Life, Death and Gold Leather Trousers

by Fiona Foden

  I still feel floaty and weird as I hand over the money Mum gave me. Maybe it’s the heady mixture of smells. It’s too much – like scooshing yourself with all the perfume testers in the chemist’s on a Saturday afternoon. How come, if Mum had to scrape the money together, she can afford to eat at the Steak Shack? Maybe she was out with a man, like Crystal Skelling was hinting, and he paid? So why didn’t she tell me? It only feels like five minutes since Dad left. Surely she can’t have met someone already?

  “Oh, your hair’s lovely!” the receptionist enthuses. “What a difference. You look great.”

  “Thanks,” I say boldly.

  “Hey, Bernice!” she calls across the salon. “That’s a gorgeous cut you’ve done.”

  The hairdresser looks up, meets my gaze and blushes. My smile sets like cement.

  Bernice?

  Copper Beach is probably swarming with Bernices. It can’t be Nudie Bernice. I’m just overreacting because I’m in a posh salon and know I don’t really belong here. The receptionist hands me my change. “Want a lift home tonight?” she calls to fully clothed Bernice.

  Bernice shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m, um … getting picked up.”

  “Is Geoffrey coming to get you?”

  Something clamps my heart. This town’s probably jam-packed with Geoffreys as well. My dad isn’t the only one. There’ll be loads of Bernices and Geoffreys who meet each other after work.

  My eyes meet Bernice’s. She looks blank and pale, as if someone’s tried to rub her out.

  Bernice-and-Geoffrey. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself as I scuttle out, clutching a fistful of coins.

  What a normal girl would do now is head straight over to Niall’s and explain how things are with my family at the moment. “Sorry,” Miss Normal would say, “but I can’t come to guitar lessons any more. Mum says we can’t afford it.”

  And Niall would smile and say, “Look, Miss Normal, I don’t want you give up on yourself. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  That’s what Miss Normal would do. What I do is hurry down the street away from the Cutting Room, my ears sizzling, and lurk behind the gigantic plastic tubs outside Bloomin’ Marvellous. The flowers’ smells mingle, making me feel giddy. “Can I help you, dear?” An old lady in an overall has come out of the shop and is giving me a suspicious look.

  “I, I’m just looking,” I say quickly, pretending to study the wilting flowers.

  “We’re closing in a couple of minutes,” she adds.

  “Erm … I can’t decide. I’ll come back another time,” I babble.

  “Seeing as I’m packing up, you can have these carnations half price…”

  “No, it’s OK, thanks,” I say, scarpering before she forces armfuls of shrivelled flowers on to me.

  Further down the street, I peer into the newsagent’s window at the adverts for old sofas and trampolines. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bernice coming out of the hairdressers. She can’t be Dad’s girlfriend. Just had a minor freak-out there. No one would strip off and be an artist’s model if they had a perfectly decent job as a hairdresser.

  Another woman leaves the salon, then the receptionist. My breath feels thick and soupy in my throat.

  Now a tall, slim man in pale jeans and a washed-out blue T-shirt is marching towards the salon. Seeing him, Bernice quickens her pace. He waves, and his face breaks into a grin. He tries to hug her, but she says something into his ear and quickly pulls away.

  My heart turns cold. Dad’s with that woman, in the street, in front of everyone. He takes her hand as they turn and quickly walk away.

  My chest feels tight with anger. Did she realize it was me while she was cutting my hair? She must’ve done. She knew all about Jupe – there was hardly anything in the papers when he died – and she looked mortified when the receptionist said Geoffrey. I’m disgusted, and have an urge to muss up my haircut and spoil it. I almost want my botched fringe back.

  And an awful thought flits into my head: the money Mum had to scrape together for my haircut went straight to Nudie Bernice. If she ever finds out, I’m dead.

  I need to speak to Bernice – to ask why she let me sit there for half an hour with her hands all over my head. I mean, she could have warned me. I start to creep along after them. I can’t help it.

  They turn the corner, and I almost lose them among the crowd outside the Ship Inn. Early evening sunshine hits the pavement like a golden sheet. Once I’m through the crowd I spot them again, looking more relaxed now, chatting and giggling together.

  They walk on, with her now gripping his arm, past Copper Beach Ices and the bandstand where I’ll have to play the trombone now I’m destined to join a tragic old-man brass band. They pass the crumbling aquarium that’s been shut down for years, and which Dad would never take me to anyway, as he refused to fork out for admission fees when we live by the sea. “Touristy rip-off,” he always said. “Those places are a waste of the sun.” He seemed to forget that the sun doesn’t always shine on Copper Beach.

  Dad and Bernice walk on, not noticing me darting along behind them, partly hidden by people strolling with ice creams on the seafront. They turn away from the sea and into a posh road where the front gardens have neatly trimmed hedges. Fury bubbles inside me. So this is where he lives. In a street – sorry, an avenue – where every house has a name like “The Lilacs” or “Briar Villa”. Dad’s gone posh. Some of the gardens have gnomes. If Dad’s got one, I’m going to come back in the night and smash its stupid pointy hat off.

  Then the houses become smaller. The street is really scruffy now, and some of the houses look like they’d crumble to bits if a bird landed on them. There are no gnomes. No one strolling with an ice cream. In fact there’s hardly anyone here at all – just a drunk man shouting in a grocer’s shop doorway – so I have to keep darting behind parked cars so Dad and Bernice don’t spot me. My heart pounds frantically and my scalp prickles with sweat. Mum will be wondering where I am, and I can’t even call her because she lost her mobile and asked to borrow mine. I’m the only person in my entire school who has to share a phone with her mum.

  And the only one who stalks her own dad.

  Face it, Clover – you’re a sad, lunatic loser.

  They stop, and I realize our car’s parked there, outside my dad’s new house, with its exhaust pipe dangling down. I stop too, frozen in shock. There’s no car to hide behind. No bush to jump into. The whole world seems to fall silent as Dad stops in front of a scruffy green door and delves into his jeans pocket.

  It’s Bernice who turns first. She blinks at me and opens her mouth. Then she goes pale, like she did in the Cutting Room, and says something to Dad.

  He looks round and squints and drops Bernice’s hand. “Clover!” he gasps. “My God, what are you doing here?”

  Excuses crash around my head.

  I just happened to be walking this way.

  I needed to talk to you about, er, something.

  I’m not me. I’m a remarkably Clover-like android.

  “Clover,” Dad repeats, sounding concerned now, “what are you doing here? Did you follow us? Has something happened at home?”

  I shake my head bleakly, wishing with every cell of my body that I’d gone straight home after my haircut. “I … she…” I nod at Bernice, who’s now pulling a soppy, puppy-dog face. I wish she wouldn’t. I don’t want the pity of a nudie-model-cum-hairdresser person. “She … she cut my hair,” I blurt out. “And then I realized, when I saw you coming to meet her…”

  Dad’s face softens, and he steps forward to enfold me in a hug. But I’m not in the mood for hugs. Not now, with Nudie gawping at us with her head tipped to one side, as if she’s trying to mimic one of those oh-so caring agony aunts from Jess’s magazines.

  I wriggle away from him. “Did you know it was Clover?” he asks, turning to Bernice. “I me
an, my Clover?”

  For God’s sake – how many weirdy-named Clovers are there are around here? “Of course I did,” she says softly. “You’ve shown me so many pictures, darling…” Darling. Agh. Puke. “…And she’s so pretty,” Bernice warbles on, “with those striking green eyes and lovely cheekbones…” Leave my cheekbones out of this. “…The photos don’t do you justice, Clover,” she adds, fixing me with anxious blue eyes. “In fact, I started to think, no, she can’t be … but then, when you mentioned your Uncle Jupe…”

  “Why didn’t you say it was you?” I blurt out, amazed that Dad took any family photos at all in that zip-up bag.

  Bernice steps towards me. My instinct is to shrink away, but I stand firm, chin up, as if charged with super-powers. I feel different. Bolder, somehow. Maybe it’s the haircut. Perhaps it did work, like Jess said it would. “It was hardly the right time,” Bernice explains gently. “I didn’t want to upset you or anything…”

  “So what did you think,” I demand, “when you realized it was me?”

  “I … well, I was a bit panicked, so I nipped off to phone your dad, just to let him know you were there, but of course he didn’t pick up the call. Men and mobile phones,” she says with a small laugh. I don’t laugh back. “But apart from that,” she adds, “I just wanted to do the best haircut I could. And it wasn’t easy, believe me, Clover. My hands were shaking the whole time. I’m amazed you didn’t notice.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” I snap.

  Dad smiles crookedly. “Well, sweetheart, now you’re here, you’d better come in.”

  Oh hell. I hadn’t considered this part. Why I’ve come here, and what I expect to happen next. I shuffle on the pavement as Dad unlocks the scruffy front door, and breathe in dust as I follow them up the dark, narrow staircase. I realize now that they don’t live in all of this tiny house, but just the top half of it. It’s a flat. A very, very small flat. Dad lets us in and we all stand uncomfortably in the minuscule hallway.

  “Well,” he says with an awkward cough, “this is our place, Clover. So, um … what do you think?”

  I follow him into the living room. The “our”, as in our place, jars my ears. “Nice view,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say. I glance out through the grubby window at a dingy factory with a web of metal fire-escape stairs clinging to its wall. My hands are sweating. I’d give anything to be able to zap myself across town and be with Mum and Lily, scoffing cookies.

  The only furniture in the room is a table, a very new-looking stripy sofa and a wooden chest with a tiny TV plonked on it.

  “Would you like tea, Clover?” Bernice flicks her eyes at Dad as if to say: Is she old enough to drink tea?

  “Er, OK,” I mutter.

  “Sit down, sweetheart,” Dad says, looking relieved as she scoots to the kitchen. “Tell me what’s wrong. Why … why you followed us home.”

  He knows, of course. And I almost shout out, Why d’you think? Because I was freaked out, OK? Which is quite understandable as your girlfriend had just cut my hair…

  “I … I just wanted to see you,” I whisper, sitting awkwardly beside him.

  “What about?” he asks gently.

  “My guitar lessons,” I blurt out, surprising myself. “Mum says I’ve got to stop going to Niall’s because we can’t afford my lessons any more.” I look hopefully at Dad. Despite Jess egging me on today, the thought of pleading for free lessons from Niall is becoming more toe-curlingly embarrassing by the minute.

  Dad frowns. “When did this happen?”

  “About a week ago now…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asks.

  “I just … I thought I’d figure something out, or that Mum might even change her mind.”

  “Oh, Clover. It’s not right that you should stop. I’ll have a word with Mum, all right?”

  “No, don’t do that!” I cry. “She’ll be mad that I told you. She doesn’t even know I’m here…”

  “The thing is,” Dad adds, “I give your mum what I can afford. Honestly, Clover, I’m doing the best I can. So maybe she and I need to get together and have a little talk about how she can manage the money differently…”

  “It’s OK,” I cut in, horrified at the prospect of Mum and Dad having a little talk. “I’m really not worried about my lessons. I was getting sick of them anyway.”

  “Come on, Clover. You love your guitar…”

  “Yeah, but at this stage I’d probably get along better just learning by myself. I mean, I never had a teacher when I was little, did I?”

  “Well…” Dad hesitates and looks me right in the eye. “You had Jupe, didn’t you?”

  I nod, not wanting to talk about Jupe right now, in case Bernice starts going on about how great he was when she didn’t know him like we did. Dad looks relieved as Bernice emerges from the kitchen carrying two china cups (they might not have curtains but they do have saucers. Whoo, posh).

  I take my tea from Bernice and sip it, scalding my top lip. There’s a tense silence, then a tinkly noise as I rest my cup on its saucer. I flick my gaze around the room. Does Dad draw Bernice in here with her clothes off? Eek. Thankfully, she scurries back into the kitchen.

  “Are you sure you’re OK about stopping your guitar lessons, Clover?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, honestly, Dad,” I say firmly.

  He nods, clearly not believing me. “You didn’t really come here to talk about that, did you?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

  I’m so jammed up inside, I don’t know what to say. “I … just miss you,” I manage to squeak out. “I … I know we still see you but it’s not the same at home without you. I mean, we’re doing OK, and Lily’s all right, but I just feel so…” Tears spring into my eyes.

  “Oh, darling.” Dad holds my hand tightly, just as he’d held Bernice’s in the street. “Look, I want you to know you can come here any time you like…”

  “Of course you can,” Bernice adds, appearing at the kitchen doorway. “I’d like to get to know you, Clover … if that’s OK.”

  “All right,” I mumble into my chest.

  “And hopefully you’ll bring Lily soon too,” she adds, as if she knows the first thing about us.

  I nod. “I’d better go now. Mum’ll be getting worried.”

  Both of them see me downstairs to the street. “I’ll drive you home,” Dad says.

  “I’d rather walk, Dad, honestly.”

  “OK, if you’re sure.” He hugs me and lowers his voice so Bernice can’t hear. “Remember, love, you can call me any time. I’m…” He clears his throat, and I’m sure I spot a hint of wetness in his eyes. “I’m still here for you,” he adds. “I’m still your dad.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” I say, pulling away and hurrying home as fast as I can.

  The whole walk home, I try to get my head around Dad and Bernice living together in that titchy flat. Mum and Dad were never lovey-dovey or anything. But I’d never imagined Dad going off with anyone else and walking home with her hand-in-hand after work.

  The first few days after Dad left, I kept telling myself he’d walk right back in at any minute. There’d be tears from Mum, and maybe more yelling, but at least they’d be back together again. Now I know that’s not going to happen. It’s way too late to stop off and see Niall, and I’m tired and hungry anyway. As I approach our street, I decide not to tell Mum about my little visit to Dad’s new place, or that these days, he actually uses saucers.

  Instead of Mum, though, I find Betty from next door plonked on our sofa with her crochet. “Hello, Clover,” she says with a broad smile. “Good day at school?”

  “Er, yes, thanks, Betty. Um, isn’t Mum home?”

  “She’s gone out,” Betty explains. “With you having your hair done after school – it looks lovely, dear – she asked if I’d pop in to look after Lily.” She pauses and furrows her
forehead at me. “How are … things, Clover?”

  Lily is sprawled belly-down on the living room floor surrounded by glittery glue pens and paper. “Um, everything’s fine,” I say quickly. Her look says: Oh, pity the poor urchin waif.

  “It’s just, if you ever…” she begins.

  “D’you know where Mum’s gone?” I cut in.

  “She didn’t say. Probably her aerobics class. Does she still go to the gym? Not that she needs to, she’s looking terribly thin…”

  Lily flicks her eyes up at me. “Mum didn’t go to aerobics,” she announces. “She was really dressed up with shiny high heels and a new dress that was kind of animally…”

  “Animally?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” she says, eyes popping. “Like, like … a leopard.”

  A leopard dress? To the gym? “When did she say she’d be home?” I ask Betty.

  “She didn’t,” Betty replies. “She just popped round and asked me to stay with Lily until you came back. That’s all she said…”

  This is weird. I feel odd the whole time Betty chatters on about whether she should get a new cat to replace Midnight, and odder still when she’s gone home and it’s just Lily and me. It’s half-eight – past Lily’s bedtime. She’s lounging on the sofa watching Dumbo. It’s far too babyish for her, and I start to worry that her mental development has skidded into reverse and that soon she’ll ask for her old dummy back.

  I fetch my guitar and start strumming beside her, despite the fact that it’s still missing a string. “Can’t hear the film,” Lily protests.

  “You should be upstairs in bed by now,” I tell her. “Why are you watching Dumbo anyway?”

  She glowers at me. “Stop telling me what to do. When’s Mum coming back?”