work. I held my breath because
Callum's ultra picky about
keeping his bike pristine, but he barely looked at it.
He fussed about my knees instead, spitting on a scrubby bit of tissue, trying to get them cleaned up.
'Ouch!' I said. 'Sorry I scratched your bike, Cal.'
'That's OK.'
'I'm rubbish at riding it.'
'No you're not. You'd be great, it's just your legs are still little and my bike's way too big. We're going to have to get you your own bike, Gem.'
'Oh yeah,' I said, because bikes cost a fortune.
'We could look for a little second-hand one, something that maybe needs fixing up a bit. I could do that for you! It could be your birthday present.'
I thought about my birthday next month. The first birthday without Alice. 'I don't think I want to bother about my birthday,' I said.
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'That's daft, Gem. We'll make it a really special day, you'll see,' said Callum.
He was trying so hard to be sweet to me (even though he was hurting my knees horribly) but I couldn't pretend.
'It can't be a special day without
Alice,' I said, and I burst into tears.
Once I'd started I couldn't stop.
Callum didn't have any more tissues to mop me with so he popped me on the
saddle and wheeled me home quick.
Mum was out working so she couldn't tell me off about my knees.
'We'd better wash them properly and put some sort of stuff on them to stop them going mouldy,'
said Callum. 'Where's Dad?'
He wasn't lying on the sofa watching television.
He wasn't still in bed. The taxi was parked in the driveway so he wasn't out at work.
'So where's he got to?' said Callum, taking me by the hand. 'Maybe he's in the garden?'
Mum had been having a right old nag at him recently to mow the lawn, but the grass was still ankle-high and spattered with gold dandelions.
There was no lawn-mower noise but we could hear a distant sawing.
'Dad?' Callum called.
There was a muffled shout from the old shed at 131
the bottom of the garden.
'Dad, what are you up to?' Callum yelled, taking me down the garden. 'Look, Gemma's hurt herself.'
'She's what?' Dad shouted, still sawing.
Callum opened the shed door. 'Look at her knees,'
he said.
But Dad immediately shoved the door shut again.
'Dad?'
'Just a tick,' Dad called.
We could hear him bustling around. Then he opened the door to us. There was an old tarpaulin thrown over his workbench.
'What's under that?' I sniffled.
'Never you mind!' said Dad. 'Oh Gawd, look at the state of you! What are we going to do with you, Gem? You're always in the wars.'
I felt like I really had been in a war. And I hadn't won. I was totally defeated.
I didn't want to do anything. I sprawled on Dad's sofa most of the time, watching television. I didn't always watch the screen.
I stared into space and
saw Alice instead.
Sometimes this
phantom Alice
waved to me and
told me how much
she was missing me.
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She sometimes cried too. But other times she was smiling. She wasn't smiling at me. She was smiling at this Flora girl. Then they'd both wave at me and scoot off together, arms linked.
Mum came home from work and caught me crying. She thought it was my sore knees. She went on and on about them. 'The last lot of scabs have only just cleared up, you silly girl. What am I going to do with you, eh? How can we get you all dressed up nicely in a pretty dress if you've always got cuts and scrapes and bruises all over you?' she said, dabbing Savlon on my knees.
'Ow! I don't want to get dressed up nicely. I hate getting dressed up. I especially hate dresses.'
'Yes, well, that lovely yellow dress will never be the same again,' said Mum, shaking her head at me.
'You were such a naughty girl, Gemma. What a waste of money that dress was! I thought you could wear it for your birthday party—'
'I don't want a birthday party this year,'
I said. 'Not without Alice.'
'Of course you do. You can invite some of your other friends,' said Mum.
'I haven't got any other friends,' I said.
'Don't be so silly, you've got heaps of friends, dear. What about that funny boy with the silly nickname. Cookie?
Chocolate? Pudding?'
133
'I haven't got a clue who you're talking about, Mum,' I lied.
'Well anyway, you start thinking about who you want to invite.'
I put my chin on my chest. 'Alice,' I mumbled.
Mum sighed. 'There must be some girls in your class that you like, Gemma.'
'They're all right, I suppose. But they're just not my friends.'
'Maybe a special birthday party would be an excellent way of making friends. So what are you going to wear, hmm? I realize you don't like yellow.
What colour dress would you like?'
I shrugged my shoulders. I thought about the message Alice had tucked into the sleeve of the awful canary dress. Tears dribbled down my cheeks.
'Now stop that silly crying,' said Mum, but she sat down on the sofa beside me and put her arm round me. 'What about blue for a dress? You like blue, Gemma.'
She had another look at my shredded knees.
'Maybe I'm wasting my time talking about dresses.
Suppose we bought you a smart little pair of trousers, really well cut, with a designer T-shirt?
Would you like that, poppet?'
'I know what I'd really really like as a party outfit,' I said suddenly. 'I'd like a great big sparkly suit.'
134
Mum gave me a double-take. 'A great big sparkly suit?' she said wearily. 'Don't be silly, Gemma.'
I decided not to push too hard just yet. I'd have to work on it. Besides, I wasn't quite sure exactly the kind I wanted.
Grandad remembered to video Fat Larry and showed me after school the following week.
'It's quite a good show. That Fat Larry's a right laugh,' said Grandad. 'He's certainly a good advert for his nosh. Look at the size of him!'
Fat Larry was very very fat. His crimson sparkly suit was very very big. I'd have to stick a cushion down my trousers to pad myself out a bit. If Mum made me the trousers. She kept telling me there was no way her little girl was going to wear such a bizarre outfit at her own party. I hoped she might weaken.
I watched Fat Larry very carefully
indeed. When the programme
finished I asked Grandad if we
could watch it again.
'Again?' said Grandad. 'You're a
funny girl, our Gem. Have you got
a little crush on this Fat Larry? You were staring at him like you were
transfixed. Don't tell me you've fallen in love!'
Grandad wiggled his eyebrows and made kissing noises.
135
'I don't love Fat Larry. I just want to look like him,' I said.
Grandad's eyes popped. 'You're one weird little kid, sweetheart,' he said, but he replayed the video for me.
I watched Fat Larry bouncing round the studio as if he had springs in his chunky suede shoes. I watched Fat Larry wave his big arms like windmills.
I watched Fat Larry shaking seasoning into his stewpan as if he was playing the maracas. I watched Fat Larry taste his chocolate cake and lick his lips s-1-o-w-l-y like the happiest cat in a vat of cream.
When Grandad went out the room to
make a cup of tea I tried a bounce, a wave, a shake, a smile. I felt a little tingle up and down my spine. I was getting it.
I made Grandad promise to video Fat Larry every time he came on television.
'I'm sure you can buy videos of his old shows,' sa
id Grandad. 'If you're really into this fat old guy I could give you a couple for your birthday'
'Oh Grandad, don't you go on about my bogging birthday too,' I said. 'Everyone keeps asking me what I want. I know they're only being kind but I don't really want anything, apart from a Fat Larry suit.'
136
'Oh my Gawd,' said Grandad. 'What's your mum going to say about that, eh?'
'She's going to make me one,' I said.
'Oh yes?' said Grandad.
'Well, she might. Grandad, you can sew, can't you?'
'I'm a dab hand at button sewing, darling, but I could no more make you a sparkly suit than fly to the moon.'
'I don't want to fly to the moon, Grandad. Just Scotland. I got Jack to look up the air fare on the internet, but it costs over a hundred pounds so I haven't got a hope in bogging hell.'
'Tut! Language. Look, maybe you'll get to go up to Scotland for your holidays sometime.'
'No I won't. Dad says he just wants to lie on a beach in the sun. He says Scotland's too cold. And Mum wants to go somewhere where there's lots of shops and Alice's house is right out in the country and they haven't got any shops. And it'll be too late in the summer holidays. I need to see Alice now, on our birthday'
I started crying. Grandad pulled me onto his lap.
I leaned my head on his old jumper and breathed in the warm woolly smell.
'What's getting you all worked up about this birthday, pet?' Grandad asked.
'We always make a birthday wish, Alice and me, 137
that we'll be best friends for ever and ever. Now this birthday we won't be together and I'm dead scared because Alice has got this new friend, Flora.
She goes on and on about her in her e-mails. What if Alice asks Flora round for tea on her birthday and they cut her birthday cake together and Alice and Flora make the best friends wish?'
I'd been thinking this for days and days but the words just wriggled in my brain like little maggots.
Now I'd said them out loud they seemed to be buzzing round the room like angry wasps, stinging and stinging.
Twelve
Grandad said Flora couldn't possibly be a patch on me. He said Alice had only known Flora five minutes and she'd known me all her life. He said Alice and I were closer than sisters and even if we weren't together we were always going to be there for each other, best friends for always. He said that he and Grandma had always been best friends and they'd stayed that way even when he had a job out in Saudi which meant they were parted for months at a time. He said all this and I listened.
I still worried.
I went on and on worrying. I sent Alice long e-mails every day. I hated having to do this via Flora.
What a stupid name! I started calling her Margarine Girl in my head. I was so sick of hearing about her brilliance at bogging ballet and her beautiful bedroom and her lovely cool clothes. They sounded rubbish to me, silly tops showing her tummy and tight little skirts and shoes with real heels. I like to keep my tummy well hidden and I hate tight 139
skirts because you can't run and heels are stupid because they catch on things and make you walk all wobbly with your bum sticking out.
I think I maybe said some of this in one of my e-mails. Alice's mum wouldn't let her wear crop tops and tight skirts and shoes with heels because she said Alice was still a little girl so why dress like she was going to a nightclub? Alice had always agreed with me that these clothes were stupid anyway but now she e-mailed back: 'You are soooo hopeless, Gemma.' She then wrote heaps about Flora's new kitten heels and how they were the exact same shoe size so Flora let her borrow them, because 'she's soooo kind'.
I had Flora sussed out. She wasn't kind at all. She was just trying to take my best friend away from me. I didn't have a clue what kitten heels were anyway. It was a silly name.
Kittens pad about on little fluffy paws. They don't wear heels.
I asked Mum and she described them very carefully.
'Why, Gemma? You don't want a pair of kitten heels, do you? You're much too young for any kind of heels, but it would be good for you to have a change from those awful old trainers,' Mum said eagerly.
'Mum! I don't want kitten heels.' I paused. 'I do want a big sparkly suit though.'
140
Mum sighed. 'Not again, Gemma. I'm not having my daughter going round in drag!'
'You sometimes wear trouser suits to work, Mum.
Does that mean you wear drag?'
'No it doesn't, Miss Cheeky Face,' said Mum. She tweaked my hair, sighing. 'It's sticking straight up, even worse than usual, Gemma! What have you been doing to it?'
I'd been raking my hands through it while I read Alice's latest e-mail but I wasn't going to tell Mum that. I let her brush my hair into submission.
'There! It can look quite nice if you just take a bit of care with it. It could look really stunning if we grew it.'
'I was thinking I'd actually like it a bit shorter, Mum,' I said. Fat Larry had a very short haircut.
Ideally I wanted a shaved-head skinhead special but I knew Mum would go bananas at the very idea.
I was going to have serious problems with my Fat Larry impersonation, but I couldn't give up. I knew I could be brilliant as Fat Larry. Well. So long as I could cook a bit too.
I smiled at Mum, fluttering my eyelids winsomely.
'Have you got something in your eyes, Gemma?'
'No, no. They're fine. Mum . . . I'm sorry I'm not more of a girly-type girl like Alice. I wish you could kind of help me do girly stuff.'
141
Mum blinked back at me. 'Oh, Gemma darling!
Of course I'll help you. I could show you exactly how to do your hair. Maybe we could manicure your nails a little, they're always so grimy. And you could go back to your ballet class and—'
'Not ballet, Mum! But could I learn to cook? I'd really really really love to do cookery. Will you show me how to do stuff? Please?'
'Well, I don't think we'll tackle pancakes just yet,'
said Mum. 'But I'd love to show you how to cook.
Come on, you can help me make supper. We're having cauliflower cheese.'
'Oh yuck, Mum. I hate cauliflower cheese. Can't we have spag bol?'
'Gemma, you really are the limit. You're the only one in our family who can still stomach the very idea of spaghetti bolognese and yet you were the one who vomited it all over everywhere.' Mum shuddered at the memory. 'We're having cauliflower cheese, like it or lump it.'
That was half the reason I disliked it – all those soggy smelly lumpy bits of cauliflower swimming around in cheese sauce. I was sure it didn't figure in Fat Larry's recipe book, but at least it was a kind of cookery and I needed the practice.
Mum set me grating the cheese while she washed and cut up the cauliflower. I had to grate a lot of cheese. I had a quick nibble at the big wedge in my 142
hand whenever I thought Mum wasn't looking. She caught me chewing. She gave me this long lecture.
'Mum, it's a well-known fact, all good chefs taste their own food. It's part of the creative culinary process,' I said grandly, daring one last weeny bite.
'Stop it! I don't want your teethmarks all over the cheese, you mucky little girl. And chefs taste their food after they've cooked it, not when it's still raw ingredients. Now get on with the grating, I shall want to start the sauce in a second.'
I grated. And grated. And grated. I tried to build up a rhythm. Then I started making up my own rap tune, banging the grater in time.
'This is the way I grate the cheese.
This is the way I make Mum please.
This is the way I shoot the breeze.
This is the way I pay my fees.
This is the way I knock my knees.
This is the way I buzz the bees.
This is the way I rattle my keys.
This is the way I scratch my fleas.
This is the way I widdle my wees—'
'Gemma!' said Mum.
She made me jump. I grated m
y thumb instead of the cheese. It bled rapidly over my pile of cheese gratings, dyeing it an interesting shade of scarlet.
143
Mum had to throw my bloody cheese away and start all over again with a fresh pound of cheddar.
I watched, waggling my sticking-plastered sore thumb.
'What can I do, Mum, if you won't let me carry on grating?'
'You can clear off, Gemma. Please. You can lay the table if you truly want to be helpful.'
'That's not cookery! Oh please, Mum, let me do something. Go on, you're always nagging at me to take an interest in girly stuff, and now I am you're giving me no encouragement whatsoever.'
Mum sighed – but when she'd finished her grating she showed me how to make cheese sauce. I tried to learn it by heart. I was still in rap mode.
'Melt the butter,
My mum did utter.
Stir in the flour,
Hour by hour,
Pour on the milk,
Stir smooth as silk,
In with the cheese,
That's the way to please . . .'
I chanted, dancing round the kitchen floor.
I was the all-singing, all-dancing cook. Maybe I'd get my own TV show and be just as popular as Fat 144
Larry. I'd be Jolly Joking Gemma, top of the telly ratings, rapping her recipes, tapping her cookery tips.
I whirled round, flinging my arms wide as I acknowledged rapturous applause from the studio audience. My gesture was a little too flamboyant. I knocked Mum's arm and the saucepan went flying . . .
I ended up in deep disgrace again. I didn't really fancy my cauliflower cheese when we started in on it quite a long while later.
'I take it our Gem's pants at cookery?' Dad murmured to Mum as he set off for work. The shouting from the kitchen had echoed all over the house.
Mum sniffed. 'It's not funny. She's not allowed in my kitchen while I'm cooking, ever again!'
'Nice one, Gem,' said Callum, grinning at me.
I didn't have the heart to grin back. I was starting to agree with Mum. It wasn't funny at all. How was I ever going to practise my cookery if she wasn't even going to let me in the kitchen? I decided I'd have to beg Grandad to let me practise round at his place.
I suffered through school the next day. Biscuits was unbearable, going on about his Fat Larry sparkly suit. His mum had gone up to London looking for exactly the right sort of sparkly material.
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