She looked him up and down. ‘But you’re so . . . you know . . .’ She stopped as Alf wandered in from the shop.
‘I thought you two had got lost or summat,’ Alf said. ‘What’s keeping you?’
‘I was wondering if you wanted to go to the ice rink tonight,’ said Tom.
Tara looked up. ‘Me?’
Tom nodded towards Alf. ‘Well I wasn’t asking him.’
Instinctively, Tara’s fingers flew to the huge spot on her chin. ‘Tonight? Bloody hell, you don’t hang about, do you?’ She mentally ran through her sparse wardrobe, wondering if she would have time to nip out and buy a new top. ‘Hmm . . . I suppose I could.’
‘Oh, don’t put yourself out,’ Tom said, folding his arms, the trace of a smile on his lips.
‘She’ll be there,’ said Alf. ‘I’ll make sure of it. Violet’s no doubt off out somewhere with that Larry fella so it’ll be nice to ’ave the place to meself for once.’
With every fibre, Tara wanted to accept, but ice-skating? Images of Bambi came to mind, sprawled on the ice, legs akimbo, all dignity out the window. She looked at Tom’s expectant face, his smooth skin not yet ravaged by a razor. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
A couple of hours passed before Tara had the chance to bound up the stairs. She burst into their bedroom with such gusto that the door crashed against the wall, startling Violet, who was absorbed in the latest Jackie Collins. ‘Flamin’ Nora, Tara, there’d better be a fire.’
‘Mum,’ Tara panted. ‘You’ll never guess what.’
Violet laid down her book. ‘In that case, you’d better tell me then.’
‘Tom’s asked me out! Tonight. To the ice rink.’
‘Who’s Tom when he’s at home?’
‘You know, that one from school. He’s a couple of years above me. He’s gorgeous, looks like David Essex. Alf’s only gone and taken him on in the shop.’
‘I don’t remember you mentioning him before.’
‘That because he’s out of my league but by some miracle he’s asked me out to the ice rink . . . tonight.’ She stopped and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Oh my God, you don’t think he’s doing this for a bet, do you?’
‘No, Tara. I can’t imagine anyone would be so cruel, but in any case you’re a beautiful young lady and any lad would be proud to be seen with you on his arm.’
‘You’re only saying that because you’re my mum. It doesn’t count.’ She moved over to the mirror and peered at her reflection. ‘Look at this.’ She pointed to the spot on her chin. ‘How can I go out on my first date with this thing? It’s huge.’
Violet rose from her seat and took a closer look. ‘Tara, there’s nothing there, stop worrying.’
‘Nothing there? A blind man on a galloping horse would notice it.’ Tara returned to the mirror. ‘Looks like it’s about to erupt like bloody Vesuvius.’
‘No need to swear, Tara.’
Tara ran her fingers through her mousy-brown hair. ‘And what am I going to do with this? It’s so bloody flat, it needs more . . . more . . . oomph. Do you think I’ve got time to do a demi-wave before tonight?’
‘Stop panicking, love. I’ll help you and by the time I’ve finished you’ll be able to give that Farah Fawcett a run for her money.’ Violet stood and reached for her vanity case, opening the lid and rooting inside. She took out several items and laid them out on the bed as though she were a surgeon preparing to carry out an operation. She tapped her lips. ‘Hmm . . . I think I have everything I need here. What time can you get away from the shop?’
Tara shrugged. ‘Dunno. How long will you need?’
Violet studied her daughter’s face, running a finger along one of Tara’s eyebrows.
Tara registered her frown. ‘What is it, Mum?’
‘I think you’re perfect just as you are, but if it’s what you want then I’ll see if I can work a little magic.’
‘Yes please, Mum, but I hope you’ve got a wand.’
Violet laughed. ‘There’ll be no need for that but we need to get to work. Go downstairs and tell Alf he’ll have to manage without you.’
Tara nibbled on her thumb nail and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Is that the right time, Mum? You did remember to wind it up, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Tara, stop fretting. He’s only five minutes late.’
‘I think I’ll go downstairs and wait in the shop.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Alf’ll let him in and he can jolly well make the effort to come up here.’
‘Mum, don’t say anything embarrassing, will you?’
Violet tutted. ‘Me? As if.’
‘What if he tries to kiss me? What do I do? I mean where does everything go? What do you do with your tongue, should I close my eyes? Oh, God, I feel sick.’
Violet took both her daughter’s hands in hers. ‘Oh, my Baby Girl, you’re over-thinking things. Just relax and everything will be perfect. He probably won’t try to kiss you on a first date anyway.’
Tara headed for the door. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo again. And please stop calling me Baby Girl.’
She stared at her reflection in the speckled bathroom mirror, hardly recognising the face she saw. Her mother had done a thorough job alright. She’d sent Tara to the chemist for a little sachet of toner, which had resulted in her hair losing its mousy look. It now radiated a hint of chestnut and shone like a new conker. Violet had used her sponge rollers to give it some volume, blow-dried the sides so that they flicked out, then applied a cloud of hair lacquer to ensure that not even a force ten gale would shift it. Her eyebrows had been given a thorough plucking, Violet telling her to stop being such a baby when she complained about the agony. The concealer had done an admirable job of disguising the spot and the blusher her mother had applied had actually given her a hint of cheekbones. A double coating of mascara and a slick of Vaseline to the lips completed the transformation. She smiled to herself. The whole effect had taken hours but the end result meant that Tara looked like a natural beauty and not one who had to rely on cosmetics before stepping out of the door. Her mother really had worked a miracle.
There was a tap on the door. ‘Tara, love, Tom’s here.’
She gripped the edge of the sink and took a long breath. ‘Coming.’
Saturday nights at the ice rink were always manic and as Tara watched the throngs speeding past, their blades flicking up pieces of ice, she wondered what on earth she’d let herself in for. Tom sat beside her lacing up his boots. ‘Have you been here a lot then?’
He straightened up, his hair falling round his face. He tucked it behind his ears. ‘A few times.’
She stood up tentatively, her feet wobbling on the thin blades. ‘Blimey, I feel about ten feet tall.’
She extended her arms in an effort to balance herself and took her first faltering step. ‘I can’t do it, Tom.’
‘Course you can,’ he laughed. ‘It’s so much easier once you’re on the ice.’
‘Hmm . . . I’ll be the judge of that.’
He pointed to her denim flares. ‘You might want to tuck those into your socks. If you get the blade caught in the hem, then you’ll come a right cropper.’
He held onto her elbow as he guided her to the gap in the partition which surrounded the rink. He hopped onto the ice and skated backwards for a few steps before extending both arms towards her. ‘Come on, grab my hands.’
With legs as shaky as a newborn foal, she reached out for Tom and he pulled her onto the ice. ‘There you are, I told you it was easy.’
Tom held onto her hand as they moved away, side-by-side, staying close to the edge so she could grab the handrail if she needed to. Her legs were rigid and her back was already aching.
‘Try to relax a bit and stand up straight.’
She lifted her gaze and saw the way ahead blocked by a family of five all holding hands. ‘Ooh, no, look.’
‘It’s alright,’ reassured Tom.
A steward sped past them, shoutin
g to the family. ‘Oi, can’t you lot read? No skating in chains, break it up.’
Tom turned to Tara, smiling. ‘See? Everything’s under control.’
They had completed a few circuits, Tara gaining confidence with each lap, when a klaxon sounded. ‘Bloody hell, what on earth’s that for?’
‘We’ll have to get off, it’s time for the ice dancing.’
‘Oh dear, I was just getting going.’
‘It’s only for about twenty minutes, we can grab a hot chocolate from the vending machine if you want.’
The lights were dimmed and a kaleidoscope of colours was projected onto the ice as the dancers took up position. Tom and Tara watched from the sides, clutching their plastic cups of watery hot chocolate. She was mesmerised by the graceful way the couples moved, perfectly in sync with each other, making it seem effortless.
‘Hiya, Tom.’ A young girl stood in front of them. She wore a short, ballerina-type skirt teamed with American-tan tights. Her boots were white, indicating that they were her own and not the uncomfortable rented ones like Tara’s. Her hair was scraped back into a tight bun, her eyelids sparkling with metallic blue eyeshadow. ‘Wanna dance?’
Tom looked at Tara. ‘This is Melanie.’
‘Mel, actually. You don’t mind if I borrow him, do you?’
Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘I won’t if you don’t want me to.’
Tara looked at the other couples on the ice, their bodies pressed up against each other. Damn right she didn’t want him to. ‘It’s OK,’ she replied eventually. ‘I’ll be fine here watching.’
As Tom and Mel stepped on to the ice, the music slowed and he took her in his arms, his eyes locking with hers as they moved off. Judging by the way he spun her round and then lifted her onto his shoulder, he had been here more than just a few times. Mel was so pretty, so dainty and graceful that Tara had the sudden urge to get up and leave. She couldn’t compete with someone like that. She felt frumpy in her faded flares, even though she had daringly teamed them with one of her mother’s blouses which she’d tied at the waist, leaving a strip of flesh on show round her midriff. She tugged at the blouse and tried to pull it down, suddenly feeling foolish. She wished she’d never agreed to come.
Tom and Mel arrived breathless by her side, Mel’s face flushed and dewy with perspiration. She stood on tiptoe and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Tom.’
‘Any time.’ He kissed her on the temple, causing Tara to avert her eyes. ‘See ya, Mel,’
Tom plonked himself down next to Tara, his chest heaving. ‘Phew, I’m knackered. It’s hard work that.’
‘She . . . erm . . . she seems nice.’
‘Mel? Oh yes, she’s a lovely girl. Very sweet.’
‘Pretty too.’
Tom shrugged. ‘I suppose she is. Never really thought about it.’
‘Oh, come off it, Tom. I saw the way you gazed at her. Why did you go off with her when you came here with me?’
‘I didn’t “go off” with her as you put it. I asked you if you minded and you said you didn’t.’
Tara’s voice rose a level. ‘Well, I didn’t mean it.’
He frowned at her. ‘Are you . . . are you jealous, Tara?’
She had never hated herself more. How could she tell him that all she had wanted to do was rip off Mel’s stupid tutu, and pull out her immaculate bun? ‘No, I’m not jealous.’
He nudged her on the arm, smiling. ‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘You can dance with anybody you want to.’
‘Tara, look at me.’ He took hold of her chin and she grimaced as his thumb touched the big spot there. She willed him to remove his hand. ‘I don’t fancy Mel, alright?’
‘Why wouldn’t you? She’s gorgeous and she clearly adores you.’
He let go of her chin and laughed. ‘I’ll tell you why I don’t fancy her, shall I?’
‘It’s none of my business, Tom.’
‘I don’t fancy Mel because she’s my flippin’ cousin.’
Tara closed her eyes and bowed her head, not wishing Tom to see her crimson face. She had behaved like the silly schoolgirl she was. She wasn’t mature enough to go out with boys. She forced herself to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. It’s just that when you and her . . .’
He leaned in closer and for one terrifying second she thought he was going to kiss her but instead he touched his finger to her lips. ‘Stop talking,’ he whispered.
At Tara’s insistence, Tom had hopped off the bus at the stop before hers. It was only ten thirty, her stop was virtually outside Alf’s and she’d wanted to avoid an awkward goodbye, wondering whether she was supposed to invite Tom in for a cuppa and if she did, would he expect more than a mug of PG Tips? She crept through the deserted shop and upstairs to the kitchen where a sliver of light shone under the closed door. Alf was by the fire, his trouser legs rolled up, his bare feet resting in the hearth. ‘Eee, the wanderer returns.’ He nodded at the chair opposite. ‘Come and tell me all about it then.’
‘I’m an idiot, Alf,’ she said, collapsing into the chair. ‘Such a bloody idiot.’
‘Hey, stop that talk, lass. Tell me what’s happened.’
‘Well, Tom’s never going to want to see me again, that’s for sure. I don’t blame him either. Is Mum back yet? I need to talk to her.’
‘Erm, no, love, she rang earlier. She’s stopping at Larry’s tonight.’
‘Oh charming! I thought she’d want to hear all about my evening. That Larry’s got her right where he wants her.’
‘She said to call her when you got home. I’ve written t’number on t’pad.’
Tara scowled. ‘Sod that, she can wait. She can’t be that bothered.’
‘Now, now, don’t be like that. Your mum deserves a life too and she’ll be worried about you. She’s waiting up for your call.’
Tara smiled inwardly at the thought of Larry trying to coax Violet to bed, her mother insisting on waiting until she had rung. She rose from the chair and moved over to the sink. ‘Fancy a brew, Alf?’
‘Erm . . . your mum?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll ring her in a bit. There’s no rush, is there?’ She filled the kettle. ‘Any of that Battenberg left?’
Before Alf could reply, the phone in the hall rang. Tara carried on slicing the cake. Alf placed his hands on the arm of the chair ready to heave himself up.
‘Ignore it,’ said Tara, spooning the leaves into the teapot.
‘You go then. It’ll probably be your mum anyway.’
She sighed and screwed the lid back on the tea caddy, slamming it down on the shelf a little harder than she had meant to. ‘Alright then,’ she said, heading out to the hall.
She returned a minute later. ‘Couldn’t wait to get off the phone, could she? I could hear him too, he was right there breathing down her neck. She was giggling like a schoolgirl. I hate him.’
‘You’ve never met him, Tara. Don’t be so quick to judge.’
‘Yeah, well . . . apparently he wants to meet me, or rather Mum wants him to meet me. Doubt he feels the same way. We’re going round for Sunday lunch next week. You an’ all.’
‘Me?’ Alf chuckled. ‘Eee, I can’t imagine why he wants to meet me.’
‘Tough,’ Tara declared. ‘If I’ve got to go then so do you.’
They sipped their tea in silence, Tara reliving the excruciating way she had behaved earlier, accusing Tom of fancying his own cousin. It was truly cringe-worthy.
‘What’s up?’ asked Alf.
‘Nowt.’
‘Oh, you just groaned, that’s all.’
‘Oh, did I? I was just thinking about something.’ She looked at his bone-white feet, the blue veins clearly visible beneath the thin skin. She seized on the chance to change the subject. ‘Why’ve you got your socks off, Alf?’
He looked at his feet in surprise, as though he had forgotten the reason. ‘I think I was trying to cut me toe nails but I couldn’t reach.’
&n
bsp; ‘Would you like me to help you?’
‘You’d do that for me?’
She looked at his nails, thick and yellowing. She’d seen shorter talons on a bird of prey. It was a wonder he could get his shoes on. ‘Where’re your nail scissors?’
He reached down by the side of his chair and passed them over to her.
‘Those are the kitchen scissors, Alf! Me mum cuts the rind off the bacon with those things.’
Alf looked a little perplexed. ‘What’s your point, Tara?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, it . . . it’s unhygienic, isn’t it? I’ll just run and get ours.’
She returned a few minutes later and knelt down in front of Alf, placing one of his feet in her lap. In spite of everything, she smiled to herself. She’d had such high hopes for this evening and sitting on the kitchen floor cutting the toe nails of a near-octogenarian was not how she had hoped the evening would pan out. She squeezed the scissors using both hands, her face turning red with the effort. ‘It’s no good, Alf,’ she puffed. ‘They’re too hard. We’ll have to soak them. Have you got a bowl?’
‘Aye, there’s the washing-up bowl in the sink.’
‘Seriously? The bowl where we wash the pots? The same pots that we eat off?’
He nodded. ‘That’s the one.’
Tara scrambled to her feet and began to fill the bowl. ‘Go on then, but for God’s sake, don’t let on to Mum about this.’
After Tara had successfully trimmed all Alf’s toe nails, she collected up the clippings and dropped them into the sink, before turning on the tap to blast them down the plughole. She clapped her hands together. ‘All done, Alf.’
‘Thanks, petal. You’re a good kid, you are.’ He looked down at his lap. ‘I can’t imagine our Judith doing that for me.’ He dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a pound note. ‘Here.’
Tara held her hands up. ‘I don’t want paying, Alf.’
He thrust it towards her. ‘I insist. I know you’re saving up for summat special for your mum’s birthday. Put it towards that.’
Tara reached out and took the crumpled note. ‘It’s too much, Alf.’ She looked at his smiling face. It would be gracious to just accept and acknowledge that the pleasure Alf derived from giving her the money was greater than hers was to receive it. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Thanks, Alf.’
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