hand at the small of her back pulled her in close, another slid under her full skirts. There was a small thud as the back of her head bumped against the metal door.
âFour and one. Forty-one.â Lifeâs begun .
Back inside, as they slow danced, her head on his shoulder, breathing in his smell, her limbs seemed not to be joined to her body in the same way. The springs under the dance floor no longer supported her as she moved but seemed to work against her, causing her to lurch and sway, to cling to Charlie. Thinking of the potential consequences made her feel queasy. But everyone knew the first time was safe. Theyâd be more careful in future.
âTwo and eight. Twenty-eight.â In a state .
The pain was more than anyone could ever have warned her. It rose up in dark red waves that swamped her completely. âPainâ was too small and weak a word for this force. It was bigger than her, bigger than the room, the hospital, something separate and unstoppable. Her mother walked over to the window in small precise steps and stared into the darkness with her lips pressed together.
The numbers kept coming and Dora stamped them off one afteranother. She glanced up at the podium. Soon the game would be over and Colin would be reduced once more to making smutty innuendoes to get attention. He would stay up there all the time if theyâd let him, Dora thought.
Her card was filling up as if Colin was reading the numbers over her shoulder. She felt sweat prickle on the back of her neck. Her sense of being on the edge of something increased. She pressed her forearms down hard on the table, trying to get a grip without making it obvious she needed to. It felt as if the whole balcony was tipping forwards into the hall in the direction of the café at the far end, where the revolving stage used to be.
The whole affair had been managed by two hand cranks, one on either side of the stage. âWatch this,â Charlie had whispered in her ear, then walked that walk of his towards the stage. Dora watched as he and three of his pals took hold of the cranks, two men to each, and started working them as hard as they could. The stage began to turn, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the Johnny Kildare Orchestra went into the closing bars of âIâll be Loving You Alwaysâ. The band leaned in against the spin, tried their best to look as if nothing was happening, and kept playing. They were half way round when there was a grinding noise and the stage left its runners altogether, tipping the band off into a flailing pile of tuxedoes and instruments. Cheers went up from the crowd. Charlie and his mates sped past, an irate brass section close behind.
âOne and three. Thirteen.â Unlucky for some .
There was no reason to think Angela wasnât nursing in Australia. No reason at all. Certainly no reason to imagine sheâd ended up a druggie, like those lassies in the flats, shacked up with some arsehole who beat her up, or with ten kids she couldnât feed that got taken off her one by one by the social, orgiving hand-jobs to men who avoided eye contact and swore at her when they came, or beaten and dumped in a ditch with her own bra twisted around her neck, eyes wide open, staring at the sky for days, weeks, without anybody noticing she was gone. And all of it made possible because she believed her own mother didnât want her, had never loved her. But that wasnât true at all.
What was true and what wasnât didnât make much difference to what happened to a person in life. It hadnât to her, or to Angela â if that was even her name now, wherever she was, whoever she was. Adoption was easily done in those days. Happened all the time â the product of ignorance and prejudice. She wasnât anything special. She just thought too much. Thatâd always been her problem. Left to her own devices, her mind invariably wandered back to the well-worn
âFour and one. Forty-one.â Lifeâs begun .
Back inside, as they slow danced, her head on his shoulder, breathing in his smell, her limbs seemed not to be joined to her body in the same way. The springs under the dance floor no longer supported her as she moved but seemed to work against her, causing her to lurch and sway, to cling to Charlie. Thinking of the potential consequences made her feel queasy. But everyone knew the first time was safe. Theyâd be more careful in future.
âTwo and eight. Twenty-eight.â In a state .
The pain was more than anyone could ever have warned her. It rose up in dark red waves that swamped her completely. âPainâ was too small and weak a word for this force. It was bigger than her, bigger than the room, the hospital, something separate and unstoppable. Her mother walked over to the window in small precise steps and stared into the darkness with her lips pressed together.
The numbers kept coming and Dora stamped them off one afteranother. She glanced up at the podium. Soon the game would be over and Colin would be reduced once more to making smutty innuendoes to get attention. He would stay up there all the time if theyâd let him, Dora thought.
Her card was filling up as if Colin was reading the numbers over her shoulder. She felt sweat prickle on the back of her neck. Her sense of being on the edge of something increased. She pressed her forearms down hard on the table, trying to get a grip without making it obvious she needed to. It felt as if the whole balcony was tipping forwards into the hall in the direction of the café at the far end, where the revolving stage used to be.
The whole affair had been managed by two hand cranks, one on either side of the stage. âWatch this,â Charlie had whispered in her ear, then walked that walk of his towards the stage. Dora watched as he and three of his pals took hold of the cranks, two men to each, and started working them as hard as they could. The stage began to turn, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the Johnny Kildare Orchestra went into the closing bars of âIâll be Loving You Alwaysâ. The band leaned in against the spin, tried their best to look as if nothing was happening, and kept playing. They were half way round when there was a grinding noise and the stage left its runners altogether, tipping the band off into a flailing pile of tuxedoes and instruments. Cheers went up from the crowd. Charlie and his mates sped past, an irate brass section close behind.
âOne and three. Thirteen.â Unlucky for some .
There was no reason to think Angela wasnât nursing in Australia. No reason at all. Certainly no reason to imagine sheâd ended up a druggie, like those lassies in the flats, shacked up with some arsehole who beat her up, or with ten kids she couldnât feed that got taken off her one by one by the social, orgiving hand-jobs to men who avoided eye contact and swore at her when they came, or beaten and dumped in a ditch with her own bra twisted around her neck, eyes wide open, staring at the sky for days, weeks, without anybody noticing she was gone. And all of it made possible because she believed her own mother didnât want her, had never loved her. But that wasnât true at all.
What was true and what wasnât didnât make much difference to what happened to a person in life. It hadnât to her, or to Angela â if that was even her name now, wherever she was, whoever she was. Adoption was easily done in those days. Happened all the time â the product of ignorance and prejudice. She wasnât anything special. She just thought too much. Thatâd always been her problem. Left to her own devices, her mind invariably wandered back to the well-worn
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