This Still Happens

Chapter Nineteen - Witness: Ffion

Mrs Paulson closes the door of her office behind her, and gestures for me to take a seat. "Thank you for explaining what happened, Ffion," she says, smiling and nodding, "That was very kind of you. And helpful, too. And that's why I want you to listen to me very carefully, because I'm trying to be helpful, too; I'm trying to help you."

Help me... what? I frown.

"What's happening at home, Ffion?" she asks, "What do you usually do when you get home from school?"

"I... um... help out around the house, um... a bit of washing-up." I can't look at her, have to fold my hands over my crossed knees and stare, stare, stare at the red cracks on my knuckles, the cracks left by sinks full of soapy water, cold and clammy and greasy since heating it go so expensive.

I think I'm remembering a book I read once, about a servant in the seventeenth century. She worked in a kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans until her hands were scarlet, and painfully-raw. I guess she had the Plague to deal with, which... at least I don't.

That's one thing I've got going for me. Oh, and all this has taught me to cook pretty well on a button budget. "Sometimes I make supper," I add, hoping my smile doesn't look fake, because this one actually isn't. A pack of lentils goes a long way. Most of a week, in fact.

"Oh, that's nice," says Mrs Paulson, writing it down on a yellow legal pad. "And how often's that?"

Sure, it's whenever there's something to cook, because that's my job: make supper while Mum looks for work, and Dad struggles through each new day. "Three or four nights a week," I say, which is, of course, not a lie. That's about as often as we have enough food for actual meals. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, and clear my throat.

"That's a little more often than we'd like you to be cooking," Mrs Paulson replies, "Given you have GCSEs to focus on. You need to stay on top of your homework, and there'll be a lot of it next year. Could someone at home do some of it for you? Who cooks, the rest of the time?"

Damn. I'm not supposed to lie, and I really don't want to lie, but Mrs Paulson is craning her neck to meet my eye as I'm sitting, trying not to make eye-contact. My skin prickles, and a drop of sweat tracks its way down the inside of my arm. I bite my lip, chew a scar that's forming into a hard knot of skin.

"Ffion? Who cooks, the rest of the time?" she repeats, reaching for my hand. "Is it your Mum?"

Does a shrug count as a lie? I guess I'll find out.

It seems to satisfy her, and she doesn't seem to realise that there isn't a "rest of the time".

"OK," she says, writing something else down. "And what do you usually have to eat? What's a typical breakfast?"

I shake my head. "I don't eat breakfast," I mumble, "Have to get ready for school." I look out of the window.

Mrs Paulson frowns. "You should eat something of a morning, my dear, even if it's just a slice of toast."

Deciding to indulge myself for once, I imagine she doesn't hear my quiet snort of laughter (Toast! As if we can afford to use the toaster!). I gnaw on the fantasy of it, relishing the feeling of being taken seriously.

"Breakfast's important, Ffion. Do you ever get dizzy in the run-up to lunch?"

I keep looking out of the window, and start picking at a spot of hard skin next to one of my bitten-down nails. And I don't answer.

"What do you usually have for lunch, Ffion? Do you go to the hall? The cafeteria?"

I shake my head, mumbling that's it's too expensive. I can get away with that one, though; it really is too expensive, and everyone says so. Even Gordon. Might be the only thing we've always agreed on.