The Forgotten Girl by Kerry Barrett Page B

skill to have.’
    Dad looked a bit distant for a moment and rubbed his temples. He swigged his tea and made a face, but I didn’t offer to get him a beer from the fridge. Not yet.
    â€˜I suppose,’ he said, eventually. ‘Where’s the course?’
    â€˜Oh it’s at work,’ I said. ‘All paid for. The only trouble is it’s an evening class. Twice a week, after work.’
    â€˜All paid for?’ Dad said.
    â€˜Yes,’ I said. I turned away from him and stirred the meat so he couldn’t see my face. I was getting pretty good at lying but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it.
    â€˜All right,’ he said.
    â€˜All right?’ I repeated. But he didn’t reply.
    Assuming that meant he had engaged as much as he was going to, I turned the heat down under the meat.
    â€˜Dinner will be half an hour,’ I said.
    Dad snorted.
    â€˜I need to go into work on Saturday to register for this course then,’ I carried on casually. ‘And afterwards I’m meeting a friend to go to the pictures. Girl from work,’ I added. ‘Suze.’
    I’d learned long ago that the best lies had an element of truth.
    â€˜She’s doing the course too.’
    Dad nodded and I thought that was it. But later when we were eating, he looked at me and said, ‘What does Billy say?’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜This course of yours.’
    Hoping to distract him, I got up and went to the fridge. I pulled out a can of beer, opened it and handed it to Dad with a glass.
    â€˜He thinks it will be useful for when he’s running the garage.’
    Dad nodded, then turned his attention back to his dinner. And it was done.
    Billy had actually been chuffed to bits, making me feel waves of guilt that I was actually going to be spending my evenings writing articles, furthering my own career and not his.
    â€˜Get a grip,’ Suze said in disgust when I told her how I was feeling as we walked to her squat that Saturday. ‘You’ve got to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and start looking after yourself.’
    â€˜You think?’ I said. I shifted my heavy typewriter case to the other hand. I’d told Dad that it had a fault that needed mending and I would drop it into the shop on my way to the station. ‘I can’t help wondering if it’s not worrying about what everyone else thinks that’s got me into this mess.’
    Suze waved away my concerns with a flick of her wrist.
    â€˜Rubbish,’ she said. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself.’
    She grinned at me.
    â€˜You’ve got to look out for number one.’
    She opened the door of the squat and I followed her inside, glad to put my heavy typewriter down.
    â€˜Suze,’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’
    â€˜I cleared half the desk,’ she said, ignoring my question. ‘And Bert off the fruit stall found me another chair.’
    She showed me her desk, which she’d pulled out from the wall. She’d put the two chairs on opposite sides, diagonally across from each other. Her typewriter was on one side and she picked up mine and put it on the other.
    â€˜There’s loads of space,’ she said. ‘We can chat if we want, or zone out if we need to concentrate.’
    I felt weirdly close to tears.
    â€˜This is amazing,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
    Suze gave me a funny, wonky sort of smile.
    â€˜Someone once told me that when things aren’t going well for you, you should do something to help someone else,’ she said. ‘I thought this would be good for both of us.’
    I nodded, not wanting to speak in case I cried.
    â€˜So what do you think?’ she said.
    I swallowed.
    â€˜I think,’ I said, unclipping my typewriter case. ‘That we should get to work.’
    We typed together in companionable silence all afternoon. I was