by Jean Ure
Sunday
Yesterday was a really good day. Lots of things discussed between Pilch and me.
We waited till Mum and Harry had gone off to their party before settling down to read our episodes. Fortunately they left quite early. They were all going to meet up in the pub beforehand. (And get smashed, I bet! Well, that is my reading of the situation.)
I couldn’t believe it when I saw what Mum was wearing! She’d got this skirt that was about 20 cm long. If that. It was like a sort of… strip.
“Genuine 60s,” she burbles. “I paid a fortune for it! What d’you reckon?”
I think my jaw must have clunked open, because Harry, in this smoochy drooly voice, goes, “Doesn’t she look a treat? Doesn’t she look smashing?”
The thing barely covered her knickers. You could practically see her bum.
I screeched, “Mum! You’re not going out like that?”
“Why shouldn’t I go out like this?” said Mum, plainly offended.
“Yes, why shouldn’t she?” said Harry. And he patted Mum on the aforesaid part of her anatomy, and said that she had a figure to be proud of. “She still looks like a teenager!”
She may look like one. But that doesn’t mean she is one! She is my mum, and I felt quite embarrassed for her. I think it is pathetic when older people try to pretend they are still young. It is so belittling!
“Get a load of those legs,” said Harry. “Give us a twirl, doll!”
So, guess what? Mum actually starts doing the cancan! Kicking her legs in the air and laughing.
“Whey hey!” cried Harry. “That’s my girl!”
Enough said. As they say.
I must confess that I was a bit put out, after Mum and Harry had gone, when instead of commiserating with me, or at any rate maintaining a discreet silence, Pilch giggled and said, “Your mum’s a right goer!” Like she thought it was really funny.
“It’s since she took up with Harry,” I said. “It’s made her totally trivial.”
“Of course, she’s a lot younger than my mum,” said Pilch.
“Not that young,” I said. “She’ll be thirty-three next birthday.”
“My mum’s forty-eight,” said Pilch.
I can’t help feeling that in some ways it would be rather a comfort to have a mum that was forty-eight. At least she wouldn’t always be making you feel dim and grey and nerdy. It’s not appropriate for a mum to go out looking like a teenager and showing her bum! I don’t think it is.
I said this to Pilch but she just giggled again and said, “Depends on the bum!”
I thought that was a rather frivolous remark.
We came up to my bedroom to read our episodes. We could have been just as private downstairs, but we always do it in our bedrooms. Bedrooms have the right feel.
Pilch read first. She is into horses now. Not that she has ever been on one, but she has apparently got this book from the library which tells you all about them. She said she felt that Alastair, coming as he does from such an immensely upper class family, would be bound to be what she calls “acquainted with the equestrian arts”. So now he is galloping madly back and forth across the Highlands, I beg their pardon, I mean Heelands, on this horse named Monarch of the Glen (ask me not why) that is about two metres tall and “rich sable in colour with a foaming mane and proud arched neck”.
Pur-lease!
It wouldn’t be so bad if Alastair were the only one that was riding to and fro across the Heelands, but all his friends are riding with him. Pilch describes every single one of their horses in minute detail. She even describes all the tack (horsy term for saddles and bridles and stuff). Plus of course she says what everyone is wearing. Alastair has “cream-coloured jodhpurs and a tweed hacking jacket with a flap”.
The flap kills me! I asked her if it was to let the farts out (a fart flap) and she got quite huffy. Sometimes I find it hard not to giggle when Pilch reads her episodes. But I know that I mustn’t, because that would be unkind. It would upset her. I mean, she probably goes to bed and dreams of Alastair in his hacking jacket. With the flap.
Oh, dear! That has set me off again.
After she had read about Alastair on his horse and all his horsy friends, I read my bit about Carlito. About him being gored and hovering ‘twixt life and death. I have done a lot more thinking about this. Where he is gored is in the groin, which needless to say is extremely dangerous in more ways than one. His entire manhood could be at stake! For several days, even after he has pulled back from the brink, his fate lies in the balance.
The trouble is, I cannot bring myself to finish the episode. It is like a sort of soap and I am scared that if I finish it I will have nothing to take its place. Not until I can think of something else. Every night in bed I go into “hospital mode” and cannot seem to get out of it.
After we had read our episodes we had this rather intense discussion about sex. It all started because of me saying how Carlito’s manhood could be at stake. Pilch said, “You mean, he wouldn’t be able to do things?” And then she got a bit pink and giggly and said, “Do you think they do?”
I said, “What, you mean Alastair and Carlito?”
I said that as far as I was concerned, Carlito most certainly did! He is what Mum would call a stud. Meaning - he pursues girls like crazy! They also pursue him.
I said this to Pilch. I said, “It is just that I haven’t yet got around to thinking of an episode.”
Pilch immediately said, “Oh, me too!” She then got even pinker and said, “I wonder what it actually feels like?”
I have often wondered this. It is all very well knowing how a thing is done, but that is just the mechanics. Nobody ever thinks to say what it feels like. Which I think is important!
Pilch volunteered the information that she had read somewhere it was like tingling.
“Tingling as in pins and needles?” I said.
Pilch rubbed a finger across her forehead, which is this thing she does when she has embarrassed herself, and said, “Mm… I guess.”
I sometimes feel a tingling when I think of Carlito. On the other hand, I have never tingled at the thought of a real live boy. Spooky Steve, for instance. I could look at Spooky Steve all day long and not have one single solitary tingle! More likely I’d just fall asleep through sheer boredom.
I said to Pilch, “We ought to call it the tingle factor.”
Pilch said, “Yes. Every time we meet a boy we’ll wait to see if they make us tingle!”
It will be interesting…
When we’d finished our discussion about sex we went downstairs and made ourselves some cheese on toast.
“I shouldn’t really be eating this,” said Pilch. She is a tremendous glutton for cheese.
I asked her why not and she said that her mum had been on at her again about going on a diet. So irresponsible!
After a few moments, pushing her cheese about her plate, Pilch said, “I told Mum the reason I was staying overnight was that we were going to a party.”
I gaped at her. “What on earth did you say that for?”
Pilch mumbled, “Janine’s going to one.”
“So what?” I said.
Pilch just humped a shoulder and messed a bit more with her cheese.
“Would you want to go to parties?” I said.
“Not specially,” said Pilch. “Not unless—”
I said, “Unless what?”
“Well! I mean.” She giggled. “I’d go if it was Alastair!”
“Perhaps you ought to make him have one,” I said. “Then you could choose what you were going to wear to it.”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t be fat,” said Pilch.
It is going to be too utterly boring if Pilch starts to fuss about the way she looks.
After our cheese on toast we sat up watching videos until Mum and Harry came back. We watched one that was complete rubbish called Spawn of the Bloodsucking Vampires, which even though it was rubbish was quite spine-chilling in a mindless kind of way. And
then, as an antidote, we watched Thelma & Louise, which is one of my big faves. It is one of Mum’s too.
Mum and I used to watch a lot of movies. We used to go to the video store every Saturday and take out two videos and sit there all evening with packets of crisps and bottles of Coke (or sometimes wine, in Mum’s case).
I used to enjoy our Saturday evenings. We got to be real movie buffs! We hardly ever do it any more; only just occasionally if for some reason Harry’s on an evening shift, which he hardly ever is since he also enjoys his Saturday evenings with Mum. They usually go off razzling somewhere. Clubbing. Pubbing. Partying. This of course is what happens when a man comes into your life. Big sigh! Though I do try very hard not to begrudge her.
Now I have distracted myself and can’t remember where I was. I know! Pilch and me were watching Thelma & Louise. We had just reached the bit at the end, where they are about to drive over the edge of the Grand Canyon, when Mum and Harry arrived back. (I didn’t mind missing that bit as a) I know it off by heart and b) it always makes my stomach churn.) Mum was rather loud and giggly, which means she had been drinking. I think Harry had, too, as his face was all red, but it was OK as they took a cab. Harry is dead against drink-driving, I suppose because he drives for a living.
On the whole I will say for him that he has a great many good points, the main one being that he makes Mum happy, but also of course he comes in handy for such manly tasks as removing socks from vacuum cleaners. I guess I wouldn’t mind too much if he and Mum were to get married. I am growing used to the thought of his bum on the lavatory seat and his underpants in the washing.
This morning, unfortunately, Pilch had to go home as her auntie and uncle are coming. She said she did not specially want to see her auntie and uncle as she had seen them only a few weeks ago, but her mum had said that she had to be there. She said this was because her cousin Andy will be with them. He is fifteen and Pilch’s mum is always scheming for him and Pilch to do things together.
“Like, why don’t we go to Thorpe Park? Why don’t we meet up in town? Why don’t we go to a movie?”
Just like Mum and Spooky Steve!
I’m feeling a bit flat now that I’m on my own. I can’t seem to settle to anything. I tried having some more thoughts about Carlito, but nothing came. No tingle! Next I tried reading some more of War and Peace, but either I have reached a particularly draggy patch or I am just not in the mood. So then I went and stared out of the window at the boringly familiar Sunday scene of people washing their cars. Awesome! Nothing ever happens in the suburbs on a Sunday. The most exciting thing is going to Ikea, which is what Mum and Harry have done.
While I was glooming out of the window I saw Tasha Lansmann walking down the road with Brad Sullivan. They were holding hands. I wonder if he makes her tingle???
Monday
(4th Week)
Asked Pilch how it went with her cousin. She said, “It was all right, but there wasn’t any tingle factor.”
Mum, meanwhile, is still going on about Spooky Steve. I might have known she wouldn’t let it drop.
“He’s such a nice boy,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
I agreed that he was, because I think probably any boy that loves his hamsters has got to be pretty nice.
Mum was obviously pleased with this reply. She got all encouraged by it.
“So have you arranged to see each other again?” she chirps, trying (without success, I may say) to sound casual.
I said no, we hadn’t. “He wanted us to meet in a chat room and I had to tell him, we don’t have a computer.”
“Oh! Oh, Cresta!” Mum looked at me, stricken. No computer! Oh, tragedy! How can I meet boys if we don’t have a computer?
“We ought to get you one,” she said.
Well, we ought, I agree; but not for that reason.
“We will!” said Mum. “We’ll get one! Tell him we’re getting one!”
“Mum, it’s all right, you don’t have to panic,” I said. “I didn’t want to meet him, anyway.”
“Why not?” said Mum. “Meet in a chat room! It sounds like fun!”
“It might be,” I said, “if we had anything to chat about.”
“You’d find something!”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s into hamsters. Hamsters is really all he can talk about.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly!” said Mum. “And don’t be so unkind! The poor boy is probably just shy.”
“Well, maybe I’m shy, too,” I said.
“You’re not shy,” said Mum. “You just have this huge superiority complex!” She was starting to sound distinctly annoyed. I’d obviously gone and upset her again. “What right have you to sneer at Steven for liking hamsters?”
I explained that I was not sneering. I told her that I would far rather have a boy that loved hamsters than a boy that loved for instance football. I don’t feel that I could ever get into football, whereas hamsters are no doubt quite endearing creatures.
“I just don’t want to go and chat about them!”
Mum simply refuses to see my point of view. She said that I was most ungracious and that there was no pleasing me.
It is extremely unfair of her to say this. I was pleased on Saturday, when Pilch came. I am pleased when I am having thoughts about Carlito. I am pleased when I am reading War and Peace. (Usually.) I am pleased about lots of things. They just don’t happen to be the things that Mum would like me to be pleased about. That is all.
Tuesday
For dinner today Pilch said she was going to eat “just vegetables and fruit”. She then went and helped herself to a handful of French fries off my plate! I could have stopped her but I didn’t as I feel she should be encouraged to go on eating normally rather than starving herself of proper nutrients. I don’t fancy the idea of my best friend going into a decline!
Pilch moaned, “This is awful! I have no self-control at all!”
Cindy Williams, who was sitting at our table, had to go and shove her oar in. She said, “If you carry on like that you won’t have any waistline, either!” She said it just as Pilch was in the act of swallowing a chip. Poor old Pilch nearly choked.
I said, “Waistlines are hardly of much importance in the overall scheme of things, I wouldn’t have thought.”
“What would you know about it?” said Cindy, with this sort of sneer on her lips.
Thinking no doubt that she was coming to my rescue, not that I needed it - I take absolutely no notice whatsoever of Cindy Williams and her trivial mouthings - Pilch spluttered, “She’s a lot thinner than you are!”
Cindy said, “Yeah, she’ll go out with the bath water if she’s not careful! Call that a figure? More like a piece of string!”
When I got home I said to Mum, “Pilch’s mum is trying to push her into anorexia! She wants her to go on a diet.”
There are times when Mum can be really disappointing. Instead of agreeing with me that this was an appalling way for any self-respecting mother to behave, she said that Pilch could certainly do with “losing a bit”.
I said, “Mu-um!” in reproachful tones. “She’s not fat!”
“No, but she’d look better if she slimmed down,” said Mum. “She could be quite attractive if she got rid of a few kilos.”
I am truly ashamed of Mum for being so trivial.
Have just examined myself in the mirror. Have a huge redness appearing on my chin. I think it is going to be a spot.
Wednesday
This morning Mrs Adey gave us our essays back. The ones we did last week. I am totally knocked out! She has given me an A*!!! At the bottom she has written, “An excellent piece of work! Extremely well thought out.”
I knew it was good when I wrote it. But I didn’t know it was that good! What it’s about is reading the classics. I say how you have to persevere. How they may not seem like a whole lot of fun while you’re reading them, but when you reach the end you realise how rewarding they have been. I thought that Mrs Adey would approve o
f this. But at the same time it is what I truly believe! In a moment I am going to get to grips with War and Peace again.
I told Mum about my A*. She cried, “Oh, Cresta, that’s wonderful! What a clever daughter I’ve got!” And then she narrowed her eyes in the direction of my chin and said, “Have you been picking that spot?”
I immediately said no, though in fact I had. Mum, in vexed tones, said, “I do wish you wouldn’t! You’ll make such a mess of yourself.”
This annoyed me quite considerably. I retorted, “So what?”
Mum said, “So you really ought to start learning to take a bit more pride in your appearance is what!”
Sullenly -I didn’t mean to be sullen, but she gets me so mad! -I said, “Why? And for whose benefit?”
“Yours!” snapped Mum. “And don’t look at me like that! You’ll thank me when you’re a bit older.”
“Doubt it,” I said.
I expect that was a rather silly sort of remark, and probably rude, as well, but it seems Mum and me simply cannot help but rub each other up the wrong way. Rather than going on about spots, for instance, why couldn’t she have asked me what my essay was about?
“Tell me about your essay, Cresta! Let us discuss it together.”
But oh, no! Just, don’t make a mess of yourself. Because if you do, NO BOY WILL LOOK AT YOU.
Trivial, trivial, trivial!
I have just squeezed the head out of my spot and now there is a great gaping hole. It is like peering into the depths of a volcano. During the night it will probably gather up its forces, ready to erupt, in a great swoosh of horrible yellow pus. How disgusting are bodily functions!
Thursday
Chin looks like a bomb crater. Mum pursed her lips but didn’t actually say anything. Just as well, since I wasn’t in the mood for it.
When I got to school Pilch went, “Ooooh! You’ve made a right mess of yourself!”
Felt like hitting her.
Coming home on the bus I saw a boy on the building site at the corner of Delamere Road who looked just like Carlito!