Schooling by Heather McGowan Read Free Book Online Page A

was supposed to be funny but turned out squalid. Afterwards, in the boxy room upstairs, she listened to the darts players who would not be quelled at half-past but bullied the owner until nearly one.
    Oh, you’re remembering it all wrong, the guide glares. For God’s sake, it was never like that.
    Why, Father, was another question driving to the final houses on Christmas Eve. Called away from mince pies, the owners guarded their doorways, refusing anecdotes. Why, she asked again on the way to the restaurant, Father, if we have the money, can’t we go back?
    They arrived.
    Back to America, Father?
    Abstraction can increase impact . . . the guide presents a scene . . . Though one mustn’t see abstraction where there is in fact flesh.
    A restaurant for Christmas dinner, distorted, abstract. A Savoy or An Emerald. Lost gentility of some kind. Where the lamplight was orange, silver burnished. Unevenly, the strings struck up ’Tis the Season and when the prawns arrived, went Dashing Through the Snow. Sunk low in the red leather banquette, lemon chiffon uneaten before her, she watched elderly couples glide across the parquet. Dances with diagrams. Father ordered port and after a few sips, spirited a bewigged woman around the floor. The apologetic husband tripped on his shoes, she averred discreetly from the man’s breath. After a polite while, she excused herself for a powder, leaving Father to foxtrot or jitterbug or lindy.
    The eye craves analogies, it’s human nature.
    Unseen on her return, she leaned against the banquette, hungry for analogy, reviewing the scene around the table. Well it seemed a festive occasion for all. The wife in her slipped wig, Father showing the man her new camera. The man concentrated on the dials, How will your girl ever learn to use it?
    She’s clever for her age, like I was, Father told him. The wife righted her wig lazily, But a sullen girl, isn’t she? Somewhat sullen?
    Catrine coughed. Sullenly. They turned.
    Moving on then . . . the docent looks at a boy crouched examining the floor, elbows between knees . . . In your own time, Junior.
    On the drive home Father turned down the radio, You had no business disappearing like that. None at all. I couldn’t think where you’d gone.
    Come on, darling . . . the mother extends a hand . . . You’ll like the ships.
    A different kind of Christmas doesn’t seem so long ago . . . she told the dash, touched it, there it was, an oil still life knocked askew by a tree branch . . . Christmas in America.
    Father kept his eyes on the dark road where it unlashed before them. Well. The night went on. Now we’re in London.
    His answer to many questions. In London, Father eats his toast standing as he calls down the corridor, Get a move on,
Cahhtreen
. From swirled blankets she answers, Please let me sleep. I’ll take a tube to the museum this afternoon, while having no intention of taking the tube to anywhere but sleep. Father comes to the door then, triangle in hand. I don’t know what you get up to all day, but I can at least rest easy you’ve had an educated morning. Henceforth taxi, briefcase, combination, art because she is a lucky girl, and then the long wait for Father, home at six balancing a tin of something to cook as he shuts the door behind him. To his knowledge, she has never been to the quay, Shepherd’s Bush or crossed the bridge on foot. When she said she had seen Lawrence of Arabia at the cinema in Notting Hill, Father said, What, old Larry again? then stopped spooning out rice. Gripping her arms, he sat her down on the plastic chair. Did anyone speak to you because if they did or if they do again I want you to scream your bloody head off. Did they? Yes, she said, yes someone did speak to me, Father, I didn’t know I was supposed to scream. Father went very still. Tell me, he said. Tell me. Well, she said and maybe it wasn’t so funny, A lady carrying a tray asked wouldn’t I like a Cornetto. Father’s face took on a look but then