by Hayley Long
Mr Thomas folded his arms in a blatantly unfriendly manner and said, ‘Yes, Lottie, in the great big scheme of things, it does matter, actually. It matters very much.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Because,’ said Mr Thomas, arching one eyebrow in a way that didn’t make him look like James Bond, ‘the periodic table has been brilliantly arranged so that each element is listed according to its atomic number and just by looking at the table we can also identify which family an element belongs to.’ He unfolded his arms and tapped my drawing of the periodic table with his index finger. I stifled a yawn and tried to look vaguely interested. ‘Each and every element,’ he continued, ‘was carefully and methodically placed for a reason. When the great Russian scientist Dmitri Mendeleev first came up with the design, he even left some gaps just so that any chemical elements which hadn’t yet been discovered would have a place to slot in comfortably without upsetting the entire apple cart. The scientific world does not need you to come along and mess up the order of things, thank you very much. So make the changes that I’ve asked you to do and be more careful next time.’
Mr Thomas needs to lighten up.
But what this lesson did teach me is that there are times when it’s crucial to have a fixed position in the great big scheme of things.
And I reckon that’s part of the reason why I find life heavy going at times. I’m just like an undiscovered chemical element. I’m not exactly sure what my position is.
Until I was ten, I was perfectly clear about my position in the world. I was the very final box in my family’s periodic table. I was the baby. Being the baby of the family has its drawbacks. It means that you have to wear your older sister’s crappy hand-me-downs and it means that you get ordered up to bed while everyone else stays up watching the programmes with the swear words in them, and it means that all the teachers say annoying stuff like, ‘Just try and do your best and don’t worry if you’re not as good as Ruthie.’ But it has its upsides too. When you’re the baby of the family, you tend to get a little bit spoilt by everyone. And sometimes, you get off scot-free for doing wrong stuff just because you’re the youngest and you apparently don’t understand. And if you ever have a fight with your sister, it’s always her who gets into the most trouble even if you started it and you were beating her to a messy pulp. So, for me, being the baby had its ups and downs but at least I knew where I stood.
And then Caradoc came along and that confused everything. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not annoyed about Caradoc being born or anything horrible like that. I love him very much. But he does make life more complicated. It’s not his fault. It’s just the way things are.
Complicated.
You see, from the moment Caradoc was born I went from being a youngest child to being a middle child. My position in the periodic table shifted. But only for my dad. For my mum, I stayed right where I was in the final box on the chart. The baby of the family.
But how can I comfortably be the baby of the family when I have a brother who is ten years younger than me?
And even then, Caradoc’s not my whole brother, he’s my half-brother and, though I love him to bits, he doesn’t actually feel like a real brother because I hardly ever see him. Every summer holiday, I go up to Wrexham and stay with my dad and Sally for a bit, and usually I visit during the Christmas holidays as well. But I don’t go up very much more than that because Wrexham is about as far away from Cardiff as you can possibly go without leaving Wales. And then, very occasionally, my dad will bring him down to South Wales for a flying visit. But that’s not very often. So really, if I’m completely honest, Caradoc feels more like a distant cousin. And while my sister Ruthie will ALWAYS know, without any shadow of doubt, that she is the eldest, I’m not totally sure where I stand any more.
Which does my head in sometimes.
And I think that this might be the reason why I get on everyone’s nerves. I just float about between Cardiff and Wrexham not feeling exactly sure of who I am or how I’m meant to behave and now and again I get it all wrong. Sometimes I behave like the youngest when I’m not supposed to act like the youngest, and sometimes I just get irritated with Ruthie because her life is so flipping uncomplicated.
And it’s when I get irritated that I’m most likely to do something or say something which will upset the apple cart and land me in a whole heap of trouble.
So it’s mostly me that causes all the trouble and stress in my house. Even during the holidays when Ruthie is at home. Ruthie is a saint. She reads books and collects pottery and offers to cook for my mum and knows how the washing machine works. In fact, she’s a perfect example of just how stable and grounded a person can be when they know their position in the world. Ruthie hardly ever gets into trouble.
Which is why I’m so excited about the fact that my mum is completely freaking out on Ruthie at this precise moment.
Earlier this evening, as planned, Ruthie turned up at our house with her friend, Michelle. Except that it turns out that Michelle is not some boring girl she’s studying with at all. He is actually a French exchange student called Michel and ‘studying’ seems to be the last thing on their minds. Michel has floppy dark hair and wears his jumper tucked into corduroy trousers which are slightly too short for him. And every time he thinks that me and mum aren’t looking, he pushes Ruthie’s hair back from her face and puts his tongue in her ear.
When they arrived, my mum pulled Ruthie into the kitchen and said, ‘You could have told me you were bringing a man). I’ll have to make up a camp bed for him in the living room now.’
Ruthie said, ‘Oh, don’t worry. He can stay in my room.’
My mum hissed, ‘He most certainly CAN NOT!’
And then I said, ‘Mum, are we still having that girly night in tomorrow because I’ve changed my mind and I REALLY FANCY the idea now.’
My mum looked my way with a face which would frighten a Rottweiler, but instead of having a go at me, she turned to Ruthie and said, ‘You can be SOOOO inconsiderate sometimes, young lady.’
Ruthie just said, ‘So I’m seeing a gorgeous Frenchman and I’ve brought him home for the weekend. So what?’ And then she turned to me and said, ‘And you can shut up, Fart Face.’
Now I come to think about it, Ruthie isn’t a saint. But, if anything, that makes me like her slightly more. And it’s about time she took some of the heat for a change.
I said, ‘Oh shut up, Fish Breath,’ and then I came up here to my bedroom to get away from her.
In my Oscar Wilde book, there is a line which says,
‘Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.’
Oscar Wilde may be boring but there’s no denying the fact that he’s extremely wise. I think that my parents have to accept that it’s partly their fault that I’m difficult because they are the ones responsible for making me not quite the middle child of two and a half children.
I’ve got no idea what Ruthie’s excuse is.
But aCtuaLLY there are NO eXCuses
I don’t think that Blake fully understands the enormity of the task he’s set me. Writing this Emotion Notepad is eating up hours and hours of my life and I’m still only skimming the surface of my cosmic complexities. This weekend perfectly illustrates my problem. It’s not even over yet and already I’ve got too much to write about. Since Ruthie and Monsieur Loverman arrived on Friday, I’ve experienced a whole series of emotional shock waves which have threatened to hurl me off balance as I surf my way back to inner calm and mental well-being. My head is so full of discombobulating21 experiences that now I’ve fired up my computer and sat down to write I don’t know which discombobulating shock wave to talk about first. My hair is screaming out at me to start with all the putrid details of its tragic transformation, but my heart says I should begin by discussing the shocking discovery I made in Ruthie’s toilet bag. But then again, perhaps I should talk about how, last night, I tried to get it on with Gareth and only ended u
p turning him off completely. Or maybe I should start with the dodgy wobble I had in the hair salon?
Mr Wood always advises us to begin at the beginning so I’ll start with the salon.
Yesterday was my second Saturday of employment at The Jean Genie and it was also nearly my last. Just like the week before, I arrived at the salon over an hour early but this time it was on purpose because I couldn’t stand being at home a single second longer than I needed to be. The thought of being under the same roof as a couple of loved-up archaeology students was too hideous to contemplate. I’ve been opening windows whenever I can but I’m convinced that the air in our house is still swarming with their sex hormones. To be honest, it makes me feel a bit queasy just thinking about it.
When Jean arrived, she said, ‘Early again, Lottie? There’s nothing quite like being an early bird, is there?’
‘I know, it’s brilliant,’ I said. ‘I always catch the worm.’ To be honest, I was just making small talk.
Jean unlocked the shop and said, ‘You had such a good day last week, Lottie, that I’m going to give you an extra responsibility. I’m going to let you do some hair washing.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘I’m good at hair washing.’
‘Ah,’ said Jean, ‘but have you ever washed anyone else’s hair? It’s a very particular and specialized skill.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I was watching Neil very closely last week and I think I spotted all the important stuff.’ I counted off my observations, one by one, on my fingers. ‘White towels are for regular use and navy towels are for clients who are having a colour application. Press their heads a bit after you’ve rinsed all the shampoo out and remember to ask them about their holidays.’
Jean smiled. ‘Not bad, Lottie, not bad at all, but you’ve missed a couple of absolute hairdressing essentials. Don’t forget to ask them if the temperature of the water is OK and don’t forget to ask them if they have anything nice planned for the weekend. Can you manage that?’
‘Er, I think so,’ I said. Jean Stingecombe is very nice but I do feel that she occasionally underestimates my abilities.
Just then, Neil and Dilys came through the door together. Neil was wearing a shiny plastic leopard-print raincoat and Dilys was wearing a knitted poncho. The pair of them looked quite avant-garde for this part of Cardiff.
Dilys said, ‘Ooooh, I was walking to work when this handsome young stranger pulled up in his car and offered me a lift.’ She winked at Neil. ‘Nice to know I can still stop the traffic at my age.’
Neil took off his leopard-print raincoat and winked back at her. ‘There’s always a place for your booty in my broom-broom, Dil,’ he said, and then he looked at me and said, ‘All right, gorgeous?’
Instead of replying with anything cool, I just squeaked something stupid that sounded like, ‘Yip,’ and then when I’d recovered a bit, I said, ‘I didn’t know you had wheels, Neil.’
Neil twirled his car keys around his index finger and said, ‘Just passed my test and I got myself a hot red Fiat Panda passion wagon to celebrate.’
‘Oooh, I bet the girls love it, don’t they, Neily?’ added Dilys.
Neil ignored Dilys and looked me right in the eye. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lottie Biggs. In fact, there’s a lot that the entire world doesn’t know about Neil Adam. I am a Welsh enigma.’
‘Now now, Neily,’ said Jean, who was showing the first customer of the day into a chair by the basins. ‘I’ve told you before, leave Lottie alone and stop flirting. You know she’s unavailable.’
‘That’s what I like about her,’ said Neil with a big grin.
Jean put a protective arm around my shoulder and said, ‘Ignore him, Lottie. He thinks he’s a player. Now can you give Mrs John a shampoo, please?’ And then she gave me a meaningful look and added, ‘And remember what we talked about earlier.’
I nodded and went off to the cupboard to get a couple of white towels for Mrs John’s hair. Mrs John is about eighty and her hair is cotton-wool white. When I returned, I placed one towel around Mrs John’s shoulders and put the other on a nearby chair, ready to be twisted into a turban on Mrs John’s head when I’d finished. Then I helped Mrs John to lean backwards into the sink and began spraying her hair with the sprinkler.
‘Is the water all right for you?’ I asked.
‘Yes dear, it’s lovely,’ replied Mrs John.
‘Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?’ I asked.
‘No dear,’ replied Mrs John.
‘Did you do anything nice last night?’ I asked.
‘No dear,’ replied Mrs John.
‘You doing anything nice tonight?’ I asked.
‘No dear,’ replied Mrs John.
‘You doing anything nice tomorrow night?’ I asked.
‘No dear,’ replied Mrs John.
‘You doing anything nice Monday night?’ I asked.
Mrs John didn’t respond. I was about to put my sprinkler aside and check that she was still breathing when she suddenly said, ‘Well, I don’t know, dear. It’s a toss-up, see, between going pole dancing down Cardiff Bay or lap dancing in town. What do you think I should do?’
‘Urgghh! Shut up!’ I said.
From the other side of the salon, Jean Stingecombe rushed over and said, ‘LOTTIE, I’D LIKE A WORD WITH YOU UPSTAIRS, PLEASE.’ And then, to Mrs John, she gave a big apologetic smile and said, ‘Sorry, Blodwyn. Lottie’s a gorgeous girl but she’s a little bit highly strung.’
‘No I’m not,’ I said.
‘UPSTAIRS, PLEASE,’ barked Jean Stingecombe. And then in a normal voice, she added, ‘Neily, look after Mrs John for me, will you, my lovely?’
When we were upstairs in the staffroom, Jean said, You can’t go telling the clients to shut up, Lottie. What’s got into you?’
I didn’t really know what the answer to this question was so I just kept my mouth shut. My brain was buzzing about like a bumblebee gone bananas though.
‘Lottie,’ said Jean. ‘Can you explain to me why I just heard you telling lovely Mrs John to shut up?’
I closed my eyes for a moment and pressed my hands against my head as if I was trying to stop it from falling off. Then I counted silently to ten, took a deep calming breath and tried to picture myself as a cosmic surfer on a peaceful intergalactic wave. By the time I’d finished doing all of this, I felt a lot more steady and in control.
Then I said, ‘She was being rude and I was just trying to be nice to her and make conversation like you said and she started talking about sexy dancing and stuff and I think she was just deliberately trying to wind me up and embarrass me and I’m getting fed up with it to be honest because everyone is always going on about sex in this place and it does my head in because Neil is always making sexy comments and so is Dilys and it’s just sex sex sex all the time and now Mrs John is at it as well and it gets on my nerves because everybody knows that the people who go on about it all the time are probably not getting any action anyway!’
By the time I’d finished, I was completely out of breath.
Jean Stingecombe was staring at me with a smile frozen on her face. She had suddenly gone as still as a sleepy chinchilla.
I put my knuckles into my mouth and bit them. Then I said, ‘And I’m not highly strung either.’
‘Noooo,’ said Jean very slowly.
Something about the tone of her voice gave me the impression that she didn’t believe me so I added, ‘No, actually, I’m not.’
Jean Stingecombe continued to look at me as if she didn’t believe me. I chewed my knuckles some more and sighed noisily. Finally, I said, ‘Look, Mrs Stingecombe, I’ve got one or two issues that I’m having to deal with at the moment. I don’t really want to talk about it. But it’s got nothing to do with being highly strung.’
‘You can call me Jean,’ replied Jean Stingecombe immediately. Her frozen smile turned into a thoughtful frown. After what seemed like ages, she said, ‘You’re absolutely right. Dilys and Neil do overs
tep the mark sometimes. I’ll have a word with them and tell them to tone it down a bit. I know they’re only messing around but that kind of talk isn’t appropriate in the workplace.’ Then she said, ‘But that’s still no excuse for telling lovely Mrs John to shut up, is it, Lottie?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. I was actually being very honest. The entire conversation was starting to spin my head out.
Jean walked over to the scaly kettle which lives on the worktop and filled it up at the sink. ‘What I mean,’ she said, turning to talk to me, ‘is that your . . .’ She paused for a second as if she were searching for the best words. ‘. . . your issues may go a little way to explaining why you got upset with Mrs John but it doesn’t mean that it was OK to be rude to her. Your . . .’ She paused again.
I sank down into a chair and put my head in my hands. I could tell that Jean was still frantically scanning her personal inner thesaurus. The silence was awful. I decided to help her out. ‘Mental disturbance of a reasonably significant nature,’ I mumbled, and then I looked up because I wanted to catch the reaction on Jean’s face.
It didn’t even flicker. ‘. . .Your mental disturbance is not like the joker in a deck of cards. You can’t just get it out and wave it in the air as an excuse any time you break the rules a little bit.’
‘I never said it was an excuse,’ I answered, feeling slightly cross.