not one of them queer paedies, are yer?”
Her meaning struck him like a blow. His face must have changed because she raised a hand in peace. “Okay, ’kay.”
“Ah, I think I should ask your father for permission before you give a stranger instruction.”
Kylee spat venom. “Look, old man. I’m back with Dad for a wasted fucking weekend because Mum’s getting herself shagged brainless by some burke in Marble Arch. I’m your tug-of-love child.” She spoke the term in a bitter falsetto. Bray felt moved. “I do fuck all every happy weekend. See my problem?”
“I apologise.”
She cackled a laugh and pointed to the screen. “You talk like them Dickens serials on telly. Listen up. We’ll dig skunk as example, okay?”
“Very well.”
A skunk? Many skunks? He supposed she had her reasons. She eyed him as he approached to watch. He noticed then that she had several mini bottles of nail varnish. Her computer keys bore coloured marks. Some keyboard letters were indecipherable under the colours.
“You haven’t a fucking clue, have you? Skunk is cannabis, weed, hash, grass.” She gave a smile like sleet. “Naughty, but it’ll give you an idea.”
Bray sat there ashamed. He didn’t feel out of his depth at work. Wood was malleable, its living spirit within reach of a man’s hands. This machinery was an impenetrable metal world where intangible electrons flew in Outer Space. Yet these unknowable machines just might help.
“Can you explain, please?”
“This is a slow old heap.” She kicked the bench in anger. “The college is too pigging mean.” Her manner became furtive. “Somebody owffed Dad’s – offed its cards in her knickers. Sold it for illicit herbal substances.” She grinned with surprising gaiety. “I’ll
bet
that’s what happened!”
Bray was out of his depth, understanding nothing.
“This isn’t what I must buy, then?”
“One fucking candle power? Watch. I’m going to switch it off, start you from scratch, okay?”
Kylee clicked something, and it resumed its glow. “Time starts now, okay?”
He agreed. She only meant the start of her instruction fee, in cigarettes. Bray meant something different.
The computer world seemed to have no beginning and no end. His mind reeled. Kylee, young enough to be his granddaughter, cursed obscenities at his incomprehension. Twice she made him take her place, only to shove him asideto restore the screen’s mad universe of signs and numbers. Stupidly he kept forgetting the punctuation, colon, comma, backslash, whatever, until she exploded, actually striking him and yelling, “You gotter say it, you senile prick! Have you no fucking sense?”
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, wondering what he’d got himself into.
She calmed down after a moment. “I don’t know letter. Gerrit?”
He examined the screen, where various emblems were displayed in three lines. He glanced at her, back to the screen, then at her array of coloured nail varnishes. Suddenly it became clear. If he’d had half the sense he was born with, he might have understood. Dyslexia, was it called? Yet if she couldn’t read, how did she manage? Why bother with symbols, letters, numbers on a fluorescing electronic screen if they meant nothing?
“I apologise, Kylee. You’re right. I’m thick.”
She barked her manic laugh. “No, you’re ’kay. I hear it, I do it in my head, see? You poor prats need it written down.”
That had given him his first smile. She had a simple deficiency. Except, he reflected,
was
it a ‘deficiency’? She’d airily said at one point, “No, Owd Un. Back five screens, yer’d gotter different picture, right?” He’d have needed pages of notes to help him remember what the hell she had made the screen do five clicks before. A brilliant child; just different. Like Davey.
Mr Walsingham entered the computer lab. He must have heard his wayward daughter spitting invective at a stranger.
“What’s happening here?” he barked.
Bray
Her meaning struck him like a blow. His face must have changed because she raised a hand in peace. “Okay, ’kay.”
“Ah, I think I should ask your father for permission before you give a stranger instruction.”
Kylee spat venom. “Look, old man. I’m back with Dad for a wasted fucking weekend because Mum’s getting herself shagged brainless by some burke in Marble Arch. I’m your tug-of-love child.” She spoke the term in a bitter falsetto. Bray felt moved. “I do fuck all every happy weekend. See my problem?”
“I apologise.”
She cackled a laugh and pointed to the screen. “You talk like them Dickens serials on telly. Listen up. We’ll dig skunk as example, okay?”
“Very well.”
A skunk? Many skunks? He supposed she had her reasons. She eyed him as he approached to watch. He noticed then that she had several mini bottles of nail varnish. Her computer keys bore coloured marks. Some keyboard letters were indecipherable under the colours.
“You haven’t a fucking clue, have you? Skunk is cannabis, weed, hash, grass.” She gave a smile like sleet. “Naughty, but it’ll give you an idea.”
Bray sat there ashamed. He didn’t feel out of his depth at work. Wood was malleable, its living spirit within reach of a man’s hands. This machinery was an impenetrable metal world where intangible electrons flew in Outer Space. Yet these unknowable machines just might help.
“Can you explain, please?”
“This is a slow old heap.” She kicked the bench in anger. “The college is too pigging mean.” Her manner became furtive. “Somebody owffed Dad’s – offed its cards in her knickers. Sold it for illicit herbal substances.” She grinned with surprising gaiety. “I’ll
bet
that’s what happened!”
Bray was out of his depth, understanding nothing.
“This isn’t what I must buy, then?”
“One fucking candle power? Watch. I’m going to switch it off, start you from scratch, okay?”
Kylee clicked something, and it resumed its glow. “Time starts now, okay?”
He agreed. She only meant the start of her instruction fee, in cigarettes. Bray meant something different.
The computer world seemed to have no beginning and no end. His mind reeled. Kylee, young enough to be his granddaughter, cursed obscenities at his incomprehension. Twice she made him take her place, only to shove him asideto restore the screen’s mad universe of signs and numbers. Stupidly he kept forgetting the punctuation, colon, comma, backslash, whatever, until she exploded, actually striking him and yelling, “You gotter say it, you senile prick! Have you no fucking sense?”
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, wondering what he’d got himself into.
She calmed down after a moment. “I don’t know letter. Gerrit?”
He examined the screen, where various emblems were displayed in three lines. He glanced at her, back to the screen, then at her array of coloured nail varnishes. Suddenly it became clear. If he’d had half the sense he was born with, he might have understood. Dyslexia, was it called? Yet if she couldn’t read, how did she manage? Why bother with symbols, letters, numbers on a fluorescing electronic screen if they meant nothing?
“I apologise, Kylee. You’re right. I’m thick.”
She barked her manic laugh. “No, you’re ’kay. I hear it, I do it in my head, see? You poor prats need it written down.”
That had given him his first smile. She had a simple deficiency. Except, he reflected,
was
it a ‘deficiency’? She’d airily said at one point, “No, Owd Un. Back five screens, yer’d gotter different picture, right?” He’d have needed pages of notes to help him remember what the hell she had made the screen do five clicks before. A brilliant child; just different. Like Davey.
Mr Walsingham entered the computer lab. He must have heard his wayward daughter spitting invective at a stranger.
“What’s happening here?” he barked.
Bray
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