‘Hands off,’ Lesley says, half joking, half threatening.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It was you he was flirting with, not me.’
The following week, the bread van arrives just after twelve and we’re still in class. Jackie and Orla, who are sitting near the window, are swinging back on their chairs and straining their necks to get a proper look at Johnny Connolly. Lesley keeps sighing, rolling her eyes and looking at her watch in despair. By the time the bell rings for lunch break, the gingerbread man is getting back in his van. From the window, the four of us watch him drive away in the rain.
‘Oh no,’ Lesley says, pressing her forehead against the weeping windowpane. ‘Now I have to wait another whole week.’
Orla puts her arm around her. ‘I see what you mean about him. He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? Even with his red hair.’
‘Ginger,’ Lesley and I say in unison.
Nobody seems to notice that I’m as disappointed as Lesley is.
By the time Wednesday arrives again, all four of us are keyed up at the thought of seeing Johnny. We spend the eleven o’clock break in the toilets trying to make ourselves look cool.
‘I’m gonna snog him in the back of the van,’ Lesley says, rubbing strawberry-flavoured gloss on her lips. ‘Youse can keep an eye out for the penguins.’
I’m standing next to her, finger-combing my hair and spraying it to make it stand up in the right places. I can’t help looking at Lesley’s reflection and feeling that I don’t stand a chance. Although I’m tucks more confident about my appearance than I was a year earlier, I know I’ll never be what Lesley is – irresistible. Even I want to touch her silky skin and kiss her yummy mouth. She catches me eyeing her and gives me a grin as if to say: you’re right, you can’t compete; look at me, I’m gorgeous.
‘Right, girls,’ she says, turning to face Jackie and Orla, ‘which way should I wear my hair?’ She throws her head forward, tussles and sprays it and then throws it back. Her jet-black hair is full and curly, and begs to be touched.
‘It’s fab like that,’ Orla says.
‘What about this?’ Lesley bunches it into two ponytails, making herself look almost innocent.
‘Definitely like that,’ Jackie says.
‘No, leave it loose.’ Orla is adamant. ‘It’s far nicer.’
They argue until Orla eventually says, ‘What do you think, Frances?’
Although I’d prefer it loose, I look at Lesley and say, ‘The way you have it now.’ I’m hurt that she hasn’t asked me for my opinion herself.
‘Nah,’ she says, pulling out the bobbins, ‘I think I’ll leave it loose.’
At a quarter past twelve, we hear the van coming up the avenue and look at each other across the classroom. Miss O’Dowd, our history teacher, is rabbiting on about dictatorship.
‘Hands up,’ she says, ‘those of you who can give me an example of a dictator.’
Lesley puts up her hand. I’m surprised she’s been listening, considering that we’ve just heard the bread-van door swing open.
‘Yes, Lesley?’
‘I think I’m gonna puke, Miss. Can I go out to the toilet?’
‘Yes, of course you can. Frances, you go with her.’
‘It’s all right, Miss,’ Lesley says, as I’m about to get off my chair. ‘I’ll be grand on my own.’
I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the teeth. I can’t believe she’s freezing me out. Jackie and Orla are nudging each other and tittering. About five minutes later, Jackie asks the teacher if she should check on Lesley.
‘Yes, go ahead. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.’
When the bell rings, Orla grabs me by the elbow and hurries me along the corridor towards the main doors.
‘Who took the butter off your bread?’ she says.
‘I’m pissed off with Lesley.’ I feel guilty as soon as I say it. I’ve never talked about her behind her back before.
‘Why? What did she do?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘With a face like that, it must matter.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s just when she said she didn’t want me to go outside with her …’
‘Ah, you can’t blame her for that. All she wanted was a chance to nab Johnny on his own.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Deep down, I know Orla has a point and that I shouldn’t be behaving so childishly, but I can’t help how I feel.
‘God,’ she says, looking at me suspiciously, ‘you really do fancy him too, don’t you?’
‘No. I swear I don’t.’
By the time we get outside, the gingerbread man is driving away. Lesley and Jackie are sauntering towards us, linking each other and wearing triumphant smiles.
‘She did it,’ Jackie squeals. ‘She shifted him.’
Though I try, I find it hard to join in Jackie and Orla’s screaming-fan antics.
‘He’s the best kisser ever,’ Lesley says, pulling me over to the wall to sit down.
I wonder if she’s trying to make me jealous or if it’s simply me being over-sensitive.
‘A ten out of ten?’ I ask, not wanting her to cop my bad mood.
‘No, an eleven.’
I can see she expects me to be thrilled for her. And why wouldn’t she? Along with Jackie and Orla, I’ve always been happy for Lesley to have her own way, to get off with all the best-looking lads and leave the not-so-hunky specimens to her not-so-beautiful friends. That’s the way it has always been.
‘I swear, Frances,’ she says, laying her head on my shoulder, ‘I’m gonna marry him.’
I toss and turn in bed that night. My blood is boiling. I’m not sure who I’m mad with or jealous of. I’ve never seen Lesley so smitten. Since she’s met Johnny, she seems distracted to the point where nothing else matters, even me. Maybe that’s what’s getting to me. Or is it that I have feelings for the gingerbread man myself? There’s just something about him. I cannot sleep. I’m all mixed up.
Every time Lesley rings, it’s Johnny this and Johnny that, and I listen because I always listen to her and tell her how lucky she is. Part of me still suspects that she’s purposely rubbing my nose in it, but why should she be? She doesn’t know I fancy him too.
My feelings for Johnny are confirmed when I see him again the following week and he says, ‘How’s about ya?’ in his sing-song accent, his dark green eyes glinting at me.
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say, unable to stop myself from smiling.
‘Indeed ya’re,’ he says, grinning at me.
Over the following few weeks, Lesley tries to make a date with him away from school, but he keeps giving her vague excuses – he’s promised to do a favour for a man on Sunday; he has to take his car to the garage; it’s his granny’s eightieth birthday. When she tells him that there’s more to a relationship than a quick snog in the back of his van, he laughs and says, ‘I’m not complaining, love.’ She’s not happy, but the air of mystery about him makes her want him all the more. When she offers to take the bus to Enniskillen to meet up with him over the weekend, he fobs her off again.
At Lesley’s request, the four of us meet up in the Coffee Pot one Saturday afternoon to have a chat about what she should do about the gingerbread man.
‘Bastard,’ she says, almost in tears. ‘What’s he hiding?’
‘Ignore him the next time he comes to the school,’ Jackie says. ‘Play him at his own game and see how he likes it.’
‘You’re right,’ she says, as a tear rolls down her cheek. I can’t stop my hand from reaching over and wiping it away. She looks just as beautiful when she’s sad as she does when she’s happy. ‘But the thought of not seeing him on Wednesday …’
‘You know fellas,’ Orla says. ‘You have to play hard to get.’
‘I do … did, till I met Johnny. Maybe we should head down to Enniskillen tonight. He might be at the Tropicana – that’s where all the Catholics go. I was there a few times with our Sandra.’
‘You’ll have to count me out,’ Or
la says. ‘I’m on curfew after being out so late last night.’
‘I’m going to the cinema with Pete,’ Jackie sighs. ‘Sorry.’
Lesley looks at me with big doe-like eyes.
‘Yeah, OK.’
I’ve never been across the border before and I’m dead nervous. Lesley and I are sitting in the lounge of the Imperial Hotel in Castleowen having a cigarette and sharing a vodka with a dash of lime. Raging with me over having my hair dyed peroxide blonde, my father hasn’t given me any pocket money.
‘If that’s how you choose to spend my hard-earned cash,’ he told me, ‘you can do without it.’
‘All it cost me was two pounds. Sandra only charged me for the dye.’
‘And cheap-looking it is too.’
I’ve had to withdraw the last fiver from my post office savings account to fund my night out. Between Lesley and myself, we’ve barely enough to pay into the nightclub.
‘Never mind,’ Lesley says. ‘We’ll chat up some fellas and get them to buy us drinks.’
I’ve been drinking since the summer, when I discovered that alcohol was the answer to my biggest problem – lack of confidence. So far I’ve stuck to vodka because Lesley says my parents will never smell it on my breath. I don’t want them knowing I’ve started boozing. Somehow my mother would find a way of making it my father’s fault and then he would look at me with his how-could-you-do-this-to-me? expression. It’s best to spare him the persecution and myself the guilt. At least now I can have a conversation with a boy without turning puce and getting tongue-tied.
‘What if we get shot?’
‘I don’t fucking care. I can’t live without Johnny anyway.’
Shortly after nine o’clock, we walk to the outskirts of the town and stand at the edge of the footpath with our thumbs out. Cars whizz by. One man slows down just as he passes us and drives off as soon as we start running towards the car.
‘Fucking wanker,’ Lesley roars, giving him the fingers.
When we hear another car approaching, Lesley sticks out her leg and the car screeches to a halt.
A rough-looking man of about fifty rolls down his window. ‘Where are youse heading to, lassies?’
‘Enniskillen,’ Lesley says.
‘Hop in so. Youse are in luck.’
‘I don’t like the look of him,’ I say, tugging Lesley’s sleeve.
‘It’s all right; he’s just an old farmer,’ she says before opening the door.
She sits in the front, leaving me in the back with a sleeping, drooling dog. I’m terrified of him waking up, so I lean against the door, keeping as much distance as possible between us.
‘What’s the big attraction in Enniskillen?’ the man asks.
‘I’m meeting my boyfriend at the Tropicana.’
‘He must be a bit of a Casanova if you’re willing to travel thirty-odd mile to get to him.’
‘Yeah, he’s a lovely guy.’
‘From Enniskillen, is he?’
‘Yip. Are you?’
‘Aye, just a couple of mile outside it.’
‘Maybe you know him – Johnny Connolly?’
‘Johnny Connolly. Mmm. What’s the father’s name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What part of Enniskillen is he from?’
‘Dunno that either.’
‘You don’t know too much about him, do you?’
‘We only met a while back.’
‘Oh, I see. A new romance, is it?’
‘Yeah.’
I can’t take my eyes off the dog. Every time his ears twitch, I’m sure he’s going to wake up and go for me.
The man scratches his flaky bald patch with his grimy fingernails. ‘Well, there’s the Connollys of Pearse Hill,’ he says, flicking a bit of dandruff over his shoulder, ‘and the Connollys of Fernduff. Then there’s a couple of families of them down beyond Erne View … a right scabby bunch they are. And there’s a Danny Connolly out my road – he has a slap of sons; it could be one of them. What did you say your buck’s name was?’
‘Johnny.’
‘Johnny, Johnny … no, it doesn’t ring a bell. I’d want more to go on than that.’
‘He’s a bread man and he has ginger hair.’
‘Nah,’ he coughs, clearing his phlegmy throat and sending a lumpy spit flying out into the night. ‘Still can’t place him,’ he says, winding up the window. ‘Though he’ll not be one of Danny Connolly’s. Them lads are all very dark; they’re like a bunch of Spaniards. Anyway, whoever he is, he’s a fierce lucky fella having a looker like you.’ He pats Lesley’s bare knee.
A couple of miles later, he turns down a narrow lane off the main road. With held breath, I look around me as branches reach out from the overgrown hedges and tap on the windscreen with skeletal fingers. I dig my knee into the back of Lesley’s seat, but she just keeps nattering away to the man as though nothing untoward has happened. I can’t see anything ahead of us, only one gloomy bend after the next. I’m convinced that we’re going to be attacked.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, sitting up, ‘where are you going?’
‘I’m just taking a bit of a detour to avoid the checkpoint,’ he says. ‘I don’t want them Limey fuckers rooting in the boot of the car. Besides, if they startle Blackie, he’ll go for them bald-headed and they’d not think twice about burying a bullet in the back of his skull.’
Although I’d been dreading the prospect of having to go through a checkpoint, I’d give anything to be out on the main road again heading in that direction. This is it, I think: my comeuppance. And bloody good enough for me it is too. Oh God, the thought of losing my virginity like this … to that. Where is he taking us? Will there be anyone else there? A gang maybe. Jesus!
‘I feel sick.’
‘Roll down the window and stick your head out,’ the man says.
‘I’m gonna throw up.’
He puts his foot on the brake. I pull the lever, but the door won’t open. I try again, this time banging against the door with my shoulder. It still won’t budge. I’m trapped!
‘Hop out and open the door for her,’ he tells Lesley. ‘The cursed thing will only open from the outside.’
‘Are you all right?’ Lesley asks, as I step out. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
I slam the door shut and grab her arm.
‘I think he’s gonna rape us,’ I whisper, turning towards the ditch and pretending to vomit. ‘Let’s make a run for it.’
‘Don’t be daft. He’s a harmless oul eejit.’
‘How the fuck do you know?’
‘Cos if he was gonna try anything, he’d have done it by now.’
‘He touched your knee.’
‘So what? You could hardly call that sexual assault, could you?’
‘I don’t care what you think, Lesley – I’m not getting back into that car.’
‘Are youse all right, lassies?’ he shouts out the window.
‘Think about it, Frances,’ Lesley says. ‘If he really wanted to attack us, how far do you think we’d get if we started running now?’
‘Oh, we’ve had it. We’re dead meat. My mother was right all along.’
‘Will you get into the car and don’t be such a wimp. If he tries anything, you punch him in the face and I’ll knee him in the balls, right?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘No.’
‘OK, then.’
When I turn round, I see the dog sitting upright and staring out the window at us with a slobbery gob.
‘Shite, the dog’s awake!’
‘You can sit in the front with me.’
As soon as we open the car door, the dog growls.
‘Shut up, Blackie,’ the farmer shouts, giving him a clout across the mouth. The dog whimpers and crouches down.
Several bumpy miles farther on, the lane widens and we see the lights of Enniskillen. I feel like crying with relief.
‘I’ll leave youse right to the door of the discotheque,’ the man says, turning on his
wipers, ‘seeing as youse aren’t exactly clad for that weather.’
‘See,’ Lesley mutters into my ear, ‘told you he was a harmless oul eejit.’
The nightclub is packed and particularly rough. We can’t see past the throng of people in front of us.
‘How the hell are we gonna get home, Lesley?’
‘Johnny of course.’
‘But what if he’s not here?’
‘He will be. Now, shut up panicking and let’s just concentrate on finding him. We’ll split up. You go right and I’ll go left.’
‘No way. We’ll stick together. If we split up, we’ll never find each other. It’s like a cattle mart in here.’
Already lads are nudging each other and eyeing Lesley. For once, she doesn’t notice.
‘I’m bursting for a pee,’ I tell her as we pass the Ladies.
‘OK, I’ll wait for you here,’ she says, leaning against a pillar.
I have to queue for ages behind two well-plastered women in their late twenties. One of them keeps staggering and stepping on my toes with her stilettos. With the dirty looks I’m getting from her slightly less drunk friend, I’m afraid to flinch, let alone complain. I’d rather keep my mouth shut and have my feet stabbed than grumble and risk getting my head blown off. Who knows what kind of weapons the Northern girls carry in their handbags?
It’s the guts of twenty minutes before I finally make it back to the pillar to meet up with Lesley, but there’s no sign of her anywhere. Where could she have gone? I hang around for ages waiting for her, feeling more vulnerable and panicky by the minute. A man, nearly as old as my father, starts chatting me up.
‘Where are you from?’
I don’t answer.
‘I said where are you from?’
I look away, pretending not to hear him.
‘Wanna dance?’ he asks, tapping my shoulder.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Arragh, go on.’
‘No,’ I say, moving away.
As I scour the hall for Lesley, I vow to myself never to cross the border again. It’s been a disaster from the word go. I can’t find her on the dance floor, or at the bar, or upstairs on the balcony, so I go back to the pillar, but she’s still not there. Not knowing where else to look at this stage, I’m on the verge of tears. As a last resort, I go over to a bouncer and ask him if he’s seen a seventeen-year-old girl with long black hair wearing a denim mini-skirt and black T-shirt.
The Fall Girl Page 16