The Mechanic's Daughter

The Mechanic's Daughter Part 4 : The boy left behind

Jimmy and Cheryl, Paul and me – that's the way it was for  two years. The four of us racing along in Jimmy's car, Motown blaring on the radio. Or lying on the north-facing slope behind our house, teasing each other and laughing. Paul put his arm under my head while we looked up at the Milky Way. We could see the northern lights flickering high in the sky. I felt so rooted, with that arm warm under my head. It seemed to be connected to the earth itself, extending deep down through the earth's mantle, drawing on its heat. When I looked at the whole sky, I could feel the earth curving away from me, past the forsythia bush, which Jimmy and Cheryl were using for privacy, past the cedar hedge, away to the point the horizon dropped away. The edge of night moved around the globe and over us. I heard Jimmy count down, "three, two, one," and he and Cheryl rolled down the slope sideways in each other's arms.

It seemed almost quaint to me, that we thought things could be so uncomplicated. Then Jimmy joined a band and was away most weekends, playing bass guitar very badly and having girls, women, throw themselves at him. He and Cheryl broke up, my friend heartbroken, my brother not so much.

It became more difficult to be with Paul. We'd trailed after Jimmy to some smoky bar, but Paul would never get up to dance. He hated it if anyone talked to me. Once another guy came to ask whether I wanted a dance and Paul closed his hand around my upper arm, scowling at me as if I had encouraged it. I had a bruise on my arm in the shape of his hand the next day. It wasn't just the jealousy – it was the knowledge that we were heading in different directions. Paul was planning to go to police training in the summer; I wanted to go to university in the fall.

My teachers had encouraged me, talking about opportunity, about the choices that came with having an education. And Nikki wanted to throw that away. Which was why I knew it had to be me who talked to her.

In the streets surrounding the university, there were rows of solid brick houses built in the 1920s and 1930s to house the tradesmen of what was then a village. They had two stories and a little plot of land front and back, well treed. Many of the homeowners rented to students, who could swing the cost with three people in the bedrooms on the upper floor and a fourth in the spare room on the lower level. This was the kind of house Barbara rented, old-fashioned but substantial with its oak staircase and heavy casement windows. I arrived on Monday after my class and she ushered me into a living room furnished with an eclectic mix of chairs. I sat on a sagging couch covered with a piece of Indian cotton and asked where Nikki was.

She came down the stairs wearing jeans and bundled in sweaters. "I can't seem to get warm." She sat on one of the mismatched chairs and didn't quite look at me. There was an awkward silence, until Barbara offered to make tea. I took the chance to ask quietly if Barbara was too strident or if she felt pushed into making a police report.

Nikki leaned forward. "What else is there? I'll get out of here soon."

"She told me you want to drop out."

"There's no way I can go back to the dorm or to class. I can't face it."

I understood, but I didn't think she should give up so easily.

"What does your father do?"

"Electrician."

"And do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Yes. Three older brothers. All in engineering."

"Why should they have an opportunity you can't have. Why should they get an education and not you?"

"My father hates that I took psychology."

"Older generation doesn't understand anything that's not hands on."