‘You haven’t got the arse to fill that,’ Mum says when I show her. ‘And I bet you can’t bloody wash it.’

I love it.

I arrive at Shane’s wearing the pencil skirt. A choking smell of creosote comes up from the warm wood of the shed. I think of Shane’s dad painting the walls with it, black treacly stuff dripping down his arms and onto the concrete path. Shane hasn’t seen his dad since the accident, five years ago. Derrick left before Sheila could chuck him out, Mum says. Who could bear to have him in the house after what he did? No one believes he wasn’t drunk.

Shane looks at the skirt. He looks at me in the skirt. I run my hands over the creases where the material’s tight around my thighs. He swallows and wriggles his toes.

‘It’s new,’ I say.

He nods, still staring at the skirt. Taking in every stitch. Every corpuscle of material.

‘Shall I turn around?’

He catches my eye for a moment, then ducks his head.

I turn to face the door. Spend a few moments studying a knot in the wood. Then turn back to face Shane.

He licks his big lips, says nothing.

‘Do you like it?’ I ask.

He keeps his eyes on the hem of the skirt. I wonder if he’s labelling each part in his head. Drawing a straight line and using neat capitals, like we do in Biology. HIPS. LEFT THIGH. RIGHT THIGH. NICE ARSE.

He still doesn’t look up, so I sit at his feet. The skirt’s so tight I have to twist my legs beneath me, like a posh woman riding a horse side saddle in an old film.

I rest my head against his knee.

‘Shall we listen to the new Prince?’ I twist round to face him. He catches my wrist and squeezes, hard.

‘Will you wear it every time you come?’ His voice is low. He’s not looking at my face, even now.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘if you want.’

He lets go. I rub my wrist, but he takes no notice.

After I while I say, ‘Perhaps you should think about what you could do for me.’

He keeps staring right over my head.

four: August, 1985

four

August, 1985

I come home from Shane’s shed and Dad’s on the front porch, waiting for me. He’s wearing Mum’s pinny.

‘I’m making Irish stew.’

‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I told you. I’m making Irish stew.’

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘I used to make it for your mother. Before we were married.’