‘Trust me, Clark,’ he murmured, ‘I am a Molahonkey virgin.’
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to sing.
I wi-li-lished I li-li-lived in Molahonkey la-la-land
The la-la-land where I-li-li was bo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lorn
So I-li-li could play-la-lay my o-lo-lold banjo-lo-lo
My o-lo-lold ban-jo-lo-lo won’t go-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo.
‘Jesus Christ.’
I took another breath.
I too-lo-look it to-lo-lo the me-le-lender’s sho-lo-lop to
See-lee-lee what they-le-ley could do-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo
They sai-lai-laid to me-le-le your stri-li-lings are sho-lo-lot
They’re no-lo-lo more u-lu-luse to you-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-loo.
There was a short silence.
‘You are insane. Your whole family is insane.’
‘But it worked.’
‘And you are a God-awful singer. I hope your dad was better.’
‘I think what you meant to say was, “Thank you, Miss Clark, for attempting to entertain me.”’
‘I suppose it makes about as much sense as most of the psychotherapeutic help I’ve received. Okay, Clark,’ he said, ‘tell me something else. Something that doesn’t involve singing.’
I thought for a bit.
‘Um … okay, well … you were looking at my shoes the other day?’
‘Hard not to.’
‘Well, my mum can date my unusual shoe thing back to when I was three. She bought me a pair of bright-turquoise glittery wellies – they were quite unusual back then – kids used to just have those green ones, or maybe red if you were lucky. And she said from the day she brought them home I refused to take them off. I wore them to bed, in the bath, to nursery all through the summer. My favourite outfit was those glitter boots and my bumblebee tights.’
‘Bumblebee tights?’
‘Black and yellow stripes.’
‘Gorgeous.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Well, it’s true. They sound revolting.’
‘They might sound revolting to you, but astonishingly, Will Traynor, not all girls get dressed just to please men.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Everything women do is with men in mind. Everything anyone does is with sex in mind. Haven’t you read The Red Queen?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I can assure you I’m not sitting on your bed singing the “Molahonkey Song” because I’m trying to get my leg over. And when I was three, I just really, really liked having stripy legs.’
I realized that the anxiety that had held me in its grip all day was slowly ebbing away with every one of Will’s comments. I was no longer in sole charge of a poorly quadriplegic. It was just me, sitting next to a particularly sarcastic bloke, having a chat.
‘So come on, then, what happened to these gorgeous glittery wellies?’
‘She had to throw them away. I got terrible athlete’s foot.’
‘Delightful.’
‘And she threw the tights away too.’
‘Why?’
‘I never found out. But it broke my heart. I have never found a pair of tights I loved like that again. They don’t do them any more. Or if they do, they don’t make them for grown women.’
‘Strange, that.’
‘Oh, you can mock. Didn’t you ever love anything that much?’
I could barely see him now, the room shrouded in the near dark. I could have turned the overhead light on, but something stopped me. And almost as soon as I realized what I had said, I wished I hadn’t.
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly. ‘Yes, I did.’
We talked a bit longer, and then Will nodded off. I lay there, watching him breathe, and occasionally wondering what he would say if he woke up and found me staring at him, at his too-long hair and tired eyes and scraggy beginnings of a beard. But I couldn’t move. The hours had become surreal, an island out of time. I was the only other person in the house, and I was still afraid to leave him.
Shortly after eleven, I saw he had begun to sweat again, his breathing becoming shallower, and I woke him and made him take some fever medication. He didn’t talk, except to murmur his thanks. I changed his top sheet and his pillowcase, and then, when he finally slept again, I lay down a foot away from him and, a long time later, I slept too.
I woke to the sound of my name. I was in a classroom, asleep on my desk, and the teacher was rapping a blackboard, repeating my name again and again. I knew I should be paying attention, knew that the teacher would see this slumber as an act of subversion, but I could not raise my head from the desk.
‘Louisa.’
‘Mmmhghh.’
‘Louisa.’
The desk was awfully soft. I opened my eyes. The words were being spoken over my head, hissed, but with great emphasis. Louisa.
I was in bed. I blinked, letting my eyes focus, then looked up to find Camilla Traynor standing over me. She wore a heavy wool coat and her handbag was slung over her shoulder.
‘Louisa.’
I pushed myself upright with a start. Beside me, Will was asleep under the covers, his mouth slightly open, his elbow bent at right angles in front of him. Light seeped in through the window; telling of a cold, bright morning.
‘Uh.’
‘What are you doing?’
I felt as if I had been caught doing something awful. I rubbed at my face, trying to gather my thoughts. Why was I in here? What could I tell her?
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to sing.
I wi-li-lished I li-li-lived in Molahonkey la-la-land
The la-la-land where I-li-li was bo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lorn
So I-li-li could play-la-lay my o-lo-lold banjo-lo-lo
My o-lo-lold ban-jo-lo-lo won’t go-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo.
‘Jesus Christ.’
I took another breath.
I too-lo-look it to-lo-lo the me-le-lender’s sho-lo-lop to
See-lee-lee what they-le-ley could do-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo
They sai-lai-laid to me-le-le your stri-li-lings are sho-lo-lot
They’re no-lo-lo more u-lu-luse to you-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-loo.
There was a short silence.
‘You are insane. Your whole family is insane.’
‘But it worked.’
‘And you are a God-awful singer. I hope your dad was better.’
‘I think what you meant to say was, “Thank you, Miss Clark, for attempting to entertain me.”’
‘I suppose it makes about as much sense as most of the psychotherapeutic help I’ve received. Okay, Clark,’ he said, ‘tell me something else. Something that doesn’t involve singing.’
I thought for a bit.
‘Um … okay, well … you were looking at my shoes the other day?’
‘Hard not to.’
‘Well, my mum can date my unusual shoe thing back to when I was three. She bought me a pair of bright-turquoise glittery wellies – they were quite unusual back then – kids used to just have those green ones, or maybe red if you were lucky. And she said from the day she brought them home I refused to take them off. I wore them to bed, in the bath, to nursery all through the summer. My favourite outfit was those glitter boots and my bumblebee tights.’
‘Bumblebee tights?’
‘Black and yellow stripes.’
‘Gorgeous.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Well, it’s true. They sound revolting.’
‘They might sound revolting to you, but astonishingly, Will Traynor, not all girls get dressed just to please men.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Everything women do is with men in mind. Everything anyone does is with sex in mind. Haven’t you read The Red Queen?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I can assure you I’m not sitting on your bed singing the “Molahonkey Song” because I’m trying to get my leg over. And when I was three, I just really, really liked having stripy legs.’
I realized that the anxiety that had held me in its grip all day was slowly ebbing away with every one of Will’s comments. I was no longer in sole charge of a poorly quadriplegic. It was just me, sitting next to a particularly sarcastic bloke, having a chat.
‘So come on, then, what happened to these gorgeous glittery wellies?’
‘She had to throw them away. I got terrible athlete’s foot.’
‘Delightful.’
‘And she threw the tights away too.’
‘Why?’
‘I never found out. But it broke my heart. I have never found a pair of tights I loved like that again. They don’t do them any more. Or if they do, they don’t make them for grown women.’
‘Strange, that.’
‘Oh, you can mock. Didn’t you ever love anything that much?’
I could barely see him now, the room shrouded in the near dark. I could have turned the overhead light on, but something stopped me. And almost as soon as I realized what I had said, I wished I hadn’t.
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly. ‘Yes, I did.’
We talked a bit longer, and then Will nodded off. I lay there, watching him breathe, and occasionally wondering what he would say if he woke up and found me staring at him, at his too-long hair and tired eyes and scraggy beginnings of a beard. But I couldn’t move. The hours had become surreal, an island out of time. I was the only other person in the house, and I was still afraid to leave him.
Shortly after eleven, I saw he had begun to sweat again, his breathing becoming shallower, and I woke him and made him take some fever medication. He didn’t talk, except to murmur his thanks. I changed his top sheet and his pillowcase, and then, when he finally slept again, I lay down a foot away from him and, a long time later, I slept too.
I woke to the sound of my name. I was in a classroom, asleep on my desk, and the teacher was rapping a blackboard, repeating my name again and again. I knew I should be paying attention, knew that the teacher would see this slumber as an act of subversion, but I could not raise my head from the desk.
‘Louisa.’
‘Mmmhghh.’
‘Louisa.’
The desk was awfully soft. I opened my eyes. The words were being spoken over my head, hissed, but with great emphasis. Louisa.
I was in bed. I blinked, letting my eyes focus, then looked up to find Camilla Traynor standing over me. She wore a heavy wool coat and her handbag was slung over her shoulder.
‘Louisa.’
I pushed myself upright with a start. Beside me, Will was asleep under the covers, his mouth slightly open, his elbow bent at right angles in front of him. Light seeped in through the window; telling of a cold, bright morning.
‘Uh.’
‘What are you doing?’
I felt as if I had been caught doing something awful. I rubbed at my face, trying to gather my thoughts. Why was I in here? What could I tell her?
