by Jean Ure
Friday
Pilch back to eating macaroni cheese. Hooray! I knew she wouldn’t be able to keep to a diet for very long.
Got off the bus two stops early on the way home so I could walk past Delamere Road and see if the Carlito boy was there. He was! He has this very glossy black hair, just like Carlito, and was stripped to the waist and a beautiful brown colour even though it is October. This could either mean a) that he has just come back from holiday or b) that he is naturally that colour. I think it is more likely to be the latter. I think he is probably Spanish!
As I walked past, pretending not to look but sort of squinching up from under my lashes, he came towards me wheeling a barrow. I felt myself grow very hot and red and wished after all that I had not picked my spot.
Was going to read some more of War and Peace but think I shall lie down and have some tingly thoughts, instead.
Saturday
Met Pilch in the shopping centre and went on a search for a birthday present for Mum. Not that I think, at this moment in time, that she really deserves one, but it is always possible that by the time her birthday comes round she will have redeemed herself by a) taking a bit more interest in my achievements, b) not nagging about my lack of a social life and c) not trying to fix me up with every stray boy that comes her way. Then, if I had not got her one, I would feel mean. So I said to Pilch, “Better to be safe than sorry, as they say.”
Pilch said, “What are you going to get her? What do you think she would like?”
I said, “Clothes, probably.” But Mum’s taste in clothes and mine are very different. I wouldn’t know what to buy her. Pilch suggested make-up or a bottle of perfume, but again I wouldn’t know what to buy.
We went all round the shops without finding a single thing. The sort of stuff I thought she might like, such as Wedgewood pots and glass vases, was all way too expensive. Pilch, trying to be helpful, kept pouncing on little dinky donkeys wearing straw hats, or plastic owls with holes in their heads for stashing pens; or even, if you can believe it, miniature garden gnomes (for window boxes, I presume). The garden gnomes particularly entranced her. There were fishing gnomes and smoking gnomes and cogitating gnomes. There was even a squatting gnome, which looked somewhat vulgar to me. Pilch went into raptures.
“Look!” she squealed. “Gnomes!”
I said, “I am not getting Mum a gnome.”
“But they’re so sweet,” crooned Pilch.
“They’re hideous,” I said. The sort of thing I would have bought when I was too young to know better. I do try to be a little bit cultured.
Pilch fell into a tremendous sulk when I wouldn’t buy Mum a gnome.
“Buy one for your mum,” I said.
“Not her birthday,” said Pilch.
I said, “Well, then, buy one for yourself! If you want one that much. I think they’re grotesque.”
“I know they are,” said Pilch. “That’s what makes them so cute!”
I have made a mental note to buy her one for Christmas. In the meantime, there is still the problem of Mum. I shall have to do some thinking about it. I shall see if she redeems herself!
On our way to Paperback Parade, partly to look at the books but mainly, I must confess, to have a cup of heavenly gorgeous hot chocolate (they float marshmallows on the top. It is so yummy!) we passed Cindy and Tasha. Tasha was with Brad Sullivan, Cindy with some other boy. Tasha looked like she and Brad Sullivan had been bonded together with some kind of cement.
As soon as we were safely, I most sincerely hope, out of earshot, Pilch, with a simpery sort of sigh, said “I wouldn’t mind so much if they looked like him.”
I said, “If who looked like him?”
“All the drongoidal geeks our mums keep trying to palm off on us,” said Pilch. “All we get is Andy Pandy and Spooky Steve.” I’d told her about him, heedless to say. “I wouldn’t mind being palmed off with someone like Brad Sullivan!”
I reminded her that my mum had tried to palm me off with Brad Sullivan.
“And you didn’t want him!” squeaked Pilch.
I narrowed my eyes and said, “He doesn’t make you tingle, does he?”
“We-e-ell…” Pilch gave this little squiggle. (A cross between a wriggle and a squirm.) “He does sort of.”
“Brad Sullivan?” I said.
“He’s kind of cute,” said Pilch. And then she giggled and said, “I think it’s his bum!”
There are times when I do grow seriously worried about Pilch. It’s happening more and more! First parties, now Brad Sullivan. Surely she can’t really fancy him? Where is this all going to lead???
I don’t think I could bear it if me and Pilch grew apart. We have known each other so long, we have done so many things together! We have had such fun! There was our secret language that we used, and our puppet theatre that we made, and our musical that we wrote. I can still remember our musical! Jack and the Beanstalk.
“Jack-have-you-washed-behind-your-ears?” all on one note.
Not very inspired! But we were only nine. And then there was our play that we did - “For two people in ten-and-a-half acts”. We thought ten-and-a-half acts was so cool! And the magazine we wrote, that everybody had to buy a copy of. My mum, and Pilch’s mum, and our nans, and Pilch’s auntie, and our next-door neighbours. And the school photo that we made, all across my bedroom wall, when we collected faces out of magazines and newspapers and stuck them up and put names underneath them. Funny names! And grotesque faces. One of them was a pig. We called it Pansy Porker after a girl in our class that we didn’t like. I’d probably call it Cindy Williams if I did it now. Although, upon reflection, why insult pigs?
I don’t mean to be morbid, but I really would hate it if one of us fell by the wayside. It wouldn’t be the same if I got to uni and Pilch didn’t!
I blame her mum. All that nagging at her, to go on a diet. It has obviously made her feel insecure.
Sunday
This morning Mum and Harry went buzzing off to yet another record fair. Still in search of the elusive album! I said, “Honestly, is it really worth it?”
Harry rather fiercely said that “Anything your mum wants is worth it!”
He must be really besotted. It is rather touching, in its way. He is so big and beefy looking! You wouldn’t think he had this softer side to him. He is quite a nice bloke, really.
“You don’t think,” I said, “that you are on a wild-goose chase?”
“What does it matter if we are?” said Mum, gaily. “It’s fun just going to the fairs!”
She gets all dressed up for them. Today she was wearing tight-as-tight jeans, cowboy boots and an old leather biker jacket that she bought years ago when I was in juniors and she was going with this guy that had a Harley Davidson. Harry has a black cab! He dropped me off at school in it the other morning and Cindy Williams saw me. I didn’t tell her that Harry was my mum’s boyfriend. I pretended that I had just, like, suddenly, on a whim, decided to come to school by taxi!
Anyway, I wished Mum good luck, because it seems she really really does want this album (search for lost youth, etc.) and then I came up here to just generally potter and have thoughts and maybe do a bit of reading. While I was pottering the phone rang, so I went down to answer it and it was Nan.
“Dee?” she said. “Is that you?”
I said, “No, it’s Cresta. Mum’s out.”
Nan said, “Oh. Gone with that Harry, I suppose?”
Nan doesn’t approve of Harry. She thinks he is coarse. I guess he is, in a way - I mean, some of the expressions he comes out with! - but he obviously loves Mum to bits and as far as I am concerned that is the only thing that matters. I know that I go on about Mum rather a lot, and it is true she can make me truly mad, but I do very much want her to find happiness.
I said to Nan that she and Harry had gone to a record fair and probably wouldn’t be back until tea time. She said, “That’s all right! That means you and I can have a little chat.”
I was a b
it alarmed by this, as you never quite know, with Nan, what she is going to chat about, like sometimes she has this tendency to lecture and I can’t stand that. Last time she rang it was manners she wanted to lecture about, i.e. how young people don’t have any. Which was pretty much of a cheek considering that whenever she stays I make a point of rushing frantically about, opening doors and pulling out chairs and fetching her glasses, which she is for ever leaving in totally inappropriate places such as inside the airing cupboard or on top of the loo.
“We never get a chance to talk,” she said.
She wanted to know how I was getting on, so I told her about school, and about Mrs Adey giving me an A* for my essay, and Nan made this little cooing noise and said, “Well! Imagine that! We have a genius in the family.” After which there was a bit of a pause, and then, all coy and mock sort of casual, she goes, “And how about boyfriends? I’ll bet you’ve got a whole string of them!”
Why is it I have this strong suspicion that Mum has been talking to her???
I said, “I don’t really have time for boys right now. I’m too busy with school work.”
“Very sensible,” said Nan. “Don’t feel you have to apologise for it.”
When Nan said that it made me feel like I was some kind of freak. Maybe she thinks I’m a lesbian, too.
“Now, look, pet,” she said, “don’t you worry about it! I know your mum frets herself, thinks you don’t get out enough. But just because she was a tearaway doesn’t mean that you have to be. I never could get that girl to settle to her studies! I tried everything I knew. But she wouldn’t have it. She was all over the place! You’re different. You mustn’t let her push you into things before you’re ready for it. You’ll come to it in your own good time. You’re just a bit of a slow developer, that’s all. And none the worse for it, in my opinion!”
This is all very well, but I am not sure how much I value Nan’s opinion. I’m glad she accepts that I am different. And I’m glad she thinks that it’s wrong of Mum to try and push me. But what does she mean, I am a slow developer???
Afterwards I came upstairs and brooded about it. I can’t understand why Mum keeps hassling me all the time! I mean, considering her own love life has been one total and utter disaster. Ever since I can remember, Mum has been let down by men. These are just a few of the ones I can bring to mind:
Mick, the biker with the Harley Davidson. The bike was great, but Mick was a real slimeball. He used to disappear for weeks on end and never let her know where he was or if he was coming back. One time, I remember, she prepared this big spread for his birthday and he never even turned up. Poor Mum! She just put her head on the table and cried and cried.
Then there was Gerry. He was another one that made her cry. She really thought they were an item, her and Gerry, till it turned out he’d been two-timing her all along. Only had a wife and three kids back home in Ireland, didn’t he?
And Paul, the con man. Took her for a right ride. And Robbie, who did drugs. Robbie was seriously bad news. Then there was Tariq, the fun-loving movie star. Said he was a movie star, back home in India. OK, so he looked dead gorgeous, but boy was he a creep! What right did he have to make Mum feel she was inferior? He got her so wound up she hardly dared open her mouth. But there you go! If she will fall for these airheads.
And I haven’t yet mentioned Joss. Joss was the pits! He was the worst. He was pond life. Just strung her along till something better turned up, then ditched her. “Sorry, doll! You know how it is. And anyway, you’re old!”
It took Mum ages to get over that. I honestly thought she never would. That was when we started renting movies every Saturday and became big movie buffs. Then Harry came into her life, and he’s the first guy that’s ever treated her right. Of course, he doesn’t look much. Shortish, darkish, a bit what I would call squat. And he’s not exactly exciting. I didn’t think it would last five minutes, but it has. In some ways it’s almost like having a real dad about the place. The others weren’t dads. They were like total twonks.
All I’m saying, you’d think Mum would be glad I’m not following in her footsteps. That’s all.
Monday
(5th Week)
I know what I am going to buy Mum for her birthday. I am going to buy her a record! Or maybe even two records, if they don’t cost too much. Old ones, natch! Something from when she was young.
There is this second-hand record store in town called Dandy’s. It was Pilch who told me about it. She said, “They have millions of records! You might be able to find one for your mum.”
It would be brilliant if I could find something by her favourite band. I might even be able to find THE ALBUM! I have decided that Mum deserves it, in spite of talking to Nan about me behind my back and trying to pair me off with Spooky Steve.
My change of heart is because she came back from the record fair last night with a prezzie for me: a video of my all-time ace favourite movie, which is called Dog Day Afternoon with Al Pacino. It is somewhat prehistoric, though not as prehistoric as Some Like it Hot, which is one that Mum and Harry swoon over.
It is all about how Al Pacino tries to rob a bank to pay for his lover (another man!) to have a sex-change operation. I am aware that this sounds distinctly dubious, not to say totally wacky, but it is both funny and touching and ultimately sad, as it all ends in disaster. Al Pacino is arrested, his lover isn’t in the least bit grateful (he is rather a neurotic wreck, to tell the truth), and a poor friend that he has talked into robbing the bank with him, and who is rather simple and keeps saying in a pathetic way that he cannot face going back to prison, well he is shot and killed, which always makes me shed tears.
There are those people, I suppose, who would say that he deserves to be shot for robbing a bank, but I do not look at it that way.
Mum says she cannot for the life of her see what I like so much about this curious movie. I am not very sure myself as a matter of fact, but it is based on a true story and I have seen it twice, once on television and once when Mum rented it from the video store. Now I can watch it whenever I want!
Pilch, who has also seen it, says that it is OK. “But nothing special.” I beg to differ! She says the reason it gets to me is because Al Pacino reminds me of Carlito. She says that is why I chose the name Carlito because Al Pacino has done another film called Carlito’s Way. (Which I have also seen, and which also makes me cry.)
Unfortunately, alas, Al Pacino is now quite old and doesn’t look in the least like Carlito! But maybe when he was young he did; just a little bit. It is so sad when people get old! Like Brigitte Bardot who I once saw a picture of when she was young and pretty, and now when you see her she is this very wrinkled aged person like a grandmother. Perhaps after all it is better to die young, like Marilyn Monroe or James Dean (who Mum says was an icon) then that is how you will always be remembered.
But to get back to Mum! She was really happy that she had found my movie for me.
“Look,” she cried, “look what I’ve got! I saw it there, and I thought, Cresta would love this! It’s only secondhand, of course.”
I wouldn’t care if it was third-hand! I will treasure it for always. It was so sweet of Mum to buy it!
As well as my Al Pacino movie, Mum also bought a video of Queen, that is another band she really likes. We all sat down to watch it, with Mum and me (but not Harry!) sighing over poor Freddie Mercury, who tragically died of AIDS. He was very charismatic and I lay awake half the night having morbid thoughts about Carlito, which became more and more morbid as the night wore on. I am very suggestible like that. The least little thing, and if it appeals to the imaginative/ creative/romantic side of me I immediately spin whole sagas out of it. By morning I had almost an entire new episode worked out!
Looked for the Carlito boy on the building site on the way home from school, but he wasn’t there. I hope it doesn’t mean he’s disappeared for good!
Tuesday
Walked round the playing field with Pilch at lunch time and told he
r my morbid thoughts about Carlito. She did not share my enthusiasm.
“Well, he’s your character,” she said. “But just remember, once he’s gone, he’s gone.”
It is one of our unspoken rules. Once a thought has been solidified, i.e. written down, there is no turning back. You can’t, like, resurrect anyone. That would be cheating. It would take away any semblance of reality.
I said to Pilch that I hadn’t thought so much of Carlito actually dying (not for quite some time, anyhow) but more of being sick and nobly suffering.
“Like Chopin,” I said, “dying of consumption.” We did Chopin with Mrs Bromley last term. I can’t say I much like his music, but dying of consumption is always tragic.
“Chopin was ugly,” said Pilch, in an irrelevant kind of way. “Most of them were. All those old composer people. Like Schubert. He was dead ugly. He died of syphilis,” she added.
I said, “Really?” We then got a bit sidetracked, talking about syphilis and about poor Schubert being so ugly. I asked Pilch how she knew about it, and she said she’d read it in a book called Condensed Composers. Pilch does read some very odd things! But I suppose it is all knowledge.
We didn’t get back to Carlito until it was time for afternoon school.
“I just don’t see how you can do this to him!” hissed Pilch.
I agree it is weird that one can have these kind of thoughts about one’s characters. Why do I think of it as romantic? I know it isn’t, really. I know there’s nothing in the least romantic about being sick. It’s the thought of someone young and beautiful being sick. That’s why it is so sad about poor Schubert and Chopin. They were young, but they were not beautiful, and so it’s not romantic.
This is an exceedingly shallow way to think, but it cannot be helped. It is the truth.
Wednesday