My friend Matilda’s mother was in the room when her mother, aunts and cousins found out about female oral sex. Apparently one of her aunt’s came rushing in to tell them, and they didn’t realise she was there. I thought this was an amazing story, so I nicked it and did this.
I drew a telephone on the sheet of paper, the wire coiling out and round, over the picture of me’s head. I moved the paper across the floor, away from my aunt’s foot as it shuffled about. She was talking loudly about something or other, and I sat under the kitchen table, like a cat, keeping warm in the glow of their conversation. It was a Saturday afternoon, and as Saturday afternoons go it was normal, one of a long line of endless Saturdays. I traced the pattern of the lino with my littlest finger, counting the dimples until I reached nine. Nine. My age. Nine. The number of custard slices I would like to eat. The number of days until my birthday.
“Mrs. Taylor’s putting on weight.” Mother’s voice floated over from the cooker. I could just see the hem of her apron from where I sat, and her stocking covered legs, and her brown shoes. The ones she wore every day to work, that had worn down more on the outside of the left heel than the right.
My aunt’s feet came to attention. “It’s probably all that cake you’ve been giving Sylvie for Sunday school,” said Auntie Jenny, then she whispered loudly to me, “Sylvie, has she been stealing your cake?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I whispered back, cupping my hands around my mouth so Mrs. Taylor wouldn’t hear. My aunt’s hand groped for me under the table, she patted my hand and I wound myself around her ankles, twiddling the burnt ends of her shoelaces. I decided to count the pairs of shoes I could see, and draw them into my picture. One, two, three. Cousin Jane’s loafers swinging from the kitchen counter. Sandra’s wellington boots by the door. A pile of twelve shoes in the corner by the polish box: overturned and tumbling over each other from where my brother had dug through for his work shoes. Alice’s beige heels, Harriet’s green heels, Marie’s black, sturdy loafers all dangerously close. I tapped the green ones, and Harriet squirmed. I began to draw, and placing the shoes midair around the flat, two dimensional me.
“Ladies! Ladies!” Aunt Sylvie came trotting through the kitchen door, her heels clattering on the stone step outside as she stamped the dirt from them. “Ladies, I heard the most scandalous thing.” I poked my head out of my cave, the noise was overwhelming. Jane helped Sylvie off with her coat, piling it up in the hallway.
“Not more scandal. Is Sarah Jones pregnant?”
“Again?”
“Not more of your gossip.”
“Not gossip. Information. Knowledge.” If there had been a soap box waiting for her in the kitchen my aunt would have claimed atop every Saturday. “I was talking to the new lady at the surgery.”
“Has she seen Marjorie’s acne yet?” cried Harriet. My cousins squealed with laughter.
“No, she’s the lady from the clinic.” My aunt had their attention now. “She was telling me- awful open she was- telling me about this thing.”
I saw my mother turn from her spot by the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. “Where’s little Sylvie?” I pulled my head back under the table and tucked my hands and feet in tight. I didn’t want to go, I wanted to listen. They always sent me to wash when they wanted to talk about something exciting, no matter how clean I was. Fortunately Auntie Sylvie plowed on, she was in full swing now.
“It’s called something like, cunnilingus.”
“Sounds foreign!”
“What is it?”
“Cunning-lingus?”
“It’s female-,“ She broke off, Auntie Sylvie always paused for dramatic effect. I could imagine her intent gaze as she pantomimed for them to come closer. Harriet’s chair squealed on the lino and Jane moved in from the hallway door. My aunt began to talk softly. “Female oral sex.”
“Sylvie!” My mother’s voice. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Well, what is it?” Harriet asked. I could feel the tension in the room. No one moved apart from my mother who silently circumnavigated the table.
“It’s when a man put his mouth to your- hoo-har.”
“Eurgh!” Marie’s chair sprang back.
“What does it do?”
“Apparently it’s quite nice,” said my Aunt Sylvie. “He uses his tongue to-“
“Sylvie! That’s enough,” said my mother. “Where’s little Sylvie? I hope she isn’t hearing this.”
My Auntie Jenny’s hand waved at me, I grabbed it. She pushed it away and pointed towards the hallway door. I’d heard enough for one Saturday. I knew I’d be in for it if my mother caught me. She was circling the table again. My cousins started throwing questions at Sylvie.
“Had she tried it?” asked Harriet. “Did she say what it was like?”
“Has it just been invented?” asked Jane.
“I didn’t ask, and apparently it is not new.”
“Why were you talking about this, Mother?” asked Marie.
Aunt Sylvie ignored her daughter. “But I do imagine it’s quite lovely, maybe I’ll ask Trevor to-“
“Mother!” Marie stormed from the kitchen to the back door. My Auntie Jenny’s hand waved wildly at me. Carefully I slid through the gap to the hallway door. All eyes were on Aunt Sylvie and Marie.
“What?” cried Aunt Sylvie. “I’m a woman aren’t I? Just because I’m your mother doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.”
“I’m going to the shop!” cried Marie. She opened the back door and ran down the steps, a blast of cold air cut through the kitchen.
“My stew!” said mother, her mind finally off my whereabouts. I scampered up the stairs and hid in my room, I was determined to remember the conversation so I could relate it to the girls at school on Monday. I wrote the word down in my diary like this: “Kunninlingwus”, then hid it down the side of my bed. Louise, my best friend, would be so jealous. I bounced on my bed for joy.
