Page 8 of Pyg

PIGTAILS AND LIPS

P ick of the Pops scratched out of the paint-splattered speaker of the transistor, and the three of us went about our usual business in the studio.

Mum called it her studio, but it was just a stone outbuilding which she’d transformed into a cosy home away from the place we couldn’t really call home. Knitted blankets and scattered cushions dressed the two sagging armchairs, and Mum’s colourful canvases brightened the dank walls. On colder days, she served us hot blackcurrant cordial and home-baked biscuits as we listened to the latest songs playing on the radio. The studio smelt mossy and damp, but also like sweet tobacco and oil paints, and we always felt safe tucked away in there because the dragon never left its own cave to enter ours.

The song spun from Gerry and the Pacemakers into the current number one.

“Crank it up, Bernie,” said Mum. Bernard dropped his colouring pencil and dashed to the red radio on the window ledge. He twisted the knob as far as it would go, blasting the opening bars of From Me to You from the tinny little speaker.

Beatlemania had swept the country, and our tiny corner of it was no exception.

Mum bopped her hips and thrust her hands down to me, where I sat atop a huge, knitted floor cushion with a book perched on my knees. I shot her a sullen look of protest, but still, I let her pull me to my feet.

“C’mon, Georgie. You’ll trip over that bottom lip if you’re not careful.”

I half-smiled despite myself and shuffled my feet as Mum waved mine and Bernard’s arms in time to the beat. Pyg jumped around us, her tail swooshing like a bushy black metronome. Bernard sang the lyrics word-perfectly, accompanied by the occasional excited bark from Pyg. I mumbled along, self-conscious, but I felt my bad mood lifting as we all collapsed onto the floor cushions, laughing and breathless.

A light knock at the door snatched our attention.

“That’ll be Father Higgins.” Mum stood, smoothing her skirt, and reaching up to tidy her hair as she moved to the radio and clicked it off. “Come on in, Father,” she said to the door.

The priest ducked under the low doorway and unfolded himself into the room, his presence filling more than just the space he occupied. Pyg bowled over to him, circling his legs, and he bent to ruffle her floppy ears.

“So, how is everyone doing?” he asked as he eased himself down into the armchair.

I shrugged and sank back onto my cushion. I eyed them over the top of my book, somewhat irked that Bernard had rushed to the priest’s side and Pyg was curled at his feet.

“Father, do you like The Beatles? They’re at number one in the pop charts.”

“Bernie, dear, give Father Higgins a moment to settle in. The poor chap has had quite the afternoon of it, no doubt. Can I make you some tea, Father?” Mum smiled and pulled Bernard to her hip, stroking down his blonde hair where it stubbornly sat up at the crown.

“Oh, it’s fine. Yes, Bernard. I do like The Beatles, but they’re not my favourite band. And I’d love a cuppa, El. If it wasn’t a deadly sin, I’d kill for a slice of that cake you were offering around earlier.”

“Murder won’t be necessary,” Mum giggled, her cheeks still flushed from dancing. “But, on the other hand, if you were offering to dispatch a certain person, I wouldn’t say no.”

Father Higgins raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know about murder, but I sent her off into a deep sleep with dark tales of all the hellfire and brimstone awaiting us sinners.” A smile quirked his lips.

Mum hummed as she struck a match and lit the camping stove for the kettle. Father Higgins rested his head back and closed his eyes. Bernard, who was still standing by the priest’s side, tapped his arm.

“What do you mean, they’re not your favourite?”

The priest opened one eye and looked at him. “What?”

“You said The Beatles aren’t your favourite band. Who is your favourite, then?”

Father Higgins chuckled. “Oh, I quite like The Beach Boys.”

I scoffed from my cushion. “The Beach Boys? One-hit wonders, I’d say.”

“I don’t know, George. They’re pretty cool. I think they’ll go far.” He puckered his lips and whistled the tune to Surfin’ U.S.A. Bernard giggled and joined in. A traitor, like that bloody dog.

I shook my head, returning my gaze to the book I wasn’t actually reading.

“There you go.” Mum placed a tray with tea and cake on the priest’s lap. “And there’s another little slice for you boys too, but don’t let it ruin your dinner. Would you be good lads and take it outside, so I can speak with Father Higgins a moment?”

I huffed and Bernard whined.

“Not for long, boys. And then Father will read to you, alright?”

We picked up our cake and slunk outside.

I leaned against the studio wall and devoured the lemony sponge, poppy seeds catching in my loose tooth as I chewed. Bernard, who’d fed half his cake to Pyg, jumped around with her, marvelling at their long shadows in the sinking sunlight.

“Look at the size of our legs, George. We look like giants. Or monsters.”

“You look like idiots.”

“Oi!” Bernard pouted and raised his arms above his head with fingers splayed. He growled and stomped towards the dog. “I’m gonna eat you alive!”

Pyg zoomed around in response, bushy tail wagging a frantic rhythm. Her panting mouth resembled Bernard’s goofy laughter.

Raised voices from inside the studio pulled my attention and I stepped back towards the door, turning my ear to the gap in the warped frame.

“Why would you provoke her like that, El? I told you getting a dog would be a bad idea.”

“The boys deserve at least a little joy in their lives. You’ve no idea what it’s like constantly turning the other cheek. Living this half-life?—”

“What are you doing?” Bernard’s small voice asked behind me.

Startled, I spun around. “Shh! I’m trying to listen.”

Bernard huffed and ran off, his arms out like an aeroplane, with Pyg chasing after him. I pressed my ear back to the door.

“Come now, don’t get upset. Try to focus on the future.”

“You always say that, but sometimes it’s impossible to imagine there’ll ever be a way out of here.”

“Well, I’ve made some enquiries about a new overseas mission in Africa. It could give us the fresh start we need.”

“Africa?”

“Yeah, imagine the life we could have there. Things won’t happen overnight, you know how it is with the church…”

“You really think things could be different for us abroad?”

“There’ll be much less scrutiny, so we’ll get away with more of this…”

Then came a different sound. No longer voices…

Wait, was that…?

I turned my head and closed one eye to peer with the other through the gap.

I didn’t know much about kissing, only that in the school yard last week, Felicity Granger had dared me to kiss Emily Fletcher. Emily was okay, for a girl, and I wasn’t one to back down from a dare.

“Alright,” I’d said and puckered up. I closed my eyes and leaned towards Emily with all her freckles and pigtails and lips, and…

A burst of giggles and I opened my eyes to Felicity holding a dirty great toad up to my face. Now I officially hate girls. And kissing.

Through the gap I spied my mother, her slender fingers cupped around the priest’s clean-shaven face, his hands around her waist pulling her close, squeezing her to him.