I threw my bag down with a crash and cupped my mouth with my hands, face tilted towards the ceiling. ‘HI, DAAAD,’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘I’m hooo-ooome! WHAT’S FOR SUPPER?’
There was a thud just above me, and a groan. I grinned. Result. Yesss! I pounded upstairs, belting out Eminem’s latest as I went. I got outside Mum and Dad’s bedroom door and paused to yell out the chorus a second time before stopping suddenly as if something had just occurred to me.
Knocking timidly on the door, I called quietly, ‘Dad? Are you in there?’
‘Spawn of Satan,’ came a croaking reply.
I smirked. Abuse I could tolerate. Cooking dinner a third night in a row, after that stunner of a Sunday lunch too, could not be contemplated.
‘Can I come in?’ I whispered deferentially.
‘Ha,’ was the rasping response.
I took that as a yes and pushed at the door.
‘Whoa!’ I moaned, back at full volume and clutching my nose. ‘Dad! It reeks in here!’
‘Have some respect. I’m not well.’
‘No, no, Dad. You’re not wriggling out of doing supper that easily.’
‘I mean it, T-Bird.’ He tilted his head slightly to look up at me. ‘Please.’
‘No way! You’ve been festering in here since Saturday. That cold’s got to be done now. You need fresh air.’ Stomping over to the window I could feel my blood starting to simmer. I had stuff to do. Arns + Mona = kiss 4 Lula. Arnold’s makeover needed my full attention. It just had to work, because going back to The List with its pre-teens and amputees was not an option.
At the window, I turned to stare Dad down. Now, there was a lot I wanted to say to my father, but he’d been a different person since Grandma Bird died. A bit volatile. He’s an English lecturer at the university, but he writes poetry and song lyrics too. And he’s worked with a lot of famous musicians. Why I’m telling you this is so you understand that he’s got that creative temperament that means he’s allowed to be ultra-sensitive and moody. (What a load of rot. If he just stopped drinking ten pints of beer a night, he’d be a different man.)
I’d heard Mum trying to talk sense to him last week . . .
‘Spenser, what’s going on? It seems to me your life is going downhill.’
. . . but it didn’t seem like the talking sense had worked.
I yanked the curtains open and the late afternoon sun shafted straight into the gloom, lighting up the pathetic bundle on the bed. Dad howled. (I’m being kind here. He actually squealed.)
‘My eyes! My eyes!’
‘Oh, please. Anyone would think you had measles.’
‘I probably have!’
I flung the window wide open and leaned out to breathe. Mum was at the front gate. She looked tired and anxious.
‘You okay, Lula?’ she called.
‘Dad’s still got man flu,’ I answered. Pause. ‘You’ll have to do dinner.’
Even from my first-storey height I could see Mum’s teeth grinding. She shoved at the gate with her right elbow, bags crashing and slithering in her hold. Her mutters grew louder and I was about to offer dinner services to save us all from the fallout – in return for a lift to Arns’s later, of course – when the old soak spoke.
‘You’re letting your mother make dinner? If I didn’t feel so terrible,’ said Dad, still motionless on the bed, ‘I’d get up and tan your hide.’
‘Huh,’ I said over my shoulder, fumbling with the window latch. ‘You think you feel terrible now . . . wait till Mum serves up her chicken-liver stew.’ I waved at Mr Kadinski staggering out of the Setting Sun opposite our house. He waved his stick back and started tackling the steps down from the veranda.
I moved away from the window before he could call for help. (I know how that sounds, but I was up to my eyes in everything and Mr K would be better without grumpy me right now.) A low moan came from under the duvet. I sighed. Maybe Dad was terribly ill.
‘Okay, Dad, I promise to do supper on the condition that you get up and shower and come downstairs.’
‘Don’t make me, T.’
‘Oh! Can you smell chicken livers? I think I can smell chicken livers . . .’ I mused.
Dad flung the covers aside with surprising energy for someone on the brink of death. I clamped my nostrils closed and edged towards the door while he unfolded himself from the bed.
Once I was certain he was headed for the shower, I bolted downstairs to the kitchen to stop Mum from cooking up a load of offal.
Dinner was good, not least because everyone in the house actually sat round the table and ate together. Except for my littlest sister, Blue, who was already in bed. Great-aunt Phoebe was clearly feeling pensive. Blue had probably worn her out with an energetic you be the murderous troll game. (Aunt Phoebe is in charge of Blue. She’s the only one who could be.)
‘How’re you, Aunt Phoebe?’ I asked, piling noodles on to everyone’s plates.
Her dark eyes glanced up for a second through trendy steel glasses, her chic black hair as immaculate as ever. ‘I’m glad you cooked, Tallulah. I needed to refuel.’
‘Mm,’ said Pen, twirling an astonishing amount of noodles on to her fork and into her mouth, ‘ss gmmeud.’
‘You owe me favours,’ I said ungraciously. ‘All of you.’
They nodded humbly.
‘And I’ve been thinking,’ I continued, sitting down. ‘As principal hovelkeeper, I feel I need a bit of personal space and –’
‘The annexe is mine,’ hissed Pen.
‘Girls,’ said Mum warningly.
Dad closed his eyes and whimpered.
Aunt Phoebe pursed her Chanel-red lips.
‘It will be, Pen,’ I said reasonably. ‘I’ve only got a couple years more of school and then I’m outta here.’
‘Oh?’ said Mum. ‘And what about going to university?’
Dad whimpered again, and shifted so he could slump with his forehead on his hand and still shovel in the stir-fry.
‘I am, but Brighton. For art.’
Mum went pink. ‘My love. You wouldn’t do that to us. The tuition fees. The res fees. We get massive reductions here at Hambledon.’
‘I have ambitions,’ I persevered, flinging my arms in a wide circle. A shred of green pepper hit the far wall. Dad flinched.
Aunt Phoebe maintained a studious silence.
‘But, but –’
‘Oh, Mum,’ said Pen. ‘She’s winding you up. This is her decoy. So when she flexes her fingers for the annexe, you see it as the lesser of two evils and say yes. Don’t fall for it. I’m the worthy candidate. Me with my neatness and efficiency. You’ll never have to worry about whether the place is secure if I’m the resident thereof.’
(For The Record: my sister Pen is the most slovenly of us all. She looks respectable, but noooo. She could fight every ailment known to man with the selection of penicillin she cultivates under her bed in crusty old dishes. And don’t be fooled by the way she talks. She is only fourteen.)
I let my jaw hang open and shook my head slowly in disbelief. ‘Resident thereof? Don’t talk like that, Penelope. You are not forty.’
‘Forty’s not that old,’ muttered Dad, running his hand through his thick brown hair.
‘Sure,’ I said hastily. ‘Plus you look good for your age, Dad.’
‘You can move into the annexe, T-Bird,’ he said, and pushed himself up and away from the table. ‘Right now if you like. I’m going back to bed.’
‘Whaaaaaat?’ shrieked Pen.
I laughed long and hard. Even Mum was smiling.
‘Give it a rest, Pen, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ll get your chance too.’
‘It’ll be infested with disease, and pestilence, and mould and sundry funguses, by the time I –’
‘Fungi,’ I said, and promptly regretted it. I needed to shower anyway before going to Arns’s place, but it took forever to get the noodles out of my hair.
Mum agreed I deserved a lift to Arnold’s house.
; ‘Be gentle with him, Tallulah,’ she said, pulling up outside his gate. ‘No tattoos. Call me when you’re done. I don’t suppose you’ll be going anywhere on foot with that.’ She nodded over at my ancient sewing machine on the back seat.
‘I appreciate the lift, Mum,’ I said.
‘Better than walking past the St Alban’s dining halls after supper,’ she replied.
Sometimes I think I underestimate Mum’s intuition. Pulling out an enormous backpack, I slammed the passenger door and had begun wrestling with the back door when Arns loped up.
‘Hi, Mrs Bird,’ he said cheerily to Mum, then stopped dead when he saw me staggering under the weight of my bag.
‘Uhhh, you staying the night?’ he asked me nervously.
Mum pursed her lips and sucked in her cheeks. I did not grace his query with a reply.
‘Help me with the sewing machine, will you?’
‘Ohh!’ Arns looked relieved and I felt strangely irritated. ‘It’s all your makeover supplies. Good.’ He scurried round and had the sewing machine balanced deftly under his left arm by the time Mum had fired up the Citroën. He slammed the door and waved her off. I’m sure I could hear her cackling all the way to West Street, four roads over, but what are children for if not to provide endless entertainment for their parentals. I sighed and followed Arns in through his front door. He headed straight upstairs. I followed, hard on his heels.
‘Um. Shouldn’t I say hi to your folks?’
‘Mum’s out on a case, Dad’s dead.’
‘Oh, geez. Geez. Sorry, Arns. I’m sure I knew that.’
‘Forget it. Let’s get makeovering.’
‘Coo–’ I started to say, but on arrival at his bedroom, Arns flung the door open and it came out as, ‘–ell!’
‘Like it?’
‘No.’
‘No? I’ve spent hours doing this!’
‘You’ll have to start again.’ I walked into the freshly painted room. The sheer redness of it all made me feel slightly sick. I looked up. ‘Thank God you didn’t get to the ceiling.’
I heard someone behind me and turned to see Arns’s sister, Elsa. ‘He said it was the colour of passion,’ she said, and that was it. One look at Arns’s puzzled face and I dropped my bag, bending over double and shouting with laughter so loudly my throat hurt. She crumpled over too, the only sound an occasional gasp for air.
Arns dumped the sewing machine on his bed with not enough care for my liking.
‘Is this humour at my expense?’ he asked.
I caught a glimpse of his face looking suddenly vulnerable behind the mock fury, and pulled myself together, wiping my eyes. Elsa mumbled something about getting more paint, and crawled on her hands and knees out of the room, still struggling for breath.
I bent across to lift up the sewing machine from the bed. ‘Where can I put this, Arns?’
He gestured numbly to a desk in the corner.
‘Perfect,’ I said, going over, and put it down carefully.
‘I, er . . .’ said Arns, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his baggy woolly jumper.
‘I knew it!’
Arnold jumped. He saw the look in my eye and took a step back. ‘Uh-oh, what now?’ he asked.
‘You’ve got a great nose. The glasses have got to go.’
‘No, no, Lula. Come on now.’
‘Have you never tried contacts?’
‘They make me feel vulnerable.’
‘You don’t want to show your face.’
‘It’s not that.’ Though Arnold seemed suddenly unsure. ‘I worry they’ll fall out, or I’ll get infected eyes and not be able to see or – or something,’ he ended lamely.
‘And you’re supposed to be some kind of genius.’ I shook my head sadly.
‘I wear them sometimes,’ was the pathetic defence. ‘When I go running.’
‘Running. Interesting.’
‘Whoa, Tallulah, I’m going to stop telling you stuff. I don’t like where things are going. Perhaps this is a bad idea.’
‘Three words.’
‘Hn?’
‘Mona de Souza.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Arnold’s brow furrowed.
‘So, Arns. You got a full-length mirror anywhere?’
His wary eyes never leaving my face, he took a step towards the built-in cupboards and pulled a door open. An enormous mirror glinted red with reflected light.
‘Great.’ I pulled the chair from the desk in front of it and gestured to the client to sit down. ‘Towels?’
‘Bathroom. End of the hall.’
‘Scissors?’
He jumped straight up off the chair and whacked the bottom of my chin with the top of his head.
‘Fffffriiiik! Frik! Frik!’ I clutched my face, seeing stars. ‘I think there’s blood!’
‘Blood? Sorry sorry sorry! You okay? Scissors did you say? I’m not very good with scissors – I mean, blood.’
‘Did someone say blood?’
‘Elsa! I’ve hit her and she says she’s bleeding,’ rattled Arns.
‘I knew I couldn’t leave you alone with her,’ cried Elsa from the doorway.
‘Hey!’ said Arns and I simultaneously.
Dropping a load of heavy stuff on the floor, Elsa came right over. ‘No offence, but you two are an accident waiting to happen.’ She prised my fingers from my face. ‘No blood.’ Arns stomped off to the bathroom. I could hear him running water and rummaging in cupboards. ‘Are you all right, Tatty?’
I opened my eyes and swallowed carefully. Everything north of my neck hurt. ‘I think I bit my tongue in half,’ I whispered.
‘Open your mouth.’
I obeyed. Elsa was about the same age as Pen, eighteen months younger than me, but two inches taller. She was lithe and strong-looking in a frightening Germanaerobics-instructor kind of way. I generally wanted to do what she said.
‘It’s still in one piece.’
‘Thank God,’ I slurred.
‘Could still be bleeding, but probably just the walls reflecting.’
‘Nff?’ I was alarmed, and swallowed carefully again before crawling to Arns’s mirror and dropping my jaw to investigate damages done. ‘Ungrhf.’
‘Ouch,’ agreed Elsa. ‘It is bleeding. Good thing you haven’t got a boyfriend. Kissing could be a problem. Have a paracetamol.’ She rummaged in her jeans pocket, came up with an ancient-looking pack of pills and went off for a glass of water.
Arns returned.
‘You cretin!’ I slurred. ‘I come here to help and now look!’ I stuck my tongue out at him. ‘Look!’
‘Oh,’ said Arnold, slightly distressed. ‘I’m really sorry, Tallulah. At least it wasn’t your nose. The tongue is the fastest healing organ of the body. You know. Because of the saliva.’ He sat down in the chair with the towel draped demurely round his shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ he said for the umpteenth time. ‘I’ll be good now.’
‘You better be,’ I growled, and came up behind him again, staring at his reflection in front of me in the fulllength mirror.
Elsa appeared with water and I popped two pills and swallowed with a grimace. It felt like half my tongue flapped open with that gulp of water. Eeenf.
Arns handed me a pair of scissors, and Elsa started rolling out dustsheets and pushing furniture around.
‘Let’s discuss this before we get going,’ said Arns politely.
‘Okay,’ I agreed amiably. ‘Where is your comb, Arnold?’
‘You sound angry. How long will you be angry with me? Does your tongue still hurt?’
‘Comb?’
‘Brush. Top drawer bedside cabinet.’
Elsa, already repainting the walls, began to laugh quietly.
‘Wait!’ said Arnold.
But it was too late. I’d opened the drawer and was staring at the entire Western world’s supply of condoms glittering in shiny foil beneath one of those toddler-sized hairbrushes.
I took out the brush and shut the drawer with a grin. Arnold was forgiven. I lov
e a boy with ambition. ‘You dealin’?’ I asked in a fake American accent.
‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘The good boy’ – I winked over at Elsa who was trying not to laugh – ‘he swears.’
‘Just the tip of the iceberg,’ promised my client’s sister, sweeping away with Bright White interior paint like a woman possessed.
It’s hard to cut hair with blunt scissors and a baby-hair brush when you’ve never done it before, but I have to say the results were pretty incredible.
Arns blinked, swallowed and cleared his throat. His eyes didn’t leave his reflection. I took the towel and a sheepful of hair away from his shoulders and he stood up slowly. At last he turned round to face me.
‘I think your work here is done,’ he said, a slow smile transforming his face. He suddenly bounced out from behind the cupboard door to face his sister. ‘Elsa! Look!’ He spread his arms wide.
Elsa stood from her crouched position over a skirting board and blinked in surprise.
‘Wow, Arns!’
I grinned happily.
She put down the roller and the paintbrush and pushed the hair out of her face with the back of her hand. ‘You – you look . . . amazing.’
‘The walls are looking good too, Elsa,’ I noted.
‘Yes,’ admitted Arns.
‘Bro, you owe me big,’ Elsa said with narrowed eyes. ‘This is going to need another coat tomorrow.’
The comment reminded me of my own indebted family. I checked my watch. ‘We’ve got to hustle. I don’t want to call my mum for a lift any later than ten.’
‘Arns, you clear up,’ commanded Elsa. ‘Just leave that paint tray and that roller. I’m going to explain your wardrobe to Tatty.’
‘I –’ started Arnold. Then he tore his eyes from the reflection in the mirror and looked at the transformation of his room. ‘Yes, Elsa,’ he said meekly. ‘Thank you,’ and he started clearing paint tins, brushes and rollers away. Elsa was already talking nineteen to the dozen and opening up the other doors of the built-in cupboards, but I was fascinated by her brother. He currently held the handles of Sahara Sunset, Passion’s Flower and African Earth all in his left hand with a dustsheet bundled under his arm, and hanging from his right forearm was a bucket loaded with the rest of the stuff, another dustsheet bunched into his armpit and two paint trays, piled with more brushes, held in his right hand.
Kisses for Lula Page 3