Easy Peasy by Lesley Glaister Page A

comes to me. ‘I thought I heard you shout.’
    â€˜You must have been dreaming.’
    â€˜No …’ She looks at me curiously. ‘What are you watching? Oh …’ She recognises the film and pulls a face. Jack Hawkins limps along on a bloody foot, nubile young Burmese women fluttering around.
    â€˜Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’ I pick up the Atlas and return it to the shelf, the fat envelope is tucked down the side of the bookcase. She puts her arms around me. She is all warm and silky, I rub my face in her hair.
    â€˜I shouldn’t have gone to sleep and left you.’ She squeezes my waist.
    â€˜It’s all right, Fox, honestly.’
    She yawns. ‘Shall I make some coffee or something? Want to talk?’
    â€˜What I want is for you to get your beauty sleep. You need it.’
    â€˜Cow!’ She pinches my waist and laughs. ‘Sure you’re all right alone?’
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    â€˜Is that my marching orders then?’
    We kiss. One side of her face is all creased from the crumpled pillow, there are smudges of mascara under her eyes. She eyes the bottle on the table.
    â€˜Only a couple of glasses,’ I say.
    â€˜You don’t want to be hung over.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Later then.’ She closes the door behind her. Part of me yearns to join her in her sleepiness; to get lost in her soft skin and the fragrance of her hair. But that simply cannot be. And I cannot talk to her now. I will tell her about the envelope, everything. But now I have to be alone. To think about Daddy. But thinking about Daddy always makes me think about Puddle-duck. I should not call him that. Vassily. A man now. He may be at the funeral. No. Could he be? The funeral. I had not even thought. That must be arranged. Suicide. What happens when someone commits suicide? Is there a normal funeral? Daddy … why? No, no, NO. I cannot think of that.

7
    Puddle-duck came to play on Saturday, as planned. He wore his school uniform. I could hardly believe it. On a Saturday ! I was wearing jeans with flowery triangular inserts to make them look like bell-bottoms. Hazel had Bridget round. I could have killed her. I told Mummy not to let her come but she said ‘The more the merrier – invite Elaine too if you like. You could have a tea-party.’ ‘She’s at her Nan’s,’ I said, grumpily reflecting that Mummy had simply no idea . Tea-party! With Bridget and Puddle-duck!
    â€˜Bridget’ll tell everyone we had Puddle-duck here,’ I hissed to Hazel.
    â€˜ Who had Puddle-duck here? Not me.’ She tossed her head. Hazel had the sort of hair that always falls in the right place, fair, smooth and shiny, so when she smugly tossed her head, her hair went smugly back into place. Hazel’s hair was just like Mummy’s, only shorter, and Mummy cut it for her with a long fringe and the rest hanging beautifully just below her ears. ‘It’s a dream to cut,’ she’d say, pausing between snips with the silver scissors splayed, and Hazel would smile at me with narrowed eyes. Hazel wasn’t pretty , I’d rather have died than said that, but she had blue eyes and what Mummy called regular features , all of them neat and small. My hair was wiry and brown, not exactly curly but not straight either so that when she cut it Mummy was always tutting and frowning at me with her head on one side.
    â€˜I feel like the Ugly Duckling,’ I said once, meaning for Mummy to deny it and call me pretty.
    But, ‘Never mind,’ she said, giving me an annoying hug. ‘You know what ugly ducklings have a habit of doing when they grow up.’
    Hazel who wasn’t supposed to hear, had heard, and on the way to school for weeks she would sing. ‘ There once was an ugly duckling, with feathers all tattered and torn ’, and Bridget would sing it too in a stupid American whine.
    When Puddle-duck arrived, Hazel and