by Jean Ure
I took her through it, step by step. “We get the butter – right? Then we drop it out the window – splat! It lands on the balcony. Their balcony. Yeah? So we have to get it back, right? So—”
Tash said, “Hang about, hang about! What are we chucking butter out the window for?”
Patiently – though to be honest I thought she was being a bit slow on the uptake –I explained. “The butter has fallen out of the window. Yeah? Accidentally. By mistake. The butter – has fallen—”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” said Tash. “I got that bit. What I don’t understand is what the butter is doing falling out of the window?”
“The butter,” I said, “is on the window ledge.”
“Doing what?”
I said, “I don’t know! Does it matter?”
Tash said yes, it did. She said she had never heard of butter being on a window ledge. “Sounds a bit phoney, if you ask me.”
I was getting just a tidge irritated by now, but to keep her happy I went and looked in the freezer, and found a tub of ice cream, and she said that that would do OK. She seemed to think that ice cream on a window ledge was a bit more believable than butter – “We’re melting it, yeah? For supper.” So I agreed that we could drop ice cream if that was what she preferred, it really didn’t matter what we dropped so long as we dropped something – and so long as it landed on the balcony. I still say it was basically a good idea. Simple, like all good ideas. Practically fool proof. What could go wrong?
I let Tash do the dropping, being as she is a bit of a sports nut and more likely to hit the target. The tub of ice cream landed with a satisfying thonk! right in the middle of the balcony. We waited a couple of minutes, then went tearing downstairs – according to plan – to knock at the door. I should say that I did actually volunteer to go by myself, but Tash wouldn’t have it. She said, “No, we’re in this together.” I guess she was scared of me getting to talk to Gus before she did. I personally thought it looked a bit sinister, the pair of us beaming away on the doorstep, but as it happened it really didn’t matter. Nobody was there!
So much for foolproof.
“Now what do we do?” moaned Tash.
I said that we would try again later. “Someone’s bound to be there soon!”
But they weren’t. Not at five thirty, or six thirty, or seven thirty. Tash said it had been a totally rubbish idea from the start and I’d just better not complain about lack of pudding tomorrow night. She seemed to imply that it was my fault the ice cream was lying outside on the balcony, melting.
A few minutes ago (it is now half-past eight) Ali came in. She was carrying the ice-cream tub … empty. Tash yelled, “Where did you get that from?”
Ali said, “Gus gave it to me. Is it ours?”
I rushed across to peer out of the window. Sure enough, the tub had gone. In its place was a puddle of strawberry-coloured slush. Tomorrow night’s pudding!
“Did he invite you in?” said Tash.
Ali seemed surprised. She said no, she had been on her way upstairs when Gus had appeared on the landing, holding the empty tub. “He didn’t know whether it was something that belonged to us or whether it had fallen out of an aeroplane.” She then said that he had been going to come up here and ask us. In other words, if it hadn’t been for Ali arriving at just the wrong moment, my plan would have worked! I knew it was foolproof. Well, almost. We would at least have got to speak to him. We could have invited him to come in. Trust Ali!
I have told Tash, however, that all is not lost as we can still go downstairs tomorrow night, as planned.
“We can go and apologise!” I said.
Fretfully, Tash said, “But he won’t ask us in.”
I said, “He might.”
“Why should he?” wailed Tash. “There won’t be any reason! Not unless you’re planning on dropping more ice cream.”
I was about to say that we don’t have any more to drop, but decided against it. Tash is being quite negative enough already. Somewhat huffily I said, “Next time you can think of something.” I don’t see why it should always be me.
Wednesday
Day two of concerted effort. Went downstairs to apologise. As planned. By me. So frustrating! Door opened by Mr O’Shaugnessy. He is quite a nice man, but obviously has no imagination whatsoever, cos when we started on our double act – which as I have said before is just something that happens, it’s not like we do it on purpose – he simply draped there, blocking the doorway, ruining any chance we might have had of seeing Gus. Or of him seeing us, for that matter.
Tash explained that we had come to apologise. “For last night.”
“For the butter.”
“For the ice cream.”
“The ice cream! On the balcony.”
“The balcony!”
“It dropped there –”
“Off the window ledge!”
“It was so kind of Gus to give it back.”
“We just wanted to say thank you –”
“To say sorry.”
“To say thank you and sorry. For all the mess –”
“The mess –”
“Such a terrible mess!”
“We do so hope it didn’t ruin his clothes!”
Well! You would have thought by now he would have been starting to get the message. But no! He just went on standing there. He did open the door a bit wider, but he didn’t invite us in. He said, “Ah … the ice cream! We wondered how it had got there.”
Earnestly, I explained that we had been melting it. “For supper.” Tash, on a note of true inspiration, then suggested that perhaps we could go in and scrub the balcony. I cried, “Yes! Scrub the balcony.”
I mean, really, we couldn’t have made ourselves much plainer. But Mr O’Shaugnessy seems a very vague sort of man. He was wearing his woolly cardigan again, and these horrible crumpled old chinos. He needs a woman in his life! I was just about to say that we really did yearn to go and scrub his balcony, like we were really desperate to scrub his balcony, when suddenly we caught sight of Gus in the background. Immediately we both shrieked, “Hi, Gus!” and danced up and down and waved madly through the gap in the door. Gus turned, and said, “Oh, hi there,” and waved back – and promptly disappeared.
His dad said that it was good of us to call, and he was glad that the mystery was solved. He said, “Mind you don’t go wasting any more ice cream!” and to my horror I saw the door start to close.
Tash cried, “But the balcony!” It came out in a kind of pathetic bleat.
Gus’s dad said not to worry about the balcony; the balcony was fine.
“It rained in the night, if you remember.”
He then told us to be sure and come down if there was ever anything we needed, and that was that. End of effort no. 2. And we went to so much trouble making ourselves presentable! I even washed my hair. Tash even put on make-up, which I personally think is a mistake as she is quite attractive enough without it, but she says she needs it to boost her confidence, so who am I to argue?
We are now feeling THWARTED. But we do not intend to give up! True love, as Tash says, will always find a way. Not that either of us is actually suffering the pangs of love – as yet. But speaking for myself I do feel that it may only be a matter of time …
Thursday
Day three of concerted effort. Avril Mackie told us this morning that the week after we come back from half term it’s her birthday, and on the Saturday she is going to have a big birthday bash at a pizza restaurant and would we like to come?
“And bring the yummy boy!”
Everyone is now referring to Gus as “the yummy boy”. Needless to say, we have assured Avril that we would love to go to her party and that of course we will bring the yummy boy.
“If we can get him to come,” said Tash, as we made our way home after school. “If we can ever get to talk to him.” I suggested that maybe we should put a note under his door, and so this is what we have done. We typed it on the computer, all sweetly decora
ted with little pretty party icons, balloons and streamers and those things that you blow and they shoot out. Oh, and we have put RSVP at the bottom and the numbers of both our mobiles. As Tash says, “It will be pure chance which of us he rings.”
I said, “That’s right. If he rings my number it doesn’t necessarily mean he prefers me to you.” Tash said it hardly could, since he wouldn’t know which number was which.
Anyway, we have sneaked downstairs and pushed it under the door and are expecting him to ring at any moment.
I wonder where Ali is? She’s always coming and going and doing her own thing. I do wish she would keep us informed!
Friday
We are not going to make any more concerted effort. We have sadly come to the conclusion that we are fighting a losing battle. Gus didn’t ring either of our numbers. Instead, he pushed a reply under our door. We think he must have done it after we had gone to bed, or early in the morning before we got up, as it was there waiting for us when we woke. It is quite a nice note. It is very friendly and polite. But it’s still what Tash calls “a brush off”. Well! This is what it says.
We must have read it about a million times. At intervals during the day, we have been going up to each other and saying, “Can I have another look?” Like first it would be Tash that was carrying it around, and then it would be me. It is true to say we know it off by heart.
We have had a long discussion about it. Tash pointed out that he didn’t have to say “Gus O’Shaugnessy”.
“Just Gus would have done.”
We wondered if there was any significance attached to this. I suggested he was just trying to be polite, while Tash maintains that it is part of the brush off. I said, “But why should he want to brush us off?” It’s not like we are diabolically ugly or have bad breath or anything.
We thought about this for a moment, then very solemnly Tash said, “It’s obvious … he’s gay.”
Of course! As soon as she said it, I knew that she was right. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“I could understand him not going for me,” said Tash, “but if he doesn’t even go for you—”
“If he doesn’t even go for you,” I said. “You are heaps prettier than I am!”
“But you’re so lovely and slim!”
“But you have this dear little round face.”
“But you’re blonde! And I’m so stunted.”
“Neither of us have boobs,” I said. “You don’t think that’s what’s put him off?”
Tash said no, he didn’t strike her as being the sort of boy that was fixated on boobs. She said, “You can always tell.” I don’t know how you can always tell, but I am prepared to take her word for it. Plus she reminded me that he didn’t show any interest in anyone else that came to the party.
“Not even Meg, and she’s already a B cup!”
The conclusion seems inescapable; he is simply not interested in girls. We are very cool about it, of course, though it does seem rather a waste – from our point of view. I have to say, however, that we both feel a great deal better now that we have solved the mystery!
Week 4, Saturday
Me and Tash went and mooched round the shops, trying to find something to wear for Avril’s birthday bash, but we were both in the sort of mood where nothing ever looks quite right so that you just can’t make up your mind and in the end you don’t buy anything at all and go back home feeling like it has all been a total waste of time.
We did get a few bits and pieces, like Tash got a glittery bangle and I got some rainbow nail varnish, but we are still stuck with the same tired old clothes that we have had for ever. We need something new!!! I once read somewhere that if you want to stay fresh and sparkly you have to “re-invent” yourself every now and again, and I am sure this is right. Otherwise, I mean, you just grow stale. I once said this to Mum. I said, “I’ve worn everything in my wardrobe at least three times!” I meant for birthdays and stuff, not just ordinary every day. I actually went to some trouble to explain to Mum that if I didn’t keep “reinventing”, I would end up sitting in the corner like a faded pot plant with people just walking by and chucking all their rubbish on me, not even noticing. To which Mum said, “Utter nonsense!” She said, “There is such a thing as personality, you know.”
There may well be, but personality has to be watered occasionally, just like pot plants. I feel at the moment that I am all dried up. Tash says that she is all dried up, too. We think it’s probably the after-effect of receiving the brush off. Like some kind of delayed shock. We have never received the brush off before! Tash said, “Of course, it’s not his fault. People can’t help how they’re made.”
I said, “No, we could be real groovy chicks and he still wouldn’t go for us.” We then instantly lapsed into gloom and self-doubt, thinking how we still had nothing decent to wear to Avril’s bash.
“And there are bound to be boys there!” wailed Tash.
We’ve decided that we will go shopping again, maybe at half term, when we are feeling more positive. And this time we’ll shop till we drop! Or at any rate until we’ve found something worth wearing. We are now feeling a bit more cheerful. After all, as Tash says, Gus is not the only pebble on the beach. If only he weren’t so utterly gorgeous!
Sunday
I am beginning to understand why it is that Mum always groans when she has to do the shopping. I used to think she was mad. Shopping is fun! But buying toilet rolls and washing-up liquid in Tesco is not exactly what I would call a stimulating experience. The first few times it was, like, really novel, and we had this sort of prideful glow, congratulating ourselves on being so responsible. Mum would be proud of us! Today it was just a drag.
It is Ali’s turn on food duty and we watched with mounting gloom as she lobbed tins of baked beans and spaghetti hoops into the trolley. She obviously sensed our growing hostility.
“What?” she said. “What is it?”
“Tinned wind,” said Tash, pointing at the beans.
Ali said well, all right, if we didn’t like beans, choose something else.
“I want proper food!” roared Tash.
I said yes, me, too. We made a stand, right there in Tesco’s.
“Proper food, proper food! We – want – proper – food!”
I suppose it was a bit show-offy of us, but at least we shamed Ali into putting the tins back on the shelf. She said, “OK, I’ll do cheese and eggs and stuff, but if you want real cooking we’ll have to do it together cos I don’t cook!”
Like I’ve said before, she can be really stubborn. A guy that was walking past heard her say about not cooking. He wagged a finger at her, all mock reproving, and said, “That’s no way to keep a man happy!” We thought that was extremely sexist. Poor Ali went bright red; it made us feel quite sorry for her. I mean, really, it was just so humiliating. And like anyone would want to keep a man happy that way! Dressing nicely and making the most of yourself is different; that gives you good feelings and boosts your confidence. But why should it always be the woman that is expected to do the cooking? Mum does, I am sorry to say; she’s not at all the ideal role model. But I’m with Ali on this one, I think people should take turns. Tash agrees. She said rather pointedly to Ali, “Take turns? Right? Me and Emily have cooked!”
Ali by now was looking decidedly crushed, so I at once said that we would join in and help her as quite honestly I’m not sure she even knows how to boil an egg. As a result of all this, we are going to do a pie! A real proper pie, with real proper pastry. We’re not doing it today, as we always go down to Auntie Jay’s at the weekend, but tomorrow evening we intend to have a big cook-in. We’re quite looking forward to it! Tash says it will be a three star entry in her food diary.
Monday
Huh! So much for a three star entry. The pie was a DISASTER! Well, actually, to be fair, it was the pastry that was a disaster. We can’t blame Ali cos it was me and Tash that were responsible for it. We said that we would do the pastry if Ali took care of a
ll the rest. Not that she had to do very much, just dump stuff in a pie dish. We were the real chefs!
I still don’t actually know what went wrong. We looked up pastry in a cook book we borrowed from Auntie Jay, and we followed it exactly. I do have this sneaking feeling that maybe it shouldn’t be bashed about quite as much as we bashed it. Well, Tash more than me. She went at it like it was a punch ball – biff, boff, bam! She said she was “softening it”. I then rolled it out most carefully with a bottle (cos we don’t have a rolling pin) and was about to cut it into a suitable pie shape when Tash went and snatched it away from me and before I could stop her she had gone and scrunched it all up again and was wringing it out as if it were a wet tea towel. She said that it was “what you have to do”.
I didn’t argue with her, cos what do I know? I am not ashamed to admit that I know absolutely nothing. I can’t help feeling it would be a rather nice gesture if Tash were now prepared to admit that she also knows absolutely nothing, but she obstinately insists that punching and pummelling is what you have to do. She says the only mistake we made was having two of us involved. “Too many cooks”, etc. What she is obviously hinting at is that I must have rolled it out wrong. Well, whatever! If she wants to blame me, let her blame me. What do I care? As I said to her, “If it makes you feel happier.”
Ali has been really good about it. She hasn’t crowed, or said I told you so, which she easily could have done. She has always maintained that cooking simply isn’t worth the effort. She would be quite happy just munching cheese sandwiches every night and gazing at pictures of exploding stars on the computer.
One thing we have decided: we are not going to attempt any more cooking!
Tuesday
It occurred to me this evening that being independent does have its drawbacks. There is just so much boring drudgery. Even though we have stopped cooking, for instance, there is still a huge great mound of washing-up in the sink. Where does it all come from???