by Susan Lewis
Mrs Jewell, our home help, very kindly peeled some potatoes for me before she left this afternoon, so after sealing up a parcel and letters to Susan, I put the spuds on to boil then see about opening a tin of Daisy peas. Once they’re in a saucepan I take out my notebook and pen to start making a list of everything I need to remember for the weekend. Now our Susan’s not coming home (lying and stealing! I can hardly believe it. Well, let’s see what she has to say for herself when I see her at church). Anyway, with her not being here for the afternoon I should have more time on my hands. The lawns need mowing, front and back, the beds badly need weeding and I can’t remember the last time I swept the path. The council are supposed to be coming round after Easter to paint the gates and front doors – we’re yellow our side of the street, opposite they’re blue – so I make a note to give them a quick wash the week before. I ought to make a shopping list for when I go up Fine Fare on Saturday too.
That done, I note down all the things our Susan’s asked for: embroidery threads, a new leotard, white gym socks, envelopes, some new playing jacks … I mustn’t forget that Gary’s got a pony-riding lesson at nine on Saturday morning, and I promised Beattie I’d take her up Kingswood on Saturday afternoon so she can buy a candlewick bedspread for her nephew’s wedding present.
When I popped into our dad’s the other night I had the surprise of my life. The front room was crowded with a dozen or more chickens. What a row, and what a stink! Feathers and fallout everywhere. It turns out he’d won them at cards and the bloke (who was probably dying to get rid of them) had delivered them himself that morning. I’d better make some time to go over and rig up some sort of coop in the back garden, because they can’t go on sharing the house with a brood of flipping hens. He tried to make me take the cockerel off his hands, but I was having none of it.
‘Think of all the free eggs,’ he told me.
‘Cockerels don’t lay eggs,’ I reminded him.
‘They make a nice Sunday roast though, and Beat and I’ll be glad to give you some of our eggs. Bloody good win that, if you ask me.’
There was no point arguing, so I left the new aerial I’d picked up from Rediffusion on my way home and hurried out again before he could shove a squawking bird under my arm.
Noticing the potatoes starting to boil, I lower the gas and go to pop my head round the dining-room door to check on Gary. There’s paint all over his face, up his arms and in his hair, and a couple of finished paintings are drying on the guard in front of the fire.
‘Blimey!’ I exclaim, leaping forward just as one of them starts to ignite. ‘You silly boy. You can’t put paper by the fire like that, you could have burnt the house down.’
He looks at me, then at his paintings which I’ve screwed up in my hands like a pile of rubbish. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he cries angrily. ‘They were for Gran and Auntie Nance, and this one’s for Auntie Kath.’
‘Her name’s Mrs Jewell,’ I remind him. ‘She’s not related to us so she can’t be an auntie.’
‘She tells us to call her that, and I want to.’
‘Clear up that mess,’ I say. ‘You’ve got paint everywhere. Look, it’s even on the wallpaper.’
He turns round to have a look at the jagged swathes of blue that are randomly joining a clutch of yellow sunflowers together. ‘I didn’t do that,’ he protests.
‘Then who else did? You’re the only one in here, now go and scrub your hands and face. Use some Vim if you have to, and think yourself lucky you’re not getting a smack for making all this mess.’
‘Don’t pick on me,’ he shouts, his eyes filling with tears as he takes himself off to the kitchen. ‘I hate you. You’re always mean and making me do things I don’t want to.’
‘Stop being cheeky, or you’ll go up to bed.’
‘I haven’t had any tea yet, and I don’t want stupid peas. I hate them.’
‘You’ll eat what you’re given and say thank you to Jesus that you’re not one of the starving children in Africa.’
‘I wish I was. I expect their dads are a lot nicer to them than you are to me.’
I join him in the kitchen. Reaching for the scrubbing brush, I turn on the tap and plonk him on the chair so he can reach. ‘I don’t want to see a speck of paint left on those hands,’ I tell him.
Taking the brush, he leans over to jam it into a bar of soap. The chair tips, he goes down and the thump of his head against the edge of the sink turns my blood cold.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ I cry as he starts to scream.
Blood comes pumping out of a gash over his eye. Seeing it, he screams even louder. I feel like screaming myself, but grabbing a tea towel I shove it under the cold water and press it to the cut.
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ he yells, trying to push me away.
‘I’m trying to stop the bleeding.’ I hold the tea towel in place, praying this isn’t worse than it looks, but when I take a peek I can see that it is.
‘I think you’re going to need stitches,’ I tell him and scooping him up, I press a kiss to his cheek.
‘Am I going to die?’ he sobs as I carry him quickly down the hall.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It hurts, Dad.’
‘I know, my love, but it’ll be all right,’ and grabbing our coats off the end of the banister I dash down the path to the car. After plonking him in the passenger seat I get in next to him and start the engine.
Two minutes after driving out of the street we’re back, and I’m running into the house to turn the gas off under the potatoes.
Back to the car, and I’m just reversing up the road when I think about the fire and what did I do with his paintings?
Back to the house. The fire’s dying down, but the paintings are still too close, so I scoop them up, chuck them on the table, knock over his water jar and his paintbox goes crashing to the floor.
By the time I get him up Cossham Hospital the bleeding’s more or less stopped, but the doctor says we did the right thing to come, because he needs a couple of stitches. As they’re applied I stand watching him being brave, with my conscience weighing me down like a lead barrel to think of how much I’m to blame.
To try and make it up to him I take him to the Clock Tower on the way home to get some fish and chips – or in his case a Clark’s pie and chips. The thick white pad plastered over his eye immediately makes him the centre of attention, much to his delight, and by the time we leave, with an extra portion of chips in a funnel of greaseproof for him to eat in the car, and our cod and pie keeping warm in a thick wad of newspaper, he’s as thrilled with his injury as I am bitterly ashamed.
To be honest, I’m starting to feel that as time goes on my ability to cope is diminishing instead of building, and the longing I have to see Eddress, framed in the kitchen window when I turn into the street at night, is growing instead of fading. I shall have to do better than this or there’s no knowing where we’ll end up. Our Susan stealing, telling lies about teachers … I’m beginning to wonder if it was a mistake expecting the authorities at Red Maids to take charge of her so I wouldn’t have to worry as she starts to grow up. They discipline her when she misbehaves, all right, and as far as I can tell they’re teaching her well, but I’m more worried about her now than I ever was before. I keep trying to think of someone to talk to about it, someone who’d be able to give me good advice. Our Nance and Doreen do their best, so does her gran, but they don’t have much of an idea about places like Red Maids, and more often than not all they manage to say is, She’s her mother through and through,’ as if that in some way excuses her rebellious behaviour.
I don’t think it’s a compliment Eddress would like very much. In fact, I know it isn’t, because the very reason Eddress wanted Susan to go to that school was to try and smooth out the rough edges of her roots.
Chapter Nine
Susan
I’M UP THE fair (actually we call it the shows) on Rodway Common. I’m with my cousin Doreen and her friend Stella
who are both nineteen and you should see their skirts! They’re nearly up to their bums. I’m dying to wear mine like that, but Dad’s still refusing to buy me any minis, because, he says, they’re not decent for girls my age, which is so bloody old-fashioned I could scream at him to get with it! You only have to look around to see that everyone’s skirts are really short now, and mine is only just above my knee. I feel so soft I don’t know where to look, so I’m keeping my head down in the hope that no one recognises me.
It’s the Easter holidays so I’m at home for a couple of weeks, at last! It seems ages since I last managed to get out of that prison, thanks to the exeats I’ve had to miss, and I’m definitely not going back next term. I don’t care what Dad says. He can’t make me, so I won’t.
‘Cheer up, my old love,’ Doreen says, as we go round the slot machines feeding in our pennies, ‘it won’t be long before you’re old enough to go out to work and earn your own money, so you’ll be able to buy what you want.’
I can hardly wait for that day. I’ve already decided that I’m going to leave school the minute I can. I couldn’t care less about sixth form or college or stupid university. I’m going to live my own life where I’m the only one in charge.
‘How about a ride on the ghost train?’ Doreen suggests.
I lost all my money on the one-arm bandit about half an hour ago, so I can’t afford any rides now.
‘Oh blimey!’ Stella suddenly squeals as a noisy avalanche of pennies starts pumping out of the machine in front of her.
Everyone stops to watch, and we’re all laughing and shrieking as we gather up Stella’s winnings. There are so many coins we can’t fit them all into our hands.
‘Here,’ someone says, and he passes us a couple of plastic bags.
It turns out to be the chap who works on the chairoplanes, and the way he’s ogling our Doreen I reckon he wants to eat her, or shag her. (Everyone’s saying that now, so I do too, but only to myself, because I think it’s quite rude.) I wish he wanted to shag me, because he’s the best-looking bloke I’ve seen since we got here. He looks just like a gypsy, which I suppose is only to be expected, when he works up the shows. His hair’s all long, curly and black, and his eyes are bright blue. I wonder which caravan is his, and if he’s got saucy pictures hanging on the walls the way our Robert has.
He winks at me and says to our Doreen, ‘Fancy a ride, darling?’
Our Doreen goes red to the roots of her hair. ‘We’ve already been on the chairoplanes thanks,’ she says, as Stella gives her a nudge.
‘Who’s talking about the chairoplanes?’ he grins.
‘Oh, listen to him,’ our Doreen giggles behind her hand.
He gives me another wink and I wish I had the courage to accept his offer, because I wouldn’t mind a ride with him.
‘He fancies you,’ Stella whispers to Doreen.
‘Get lost, it’s you he’s after,’ Doreen tells her. Then grabbing hold of me she says, ‘Come on. We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘Who said anything about talking?’ he calls after us.
Doreen and Stella laugh, and Stella shouts out, ‘You’re a cheeky monkey.’
‘Come here and say that,’ he challenges.
They don’t turn back, but I glance over my shoulder in the hope he might give me another wink. He’s already walking away.
We can’t count the winnings where we are, so we carry them out on to the common and hide next to a tump, where we empty them into the lap of my revoltingly long skirt. At least it’s good for something.
‘Bloody hell, nineteen bob,’ Stella murmurs when we’ve totalled our piles of pennies and added them together. ‘I can nearly afford that coat in C&A now.’
‘Aren’t you going to share it around a bit?’ Doreen objects.
‘Yeah, course,’ Stella agrees. Why don’t I treat us all to a ride on something?’
I’m hoping they’ll choose the chairoplanes, but it turns out they’re more interested in a bloke on the bumpers, so off we trudge. Because only two can fit in a car, I stand on the side to watch as they whizz and crash around, and keep peering over my shoulder to see if the gypsy on the chairoplanes is watching me. He’s flirting with someone else now, and when he locks her in the chair he runs a hand up her thigh and she doesn’t do anything to stop him.
I wish he’d do that to me. I think I’d die if he did.
Loads of girls are walking about with boys’ arms round their shoulders or waists, and it’s making me really wish I had a boyfriend too. He’d be someone who makes me feel really special and that no one else in the world matters more than me. We could have horrible rows and threaten to break up, but in the end he’d only ever pretend to leave, and would always come back because he loves me so much.
I saw a girl wearing a paper skirt just now, and then I spotted Linda Watkins who lives at the top of our street with a dress so short that I couldn’t understand how her suspenders didn’t show. I kept looking and looking, but even when she leaned forward to try and toss a ping-pong ball into a goldfish bowl there was still no sign of them.
I’ve seen loads of people snogging, and running off into the bushes behind the shows. Some women are giving them dirty looks, but they’re old and boring and if they don’t like what young people do they shouldn’t come here, should they?
‘Hello. Are you on your own?’ someone asks me.
I turn round to find Mandy Hughes who lives in the next road to us standing on the steps of the dodgems next to me. She’s about two years older than I am and isn’t someone I’m supposed to talk to because her family’s a bit rough, and one of her brothers is in prison. I think her dad’s been inside too, but I’m not sure. Actually, I’ve always been quite fascinated by the Hughes, because they seem to have a lot of fun in their house with music blaring out of the windows half the time and motorbikes revving up outside. Gary plays football with one of the younger boys, up on the green, and Dad always talks to the one who’s a mongol. He even invites him into our house if he spots him wandering about in the street on his own, and gives him a marshmallow or a glass of squash before taking him home again.
Mandy’s really pretty, even though her hair’s got a lot of split ends and some of her make-up’s smudged. She reminds me a bit of Lulu. I’m not wearing any make-up tonight, because Dad wouldn’t let me go out with it on, so it was either take it off or stay at home. We had a big row about it, and he won in the end, but only because Doreen and Stella were waiting to go.
‘My cousin’s on the bumpers,’ I tell her. ‘Who are you with?’
She shrugs. ‘No one, really. I came with my brother, Tommy, but he went off with some girl about an hour ago and I don’t know where he is now.’
I look at her closely, trying to work out if she’s scared about being left on her own at this time of night (it’s not eight o’clock yet, but it’s quite a long walk home and will probably be dark by the time she gets there). She might be, I decide, and that’s why she’s talking to me, so she won’t have to go across the common alone.
‘Are you still going to that posh school up Westbury-on-Trym?’ she asks.
‘Worse luck,’ I reply with a roll of my eyes. ‘I’m on holiday now though. Where do you go to school?’
She throws an arm loosely behind her. ‘Over there at Rodway Tech.’ There’s a school at the edge of the common which is where some quite clever children go. It never occurred to me before that Mandy Hughes might be clever.
‘Do you feel like a ride on the waltzers?’ she asks.
‘I don’t have any money.’
She takes out a two-bob bit. ‘It’s enough for us both to go on twice,’ she offers. ‘Or we can have one go on the waltzer and one on the big wheel.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I tell her, excitedly. ‘I’ll get some money from my dad, and bring it round to your house tomorrow.’
‘It’s OK,’ she says, as we start weaving through the crowd towards the golden chariots. I know the waltzers are j
ust behind, but I realise I probably shouldn’t have gone off without telling our Doreen, so I turn back quickly to see if she’s spotted me leaving. She’s right across the other side of the dodgems, being shunted and bashed about by a load of boys, and the bloke she fancies is riding on the back of her and Stella’s car. I can hear them screaming from here, and there’s no way they’ll hear me if I shout, so I keep on going after Mandy, afraid I might lose her and miss out on a go on the waltzers.
Mandy’s waiting at the bottom of the steps when I get there, watching all the cars whirl and whip up and down and around.
‘Have you ever been on before?’ she asks.
‘Loads of times,’ I lie. Dad warned Doreen before we left that the waltzers and the octopus were off limits for me. ‘They’ll only make her sick,’ he said, ‘so make sure she doesn’t go on them.’ I’m really glad he didn’t come with us, he’d have spoiled everything.
I hope he’s all right at home on his own, because Gary’s staying up Gran’s tonight. I don’t want him to be lonely, but knowing him, I expect he’s got his head stuck in a book. He usually has.
Mandy waits next to the balustrades, where loads of other people are waiting too. This is where all the cool and with-it people hang out when they’re at the shows, so we stand with them, clicking our fingers and dancing to ‘I Love Jennifer Eccles’ which is making me think of Sadie, because it’s one of her favourites. She’d really love it here with so many lush boys around and everyone snogging whenever they feel like it, or sneaking round behind the caravans.
‘Have you got a record player?’ Mandy shouts over the music.
I nod. ‘Have you?’
She nods. ‘I’ve got loads of records.’
‘Me too. We should do swaps.’
‘All right.’
I feel a bit awkward then, because I’m pretty sure Dad won’t let me go round with her, or even invite her into the house.