by Chloe Rayban
‘Sure.’ (There, you see! Easy!)
‘Promised I’d fix her bike,’ he said. (Isn’t that sweet?)
‘OK, see you ‘bout four and we can go together.’
Cedric turned up at my door at the dot of four wearing immaculate new black jeans – not the sort of thing you’d normally mend a bike in, but he was carrying a bag of tools.
We arrived at Clare’s place to find that she had already taken her bike out of the garden shed in readiness. It was pretty obvious that it was an excuse to get Cedric over. Anyone could see it hadn’t been ridden for years. It was covered in rust.
I watched from the kitchen window as Cedric took it apart. It had started to drizzle, but Clare’s mum, who’s paranoid about her house, insisted that the job was done outside. Clare was eagerly helping, running back and forth with bowls of water and kitchen towel. Cedric soon had loads of tiny components laid out on their terrace. His new jeans were getting covered in oil and rust. The job was going to take ages. (The things people do for love!)
While they were busy with the bike I popped upstairs to the bathroom and took the opportunity to send Clare a message. I scrolled down through the Cs in my phone book. Carol, Cedric, Clare … Nothing too extreme for a first message. I tapped in a fairly neutral but obviously boyish message and added a frieze of XXXXs. That should do it.
I peered through the window and saw Clare checking her mobile. Cedric was looking over her shoulder. Nice one! Clare clicked her mobile shut and I could see that a certain amount of teasing was going on below as to who the message might be from. Clare was making a big thing about not telling. Cedric was obviously intrigued.
I decided to leave them to it and made the excuse that I had to get back to Rosemount to help Mum learn her lines. On the way back in the bus I sent Clare a couple more rather keener messages.
I got back to Rosemount to find Roz in the lobby battling to fold up her pram. She was trying to get it into the lift complete with baby and shopping. The baby was balanced on one shoulder and as usual it was howling.
‘Thanks,’ she shouted as I took over the job of pram-folding. ‘Can’t leave it in the hall. The last one got stolen.’
I went up to her floor with her and helped her into her flat. ‘Want a cup of tea?’ she asked, as she slammed around with bottles and formula.
I found the kettle upturned in the sink and filled it. While she made up the baby’s bottle I managed to find tea bags and some sugar. The milk in the fridge had congealed to a kind of yogurt so we had to settle for black.
At last the baby was sucking at his bottle and we got some peace. Roz then gave me a crash course on how not to ruin your life. As she finished she was near to tears.
‘But that’s awful,’ I said. ‘Don’t you ever get out in the evening?’ Before I knew it, I found I’d volunteered to baby-sit.
‘Oh, would you?’ said Roz, her tears magically drying.
‘Of course, I’ve got loads of homework to do. I could easily bring it down here.’
‘You couldn’t manage tonight, could you?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve been invited to this gig by the guys downstairs.’
‘Which guys?’
‘Barry and Jeremy. They live at number three.’ Number three was Jekyll and Hyde’s apartment – so there were two of them. I wondered which one Roz was after.
I agreed to be back at 8 p.m. The baby-sitting had provided a handy excuse for me too. Cedric had invited Clare and me over to his place later. Now I had a water-tight excuse for leaving them alone.
I was coming out of Roz’s flat when I bumped into Cedric on the stairs.
‘So did you get the bike mended?’
‘Yeah. Kind of. Clare was meant to be helping. But she didn’t do much, she kept getting these text messages.’ He sounded most put out. (I think I could be forgiven for a little glow of triumph at this point.)
‘Any more letters from you-know-who?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘That anonymous person.’
‘Oh him. No.’
‘You still on for tonight?’
‘Oh no, can’t. I’ve promised to baby-sit for the girl in number six. But Clare is.’
‘Oh right, sure,’ said Cedric.
Chapter Twelve
That night I had my revised Romeo and Juliet essay to write, which would help pass the time. At around seven-thirty Mum got back, loaded with supermarket carriers – she’d done the weekly shop. I helped her unpack and stock the fridge.
‘You couldn’t spare the time to hear my lines, could you?’
‘Can’t, sorry. I’ve said I’d baby-sit for the girl in number six.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of you.’
‘Just so long as she briefs me properly. I’ve no idea about babies.’
‘Good practice.’
‘Practice for what? I’m not thinking of having babies till I’m at least thirty.’
‘But you might have a brother or sister some day.’
I stared at Mum.
‘Surely not!’
She laughed. ‘No need to look at me like that. I’m not totally over the hill, you know.’
Jeez! I thought. And then I thought, why not? If Mum and Dad did get back together there was no reason why they shouldn’t have another child. It might be just what they needed.
I left Mum muttering over her lines and took my books downstairs to Roz’s flat. She’d accomplished an amazing transformation. Washed her hair, got clean jeans on and even a half-way decent jacket. The baby was quiet for once. She beckoned to me and we crept to the door of the room he was sleeping in. There was a low light on inside. I could just see his little face and tight fist sticking out from under the quilt.
‘He should sleep till midnight,’ whispered Roz. ‘But if he wakes up I’ve got a bottle ready. Just give him that. He may need changing. The nappies are right here. And the baby wipes and baby lotion. And you’ll need to check that he doesn’t get too hot. If he does, he’ll be thirsty and you can give him juice which hardly needs warming …’
I was starting to wish I’d taken notes. ‘Fine,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
‘I’ll be back by eleven thirty,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry about a thing. Have a good time.’ I closed the door as quietly as I could behind her.
Having peeped in one more time on the baby and established that he was sleeping peacefully, I cleared a space on the coffee table and got out my books. Taking the Romeo and Juliet essay out of my file, I took a deep breath and started writing: The tragedy all hinged on the letter … (I felt a pang of guilt at that).
I put down my pen. If the letter from Friar Lawrence had got to Romeo in time, he would have known that Juliet was only faking death. Then there would have been this brilliant moment when Di Caprio (errm, I mean Romeo) would have lifted Juliet up and carried her out of the tomb. Everyone would have thought it was some sort of miracle and so they would probably have let them get married after all …Which would’ve been a so-oo much better ending …
Which got me thinking. If Henry’s letter had got to Jane, their romance would have ended happily too. I could imagine them now, having dinner together, soft lighting from candles on the table, a bunch of long red roses (Henry’s gift) in a tall vase. Each plate laid out with artfully arranged food, king prawns maybe, with those little chef’s hats on their tails. Soft background music. But no. Thanks to me they were each in their separate flats, each microwaving their lone TV dinner …
I simply couldn’t go on with my essay until I’d done something about it. I took the purple envelope out of my backpack and stared at it. That’s when it occurred to me that perhaps I did know where Henry was. I had his address on my clipboard, the one that I’d got from the blokes in the pub. That’s if he was the right Henry – there must be thousands of Henrys around. Yet it all fitted. Where he lived – Forest Vale – and the card and the pen and everything. With resolution I took out a clean sheet of file paper and w
rote:
Dear Henry,
You don’t know me. And this may sound very odd but I really have to speak to you in person. Please would you meet me at 11 a.m. next Saturday 12th May at Muggins Café in the mall.
Yours, A friend
I folded the letter carefully, slid it into an envelope and wrote ‘To Henry’ followed by the address. Next Saturday I’d get the bus back to Forest Vale and check him out.
That’s when I suddenly became aware that there was a sound coming from the baby’s room. A slight shuddering sobbing noise. Well, he’d probably go back to sleep if I didn’t do anything. I continued my essay.
The sobbing grew louder. I gave up writing and went into his room. The baby didn’t take kindly to a stranger appearing. He took one look at me and let rip. I had no idea something so small could make so much noise. I tried making comforting noises like I had to Bag when he was a kitten. Then I picked him up. A baby is much heavier than a cat and this one was revoltingly damp. The bed was really wet too. Comforting cat noises didn’t go down at all well. He was getting redder and redder in the face. He made me think of those dolls which schools lend teenagers with the aim of putting them off babies. I’m telling you now, they are nowhere near as good as the real thing. This baby could keep a girl on contraception till she was way past child-bearing age.
I tried desperately to remember Roz’s instructions. Milk, that was the thing. I lugged the baby into the kitchen. The bottle of formula stood ready in a bottle warmer. I kept my head, despite the decibels, testing the milk for temperature.
At last, I had baby on lap, bottle in mouth. The baby sucked, eyeing me warily round the bottle. You could tell from the way he looked at me that he had no confidence in my ability. It took him about fifteen minutes to get halfway through the milk and then he kept falling asleep. So I had to jiggle him to wake him up.
I took the opportunity of relative peace to text Clare. Jogging the baby with one arm, I scrolled down through the Cs in my phone-book, and was just sending what I flattered myself was an artfully sexy text message when … Ooops! a load of slimy sick slid down my jumper. The baby had clearly indicated he didn’t want any more milk.
It didn’t seem right simply to dump him in bed in his soggy state, so I gritted my teeth. I won’t go into the nappy changing bit. I’ll only say that I was the one that came off worse. Somehow I got him back in a dry nappy, dry clothes and a dry bed. He lay there staring at me, whimpering. So I picked up a pink nylon bunny and threatened him with it. Miraculously, this was greeted by a toothless grin. I shook the bunny again. Another grin. It’s so easy when you know how.
I left him cooing and gurgling in possession of the bunny and crept out. He’d got what he wanted. The fact that I was utterly demoralised, wet through and covered in sick didn’t seem to bother him one bit. Back in the kitchen I wearily loaded the wet bedding into the washer-dryer. Then I stripped off and added my T-shirt and jeans as well, making do with the hideous floral robe of Roz’s that I found on a hook in the bathroom. I turned the washer on.
My phone was ringing. It was Clare.
‘Hi. Where are you?’
‘On the way back home.’ She sounded depressed.
‘What? Why? Did you get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘The one I just sent you.’
‘No … I didn’t get any message.’
‘That’s funny. I wonder what happened to it. Has he asked you yet?’
‘No.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Men.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, cheer up. There’s still time.’ Odd, I thought, as I went back into the living room and got back to my homework.
It was twenty minutes later that the poltergeists struck. I sat rooted to my seat as I heard things being flung around the kitchen. My hair was practically standing on end. I immediately thought of the baby. He was blotchy, red-faced, decidedly evil-looking. I had this sudden flashback: ‘Roz. My name’s Roz.’ What could Roz be short for but Rosemary.
I couldn’t move from the chair for fear. I groped for my mobile. There was nothing else for it. I rang Cedric’s number. To my undying gratitude he answered right away.
‘Jessica? You sound weird. What’s up?’
‘Listen. I can’t move. You’ve got to come and save me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Upstairs at number six. You know, baby-sitting. Please come now.’
‘I’ll be right up.’
Within seconds he was ringing on the doorbell. I steeled myself and, without looking to right or left, I flung myself at the door.
‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I gasped, clinging to him.
‘Hey, cool it.’ He disentangled himself. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘They’re in the kitchen,’ I whispered.
‘Who?’
‘Poltergeists. They’re flinging things about. Listen!’ There was a low rumbling sound and more sounds of shattering crockery. We both stared at the knob of the kitchen door.
‘OK, right. Stand back,’ said Cedric, steeling himself.
He flung the door open. Inside, the washing machine was doing a lumbering walk across the floor. Cedric strode in and pulled the plug from the wall. There was a sudden silence.
‘Uneven load,’ he said. ‘Jeesus, Jessica, you’ve got an overactive imagination.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘What made you think of poltergeists?’
There was a wail from the baby’s room. ‘That’s Rosemary’s baby,’ I said weakly.
Cedric cracked up. I didn’t think it was so funny.
‘What have you got on?’ he asked.
I suddenly became aware that the odds had changed. He was being strong and forceful while I was being a wimp. What’s more I was standing there wearing Roz’s hideous floral robe.
Cedric + being forceful > Jessica + being wimpy
Ce + bf > J + bw
Or to simplify:
Ce > J Surely not!
There was a pause.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I got your message.’ He took a step closer to me.
‘What message?’ I said, backing away a step.
‘The one you texted me.’
‘I texted you?’ I stared at him as the terrible truth dawned on me. I could see myself scrolling through my phone-book down to ‘Clare’. Through ‘Carol, Cedric …’ Quite obviously, with all the distractions from the baby, I hadn’t got to Clare – and nor had my artfully sexy message. Oops!
‘I was really, you know – knocked out by it,’ he said. He took another step towards me. I took another step back. O-m-G. What should I do now? I could hardly tell him the message was meant for Clare or I’d give the game away. All I could think of was to get rid of him as quickly as possible. With helpful timing the baby started crying again.
‘Look, you’d better go,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t like strangers.’ I virtually bundled Cedric out of the door and closed it behind him. I stood there leaning against it, my mind racing.
This had put me totally off my stride.
Chapter Thirteen
The following Monday I posted my letter to Henry on the way to school and continued with a lighter heart. At least I was doing something.
The bus arrived. Clare had saved a seat for me as usual. I climbed in beside her.
‘So what am I doing wrong?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing!’ I replied, feeling really guilty. I had a horrible flashback of my message. Oh, why had it gone to Cedric, of all people?
‘But I must be. I was being really interested in his music and his bike and everything but he simply didn’t react.’
‘Maybe you seemed too keen.’
‘You think so?’
‘You have to kind of encourage males without seeming too desperate.’
‘You think I’m acting like desperate?’
‘No, not desperate exactly, but you know m
ales. You have to kind of get them interested by being interested but not too interested.’
‘And you think that I’m being too interested?’
‘Exactly. Look, from now on, cool it. Pretend he doesn’t exist.’
‘I’ll try.’
Once inside school, I met Mr Williams in the corridor. He asked me if I’d finished my revised Romeo and Juliet essay. When I said ‘almost’ he practically self-combusted. He said that if I didn’t have it in by lunchtime, which meant twelve-thirty on-the-dot, he would have to give me a failure grade for it which would bring my coursework average down even further.
‘But Mr Williams. I’ll never get it done by lunchtime.’
‘That, Jessica, is your problem,’ he said, and made off down the corridor.
Luckily the next class was double art. Now art really is my best subject. I was nicely ahead with my coursework. With any luck I could persuade Ms Mills to let me have an hour or so in the library to finish the essay.
I took my work out of my portfolio. They were studies for a still life of three oranges and a bowl of goldfish. I placed my sketches in a prominent position for inspection. I expected praise from Ms Mills. I sat with a modestly non-commital expression waiting for it while she went through my portfolio. She looked up with a frown. A frown!?
‘Yes, a good start as usual, Jessica. But I must say you’ve still a lot more work to put in. Especially on this final study …’
(More work? That final colour study was brilliant. I was thinking of entering it for the Turner Prize, as a matter of fact.)
‘… for a still life, it’s very angular.’
‘But that’s the point, Ms Mills. It’s my tribute to Futurism.’ (Couldn’t she see?)
‘Sometimes, Jessica, I think you’re trying to run before you can walk. Square oranges?’
Run? Hadn’t she noticed the twentieth century? A whole hundred years has taken place since anyone had painted what she would call a good still life (something circa 1910 – definitely before Cezanne).
I was instructed to redo the final study. ‘Remember cold-warm-cold, dear. Oranges are round, Jessica. In case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘But Ms Mills, I was hoping you might let me have some time off to work in the library. I’m a bit behind on an English ess—’