, be she ever so predatory, and he knew his sister well. He did not much care for girls, well, other girls: boastful show-offs in the main, prancing around like God’s gift, or fat, frumpish mini-Marjes, and he despised his mother. She was the talk of the village – he had heard her described as a whore. But ‘Reen, or Sparkles as she now liked to be known, after winning a Friday night pub talent contest at the Fox and Bells, was different. Like a kind of honorary boy. However he knew that eventually she would go the same way as the rest.
They were both silent, one waiting to be asked, the other waiting to be told. But Doreen was too full of her new victory to let it pass in silence. She sighed triumphantly. ‘I flashed him.’
Jason’s eyes widened. ‘You what?’
‘I flashed him.’ Doreen raised her hands to open her dressinggown, letting her small rounded breasts surge free for a quick moment, before tucking them back into place. She could see that her brother was taken aback, but his look was one of shock and surprise, with none of the lust she had seen in Harry Chapman’s eyes. She sniffed contentedly. She was a girl full of surprises.
‘Who was he?’
She shrugged. She can see that her brother was moving from shock to protectiveness. Then she decided to show off, just a little. ‘The man from the Manor House.’
‘Mr. Chapman?’
She nodded.
Now Jason looked impressed. Everyone in the village knew Mr. Chapman, the man from the big house. Mrs. Chapman organised the village’s summer fete in the big Manor House garden, and people said that they were very rich, that he owned a bank, or something like that, and a big house in France. Mr. Chapman was certainly an impressive target. But Jason was also still doubtful, because he was an angler, and anglers were well accustomed to tall stories. There was a great deal of difference between feeling a fish bite, and hauling it in. ‘You think that will pull him?’
‘It will, when he sees me again.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ll be down the station, when his wife’s waiting, in her big four wheel drive.’ Doreen grinned mischievously. ‘She’ll be in the carpark, and I’ll be on the platform. I’ll give him my mobile number.’
‘You think he’ll call you?’
‘Of course he’ll call me. He’s a dirty old man.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I’ll have him hooked.’
Jason was silent. Doreen knew that he liked to take his time in his thinking, to turn things around thoroughly in his mind. She imaginedhe might be working towards some sort of protest. She was not disappointed.
‘Oh, ‘Reen, you can’t do that.’ Jason did not look at her directly – he was sitting now on her bed with his knees hunched up in front of him – but his voice was heavy with disapproval.
‘And why not?’ Sometimes Doreen sounded very much like her mother. Neither cared to be thwarted or gainsaid. They were both free spirits, doing as they pleased.
‘You’ll end up like mum.’
‘And what if I do?’ Doreen’s voice sharpened. They were in her bedroom, her personal sanctuary, and she was not about to have some kid order her about, brother or no brother.
Jason sighed. He knew his sister, and he knew her determination. ‘People will talk about you.’
Doreen sniffed. ‘People can say what they like. I’ll be out of here anyway: I’ll get him to set me up somewhere, and I’ll be alright.’
Now Jason stared at her open-mouthed. ‘You’ve got it all planned, haven’t you?’
Doreen smiled proudly.
But he was still unconvinced. ‘What if just he just messes about with you a bit, and then dumps you?’
Doreen sat on her bed, facing him, and she was wholly determined. ‘He won’t dump me, ‘cos he’s old, and he spends all his time in an office, and I’m young, and I’ve got some life in me.’ Her voice was confident, because she was now developing thoughts that have been running in her mind for some time, drifting and twisting formlessly, seeking coherent shape. ‘I’ve seen him. He goes to work in the morning, he comes home at night, and he messes about at weekends. He’s leading a bloody dog’s life.’
‘But he might like that.’
She dismisses her brother’s protest effortlessly. ‘He don’t. He looked at me in the church hall, and he wanted me real bad. He’s getting old, and he’s missing out on life, and he knew it. I’ll put some sparkle into him.’
Jason laughed despite himself. Sometimes, when Doreen was on a roll, she could carry the world with her. ‘I wish you luck’. He stood up. He had problems of his own, but it was not a time to air them. ‘I’ll bang the door as I go out, just in case they’re busy downstairs.’