Unbecoming by Jenny Downham Read Free Book Online Page B

there’d be no need for Dad’s reckless spending.
    â€˜I don’t ask for presents,’ Mary had hissed back at her. ‘He’s making up for his bad temper!’
    â€˜And why does he manage to keep his temper with me?’
    â€˜Because you’re so well-behaved.’
    Pat was pleased with that answer. Being ‘good’ was her small delight – to be the one who could predict Dad, who could tell the difference between ‘tight-but-good-spirited’ and ‘drunk-and-grief-stricken’, who knew from the way he shut the door after coming in from the pub if he needed his pipe and slippers and her company by the fire, or if he’d rather be alone in the sitting room with the photograph album and his whisky.
    â€˜It’s not his fault,’ Pat said. ‘It’s the sorrow.’
    And because Pat had been twelve when Mum died, she understood how that felt. And because Mary had only been three days old, she wasn’t supposed to understand it at all.
    But sometimes Mary dared to creep into Dad’s bedroom to look at the wedding photo and touch Mum’s face through the glass. Here was a mother who had lost son after son at birth, who had been warned by a doctor never to have more children, but who had refused to listen. Here was a mother who said, ‘I’m having one more and this last one will be the best of the bunch!’
    And when she got pregnant with Mary, all her hair fell out, and when the doctor told her the baby was going to fall out too, she lay on the sofa and didn’t move for months. And when Mary was born, she looked just like her. Copper Top , Dad called Mary sometimes, my beautiful Copper Top .
    Pat didn’t look anything like their mother. Pat had mouse-brown hair and was the recipient of rare and sober parcels from their father – a cotton apron with pockets, a case of peaches from some fellow at the yard, a sturdy brush for the steps. She seemed pleased with these things, but Mary thought them dull.Pat never got anything so lovely as yards of beautiful silk.
    â€˜We’ll share it,’ Mary tells her sister. ‘There’s plenty. It’ll make two dresses.’
    Pat rams a cosy on the pot and turns to their father. ‘Where exactly do you imagine her wearing such a dress?’
    Dad shrugs amiably. ‘She can wear it round the house, can’t she?’
    â€˜A silk dress, for round the house?’ Pat juts her chin at him. ‘Do you not see how this encourages her?’
    He gives her no answer as he reaches for a slice of bread and butter. He searches the table for the jam pot.
    Pat plonks herself opposite him. ‘When I was growing up I was never allowed fripperies.’
    â€˜When you were growing up, there was a war on.’
    â€˜And I had to keep house for the two of you! I had to count the pennies and queue at the grocer’s and get tea on the table and generally make do and mend. No one ever bought me presents.’
    Mary doesn’t want this gift to cause a rift. She stands up and holds the shortest edge of silk under her chin, lets the length of it tumble to her ankles, hoping to distract them. She twists her hips and watches the material ripple. ‘There’s magic in it, look. Like Cinderella’s ball gown.’
    Dad chuckles. ‘And Pat will be a fairy godmother and turn it into something for you.’
    Pat’s scowl deepens. ‘And when will I have time to do that?’
    â€˜You’ll find time.’ Dad reaches for his knife as if it were settled. ‘And if there’s any spare, you can make something for yourself.’
    â€˜Spare?’ Pat says. ‘I get the spare?’
    He gazes at her curiously as he spreads jam on his bread. ‘You don’t like dressing up. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in dancing or music.’
    â€˜I don’t like noise and drunkenness, but I like a fiesta.’
    â€˜When was the last