member of staff.
‘I’m not defending the bastard, he definitely could have been more proactive. But to be fair, he isn’t a generalist – even the GP didn’t pick it up. I was young for my thyroid to have packed up and there were so many seemingly unconnected symptoms. It wasn’t until I told him I was constantly cold and my hair was falling out that he put two and two together and did the blood test.’ Dory looked away, towards the pub’s kitchen door, as if signalling an end to this particular subject. ‘Where’s this famous food?’
Face on, no one would have realised the waitress had a bare midriff; it was hidden behind a voluminous, stained apron. But her back was turned to the sisters as she dealt with the next table and almost as if programmed, Fran began a mental mapping of the contours of exposed flesh on display.
‘Mel is keeping in touch with you and Peter, I hope?’ her sister asked.
Had Dory tuned in to what she was thinking, or had she also been reminded of Mel by the waitress’ bare midriff?
‘She doesn’t phone us.’ Waitressing? Did all girls waitress or do bar work at some point in their lives? Fran conjured an image of her daughter serving cocktails in a rustic, bamboo beach bar, overarched by palm trees and nothing dividing it from the glittering aquamarine sea but bleached sand. The waitress couldn’t have been less like Melanie. She was older and had a Mediterranean look, with her glossy dark hair and olive complexion, though there was no hint in her accent that she came from anywhere further south than Kent. Mel was not only still a teenager but was a pale-skinned blonde – a classic English rose – and even if she was carrying a bit of extra weight, it was puppy fat, and bound to disperse given time. The momentary glow of maternal pride transmuted into another pulse of anxiety.
Was it a benefit to stand out in a crowd? Could her youth, her long, fair hair, even her childish pudginess be an attraction to a certain type of man? Don’t even think about the skimpy clothes and belly button ring. Fran tried to suppress the complex mix of emotions which threatened to bubble up. Her expression must have mirrored her troubled thoughts.
‘But she is all right?’ Dory asked with a frown. ‘You have heard from her?’
‘She texts and emails, though not enough to stop me worrying. I just wish she hadn’t gone, she’s too young.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. What an adventure. I wish I’d done something like that at her age, but one minute, school, the next, microbiology at UCL.’
‘There are so many dangers, Dory.’
‘Girls are vulnerable, full stop. You can’t prevent them from growing up. If she’s not lost it already, she’s got to lose her virginity soon.’
‘What about pregnancy, the massive danger of STIs, AIDs, even … as you should well know! Not to mention getting caught up in drugs.’
‘You don’t have to travel to be exposed to all of that. She knows how to look after herself, doesn’t she? She has taken condoms?’
Why did Dory have to be so measured and reasonable all the time? ‘Condoms! How should I bloody know? It’s not a subject we talk about.’
Dory frowned. ‘But surely you’ve …’
‘It’s so easy for you to dish out advice, but what do you know?’ Fran interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not an expert on South East Asia. I know that our girls are more vulnerable; the way some of them dress gives out the wrong signals. Western girls are dismissed as tarts and slags, fair game to be used and abused. She might be drugged, kidnapped, raped. She might even be murdered, for God’s sake! A lot of use it’ll be having condoms in her bag.’
That shut Dory up. Now she was nodding as if she sympathised, but still with that condescending know-it-all expression.
‘The trouble with women like you, I’m sorry to be blunt, you’ve no idea what it’s like to be a mother. Oh, you think you do …’ Fran ploughed on, ignoring
‘I’m not defending the bastard, he definitely could have been more proactive. But to be fair, he isn’t a generalist – even the GP didn’t pick it up. I was young for my thyroid to have packed up and there were so many seemingly unconnected symptoms. It wasn’t until I told him I was constantly cold and my hair was falling out that he put two and two together and did the blood test.’ Dory looked away, towards the pub’s kitchen door, as if signalling an end to this particular subject. ‘Where’s this famous food?’
Face on, no one would have realised the waitress had a bare midriff; it was hidden behind a voluminous, stained apron. But her back was turned to the sisters as she dealt with the next table and almost as if programmed, Fran began a mental mapping of the contours of exposed flesh on display.
‘Mel is keeping in touch with you and Peter, I hope?’ her sister asked.
Had Dory tuned in to what she was thinking, or had she also been reminded of Mel by the waitress’ bare midriff?
‘She doesn’t phone us.’ Waitressing? Did all girls waitress or do bar work at some point in their lives? Fran conjured an image of her daughter serving cocktails in a rustic, bamboo beach bar, overarched by palm trees and nothing dividing it from the glittering aquamarine sea but bleached sand. The waitress couldn’t have been less like Melanie. She was older and had a Mediterranean look, with her glossy dark hair and olive complexion, though there was no hint in her accent that she came from anywhere further south than Kent. Mel was not only still a teenager but was a pale-skinned blonde – a classic English rose – and even if she was carrying a bit of extra weight, it was puppy fat, and bound to disperse given time. The momentary glow of maternal pride transmuted into another pulse of anxiety.
Was it a benefit to stand out in a crowd? Could her youth, her long, fair hair, even her childish pudginess be an attraction to a certain type of man? Don’t even think about the skimpy clothes and belly button ring. Fran tried to suppress the complex mix of emotions which threatened to bubble up. Her expression must have mirrored her troubled thoughts.
‘But she is all right?’ Dory asked with a frown. ‘You have heard from her?’
‘She texts and emails, though not enough to stop me worrying. I just wish she hadn’t gone, she’s too young.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. What an adventure. I wish I’d done something like that at her age, but one minute, school, the next, microbiology at UCL.’
‘There are so many dangers, Dory.’
‘Girls are vulnerable, full stop. You can’t prevent them from growing up. If she’s not lost it already, she’s got to lose her virginity soon.’
‘What about pregnancy, the massive danger of STIs, AIDs, even … as you should well know! Not to mention getting caught up in drugs.’
‘You don’t have to travel to be exposed to all of that. She knows how to look after herself, doesn’t she? She has taken condoms?’
Why did Dory have to be so measured and reasonable all the time? ‘Condoms! How should I bloody know? It’s not a subject we talk about.’
Dory frowned. ‘But surely you’ve …’
‘It’s so easy for you to dish out advice, but what do you know?’ Fran interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not an expert on South East Asia. I know that our girls are more vulnerable; the way some of them dress gives out the wrong signals. Western girls are dismissed as tarts and slags, fair game to be used and abused. She might be drugged, kidnapped, raped. She might even be murdered, for God’s sake! A lot of use it’ll be having condoms in her bag.’
That shut Dory up. Now she was nodding as if she sympathised, but still with that condescending know-it-all expression.
‘The trouble with women like you, I’m sorry to be blunt, you’ve no idea what it’s like to be a mother. Oh, you think you do …’ Fran ploughed on, ignoring
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