A pineapple, a bunch of grapes, a pear. Hanging from Betty Hopkins’s Christmas tree. The tree was real, the fruit was not.
“We need some new decorations,” Betty said to her daughter. “Would you like to choose them?”
“What’s the point?”
“Your father’s coming home soon. It’ll brighten the place up.”
Frances shrugged.
They were at the market. So far, they had bought a new cobweb brush and some dishcloths. Now they were at the Christmas stall, an impatient man was dressed as Santa, he said what can I get you, what do you want, how about some baubles, how about some tinsel.
“My daughter is about to choose some decorations,” Betty said. She looked embarrassed. “Aren’t you, dear?”
“I don’t think she is,” the man said.
“Please, Fran. Just pick something. Now.”
“These,” said Frances, pointing.
“Really? You like the plastic fruit?”
Then she walked away, leaving her mother at the stall, fiddling with her purse, trying to pay quickly, saying hold on dear I won’t be a minute.
Little Fran Hopkins. Fran the man, the boys said. You look like a man with that hair. Cut it myself didn’t I, bet you’ve never cut anything, no limits to what I can cut, come here, I’ll cut you, I will, I can.
Sitting in a car park, aged thirteen. An older boy soon to arrive. Sleet blew sideways, hit her in the face. The boy said he loved her. Real love, that’s what this is. Do I scare you? she said. ’Course not, he said. She was sore for days, the soreness was precious, he held her tight, he wouldn’t let go.
After that, he didn’t know her. Boys in blazers, sitting on a wall, smoky throats. Fuck off girl, why are you staring at me?
I ache all over, she said to her mother. My stomach hurts my head hurts you don’t care about me I don’t need you.
Betty told the doctor, she spoke of holes kicked in fences, hair cut off, arms cut up, sleeping always sleeping, impossible to comfort and there are boys, I’m sure there are boys, she’s going to get pregnant, tell me what to do. Frances sat in silence. They looked at her. Is this correct, are there boys? he said. No, she said. Discipline, Mrs Hopkins, that’s what I prescribe, that’s what this girl needs. If she’s broken your resolve perhaps someone can assist you, just for a while, until you feel better. May I ask about your husband? Betty said he’s taken to working abroad, he’s away such a lot, and who can blame him, poor man. You’re not alone, Mrs Hopkins, the doctor said. Take these Valium, buy some magazines, but do address this urgently, your girl’s running wild, adolescence needs curtailing, shall we say. The only thing that will heal this mind is punishment, you mark my words, you can trust me, please stop crying.
That night, Frances overheard a conversation:
“I’m at the end of my tether,” her mother said. “It’s like she’s not even mine. She’s beyond me, she really is. She’s breaking my heart.”
She had heard it all before:
I don’t know what to do with you.
You’ve driven your father away, that’s what you’ve done.
Why do you hate me?
I love you but—
You’re too much for me.
You’re impossible.
I love you but—
You’re beyond me.
(Mum says I’m beyond her, which means she’s far away from me, which means she can’t reach me, which means I am alone.)
Finally, at the end of a line of boys, stood Eric Delaney. He fixed cars, wore overalls, carved pretty shapes from old wood.
“Do I scare you?” she said.
“I’m not scared,” he said.
“Tell me everything will be all right.”
“Everything will be all right.”
She wanted to believe him.
She set out to test him.
She asked him to hold her tight.