Free The Love She Left Behind by Amanda Coe Page B

exaggerations and downright lies about the censored material. But Louise knew, unlike her friends, that any or all of the improbable facts imparted about adult sexual behaviour had to be true. This weirdness must all take place, because why else would Mum leave Dad, and them? Since nothing made sense, you had to believe in a compulsion you couldn’t understand. It was all because Mum wanted Patrick’s penis in her vagina. Dad’s penis wasn’t good enough, for some reason. There were sizes, apparently. Louise had started to ask Nidge about this before he’d gone away to school, but he’d told her that she was too young to be asking those sorts of questions.
    â€˜Can I help you?’
    It was the first thing Patrick had said directly to her. Mum told her to stop staring at him, and stroked his hair back from his face, smiling. She had never done this with Dad, not least because Dad’s hair was much shorter. Patrick’s was really quite long for his age. Not as long as a hippy, but not as short as a proper dad’s.
    According to the film at school, it was all to do with sperm and eggs.
    â€˜Are you going to have a baby?’
    Louise wasn’t saying this to Patrick in particular, but because Mum had turned back to B, who was deep in telling her something to do with Nanna and Grandpa, their mum and dad, he was the only one who caught it. He pulled back, as though the question had hit him in the face.
    â€˜I shouldn’t think so.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Revolting things, aren’t they, babies?’
    It was meant to be a joke, a joke against her. He’d decided, because she was a girl, that she must love babies, and it was more a way of teasing her for that than anything else. But Louise didn’t like babies. Still, she shook her head, because that was what Patrick wanted. She could tell he wasn’t interested in what she really thought, and she had decided that it was best to give him what he wanted.
    Patrick’s face lit into a proper smile as the waiter arrived with his round tray crammed with drinks. Once they were distributed, Mum hoisted her glass of wine for a toast, although Patrick had already taken a gulp of his. She shook back her hair and stretched her neck, as though she was waiting for a photo to be taken.
    â€˜Cheers. And to Nidge, eh?’
    Louise could tell Mum was wishing it was Nidge who was there instead of her. Patrick finished his drink so quickly that it was like a party trick. He reached for the bottle. He hadn’t joined in the toast.
    OF ALL THE new things Nigel had feared and imagined he might have to do at boarding school—Latin, rugby, fox hunting, wanking off an older boy, watching foreign films—sewing had never occurred to him. Sewing. But here he was, and Patrick was paying for it—Nigel knew exactly how much, £550 a term, because he’d secretly read the letter—sitting in the art room, expected to cross-stitch a pencil case. Even at primary this hadn’t been required of him.
    â€˜It can be practical or decorative,’ said the art master, Mr Hinton. ‘Just do what you like, incorporating your name.’
    There was an immediate bundle into the heap of felt on each table as the boys made their selection, a few tussles, good-naturedly resolved. They were thirteen, for God’s sake. Nigel sat and watched, empty-handed. If only he could stop farting.
    â€˜All right Nidge, need a bit of help to get going?’
    Mr Hinton, rusty-bearded, tank-topped, touched his shoulder. He showed no reaction to the fart, although the stench was unignorable. Miserably, Nigel shook his head and picked up a needle.
    â€˜Best thing is to outline the design so that you’ve got something to follow. Unless you’re like Toby—pretty confident there, Tobe!’
    Toby, who was hugely tall and had the pinkest cheeks Nigel had ever seen, beamed, pulling on a length of banana-yellow embroidery