Brenda opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, I’ve dashed out the door and I’m half walking, half running back home. My teeth are clenched together so tightly that my jaw hurts. I ball my hands into fists and I thump my thighs as hard as I can as I stumble along the pavement. I hate myself. I hate myself so much.
Idiot
Idiot
Idiot
I don’t want to be boring and dull and left behind. I don’t want to be stuck in a bloody chip shop. I don’t want to end up like Mum and Dad or Norma and Raymond. I don’t want to be stuck in the past like all the bloody people around here, who still talk about the war and let their kids play on the bombsites. I don’t want to care about what Jackie does, or who she does it with. I want to be doing it all with her. I want the boy from last night to come back in the shop and lean across the counter towards me again, so I can taste the beer on his breath as he kisses me. I want him to grab me by the hand and pull me out of the shop. I want to climb on the back of his motorcycle and wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek on the soft leather of his back, and I want him to speed me away, faster and faster until all I can feel is the wind in my hair and the rush of promises.
I’m back outside the shop now. I stop and uncurl my fists. I peer through the window at the Sunday emptiness inside and the ghost of myself standing behind the counter. I rest my forehead against the glass and think about Mum and Dad. Perhaps they’ve only just realised that they married the wrong person? Or perhaps they just don’t love each other any more? You can’t love the same person for ever, surely? Unless that person’s dead of course. Like Joseph. Perfect bloody Joseph.
Perhaps it’s all to do with money. Perhaps the letter Mum tried to hide was a massive bill they can’t afford to pay? Perhaps they’re going to have to get rid of the shop? I let my breath slowly cloud the glass. Could that be it? I can’t imagine what would happen if we lost the shop. It’s all Dad’s ever done. He is Frank the Fish. He couldn’t be Frank the Builder or Frank the Rag and Bone Man or Frank the Anything Else. That’s why Dad’s so angry and Mum’s in such a state. It all makes sense. I use my sleeve to polish my breath from the glass. If I’m right, it would be the worst thing in the world for Mum and Dad. But even though I know this, I can’t help smiling at the thought that it would be the best thing in the world for me.
I walk away from home towards Battersea Park. I shove my hands in my anorak pockets and walk quickly along the pavements. The High Street is deserted; the shops shuttered and locked. There’s a Blue Riband wrapper blowing along the road and a couple of beer bottles left discarded in the gutter. I catch sight of my reflection in the window of Woolworths. A wild-haired skinny thing in a scruffy anorak and a pair of jeans that lost sight of my ankles months ago. I turn away quickly.
I should go to Norma’s. She’d love it. She lives for visitors. Any chance to show off the latest addition to her home. Last time I went she wouldn’t shut up about her new refrigerator; it’s got a freezer drawer where she can keep packets of fish fingers. And the time before that it was all about her new washer dryer. It was the happiest day of her life when she realised she’d never have to go to a launderette again.
If I was a good sister I’d go and see her. If I was a good sister I’d sit down with her and share a pot of tea and I’d ooh and aah over all her fancy new things. I’d let her pretend to me that her life is great and that her new refrigerator and washer dryer have made her happy. But I’m fed up with pretending. It’s all a lie. Norma isn’t happy. She hates her life. All she wants is a baby. Even though she won’t admit it, I know it’s true. I can see the sadness inside her. She’s aching to be pregnant, but it’s just not happening. I kick out at a broken piece of brick that’s lying on the pavement in front of me. I watch it skitter into the road and break into even smaller pieces.
I should want to go to Norma’s. She’s my big sister. I should be able to tell her about Mum and Dad and she should be able to tell me not to worry, that everything’s going to be fine. But Norma’s not exactly good at dealing with problems. She gets her knickers in a twist if the milkman delivers her gold top instead of silver top. She’d go nuts if I told her about Mum and Dad, and then she’d probably tell me it was all my fault. Neither of us are very good at being sisters.
The sky’s grown dark. It’s getting colder. I zip up my anorak, shove my hands deeper into my pockets and walk faster. There’s a warning growl and a flash of lightning, then the sky opens and fat drops of rain pound down onto my head and shoulders and bounce off the pavements. I quickly pull my hood up. I could be at Norma’s in two minutes. She’d have a go at me for leaving wet footprints on her clean kitchen floor, but at least I’d be warm and dry. But I’m not far from the park either. I can see its canopy of trees just across the road and I know straight away where I’d rather be.
I walk under the tunnel of trees that skirt the edges of the park. It’s like having my own giant, green umbrella. The rain’s still pattering down above me, but it’s soft and muffled now. I imagine I’m lost in the Amazon rainforest. I imagine there are tribes of chattering monkeys swinging through the branches above me and poisonous snakes lurking in the undergrowth at my feet. I eat exotic fruits and chop down giant leaves to build shelters to sleep in at night. I am an expert at survival and when, months later, I am eventually found and rescued, I’m flown home on a specially chartered aeroplane and when I land in England there’s a crowd of journalists waiting to meet me and take my photograph. I’m on the front page of every newspaper. LOST HERO RETURNS. I’m even on the wireless, and the whole of Battersea tunes in to hear me tell my story. Jackie boasts to everyone that I’ve always been her best friend. Mum and Dad tell the papers that I’m the most brilliant child any parent could wish for and my boyfriend (I haven’t decided on his name yet) lifts me onto the back of his motorcycle and rides off into the distance, leaving everybody behind to stare after us in wonder.
I’m so caught up in my story that I’m dismayed to see a couple sitting on a bench up ahead. There’s no benches in the Amazon rainforest. I’m about to turn around, so I can be alone again, when the colour of the woman’s headscarf catches my attention. It’s a bright kingfisher blue. Mum’s got one just like it, that she wears for best. I don’t know why I do it, but I quickly step back into the shadow of the trees. I look at the couple again. I can’t see the man because his back’s facing me.
I stare at Mum.
Her lips are moving as she leans in to talk to the man. I can see from here that she is wearing red lipstick. Mum never wears lipstick. I watch as she lifts a hand to stroke the man’s face. She laughs. Then she takes the man’s hands in her own and holds them in her lap. I feel like I’ve been caught stealing money from Dad’s wallet. My heart’s doing the jitterbug and my hands are actually sweating.
It should be the easiest thing in the world for me to shout out, ‘Hey, Mum! What are you doing here?’
But I can’t. It would be like barging in on her while she was in the bathroom. My brain’s not working properly. It’s like someone’s stuffed my head with cotton wool. I can see that it’s Mum there, cuddling up to a man, who is definitely not Dad. I can see her as plain as can be. It’s Mum and it isn’t Mum. Not the Mum I know anyway.
Mum calls up that supper’s ready. I’ve been in my room ever since I got back from the park, with my head buried in The Country Girls. Kate and Baba have left their village and gone away to a convent school. The convent is a grey stone building that’s run by nuns. The nuns are mostly silent but very strict. Kate and Baba have to sleep in a dormitory with loads of other girls. The convent is a cold and miserable place and the food they have to eat is so disgusting that they have to sneak in cake and eat it late at night under their bed sheets. But Kate gets on with it all better than Baba. She’s cleverer than Baba for starters. She makes other friends and Baba’s bullying doesn’t bother her as much. I don’t think Kate needs Baba as much as she used to. She’s growing up and finding her own way.
I think my life’s like that convent right now; empty and miserable, with me just waiting for something to happen. Kate might not need Baba as much as she used to, but I still need Jackie. Especially now, since Mum’s lost her head. I need someone to talk to, but there isn’t anyone left.
Mum shouts up the stairs again. I tuck the book under my pillow for later, and take a deep breath. If Kate can get on with it and make the best of things, then so can I.
I watch Mum closely as she butters bread and empties a tin of fruit cocktail into three bowls. She’s been careful to wipe off the lipstick but I can still see the faint stain of it in the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t look guilty, not one bit. In fact she looks really happy. Her face is soft and relaxed and the smile crinkles around her eyes are deeper than usual.
Dad looks the same as ever; like he’s got a stick up his bum. He’s dipping his bread and butter into his tea, leaving pools of yellow grease floating on the surface. It’s his favourite thing, but because Mum thinks it’s a disgusting habit she only lets him do it on a Sunday as a special treat. He’s got the thick crust of the bread folded in half and he grunts with satisfaction every time he takes a soggy bite.
I swirl a spoon around in my bowl of fruit. Mum’s given me the cherry as usual. There’s only ever one in the tin. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s so special about it. It doesn’t even taste like a cherry. And it’s definitely not the colour of a real cherry. It’s a bright plastic red, the colour of the lipstick Mum was wearing in the park. I eat the chunks of pear and peach in my bowl, but I leave the cherry floating all on its own in a puddle of syrup. ‘You can have it,’ I say to Mum when she nods towards my bowl and raises an eyebrow.
She picks the cherry up with her fingers and pops it in her mouth. She smiles at me and then for the first time in my life I catch a glimpse of how she must have looked when she was a young girl. She’s pretty as a picture. She hums a tune to herself as she clears the dishes from the table. Dad shakes out his newspaper and leans back in his chair to read it.
I can’t believe they’re behaving so normally! As though nothing has happened. Dad must know what’s going on, surely? That’s why they were arguing yesterday. It was nothing to do with money or getting rid of the shop. He must have found out somehow that Mum’s got a bit on the side. He must have found the letter; a love letter perhaps? The one that Mum tried to hide from me yesterday. Maybe Mum promised Dad it was all over and he has no idea that she went out today to meet this man again.
I watch Dad licking his fingers as he turns the pages of his paper. What would he do if I told him what I’d seen today?
I clear my throat. ‘Dad?’ I say.
He peers over the top of his paper.
‘Dad …’ I begin again.
He lowers the newspaper onto the table. ‘Spit it out,’ he says.
But, before I can say anything, Mum sits down next to me and stirs some sugar into her tea. She smells of Lily of the Valley soap, cold cream and happiness. I watch as she lifts her cup to her mouth. She’s done her hair differently, I notice. It’s not as tightly set and stiff with lacquer like it usually is. It’s soft and shiny and she’s tucked a loose curl behind her ear. I’ve never seen her like this before. If someone asked her, this very minute, how she was, she’d reply ‘fine, thank you’ like she always does, but this time she’d be telling the truth.
Mum’s such a stickler for doing the right thing, it’s hard to believe she’d actually have an actual extra-marital affair. I remember all the fuss last year when our doctor had an affair with one of his patients, Mrs Johnson. When Mr Johnson found out, he stormed down to the surgery and punched Dr Harvey so hard in the face that he broke his nose. Dr Harvey and his family had to move away after that, because none of his patients would take their complaints to him any more. I sometimes see Mrs Johnson walking to the shops with a basket over her arm. She always looks like she’s about to cry. And she’s lost all her colour. She’s like an old pair of curtains, all washed out and faded. I feel sorry for her. It’s not her fault she married the wrong man before she fell in love with the right man. And now she has to be miserable for the rest of her life.
I glance sideways at Mum again. She’s got a faraway look in her eyes and she’s still stirring her tea like she’s forgotten what she’s doing. Everyone says it wrong for married people to have affairs, but it can’t be wrong for Mum to have some happiness for once in her life.
Dad’s staring at me. ‘Well?’ he barks. ‘Come on. What do you want? I haven’t got all day.’
I can’t give Mum away. Of course I can’t. So, instead I just ask, ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’
He frowns. ‘Give me a chance to bloody read it first,’ he snaps. He hides behind the pages again, like a grumpy old tortoise retreating into its shell. Sod you, I think. I jump up from the table.
‘I’ll do the dishes for you, Mum,’ I say.
‘Oh, bless you, Violet,’ she says. ‘I might go and put my feet up for a minute then.’
When I go into the front room later, she’s asleep in her chair. Her chin has dropped onto her chest and she’s whistling softly through her nose. Must be exhausting being in love at her age, I think. I look at her hands resting in her lap. I can’t believe they’ve touched another man’s face and held another man’s hands. It’s odd, but when I look at her now, I see two different people. There’s Mum, who’s always just been my mum, in her housecoat and slippers, with her arms in the sink or up to her elbows in flour. Mum, who still says ‘night, night, sleep tight, watch the bed bugs don’t bite’ and is always telling me to ‘speak the Queen’s English’ if I ever say ’ouse instead of house.
And then there’s this other woman, who looks just like Mum, right down to her wrinkled stockings and varicose veins, but who is a complete stranger to me. I don’t know this woman at all. I don’t know what she’s thinking or feeling or what she dreams about at night.
My eyes slide to the pocket at the front of her housecoat. If I’m really careful I could slip my hand inside and pull out the letter or whatever it is she’s hiding in there. I could find out right now what her big secret is. I hold my breath and tiptoe towards her. I stretch out my hand, but just as my fingers reach the pocket opening, Mum grunts in her sleep and shifts around. I pull my hand away and freeze. Her eyes flick open.
‘Violet?’ she mumbles. ‘What is it? Can’t I even snatch forty winks in peace?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, turning away from her. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
But it does matter. Of course it matters. I just can’t tell Mum that.
Private Detective Stuff
It’s Wednesday afternoon. The dead part of the day. Dad’s having a nap in the front room, along with the rest of the world it seems. I’ve swept the shop floor and given it a once over with the mop, ready for opening later. The whole place smells of lemons now. I stare out of the shop window. Even the street is empty and sleepy. There’s no kids out playing and everyone’s front doors are closed.
I still haven’t seen anything of Jackie. Part of me has been waiting and hoping that she’d pop in one evening. Just poke her nose round the door and say, Hi, Vi. Long time no see. Fancy doing something on Saturday? But of course, she hasn’t.
I wish we’d had a row at least. Something big and bad with loads of swearing. A huge, walloping argument, where we’d screamed at each other and said hateful things.
Bitch!
Ugly cow!
Scrubber!
At least with an argument there’s a chance to make up afterwards. There’s a chance that one of you will say sorry and the whole thing can be forgotten about.
But there’s never been anything to argue about. All there’s been is a kind of slipping and loosening. Like a pair of tightly knotted laces that came undone without me noticing and then tripped me over.
I finished reading The Country Girls last night, but it didn’t give me any answers. Kate and Baba ended up being expell
ed from the convent for writing a disgusting thing on a picture of the Blessed Mary. They moved to Dublin then, to learn how to live and drink gin. But they became like strangers to each other, just like me and Jackie.
Maybe that’s what growing up is all about? You grow too big for playing with dolls, you grow too big for your favourite dress, and maybe you just grow out of your friends too.
I carry the mop bucket back through to the kitchen. Dad’s snoring rumbles like distant thunder from the front room. I pour the dirty water down the sink and am just wondering where Mum is when she hurries into the room. ‘Just popping out,’ she says, knotting her headscarf under her chin. She’s got the kingfisher-blue one on again.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Where you going?’
‘Just nipping to the shops,’ she says quickly. ‘Won’t be long.’
I stare at the back of her coat as she walks out of the door. It’s her Sunday best one. I’ve only ever seen her wear it to funerals before. It’s usually at the back of her wardrobe covered in mothballs. She can’t seriously think that no one will notice her wearing it. And she can’t be stupid enough to have forgotten that it’s Wednesday. It’s half-day closing. There won’t be any shops open.
I count to one hundred and eighty. Then I grab my anorak and close the door carefully behind me so as not to wake Dad. I peer out onto the road, looking quickly in both directions and I just catch sight of Mum disappearing around the corner at the end of the street. I hold back for another minute before I begin to follow her. It’s tricky, keeping her in sight and staying as far back as I can, all at the same time. But it’s exhilarating too; like riding on a roller coaster. My stomach lurches into my throat every time she slows her pace and I think she’s about to turn round.
She walks right down the High Street without even pretending that she thought the shops were open. Once, when she stops to cross the road, I dart into the doorway of Chester’s the grocer’s and stare through the window at the faded packets of Bird’s Custard powder.
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