What They Do in the Dark - By Amanda Coe Page 0,93
least it’s clean.
‘What about the sewing?’
‘We’ll take it with us.’
I pincer the needle and then, since I need to carry my library books, give it to Pauline. Cynthia is holding herself tense, waiting for us to go. Pauline pricks the top of her arm with the needle as we pass. Two more effortless tears crawl from beneath Cynthia’s glasses. They make me feel bad.
‘Listen,’ I say, about the needle and thread, ‘we’ll give it back.’
She doesn’t make any response at all. I may as well not have bothered to speak.
‘Promise,’ I say. ‘Swear to God.’ Which is a promise I have never in my life broken. But she doesn’t know that, does she?
‘You’re really good at sewing,’ I proffer. Pauline’s nodding me out of the door, but it feels essential to get Cynthia to know that I’m not horrible, like Pauline.
‘Tell you what, why don’t you come with us and you can sew my dress? It’s got a hole.’
I lift my arm to show her, but her glasses don’t angle up to take it in. She’s beginning to nark me.
‘I’m rubbish at sewing,’ I tell her, which isn’t even true. I make a last attempt. ‘If you sew it for us I’ll get you something. A lolly, sweets.’ Even though we don’t have any money left. She won’t know that though, will she, until after she’s finished? And it’s true that she might do a better job than me, better than Pauline certainly, and if I sew it myself, wherever we go to I’ll have to take the dress off again outside and parade my underwear. In any case it feels very important now not to leave her alone, unconsoled, before her mum gets back. It feels important that she can’t resist us.
‘Go on,’ says Pauline, wheedling. I’m surprised she’s so instantly keen for Cynthia to come with us, but I’m grateful for the help. I pick up the needle case from where it’s slipped to the floor, square its soft pages.
‘It’s really nice.’
Patiently, I hold it in front of her and in the end she stands to take it. Then she shuffles with me to the door, as though she has no choice. I feel like I’ve won. She must believe I’m not horrible.
‘Is it a present?’
She nods.
‘Who for?’
Outside, the low sun is about to be swallowed by buildings. I wonder if my dad is at home yet, having his wash and shave. Pauline and I both seem to know we need to be somewhere where there are no people. We walk for a bit, and although Cynthia casts a look back a couple of times as streets grow between us and the launderette, she doesn’t say anything. She could say something, and if she did, I would listen to her, but she chooses not to. I know she can speak up, now I’ve seen her with her mum, so it’s her own fault. There’s no pushing even, now she’s walking with us.
Once we reach the Town Fields, I lead the way to the back of the pavilion. It’s boarded up and shabby and is the only destin ation, apart from our school, in the whole space. It’s never been used by the school, as far as I know. As far as I know, it’s never been used by anyone, although it must have been built for a reason. It has Tudor beams and pebble-dashed gables at the top and powdered glass and cigarette ends at the bottom. The rubbish accumulates on the side away from the road, screened from both the wind and a human view. Standing there, I raise my arm, ready for Cynthia to sew up the tear. She’s ner vous about it, because of my skin being so close to the material, especially now the dress has shrunk.
‘Don’t prick me,’ I warn her.
If she told me to take the dress off, I would, but if she won’t tell me and she hurts me with the needle then it’s her lookout. Of course when she approaches with the needle and thread it tickles so much that my arm clamps down of its own accord and refuses to lift again. Cynthia blinks, head bobbling, unsure what to do. She holds the needle out again, and I twitch away before it can even touch me. I’ll have to take the dress off, which I don’t want to do, here where anyone could come round the corner and see.