13. My Guardians

Because Mummy and Daddy live abroad, I have to have guardians. They are officially responsible for me and I can spend my exeat weekends with them. We are allowed four exeats each term.

My guardians are Penny and John, my parents’ best friends. Penny is an ex-ballerina and John, as you know, is a British Airways pilot. And an alcoholic. They have two sons, both younger than me. Johnathan and Jason.

I don’t like going to them for exeat. It’s boring and I feel uneasy in their house. There’s a strange tension in the air. It’s not a happy house. Penny isn’t exactly horrible to me but she’s not warm or kind either. She mostly ignores me.

I don’t play with the boys, they are silly and loud and annoying. It’s quite lonely being there. I would rather be at school all things considered. But for some reason I don’t quite understand I have to go to their house at least once a term. I think it’s because they might feel offended if they knew I didn’t like it there and Mummy definitely doesn’t want to offend them. They live in Beaconsfield, so only about fifteen minutes walk from the school. They come to pick me up on a Friday afternoon and take me back on Sunday, we have to be back in time for Chapel.

Penny is obsessed with food. Or rather, she seems fanatical about what and how much the children eat. I help her prepare lunch and she’s very strict about what is allowed on the boys’ plastic plates. Three slices of cumber, not four. Half a tomato, no more. One thin slice of ham. Penny is very, very thin. She had to stop dancing when she was injured and I think she misses it. She seems sad, edgy, always busy. She never really talks to me or spends time with me, I just get to be there.

Penny is the one who bought me my first set of Malory Towers books, so you could say that it’s her fault I am at boarding school. My parents didn’t read books to me or give me books to read. Strange since they are both avid readers themselves. Up to the age of ten I have no recollection of ever reading for pleasure or being read to. And then I met Darell and her stories of boarding school hooked me in. I couldn’t stop reading after that. Heidi, Nancy Drew, every single Enid Blyton book ever published and then on to better things; Jayne Eyre was probably my first proper novel. I couldn’t put it down. JD Salinger, Harper Lee, Austen, Dickens I read so many of the classics. I started borrowing books from my father's leather bound library and I never looked back. I suppose I have Penny to thank for that too. And I have to say that she makes the best shepherd’s pie ever. I think that’s the only thing she cooks well. Daddy complains that we’re going to eat ‘bits of meat floating’ whenever we have dinner there! I think he means the stews and curries she makes. But her shepherd’s pies ate the best. The mash is crispy on top and smooth all the way down to the meat. The tomatoey mince is flavourful and dense and the oily tomato seeps up into the mash, streaking it orangey red. I have rarely eaten anything as comforting and delicious.

Penny is a good gardener too. She has a vegetable patch at the back of the garden, she grows green runner beans which I help her slice and freeze for the winter. There are raspberries and strawberries and tomatoes. Sometimes she lets me pick the berries and eat them straight from the bush.

I feel very uncomfortable around John. He always makes jokes aimed at me in some way and I don’t like it. The other day we were all there for the weekend. Me, Mummy, Daddy and some other friends on theirs. Everyone was standing around in their large kitchen, having drinks before lunch. John looked at me and said “Sophie,” All heads turned towards me “What’s the first thing that comes out of a man’s penis when he has an erection”. They are all staring at me now. Mummy, Daddy, the boys, all of them. There is a strange silence in the room. I feel panic rising in my chest. I don’t know what to say. I am desperate to get the right answer. I understand that this is a joke and that there is a punchline. And everyone is waiting for me to give them the punchline. John is looking at me, laughing. He is red-faced and huge. He is so tall, standing there right next to me, smiling stupidly, holding his glass of booze. That’s what they call it, booze. I want to run. The seconds feel like hours. I’m desperately trying to think what to say. Sperm? Is that it? Semen? But neither of those sound like remotely funny answers and I am sure that this is a joke. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m about to say something when he bellows “The wrinkles! Ha, ha, ha” He’s laughing loudly. I think everyone is laughing but I’m not looking at anyone. I’m staring at the floor. I want to get out of here. The conversation picks up and I slip silently out of the room. I run up the stairs to the bathroom and lock myself in. I hate John. I hate him.

Weekends here at the Feasys’ (Feasy is their surname, that’s how we refer to them; the Feasys) are always uncomfortable.

Last time I was there John was holding forth about women. “Women look better with makeup” he proclaims. “They should wear skirts and high heels all the time”. I feel my blood boil. I am 13 years old. I am not a woman, but I will be one day and I know that I will never wear heels. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.

“I won’t ever wear high heels, I won’t ever wear any heels” I declare, boldly and loudly. I am defiant. One thing I have learned at school is defiance. Defiance is how my spirit survives. Defiance is how I define myself and hold on to a shred of my identity.

“ I will never, ever wear heels” I repeat. I am sparring.

I don’t think anyone realised I was listening. Children are not often included in the conversation at the Feasys. My interjection is quite unexpected.

He turns to me and laughs, throwing is head back, patronising me. He is so amused. “Well, I bet you £5 that you will” he says, so sure of himself.

I am so angry. How dare he. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know anything about me.

“It’s a bet,” I say. “And I know I’ll win”. I stare at him. He laughs again.

I hate this man. I hate men like him who think they know anything about women, about me.

There is just one thing I like about going to Penny and John’s for the weekend. Sometimes, very occasionally, they take us to the Golf Club for Sunday lunch. I get to wonder about the club daydreaming and making up stories, imagining I am someone else in this place. Then we have lunch in the Golf Club restaurant. They serve the very best treacle tart I have ever had. This treacle tart should win awards. The pastry is buttery and soft, crisp and light. The treacle filling is sweet and crunchy with just the right amount of chewiness and a tiny hint of sharpness from a squeeze of lemon. I could eat a whole tart to myself. I would gladly forgo the roast and the Yorkshire pudding for an extra helping of treacle tart, but that’s not how it works.

I wish I had nice Guardians. People I enjoyed being with who care about me just a bit.

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I won the bet. And John never knew. He still owes me £5 though he is long dead. Sometimes I wonder if I never wore heels to just defy him, to make sure he wasn’t right, to win the bet. But I know that’s not true. I know that I knew something about myself then that I didn’t even know I knew. I did try to wear heels a couple of times. I bought a very smart pair of suede platform court shoes when Audrey and I appeared on Dragon’s Den. I took them to the charity shop the very next day. It's just not me. I could have doubled my winnings if I'd bet him that I would never wear makeup either. Other than a few pitiful attempts, I never have. And I don't wear skirts either. John would be bitterly dissapointed. What kind of woman am I? Not one that he would approve of I guess.

His penis joke was appauling. What is even more painful to me is that neither of my parents stepped in to take care of me. They joined in the humiliation. Unknowingly I hope. I like to think that they could not have imagined what it was like for me in that moment. Those were different times and parenting was like that. The adults stuck together. I have never forgotten the fear, the ice cold feeling in my chest, the flush of shame and humiliation I felt as I stood there, all eyes on me. I can feel it now. And I am angry even today on behalf of that little girl who so wanted to like and trust the adults who were her guardians, the people who were charged with her care.