You wrote ‘Love Ellie’ for the first time. That’s the best bit of your letter. I’ve read those two tiny words over and over, so many times it’s a wonder the ink hasn’t worn right off the page, such is the ardour of my laser-gaze.
LOTS of love,
Dan XXX
Dear Dan,
I didn’t mean to post that last letter! I just shoved it in an envelope in a tearing rush in the morning and put it in the letter box as I ran for school and THEN I remembered some of the stuff I’d said and I was so embarrassed. I even ran back to the letterbox and tried to wriggle my hand through the slot. Then this police panda car slowed down and I thought, Oh, my God, I’m going to get arrested for attempting to steal the Royal Mail. I wriggled my wrist free and sort of grinned sheepishly at these police guys and they just laughed at me.
MOST people laugh at me. I like the idea of wearing a spacesuit. I’d like one too. Only how can one communicate in a fishbowl helmet? You couldn’t go shopping unless you did some serious miming to show you wanted the latest indie album, leaping in the air in manic mode. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t be able to HEAR it. And what about talking to your friends? (Though one of my best friends still isn’t talking to ME) And school??? Though I’m not a brainbox like you obviously are, so I don’t do much communicating with the teachers at the best of times.
This is the WORST of times. I feel seriously fed up. Oh, God, I’d better stop now or I’ll write ANOTHER long rambly rubbishy letter. I didn’t really put ‘Love Ellie’ last time, did I? I don’t remember. I don’t ever put Love to anyone, not even Luv or Lurve. I just put me.
Ellie.
Dear Ellie,
You did SO put ‘Love Ellie’. I have your letter here, beneath my heart. Well, that sounds poetic but it’s not anatomically accurate. I don’t have any pockets up at chest level. I’ve got your letter in my trouser pocket. So your words of Love (not Luv, not Lurve, LOVE) are actually rubbing against my thigh, only that sounds embarrassingly intimate and I don’t want this letter to develop into one of those porny pervy jobs some of the guys at my school write to girls. No, their letters are probably not TO girls, they’re just ABOUT girls.
I don’t want to think of you like that, Ellie. Not that you aren’t absolutely wonderfully attractive etc, etc, etc. It was love at first sight like I said. I knew you were the girl for me. I think about you all the time. I’ve never been in love before. I suppose I love my mum and dad (though they do go ON a bit, and act all silent and reproachful if I want to do anything normal like watch RED DWARF or BOTTOM or play computer games or go to a football match – because they just want to read books and listen to classical music and wear Oxfam and recycle everything and lead a life as Green as Grass they think I should too). I love my brothers and sisters a bit too (though like your brother Eggs they are Right Pains – no, Excruciating Agonies, especially when they come barging into my bedroom and read all my private stuff and mock my new hairstyle). I am trying to turn myself into a dead cool guy so you will look at me and decide you’ll follow me, your lord, throughout the world I haven’t suddenly gone nuts – well nuttier than I am already – it’s something Juliet says. Are you doing ROMEO AND JULIET too? It’s quite good though it’s murder doing it at my school because we’re all boys so some poor sap has to be Juliet when we read aloud. I was the original poor sap actually, and everyone fell about and I could see this was NOT going to improve my street cred among the lads so I had to camp it up and do Juliet in a silly high-pitched girly voice which got me into trouble with the teacher – shame, as he’s quite a decent bloke really and he’s lent me some of his books – but it made everyone think I’m a nut instead of a nerd, only I don’t want to be, and there’s nothing I can do about my weedy physique or lousy complexion and I can’t even earn any hard cash for cool clothes till I’m fourteen BUT I did think a haircut might help. Mum normally just chops bits off here and there. NOT a pretty sight. So I badgered her to let me go to a proper barber and I said I wanted a radical new hairstyle, one that would last. Until I see you: WHEN WILL THAT BE??? You can come and stay for the weekend any time but our house is ever so crowded with kids’ stuff. All the flannels in our bathroom are currently growing mustard and cress and you can’t eat off the table in the living room because it’s covered with a giant jigsaw puzzle and there are ducks swimming in the bath (generally just the plastic variety but you never know!) and if you sleep in the only spare bed that means my sisters Rhianne and Lara will be in the bunk bed opposite and Rhianne sings all the time, even when she’s asleep, and Lara climbs into bed with you at four in the morning, bringing her entire soft toy menagerie with her. So you would be ever so EVER SO welcome but not extremely comfortable. So how about if I stay with you? I have this cousin who is going out with a girl at London University so he drives down most Friday nights and says he doesn’t mind giving me a lift, which is brilliant. So what about next weekend? Although maybe I ought to wear a space helmet for real Made of black ambulance glass. Because the new haircut might just be a bit of a mistake. My mum shook her head and sighed deeply when she saw me. My dad got all worried that I’d joined some skin-head gang. My brothers and sisters fell about laughing. Which was NOTHING compared to the reaction of the guys at school. I am certainly well established as a nut now. You will also get a right laugh when you see me, Ellie. So . . . next week, yes? I’ll be arriving between eight and nine, depending on traffic. See you S-O-O-O-O-N!
Lots and lots and lots of love,
Dan
Dear Dan,
No, don’t come next weekend! I’m sorry, but it’s Magda’s birthday, and we’re hanging out there Saturday and then will be going out celebrating somewhere, but it’s girls only, I’m afraid, so I can’t ask you to come. In actual fact I don’t really think it would be a good idea if you came at all because our spare bed situation is pretty chronic too. (Eggs broke the springs on the guest bed so it’s just a camp bed, the sort that suddenly springs shut when you’re inside it), so let’s wait until we meet up again in Wales, right? Do you go there at Christmas? We do, it’s completely crackers, we all have to wear six jumpers and it snows and there’s frost INSIDE the windows, let alone outside, but it’s becoming a loopy Family tradition, worst luck. Still, if you’re there too we could play Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing.
L. Ellie
Dear Ellie,
I can’t wait till Christmas! I’ll come the next weekend AFTER the next weekend! Lots and lots and lots and LOTS of Love,
Dan
‘Ofcourse Dan can come and stay the weekend after next,’ says Anna. ‘Oh, Eggs! Watch your juice. You’re spilling it all.’
‘No! You weren’t listening,’ I say. ‘I don’t want him to come.’
‘I thought you just said you did,’ says Anna, stripping Eggs stark naked and stuffing his pyjamas straight into the washing machine.
‘I’m all bare. Look at my willy, Ellie,’ says Eggs, practically waving it at me.
‘Yuck. Can’t you stuff him in the washing machine too, Anna?’ I say.
She’s on her knees, sorting through the dirty clothes basket, juggling little balls of socks.
‘You just wish you had a willy too,’ says Eggs.
‘Attaboy, Eggs,’ says Dad, finishing his coffee. ‘You’ve got these women sussed out. Right, I’m off.’
‘Why are you going so early?’ says Anna. ‘Can’t you wait and take Eggs to school?’
‘No, there’s someone I’ve got to catch,’ says Dad, scooping up Eggs with one arm and giving him a kiss.
‘Who?’ says Anna, her fists clenching.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Jim Dean, the graphics guy. Anna, don’t start.’
‘It’s not me that starts things, it’s you,’ says Anna. ‘OK OK, you go to work. Just make sure you come home on time. I’m not going to miss my Italian class again.’
‘You and that wretched evening class. You go on about it as if it’s the most important thing in your life,’ says Dad as
Eggs wriggles free.
‘What else have I got in my life?’ Anna says bitterly. She holds out an armful of smelly socks. ‘My life is so full and so rich and so exciting. Here I am, sorting your dirty socks. Wow, I can barely contain my excitement. Why can’t you smooth them out straight for a start? Why should I have to unravel them all? Why can’t you put them in the machine? You keep kidding yourself you’re still a young man. So why don’t you act like a new man and do your share of the chores?’
‘Why can’t you act like the young woman you are instead of a bitter old nag?’ says Dad, and he walks out.
Anna bursts into tears as the front door slams.
‘Mum?’ says Eggs. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
‘Get washed, Eggs. And put your clothes on,’ I say, steering him towards the door.
‘Mummy do it,’ says Eggs.
‘Don’t be such a baby. Mum’s tired. Now off you go. I’ll take you to school.’
‘I don’t want you to take me to school. Dad takes me.’
‘Listen, Squirt. You wash. You get dressed. You do as I say. And then I might tell you the Egg story on the way to school.’
‘Oh, wow. Right. OK,’ says Eggs, whizzing off. He pauses at the door. ‘Mum? Isn’t it getting better?’
‘Yes. Mmm. I’m fine now,’ says Anna, sniffing. ‘Go on, go and get washed, lickety spit.’
Eggs rushes off, mumbling ‘Lick and spit, lick and spit, lick and spit.’
‘Thanks, Ellie,’ says Anna.
‘Anna. You and Dad . . .?’
‘Oh. It’s – it’s just a bad patch.’
‘Anna . . .’ I stand still in the quiet kitchen. ‘Anna, there isn’t anyone else, is there?’
Anna’s head jerks. ‘Someone else?’ she says. She’s staring at me, her face very white. ‘Why? What makes you say that? What do you know? Ellie?’
‘I don’t know anything. I just wondered . . . Well, Dad can be a right pain at times, and if you’ve met someone else at your Italian class, well, it’s scary because it’s horrid with you and Dad arguing like this, but I do understand. I know I always used to take Dad’s side but now I’m older – well, I wouldn’t blame you if you had an affair, Anna.’
Anna is staring as if she can hardly believe what I’m saying. Then she shakes her head, half laughing, though she’s still got tears in her eyes. ‘I’m not having an affair, you chump,’ she says.
‘Then . . .?’ I suddenly realize. ‘Is Dad?’
‘I don’t know. He says he isn’t. I say he is. Sometimes I think he’s telling the truth and I’m just paranoid. Other times I’m sure he’s lying,’ says Anna, hurling the socks into the machine along with all his other stuff.
‘Who do you think it is?’
‘Some girl in his Art class. I don’t know her name but I saw her hanging on his arm in the town. Very young, very pretty, with a lot of blond hair.’
‘Well, couldn’t they just have been walking along together?’
‘Maybe. But I saw the way he was looking at her. The way he used to look at me.’
‘Oh, Anna.’ I hover helplessly.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Anna, shutting the door of the washing machine and getting to her feet. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s probably all my imagination anyway. It’s just when I get started I can’t stop. It’s just . . . I love him so.’
That’s the weirdest bit. I think about it as I take Eggs to school. I’m busy making up this daft serial story he likes about the Eggstremely Ovoid Eggles – there’s Mama Eggle, Papa Eggle, Grandma and Grampy Eggle, and hundreds of eggy little Eggles, Edward, Edwina, Edith, Enid, Ethelred, Ethan, Evangeline . . . and they all sleep in an Eggidorm which has a big bed with oval segments for the eggles to snuggle in and then when they get up in the morning they wobble to a hole in the floor and whizz down this slide to get their breakfast in the kitchen down below. They only ever eat cornflakes – they hate and detest cooked breakfast. And then there are their cousins the Chockies who only visit at Easter and they hate hot weather . . .
I go on and on and it gets sillier and sillier, but Eggs adores it. After a while my mouth takes over and tells the story while my mind thinks about Anna and Dad. How can she still love him like that? I suppose I love him, but he’s my dad. I couldn’t stick him as my partner, especially if he started playing around. Anna must have got it wrong. Why on earth would any pretty young student fall for my dad? And yet Anna did exactly that. I can’t understand it. Dad isn’t even good looking as old guys go. Why don’t they want someone young and gorgeous like . . .
Oh, God, it’s him! My Dan! The dream one, with the blond hair and the brown eyes. I haven’t seen him for ages. I gave up on him and started getting the bus every day. But now he’s walking towards me, getting nearer. I think he’s looking at me, he is! Oh, what shall I do? I look away. Oh, please don’t let me blush. I’m getting hot, he’s getting nearer still—
‘Ellie? Ellie, what’s up? Go on with the Eggle story!’ Eggs demands, tugging at my arm as if it’s a water pump.
‘In a minute,’ I mutter.
‘Now!’ Eggs demands. ‘You promised.’
He’s right in front of me. I look up and he’s smiling, he’s really smiling. Then he shakes his head at Eggs. ‘Little brothers!’ he says to me.
I nod, dumbstruck.
‘See you,’ he says, and he walks on.
‘See you,’ I whisper, dazed.
‘Ellie? Who’s that man?’ Eggs demands.
‘Shh!’ I hiss. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why have you gone red?’
‘Oh, God, have I?’
‘Ever so. Go on with the Eggles story, please.’
I blurt out a few dumb Eggle incidents, inventing a new egg who is made of solid gold, so gleaming yellow that he dazzles everyone.
I deliver Eggs to his primary school and dawdle off in the general direction of my school. I’m going to be late, of course, but I can’t possibly dash. I need to savour this moment. He said ‘See you.’ He really did. I didn’t make him up. He was there, he spoke to me, and he said ‘See you.’ Which means, See you again! Or even, I want to see you again!
Oh, I want to see you again, so much.
All my problems with the insistence of the real Dan seem unimportant. I can’t even worry too much about Dad and Anna now. This is one of the most magical moments of my life. I feel like . . . Juliet.
I wish I dared bunk off school and drift around all day hanging on to this feeling. But I trudge there eventually and get seriously told off for my pains. Nadine is still being all cold and huffy and when we do PE we see another love-bite, lower down this time. Magda and I can’t help boggling at it as Nadine hurriedly pulls on her games shirt.
‘What are you staring at?’ she says.
‘Nadine! Isn’t it flipping obvious?’ says Magda. ‘Can’t you get Liam to eat a decent meal before he goes out with you? He seems to want to slurp great gobbets out of you all the time.’
‘Just mind your own business, OK?’ says Nadine.
Magda shrugs and saunters out of the changing rooms. I hang back. Nadine knows I’m still here but she bends down, fussing with her shoes. Her hair swings forward and I see the startlingly white scalp at her parting. I remember when we used to play hairdressers and how I loved to brush Nadine’s long soft rustling hair, so different from my own mass of wire wool.
‘Naddie-Baddie,’ I say softly. I haven’t called her that since we were in the infants.
She looks up and she’s suddenly herself again. ‘Ellie-Smellie,’ she says.
‘Oh, Nad. Make friends, eh?’
‘I didn’t ever break friends.’
‘Yes, but you’ve been all cold and narky.’
‘Well, you started it, gabbing to Magda.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I could have bitten my tongue off for telling her. Look.’ I stick my tongue out and mime biting it. I’m a little too enthusiastic with my demonstration and my teeth sink in before I can sto
p them. ‘Ouch!’
‘Oh, Ellie, you are a nutcase.’ Nadine gives me a quick hug. ‘We’re friends, OK?’
‘I’m so glad. I can’t stand not being friends with you,’ I say, sucking my tongue. ‘Are you going to be friends with Magda too?’
‘Well, only if she stops giving me grief about Liam. She’s just jealous anyway, because he’s so dishy, a hundred times better than that Greg of hers.’
‘Cheek!’ says Magda, who’s come running back to see what’s happened to me. Then she laughs. ‘But certainly partly true. Greg isn’t a patch on Liam when it comes to looks. When I first saw your Liam I was dead jealous, I admit it. But now . . . Oh, Nadine, can’t you see, he’s just using you.’
‘No, he’s not. He really cares about me. He can barely leave me alone when we’re together,’ Nadine says.
‘Yes, but that’s just sex, Nadine. That’s all he wants. He doesn’t even take you out properly. Just gets you to go off on all these walks.’
‘He does so take me out. We’re going to Seventh Heaven on Saturday night,’ says Nadine. ‘He’s got these freebee tickets from a mate.’
‘Wow! Seventh Heaven!’ I say. It’s the newest and baddest and best club. Everyone’s desperate to go there. None of our lot has made it yet.
‘But what about my birthday?’ says Magda. ‘I thought you guys were coming round to my place, right? And we would go out all girls together?’
Girls in Love Page 7