Porky by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page A

into my dressing gown. I’d never seen my Mum and Dad kissing but then I knew they did that in their bedroom. After all, my Mum had made those stifled noises, as if she couldn’t breathe.
    â€˜Look at her, then,’ said a voice. ‘Popped off.’
    â€˜Don’t she look peaceful?’
    â€˜Should be tucked up safe and sound.’
    â€˜Shouldn’t we all?’
    I sat very still. I didn’t want them to leave.
    Dad’s boots moved. ‘Upsy-daisy, Podge,’ said his voice. ‘Action stations.’
    I made myself go limp as he lifted me up and carried me into my room. He didn’t attempt to undo my dressing-gown buttons, thank goodness. I kept my eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t manage the sheets so he laid me on them and put the eiderdown on top. He sat down heavily for a moment, catching his breath; then he climbed to his feet and I heard him tiptoe out and shut the door.
    Next morning he slept until midday. I’d already let the hens out. I could tell the time by the animals’ noises – noon: the hens standing around the back porch making enquiring sounds in their throats; Rinty stirring in the shed and rattling his chain. I was usually right, because then the hooter sounded in the depot.
    I stood in the lounge. I’d drawn the curtains and opened the windows. I looked at the bottles, and the saucers full of ash. How could my baby brother survive in a house like ours? My Mum had been given a plant once, when she’d left a job. It was a big glossy one. She’d watered it all right but the leaves went mottled, then crinkled brown, as I knew they would. It died, still wrapped in its ribbon. It was too new for the place we lived. Wouldn’t the same thing happen to our baby?
    I was worried about myself too. I cleared up the lounge and emptied the ashtrays. I tried to concentrate on what I was doing. In the kitchen I stopped and felt my tummy. It was the usual firm bulge. I knew I’d get fatter, of course, but surely you had to be grown-up, and married, and wearing a bra, to start a baby?
    I couldn’t think who to ask. Not Dad, for a start, and certainly not Mum. I wouldn’t be seeing my two friends at primary school, Nancy and Debbie, until next term, and anyway I had a feeling they didn’t even know as much as I did. I needed an adult. The ones I knew were mostly men, Dad’s mates, which ruled them out. Oonagh, who’d minded me when I was little, was also no good because she was my Mum’s friend; they talked together in a hushed, significant way. I’d chatted to some of the ladies who picked the cabbages in the field behind us, but they weren’t around now because it was spring.
    I decided to ask my friend with the flowers. She was kind and I felt, because she was always going on about her boys and her cruel kidneys, that she wouldn’t be too nosey about why I wanted to know.
    I went down the drive and out along the road. Cars roared past. I’d brought along Kanga for security. Her neck was getting thin and her grey head nodded as we walked. If only I could ask her; after all, she was a mum. Roo’s head poked out, with his dear glassy eyes. They both looked wise but I knew by then that I could no longer ask them questions.
    The lady wasn’t there. Beside the lay-by was the bald patch of earth where she usually put her chair. Some days she didn’t turn up. She’d told me she was a happy-go-lucky soul, despite her complaints, and life wasn’t going to get her down. She must be off somewhere, gadding about.
    I walked slowly home, Kanga’s head lolling. I went into our garage, where my old pram was stored. Dad had removed the heap of plastic sacks and newspapers, in preparation. I looked inside it, for the first time in years. There was the rubber mattress where I had lain, once; there was the tear in the lining where I had liked inserting my forefinger, wriggling it to and fro. How snug I