It would take at least an hour to notice the missing Madagascan fertility symbol. And then they’d pack her off to a young-offenders’ institution.
Her friends with the ironed hair went, leaving just me, Sam and Sam’s little brother sitting at the kitchen table. Delilah had got dressed and jumped down the stairs effusive with thanks, calling me her ‘honey’ and her ‘bestest, bestest friend’. She is very generous like that. She doesn’t take people for granted. God, how I wished at that moment that she did. And then the doorbell went. Delilah squealed and ran to the kitchen window to check her reflection. She rubbed her teeth and had a quick gargle in the sink.
‘That’ll be him,’ she spluttered. ‘Let him in, Con. Go on.’
Behind me, I heard Sam say, ‘Who’s “him”?’ – the only one of us who didn’t know.
I opened the door. He was leaning against the wall, in the same trousers as the night before and a faded green T-shirt that made his eyes seem very blue. He didn’t look surprised to see me, but gave a lopsided sheepish smile. ‘Wotcha,’ he said.
The blood rushed to my face and then rushed away again. I stared at him. I think I swallowed. There was so much I wanted to say.
But he walked past me and jumped the steps to the kitchen. I could hear Delilah chattering away, and his own voice, deep and calm, asking after Sam’s brother’s iPod, being nice like he always is, like I’ve always taken for granted.
When I got down there he was sitting in the chair I’d vacated, and Delilah was perched on his knee, with her arms round his neck. I stood with my back against the cold, hard sink and I said something cold and hard like, ‘Good timing on the clearing-up front.’
Delilah said, ‘He helped. Only earlier, didn’t you, Will?’
‘You stayed the night, then?’
Delilah giggled. William said, ‘I sort of crashed. I’ve just been home for some kip.’
He put his hands on Delilah’s waist and gently lifted her, so he could stand up. ‘I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting my brother.’
Delilah took him to the door. When she came back I was sitting down. I wish she’d stayed all girly, but she was calm. Her eyes were wide with happiness and hope. ‘I really, really like him,’ she said in a normal voice, no theatrics. ‘I think he likes me, don’t you? It’s different this time. Connie, you’re my friend. Tell me truthfully, don’t you think this time it might work out? Do you think he might be my boyfriend?’
I looked into her face and told her that I thought it might, and that he probably would.
‘Cross your heart?’ she said.
Back in bathroom, 9 p.m.
I’ve had to take a break for a chicken dinner. We had a guest. A guest of honour. Mother got out the napkins. It wasn’t a guilt supper, but an introductory supper. A meet-and-greet supper. You can guess, can’t you? Mr Spence. Or rather, John.
I tried to be nice. Julie rang just before we ate. Now it’s all over with Ade, she’s interested in family life: hers and other people’s. (Is that what it’s like with boyfriends? They take you away, gradually, until you’re too far to go back?) She said she’d had a ‘heart-to-heart’ with Uncle Bert.
‘Fact is,’ she said, ‘we had nothing to do with any of it. Turns out it really was just French lessons. Bit of a flirt on the side, a few free dinners, but nothing serious. It only went on while Sue was away. As my mum says, he always has to have someone to cook his meals. We’re not the matchmakers we thought we were.’
‘But we did something, didn’t we?’
‘What?’
‘The guy from the lingerie shop. Victor Savonaire. I mean…’
‘What happened there, Connie?’
‘Well, nothing. But The Chemist. I invited him for dinner and…’
‘And?’
‘And…’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, suddenly realizing the truth of the matter. It had been staring me in the face all along. I just hadn’t noticed. ‘We haven’t done a thing.’
I could hear Mother and Mr Spence laughing over the gravy in the kitchen, laughing in a way I haven’t heard her laugh for a long time. Sort of relaxed. Mr Spence: her choice. Not Bert, or Victor Savonaire, or John Leakey. Not Jack. It all seemed very sad – and very funny at the same time. It seems I hadn’t been in control at all. I wasn’t the wise old witch I thought I was. I was just a silly little girl, cooking up stories in my own head. I thought I knew everything. It turns out I couldn’t even see what was in front of me. I didn’t even know my own heart.
‘You all right, Con?’ Julie asked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Bit tired.’ After that we had one of those nice, cosy chats about last night’s party. I know I hated it at the time, but in retrospect these things take on a different light. I was glad I’d gone. If only to have stories to talk about with my friends afterwards. I do love Julie.
I felt more cheerful when I hung up. And I was nice at supper. Mr Spence did his Donald Duck for Marie and gave Cyril a trick to help with his nine-times table, which he’s got a block on. You do something with your fingers. Say it’s three times nine? Well, hold out both your hands and put the third finger down on your left hand. Then count how many fingers you have on either side. Two on one side of the finger, seven on the other. Twenty-seven. Try it. It does actually work.
And then Mother mentioned the war being almost over at last and he said something I didn’t notice at the time, but I’ve been thinking about since. He said, ‘I know they’re saying it’s close to finished, but I reckon it’s only just beginning.’ And he didn’t look geeky at all when he said it. He looked sort of wise. Of course, five minutes later I saw him pinch Mother’s bottom in a really cheesy way, but you can’t have everything.
I thought I was wise. All along I thought I was wise. I’m sitting up in the bathroom now, with the cat stretched out on the floor next to me, and I realize how naive I’ve been. Everyone always says how grown-up I am. But I’m not, am I? I’m younger, in the sense of maturity, than almost anyone I know. At least Delilah, even at her worst, is on some sort of learning curve. But I’ve been standing back, thinking of myself as somehow superior, above it all. I don’t have a clue about what really matters. What was I doing thinking and worrying about Mother when I had my own life to think and worry about? Sometimes you have to learn these things the hard way. It’s taken losing William to make me realize that.
Wednesday 26 March
My bedroom, 6.10 p.m.
I cannot believe what has just happened, or what is about to happen. I am flying. Actually, I won’t. I’ll be going by boat. I hope. I hope. I hope. Please, let it not be too late.
This is what happened. I can hardly get the words out.
When I got home from school, Mother was already back. She was sitting on the sofa, next to Mr Spence, with a serious expression on her face. For a toe-curling moment I thought they had an announcement to make, but then I noticed she was holding something in her hand.
This diary.
People talk about wanting the ground to open and swallow them up. I wanted the roof to cave in, all the bricks and the mortar and the bunk beds in Marie and Cyril’s room and Mr Spence’s tiling and plumbing to cascade down on to my head and bury me forever. I would be a monument to mortification. Parents would pass our ruined house for years to come and say to their offspring, ‘There lies Connie Pickles, who died of embarrassment. Let that be a lesson to you, my child. Never write it down.’
But Mother smiled. And she wouldn’t smile if she’d read this.
‘Constance,’ she said sternly. ‘What have you been hiding from me?’
I played for time. ‘Errr,’ I said.
‘This, this, THIS.’
And then I realized that in her other hand was a piece of folded paper. A letter. It took a moment for it to sink in. THE FRENCH-EXCHANGE LETTER. The one I’d tucked away in the back of this book all those weeks ago.
‘You left your book in the bathroom,’ she said.
‘And when I picked it up to put it on the stairs up to your room, this fell out. And, I’m sorry, but I saw it was to me… But, Constance, why did you not show it? Did you not want to go? It is such an opportunity and I thought that… I am just ver’, ver’, ver’ surprised at you.’
‘I… I… I…’ I stuttered. What was I to say? Lie and say I didn’t want to go? Or the truth: that I was worried about money and didn’t want to worry her. I couldn’t find the words for either.
And then Mr Spence came to my rescue. He said, ‘Fourteen-year-old girls have a lot on their mind, Bernadette. SATs for one thing. Maybe she just forgot. Or maybe –’ he threw me a quick look – ‘she thought it would be too expensive.’
‘Well, that’s ridiculous,’ Mother said. ‘We can afford it. And, anyway, there is all the money she earnt herself at the chemist’s.’
They looked at me. I was so red I thought I might explode. The chemist’s money: why hadn’t I thought about that? But I wanted Mother to have it, didn’t I? But… ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to go,’ Mr Spence added.
‘No, I do,’ I said, before I could stop myself. I looked at Mother. ‘I really do. I really, really do.’
And then things started happening. Mother started ranting about the urgency and pacing the room and phoning people for numbers. I don’t know how she did it, but she got on to Monsieur Baker and they had this long conversation and then she hung up and, ten minutes later, he rang back. And all the time Mr Spence and I sat on the sofa, with our hands between our knees, not talking. I was just thinking, is this really happening to me? Is it really not too late? Am I really, really going to Paris?
When she finally put down the phone on Monsieur Baker, she clapped her hands and started filling in the form. She said Monsieur Baker had contacted the school in Champigne, the suburb of Paris where they’re all going, and there was a possibility. A family with a girl my age was being contacted. We had to fax the form as quickly as we could. She had started doing it when I plucked up the courage to say what I said next.
‘Mother, don’t be cross, but if I really am going to Paris, please, please can I meet my grandparents?’
She went very still, and for a few seconds didn’t look up from the form. When she did her face was red. She was biting her lip. She looked at me and then at Mr Spence and then back at me. ‘Your grandparents…’ she said.
‘Please. I know you’re not speaking to them, but I know they’ve written to you and… well, don’t you think it would be good if I did?’
She gave a very deep sigh. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. She went to the bookshelves and took something from behind some books. It was a packet of letters. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe it is time…’
So that is that. Without meaning to, without planning it, I’ve done what I always wanted to do – reunite my mother with her parents. She’s going to write to them and tell them to ring us. When I’m in Paris – when I’m in Paris! – she feels sure they will be enchanted to meet me. I can hardly wait.
Oh no, there’s the phone again. Please not bad news.
Quick PS. The phone call was for me! It was Cal, the boy not from the Isle of Wight, who got my number from Del. I’ve been asked out on my first date! Can I overcome my embarrassment at being invited to go? Got to rush to the shop to fax the form. Further reflections on my return. Back in two mins.
The roof, 10 p.m.
It seems ages since I broke off writing in here, but it’s only four hours. I’m on the roof now, in my spot. The world keeps spinning round on me. I feel so happy and at the same time I want to cry. I haven’t decided yet about Cal from Hammersmith. He’s like a nice thought I’ve tucked away and haven’t had time to examine.
I ran to the shop. The fax machine was working but in use, so I had to hang around for a bit. And then there was a spot of bother with the code – a rogue nought – but it went through in the end. I was paying when I felt someone come up behind me and stand a bit too close. When I turned round to glare, I saw it was William.
‘Getting your chocolate fix?’ he said. He had his hands in his front pockets, which pushed his hips forwards. His hair was tousled and his cheeks had high spots of pink, like he’d been cycling fast.
I told him I was sending a fax, and then I told him why.
He didn’t look cross or jealous like I thought he might. He said, ‘Oh, that’s good. I’m glad.’
He was buying a paper and some chocolate, and when he’d paid, we left the shop together and started walking back. He wheeled his bike with one hand and held the packet of chocolate buttons he’d bought out towards me with the other. I hadn’t spoken to him since Sunday. I knew he’d been at Delilah’s yesterday teatime because I’d seen his bike.
‘You haven’t been calling for me this week,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said.
‘I wish you would. Next term, will you?’
‘Why? Do you miss me?’ He put on a stupid baby voice for this. I decided to ignore it.
‘Yes,’ I said.
We were passing the playground at the end of his road. It was empty now, even though it was still light. The sun was shining coral pink through the big trees down by the river. The mothers had taken all their children home for tea. A plastic lidded cup lay abandoned on the roundabout.
I went through the gates. I didn’t know if he’d follow me, but he did. He leant his bike on the railings and we sat on the swings.
I said, ‘You think it’s all right to go on the French exchange, then?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You used to think I was a bit la-di-da about France.’
‘I suppose that’s because I was jealous,’ he said.
‘Jealous?’
‘I think I thought you’d run away and leave me.’
There was something self-mocking in his voice. Past tense. It made me feel sad and lost. He could say this because these were things he’d felt. He didn’t feel them any more. I used to think of William as part of me. It’s why I could find him so irritating. He was mine. But swinging next to him in the park this evening I realized that’s why it hurt so much. He was separate now.
‘So, how’s Delilah?’ I said.
‘Fine.’
‘Do you like her?’
He shrugged. ‘You know I do.’
‘Does she like you?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughed.
We were swinging slowly, scuffing our feet on the ground. When we were little they had tarmac there, now it’s those spongy pinky-grey tiles that bow slightly beneath your shoes. I was studying the floor as we were talking, looking at the darker bit, like a dent, just under me. As I swung it would come into sight and it would go. William was just in front of me. And then I saw he began kicking the ground, digging in his heels to push himself off. He was rising up, way ahead of me.
I pushed myself off too, to try and catch up, and I was gaining height, feeling the wind rush past my ears.
‘Do you love her?’ I shouted.
He turned and grinned at me. We were way out of sync. When he was ahead, I was behind. When I got up, he’d gone. I was so high I could feel the chain begin to slacken at the top. I put my hand out to try and catch his to slow me down, but I kept missing. He was smiling back at me as if he knew what my question really meant, but he didn’t answer. I started laughing and hung my hand out until I did reach his and then I held on to it, pulling him in time with me until we slowed together. I can still feel the cold chain tugging against the back of my arm.
We came to a stop. I sort of wanted him to kiss me again more than anything in the world. But we just looked at each other and didn’t say anything. I didn’t make a move. Not because I was frightened – because I’m not, not any more – and not (shamefully, I’m sorry) because I was thinking of Delilah. But because it didn’t seem necessary. I think he knew. And a part of me thinks that’s enough. He might be The One, though it’s probably too early to tell, or he might just represent something safe and secur
e, but one thing’s for sure: he is my friend, my oldest, bestest friend, and I love him.
Who knows what’s going to happen next. Maybe when I get back from France… well, we’ll see. There’s this date with Cal still to think about, and Delilah, and the French exchange, and the Easter holidays. But I’m not scared about any of it. I’m excited. This evening we just sat there, holding hands, as the sun slipped into the river, watching the bluey-green patches between the trees go grey, and I’ve never felt so happy in my life.
I’m writing this on the roof, listening to the traffic in the distance as the spring sky darkens above my head, and the velvet patches of night fall between the blossom and bright new leaves in the gardens below. Oh dear, poetry again. It’s warm. I’m in my old men’s PJs, but no dressing gown or socks.
I saw the news earlier and the war is definitely over – for now at least. Maybe Mr Spence is right and it’s only just beginning. I suppose there are no endings and beginnings in things like that. They had these pictures on the television of these ordinary people dancing in the street, and some of them were children in school uniform, and it made me realize that the people over there are just like us. All along I’ve been thinking about our suburb and how far away it is, how cut off it is, from the rest of the world, from the war, when, of course, the world is made up of thousands, millions, trillions, of suburbs just like this. We’re all interconnected. We all fit in.
Oh, it’s so heavenly out here this evening. It’s the sort of evening Granny Enid would say she’d want to bottle. I wonder, if I concentrate very hard, I can brand how I feel now on my brain so that when I’m older, when I’ve found out all the things there are to know, when I really am as wise as I used to think I was, I’ll look back and remember how I feel tonight with my whole life ahead of me.
I don’t believe it! I’ve just seen William. He’s on his roof. He must have climbed out of the bathroom window, and now he’s hanging on to the chimney, leaning out and waving. I just stood up, so I could wave too. It felt precarious; there was nothing to hold on to. I had to lean back against the window, but it was wonderful. I could see William waving at me, and I was smiling so hard I thought my face was going to break. When you stand up, I never realized, you can see across the roofs of the houses on his street to the river. You can see the bridge and the tower blocks beyond. And beyond that London, Paris, les de Bellechasses. There’s William, my William, waving at me like the mad boy he is, and behind him, stretching out for miles and miles, is the whole rest of the world.
Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles Page 17