The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher

“Picky?” Lola made a face. If Morna didn’t like something she would make her feelings known by vomiting it up in a weak acid dribble.

It’s because of the school catchment area they have to live in a too-small house and share a bedroom. “It’s bunk beds or GCSEs!” their mother said. She stopped, confused by herself. Often what she said meant something else entirely, but they were used to it; early menopause, Morna said. “You know what I mean,” she urged them. “We live in this house for the sake of your futures. It’s a sacrifice now for all of us, but it will pay off. There’s no point in getting up every morning in a lovely room of your own and going to a sink school where girls get raped in the toilets.”

“Does that happen?” Lola said. “I didn’t know that happened.”

“She exaggerates,” their father said. He seldom said anything, so it made Lola jump, him speaking like that.

“But you know what I’m saying,” her mother said. “I see them dragging home at two in the afternoon, they can’t keep them in school. They’ve got piercings. There’s drugs. There’s internet bullying.”

“We have that at our school,” Lola said.

“It’s everywhere,” their father said. “Which is another reason to keep off the internet. Lola, are you listening to what I’m telling you?”

The sisters were no longer allowed a computer in their room because of the sites Morna liked to look at. They had pictures of girls with their arms stretched wide over their heads in a posture of crucifixion. Their ribs were spaced wide apart like the bars of oven shelves. These sites advised Morna how to be hungry, how not to be gross. Any food like bread, butter, an egg, is gross. A green apple or a green leaf, you may have one a day. The apple must be poison green. The leaf must be bitter.

“To me it is simple,” their father said. “Calories in, calories out. All she has to do is open her mouth and put the food in, then swallow. Don’t tell me she can’t. It’s a question of won’t.”

Lola picked up an eggy spoon from the draining board. She held it under her father’s nose as if it were a microphone. “Yes, and have you anything you want to add to that?”

He said, “You’ll never get a boyfriend if you look like a needle.” When Morna said she didn’t want a boyfriend, he shouted, “Tell me that again when you’re seventeen.”

I never will be, Morna said. Seventeen.

* * *

SEPTEMBER: LOLA ASKED for the carpet to be replaced in their room. “Maybe we could have a wood floor? Easier to clean up after her?”

Their mother said, “Don’t be silly. She’s sick in the loo. Isn’t she? Mostly? Though not,” she said hurriedly, “like she used to be.” It’s what they had to believe: that Morna was getting better. In the night, you could hear them telling each other, droning on behind their closed bedroom door; Lola lay awake listening.

Lola said, “If I can’t have a new carpet, if I can’t have a wood floor, what can I have? Can I have a dog?”

“You are so selfish, Lola,” their mother shouted. “How can we take on a pet at a time like this?”

Morna said, “If I die, I want a woodland burial. You can plant a tree and when it grows you can visit it.”

“Yeah. Right. I’ll bring my dog,” Lola said.

* * *

SEPTEMBER: LOLA SAID, “The only thing is, now she’s gone so small I can’t steal her clothes. This was my main way of annoying her and now I have to find another.”

All year round Morna wore wool to protect her shoulders, elbows, hips, from the blows of the furniture, and also to look respectably fat so that people didn’t point her out on the street; also, because even in July she was cold. But the winter came early for her, and though the sun shone outside she was getting into her underlayers. When she stepped on the scale for scrutiny she appeared to be wearing normal clothes, but actually she had provided herself with extra weight. She would wear one pair of tights over another; every gram counts, she told Lola. She had to be weighed every day. Their mother did it. She would try surprising Morna with spot checks, but Morna would always know when she was getting into a weighing mood.