Frances’ way of atoning for the reckless endangerment of Nicky was to visit a seedy parlour in a side-street in Streatham which specialised in tattoos, body-piercing and other forms of mutilation, and to return indelibly marked behind one shoulder with a green letter N entwined with a bunch of grapes.
She showed this off to me while it was still fresh – raised, puffy and sore-looking – but kept it hidden under a plaster when changing for netball or hockey at school. She had known better than to take me with her on this mission.
‘I thought you had to be over eighteen to have a tattoo,’ I said, trying to disguise my revulsion – after all she was stuck with it now.
‘The guy did ask, and I said, “Why, don’t I look eighteen?” and he just laughed. I didn’t even have to lie.’
‘That must have been a great comfort to you,’ I said, and she pulled a face. ‘What does Nicky think of it?’
‘Well, he was pretty shocked at first, but now he’s flattered.’ The truth was his principal feeling was one of dread that he might be expected to reciprocate, and then relief when it became clear that this wouldn’t be necessary. ‘Have you shown your mum and dad.’
She shook her head. ‘They’re broadminded,’ she said, bravely. ‘They won’t mind.’ All the same, I noticed she didn’t make a point of displaying her bare shoulders. She was finally caught out one afternoon when Lexi came into the bathroom while I was helping Frances wash henna wax out of her hair. The henna hadn’t made much impression on her black curls, but the bath was running with red as though she’d slit her throat.
‘Oh my God,’ said Lexi, looking at the bloody splashes across the tiles. ‘I thought you’d injured yourself.’
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the tattoo, right there next to Frances’ bra strap. How could Lexi miss it? Before I could throw a towel round Frances’ shoulders, Lexi had pounced. ‘Oh, that’s not a … Oh, you haven’t … Oh, you stupid girl.’
Frances, somewhat disabled by having her head upside down in the bath, struggled to her feet, flicking her wet hair back, spraying us and the wall with orange droplets. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, then realised. ‘Oh.’ Her fingers strayed to her shoulder. ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, fatally misjudging the mood of the moment.
‘Like it? Are you mad?’
Mr Radley, hearing the commotion, poked his head around the bathroom door. ‘Who’s mad?’
‘Look what she’s done. Turn round, Frances.’
Mr Radley laughed – his usual response to any sign of delinquency on Frances’ part – not out of tolerance or good humour, but because there is a certain melancholy pleasure in having one’s low expectations confirmed.
‘Do you realise what that lovely plump bunch of grapes will look like in fifty years’ time? A pile of raisins. Very alluring,’ he said.
‘Honestly Frances, I think I’d have preferred it if you’d gone off and married him. At least that’s reversible,’ said Lexi.
‘It won’t last for ever,’ said Frances. ‘The guy in the shop said it was only semi-permanent.’
‘Semi-permanent,’ said Mr Radley. ‘Now that’s an interesting expression.’
‘A semi-permanent tattoo!’ said Lexi. ‘He said that, did he?’
‘Well, not in so many words,’ Frances conceded. ‘I said, “This is for ever, isn’t it?” and he said, “Nothing lasts for ever, darling.”’
I caught Mr Radley’s eye at this point and the two of us burst out laughing, taking some of the heat out of the confrontation. This set Frances off, too. Only Lexi remained straight-faced. I’d noticed before that she didn’t have much of a sense of humour: if someone made a witty remark she would wait for it to pass, like a fit of sneezing, before resuming whatever it was she had been trying to say. This was one of the few things she had in common with my mother.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a ring through the nose next,’ said Lexi, recognising that the argument had run its course.
‘They did nipples for five pounds each if you’re interested,’ said Frances, a wicked look in her eye. ‘A tenner for three.’
‘Three?’ echoed Lexi, as our laughter rang round the tiled walls.