Vintage
by Maxine Linnell
Published in 2010 by Five Leaves Publications
PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW
www.fiveleaves.co.uk
© Maxine Linnell, 2010
ISBN: 978-1-907869-41-9
Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England
Cover design: Darius Hinks
Typesetting and design: Four Sheets Design and Print
Dedication
With thanks to the team at Nottingham Trent University’s creative writing course, especially David Belbin, Leicester Writers’ Club for their support and feedback, especially Rod Duncan and Chris d’Lacey, and to Penny Luithlen for helping me through this book.
For Benn and Kate
Author Information
Maxine Linnell trained as a psychotherapist and later gained at distinction in the Nottingham Trent University MA in Creative Writing. She lives in Leicester where she chairs Leicester Writers Club, an organisation of published writers.
I’m out of the shower, dressed and drying my hair, so I don’t hear Kyle come in. It’s about three. Friday. Day off college. He puts his head round my door.
“I’ve got the car!”
I see him in the mirror. “Great! I want to check out the retro shops. We can get there before they close.”
He’s over at the table, messing with my make up. “For the project?”
I nod. “Sixties. 1962. Vintage. Before the obvious stuff. The Beatles and hippies and all that.”
“Cool. Can I try this on?”
My new mascara. I hesitate. But he’s my best mate. “Okay. I wish there was some way of getting back there. It’s like another world.”
“Has to be better than this dump.” He’s laying on the mascara, thick. Smudging it. His face – could be a boy or a girl, small nose, big dark eyes. A bit pale. He’s taller than me, thin. Always looks sad, ever since his mum died. I’d go for him myself.
“Does your brother know? That you’ve got the car?”
“You’re joking. He’s sleeping off last night – out till three.”
He scrubs at his eyes with a tissue. “How do you get this stuff off?”
I check to see if the bath towel’s got dye on it. It’s one of Mum’s best. There’s a thick grey streak across one side. I throw it in a corner. Maybe she won’t find it. Not that I care if she does.
“Where did you get this? It’s rubbish.”
I put down the hair-dryer and give him some remover pads. I get my straighteners and nudge him out of the way.
“What’s your real colour?” he asks. He’s watching me at work. His head’s on one side. His hair’s covering half his face. Good cut.
“Some kind of brown. Don’t remember, it’s been black so long.” My hair’s shiny. And the cut’s fantastic. Long underneath and choppy on the top. So cool. Mum hates it. Even though she’s always going on about being positive. Even when something terrible happens, like Dad leaving.
Kyle picks up a hair band, tries it on in the mirror. It flattens his fringe so it’s even longer on one side. The rest spikes up behind. He back-combs it. With my comb. He looks demented but cute. He smiles at himself, turns round to show me. When he smiles, you’d die for him. Really you would.
“You’re done, now let me at the mirror. I hate this place. The only decent mirror’s on the landing.” I sigh.
“Looks okay to me. Your dad still – away?”
I wait before I answer.
“I think they’ll get divorced now.”
I miss Dad. I hate this house. It’s miles from where we used to live. Nobody’s got any money since the split. My life is crap. I want out. Somehow. But I can’t tell Kyle. Even though he’s my best mate. Not since his mum died last year. He doesn’t say much. But there’s the poems. Not that he shows them to anyone. Except the one he put on facebook. So sad. I cried.
There’s a noise across the road. Kyle is over at the window. He’s got the attention span of a head louse. Looking at where the new people are moving in.
“Who’s that? He’s beautiful,” he says. I’m over there. It’s the new guy. He must be eighteen, nineteen maybe. Tall. Very tall. Brown. Longish dark hair, falling over his face. Tight jeans. Blue tee with a logo. Carrying a fridge out of a lorry like it’s a CD, like he’s been working out for ever. He is fit. I’ve never seen anyone that fit.
I wonder what he’s like without his clothes on.
He looks up at us. I see his face. I could fall right into those big brown eyes. It’s like the world just lit up. Puts down the fridge. Turns and stretches, like a cat in front of the fire. Flat stomach in the gap between t-shirt and jeans. Muscled arms. So hot. I sigh.
“Wouldn’t mind him,” says Kyle. He’s pulling at his hair, preening.
“Back off,” I say. I push him out of the way. “He’s mine.”
The guy grins. He picks up the fridge. Goes into the house. I so want to get my hands on him.
The talent across the road should brighten theday. Give me a lift. The sun is out. Don’t remember seeing it since last summer. I bet it will rain later. Again. We’re going into town. Me and my best mate. It’s Friday. But it’s still crap. All of it.
“How do you know he’s straight?” I hear Kyle say. “If we’re going to go, you’ll have to stop perving at the window.”
There’s no sign of the guy.
Kyle’s over at the mirror again. Misting it up. Dragging eyeliner under his right eye and smudging it.
I string my mobile round my neck on a black shoelace. Sad, but I made a promise to Dad. I lost mine again, and he had to pay loads on the insurance. He told me to hang it round my neck. So, I’ll just look like a loser.
The mobile hangs with the brilliant pendant Kyle gave me for my sixteenth. I zip up my jacket over them. Still cold out there.
Kyle picks up his keys. His eyes are smudged. But they look okay. “Ready?”
I manage a grin. For a moment, I almost feel it.
“I need to see the sad old cow at the coffee shop before we go – find out if she wants me tomorrow.”
“Why do you keep working there?” Kyle’s over by the window again.
“I need the money to go out tomorrow night. Mum won’t give me anything. She is so tight.”
We’re leaving the house. The guy comes out to the lorry again. Like he’s seen us. Seen me.
“Well, hello there.” I do my best Marilyn Monroe impression. A little wave. Hands on hips. Chest pushed out. I’ve seen the films. I know how it’s done.
He looks surprised. He jumps in the lorry and gets busy with the boxes.
Did I do something wrong?
We get in the car. There’s no central locking or aircon. No anything.
We stop outside the coffee shop. Kyle stays in the car. The place is empty. Except for an old woman sitting by the window, hugging an empty cup. The radio is on. Drowning out the silence.
Mrs L is wiping down the counter. She looks tired. She always does. Her hair looks stringy. Her skin needs some help. Everything about her looks worn down. Worn out. She runs her hand through her hair.
“Do you need me tomorrow?”
She looks round at the six pine tables. “The morning will do. That’s the only time I suppose we’ll be full.”
Shrugs her shoulders.
“See you then – tomorrow.” I have to get out. Before I die of depression.
I run to the car. Kyle’s got his iPod wired into the speakers. Loud.
He drives off.
I slide down the seat as we go back past the house. That’s when it happens. A puppy. Golden colour – like a labrador or something. It’s sitting by the bus stop, on its own, like it’s waiting for a bus. Then it gets up and runs into the road.
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The lorry on the other side screeches to a stop, just missing the puppy. It dashes on in front of us.
Kyle slams on the brakes.
I shut my eyes, tight.
Scream.
Wait for the crash.
Marilyn was on her way home from school. She had a huge amount of homework to do at the weekend. She got on the bus, last of the bunch of friends going the same way. They all went upstairs and Marilyn followed. She lugged her bag full of books and folders and staggered to a seat near the front. Her tie was crumpled, her shirt was grey, her hair was a mess. She knew that. She didn’t care, not much.
“Don’t mind me!” Sheila made room for her on the seat and leaned forward to talk to Liz and Di. Marilyn wished it was just her and Sheila. She shrank back in her seat and pushed her glasses back on her nose. She hated the glasses.
“It’s on!” Di shrieked. “We always get them late, it’s ages since they had it in London.”
They were going past the cinema.
“The Misfits. Marilyn Monroe. Just look at her on the poster. Doesn’t look much like our Marilyn, does she?”
Liz was at the window too. “Look over there. Can you see him? That’s the one that asked me out. Over there, the one at the bus stop across the road.”
“The one with eyes on stalks?” Di had a loud voice and Marilyn squirmed. Everyone on the bus must be looking at them.
“He’s terrible. He goes to City Boys. I saw him at the sixth form dance that time, can’t dance for toffee,” said Di.
“Get the black specs,” said Sheila, watching him as the bus moved off.
“Four eyes,” said Di and giggled. Marilyn folded her arms over her body and slumped down. They didn’t seem to realise. Laughing at someone else for wearing glasses was as good as laughing at her. Not that she’d say anything. They should know. She hated them all.
Di waved out of the window at the boy, and sheand Liz fell about giggling.
Marilyn looked out of the window. She recognised the boy. Tony. He’d asked her out, two weeks ago. She didn’t know what to say. She mumbled something about having loads of homework. He’d gone.
Nobody had asked her out before.
She rewrote that scene so many times in her head that she hardly remembered what had really happened. She didn’t care that Tony wore glasses. She liked it. She didn’t care what he looked like.
Tony hadn’t looked at her since. Or maybe she hadn’t looked at him. But she’d wanted to.
She took off her glasses and stuffed them in her pocket. She looked down at her inky hands. She wanted to escape. Not long now before her stop, and Sheila’s. She hoped nobody would notice her, and they were busy yakking for a while. She wanted – she wanted so much – to be anywhere but here. Anywhere, any time, anyone but herself, here, now, on this bus, in this life, waiting for Liz and Di to say something mean.
She did not have to wait long.
“Who do you fancy then, Marilyn?” Liz and Di’s attention was on her.
“Nobody.” Marilyn turned towards the aisle, her shoulders hunched over.
“Bet you can’t see far enough to tell, eh? And who’d be interested anyway, fatty? How about that Tony? He’d be your type. Careful kissing him with your glasses on, you might get tangled up.” They all fell about laughing. Marilyn wanted to say something, she wanted to yell at them all, but the words wouldn’t come out. They never did.
Then Marilyn was up and running down the stairs, her eyes burning. She could hear Sheila coming after her, calling her name.
The bus lurched to a stop. Marilyn fell down the last few steps. The last thing she knew she was sprawled out across the floor, her school bag landing painfully on top of her.
I’m lying on my stomach. On the floor of a bus. Like I’ve been dropped from a great height. That’s weird enough. It’s not as if I ride buses. So boring. All the waiting. I’d rather walk.
I can feel the engine throbbing through me. The floor’s covered in cigarette ends. My cheek is down on one of them. It’s sticking to my skin. I lift up my head. To get away from the stink.
I can see legs. Loads of them. Can’t see anything very clearly though. It’s like looking through a fog.
I don’t know what’s happening. But I don’t like it. I’ve never been here before. Last thing I knew, Kyle was driving his brother’s car into town with me in the passenger seat. Time to play with. Shopping to do. Now where am I? Who are these people? They banned smoking on buses when I was twelve. How come this one’s different?
Mum’s always saying I need to see a therapist again. She sees one. I think I was born to find out stuff. See stuff other people don’t see. Understand stuff. Maybe I should be a therapist myself.
The others, they get on with it. Go to college. Dream of four kids and a house and a great job. And all that. I think there’s something more important. The planet, for a start. Then this happens. Makes you think about what’s real. What matters. Not that I could tell anyone. They’d have me sectioned.
All this. Flashing through my head. Then an old woman’s voice:
“Stay there a minute love, get your breath back. You’ve had a nasty fall. That driver, he should never have taken the bend so fast, what with people coming downstairs. I shall tell the corporation, I shall.”
Another voice. “All right me duck, there was this dog in the road – puppy it was. You didn’t want the driver to run it over, did you?”
I want to tell them both to back off. Leave me alone. I decide not to say anything before I have some kind of clue what’s going on. Kyle says I’m unfreakable. But this is totally freaking me out. And where is Kyle? Where’s my best mate?
A girl’s face bends down towards mine. Her hand pulls at my shoulder. I’m not moving. I feel sick. Can’t be pregnant. Can’t be. I try to count the days.
“Marilyn, you’re a clumsy clot. What were you doing running down the stairs so quick? They were only joking. Let’s get you off this bloody bus.”
Marilyn? Who’s Marilyn? Who’s this girl? Seriously scared now. Don’t move. Wait till everything stops spinning. Deep breaths. That way I might get to find out what’s going on.
Another woman’s voice: “There’s no need for that kind of language, young lady. And you from the grammar school. I’ll have words with your mother, I will.”
What language? What grammar school? What young lady? I want to say hang on. I must have concussion. Things don’t seem normal. Right now I’m concentrating on not throwing up. If I open my mouth I know I will. I can’t stand throwing up. Especially among strangers. And these people are very strange.
The girl hisses at me: “Marilyn, look at yourself, everyone can see your stocking tops – pull your skirt down, where’s your glasses?”
A pair of pale blue plastic glasses. Thick lenses. Pointed corners. Lying close to my face. The hand sweeps them up. Pulls at my shoulder again. This time I get up. Pull down the skirt. Hang onto the bus seat next to me. My body doesn’t feel right. I feel my mobile under my shirt. The girl hands me the glasses. I put them on. Everything looks clear now. Even more weird. Since when did I need glasses? Except the sunglasses. Fashion essentials don’t count.
Then the girl picks up a heavy bag. Spilling out papers and books. She groans.
“What have you got in here? You are such a brain-box.”
I don’t know the bag. Or what’s in it. I don’t know this girl. Never seen her before. Wearing some kind of uniform. Dark blue skirt, guy’s white shirt. Tie. What’s that about? Posh school or something? Can’t be anyone I know.
I look down at myself. Above the weird stockings and lace-ups I’m wearing a dark blue skirt. Above that a guy’s white shirt that’s gone grey, and a tie.
Am I going mental?
Get me out of here.
Now.
Marilyn came round. She was sitting down, her head bent forward. She turned her head to the right. Her neck hurt, and her shoulder. She saw a blur of black as she opened her eyes, then a
very white hand reached towards her.
“Holly, you okay? I didn’t mean to brake so hard. That dog was right in the middle of the road.”
Marilyn’s eyes began to focus.
“You’ll be fine, no blood. You might have concussion, careful when you move.”
Marilyn struggled to sit up. Whoever this person was, she wished they’d shut up. Her head was aching.
The car started slowly, turned left and the driver parked.
She turned to take a better look. The hands on the steering wheel were long with thin fingers. The bitten fingernails were varnished in deep purple. The hair was black, back-combed, with a black alice band, all different lengths. It was a mess. She kept looking. Something didn’t make sense. This wasn’t like any girl she’d ever seen.
Marilyn lifted her head. “Who are you?”
“What do you mean? You know who I am. Holly, you okay?”
Was it her who was Holly or the driver? No, she wasn’t Holly, she was Marilyn, but the world had changed.
The driver’s shoulders were broad. Marilyn kept trying to focus but everything was blurred.
“What’s up, is my mascara running?”
It was a boy’s laugh. This couldn’t be a boy.
Marilyn sank back against the seat and shut her eyes. Perhaps she was asleep, dreaming all this. It couldn’t be happening. But her head still hurt, and it didn’t feel like a dream.
There was a hard knock on the window.
“Come on out of there, you two. Police.”
I get off the bus at the top of a hill. Follow this girl who seems to know who I am. Whoever she thinks I am is definitely not me. Someone has stolen my identity. Or is this some kind of virtual reality?
The road looks like my road. But different. My house is there. But there’s no parking space in the front. There’s some kind of fence. With a gate and plants. Not that we’ve been there long enough to notice. Only since Mum and Dad split up. But I know her car goes where those plants are.
I steady myself on the bus stop. Seriously weird. Wonder if I’ve been reincarnated or something. Think you have to die first though. Don’t remember doing that.
Vintage Page 1