by Galaxy Craze
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. She was trying not to laugh, but her face was turning red.
“What?” My fingers and hands turned suddenly cold.
“A man in a red Porsche stopped at my dad’s pub for a beer and tried to pay for it with a Diners Club card.” She began to giggle from her stomach, her chest shaking up and down.
“So?” I didn’t see what was so funny about that. I stared at her; she looked like something you could pop right then.
“When he left, one of the men at the bar said, ‘Who does he think he is, all dressed up like that? The Ponce of Monte Carlo?’ And everyone in the pub started laughing.”
I pictured the men in the pub, dressed in tweed jackets and woollen sweaters, their hands wrapped around wide glasses of beer. They would turn their heads, slightly and slowly, staring out of the corners of their eyes. My father, letting the door fall shut behind him as he strolled in, smoothing a hand over his hair, looking around, thinking he looked great.
This is how the men at the bar would start laughing: like tiny white lights being lit one after another.
In the middle of the school yard the younger girls were skipping—the flat tapping of their shoes, the rope hitting the ground— and they were singing:
“My mother told me I never should
Play with the gypsies in the wood.
If I did, she would say,
Naughty little girl to run away.”
I watched them standing in a row. I was looking for a younger me. I thought life was like that, all the same story.
A girl hung upside down on the monkey bars, her hair falling down like water. Across the school yard, Barbara, Courtney and Polly were sitting by the gates. A few other girls stood around them, as though they were a bright light.
“Barbara invited me to her birthday party,” I said. My stomach felt full of cold water that tasted of metal.
Jolene looked at me, narrowing her eyes. “Why would she invite you?”
“Because we’re friends.” This is how things end: Something turns nut-hard in your chest.
“Right.” She clicked her tongue.
Jolene and I looked over at them. The others had gone now, and the three girls sat on the painted green bench with their heads and hands held close together as though they were untangling knots in a thin gold chain.
“Why don’t you go over there?” Jolene said.
I was waiting for the party. That’s when I thought we would become friends: late at night, in our pyjamas, sitting close together, telling each other our secrets. Then we’d sneak to the kitchen, tiptoeing past her parents’ bedroom, for a big bowl of crisps and sweets and cups of fizzy lemonade. Then we’d sneak back upstairs, holding our breath, trying to be quiet, then burst into giggles. Something would come out of me that night, at the party, the golden bird in my chest. Then I would really be me, and the three of them would become the four of us.
Jolene and I stood facing each other. I thought everyone in the schoolyard could hear us, that they would know, but when I looked around they were busy in groups and playing games. No one was watching us.
“Go on, then,” Jolene said to me.
I turned, taking slow steps towards them. I didn’t want to leave her. It is safer, even in a fight, to stay with the person you know. Where was the lunch bell? Ring, ring, I said in my head like a prayer.
A red ball rolled past my feet and two younger girls ran by holding hands, their hair soft as petals behind them. They made a strange sound, something between a laugh and a scream. It ends at some age, that sound; it just doesn’t come out of your mouth any more.
Barbara, Courtney, and Polly now stood huddled against the wall, their backs to the schoolyard.
“Hello.” I waved, but they didn’t hear me. “Hi.” I could hear my heart, the way it sounds underwater.
Courtney turned with a jump. “Oh,” she said, when she saw me. “I thought you were one of the teachers.” She held her cigarette behind her back.
“May, come here.” Barbara waved me towards them. “Stand in front of us and tell us if you see Miss Higgins coming.” I knew Jolene was watching. I hummed and skipped from side to side, so she would think I was having fun.
The bell rang, they threw their cigarettes on the ground, rubbing them out with the toes of their shoes. We walked across the school yard together, the four of us.
Later, when I passed Jolene in the hall, I said, “See.” It came out the corner of my mouth, a smirk.
…
Something fast was inside of me as I walked home. I swung my arms sharply at my side, like a soldier. Everything in my head was pieces of what I had said to Jolene and what she had said to me. We’d had fights before but this was different, the way we had both turned so quickly with the tips of our spears pointing at each other’s throats.
I thought, I have to get the photo of Jet. I was scared that Jolene would tell them I didn’t know him, but the photo would be proof.
I called Patricia’s name as I walked down the stone steps and along the passage that led to her room. I knew what people looked like when they felt like me. I’d seen them on the streets in London, hunched over and walking fast, the way you look when too many things are in your way.
Cold air fell off the walls like pieces of ice. Someone had turned the heat off. I called Patricia’s name, but there was no answer. Her door was slightly open, a slant of afternoon light fell across the floor in front of me. I looked inside. The sheets had been stripped, the mattress and pillows left out to air. The chair was empty, no clothes piled on it. The chest of drawers was empty. In some places there was still the smell of her.
I walked across the hall to Rufus’s room. The desktop was clear; his typewriter and pile of books were gone. There was only the furniture and the low humming sound of an empty room left behind. The heat had been turned off and I could nearly see my breath in the air.
…
“The minute I get back to London I’m going to sign up for those calisthenics classes.” I could hear Annabel’s voice coming from the kitchen. “They have this amazing teacher from America. She swears I can lose half a stone on the Astronaut Diet in three days, just in time for my holiday in the South of France—”
When I walked into the kitchen, Annabel put her hand over something, covering it. My father was standing by the phone, his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window.
“Hello, madame,” she said to me. Her eyes were like jewels that pointed and sparkled at each end. A rolled-up pound note lay on top of a record cover.
“Did you have a nice day at school?” my father asked. It was the first time he’d asked me about school since he’d been here.
“Yup. I hung out with my friend Barbara.” I thought everyone would know, just by her name.
“Hung out? Don’t they give you any work there?” he said.
“It’s almost Christmas holidays . . . .”
He picked up the phone and began dialling a number from a small piece of paper in his hand.
“Oh, Patricia asked me to give this to you before she left,” Annabel said, handing me an envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Jet. His hair fell around his face, half covering his eyes. He was standing in front of what looked like a kitchen sink, a guitar hanging across his bare chest. So it was true, I thought, the one true thing about her.
“Engaged.” My father put the phone down.
“Dad?” He was looking in his pockets for a cigarette. “Dad?” I wanted to ask him something, but he didn’t hear me.
“Simon!” Annabel said it quick and loud, like a spoon hitting the floor.
“What?” He looked up, surprised.
“Do you think . . . can you drive me to Barbara’s party the day after tomorrow?” I held my hands tightly together in two fists at my side.
“Yeah, sure, babes,” he said, looking at me.
The phone rang. He picked it up slowly, like he was pulling it out
of the water, holding it in the air, letting it drip.
“Hello,” he said; it sounded like ’ello. “Fred? How are you, man?” He laughed quietly, resting his hand on his hip. “Not bad, not too bad . . . . Yeah . . . . Quite nice, a bit bleak, you know what it’s like, a little village and what not . . . . Any news about the business?”
Annabel flipped through her magazine, one ear tilted up. Under the table I saw Eden’s brown buckle shoes and satchel.
“Mitch Mitchell . . . . That sounds great, man . . . . Yeah, yeah.” He paced the length of the phone cord. “All righty, mate, all right . . . . Sounds good, man, I’ll be there.”
When he put the phone down, he took a deep breath and stared out of the window.
“What was all that about Mitch Mitchell?” Annabel asked.
“He’s interested in becoming an investor. He’s having a Christmas party. We’ve been invited to—”
“Who’s Mitch Mitchell?”
“Who’s Mitch Mitchell?” Annabel said, throwing her head back as if she couldn’t believe it. “He was the drummer for Jimi Hendrix, darling.”
“If we get Mitch and Keith to invest we’ll be all set,” he said, jumping into a dance move, spinning around on one foot, tucking his arms under his elbows, and flapping them like a chicken. “It’s gonna be the funkiest place in London.”
“Where’s Eden?” I asked.
They both stopped and looked at each other, their eyebrows lifting. Annabel bent over, peeking under the table.
“May, be an angel, run off and find your brother. Quick! Off you go.” She shooed the air with the top of her hand.
I could hear her talking as I walked down the hall.
“I’m coming to the party, Simon. You have to take me. Promise, just promise me this one thing.” I imagined her standing next to him, grabbing his arm tightly, hopping up and down on her toes.
I walked slowly down the hallway, my hands tightly together. When I tried to open them, uncurling my fingers slowly, like something that blooms, there was something wet in my palms. I walked underneath a lamp, holding my hands out in front of me. It was blood. There were cuts, halfmoon-shaped, from where my fingernails had dug into the skin. That’s what you get, I thought. That’s what you get from holding on too tightly.
It was dark in my mother’s room, not a night dark but the hazy blue that comes through closed curtains. My mother was lying in bed, under the covers, asleep on her side. Eden lay across the foot of the bed in his school uniform. One of his arms stretched over his head and one of his legs bent up to his chest. As though he were stepping up, reaching for something. Climbing, reaching, even while you sleep. Even while you sleep.
Eighteen
On the way to Barbara’s party, we got caught behind a herd of cows that were being led to the farm for milking.
“I don’t believe it,” my father said, leaning his head back on the car seat, groaning. We were on Tilden Lane. Barbara’s house was a few streets away.
I held the envelope with the photo of Jet on my lap; my overnight bag was on the floor next to my feet. I was wearing my white shirt with a frilly collar, my denim miniskirt, navy lace tights, and new black patent leather buttonhook shoes. There was lipstick on my lips that I had borrowed from Annabel. “Heart-shaped lips are in,” she had told me. First she went around them with a lip pencil and then painted them a mauve colour. Now my lips felt too big, stinging.
My father switched on the radio. It was the news. The weatherman’s voice came through, steady and serious. “Cold front with high winds, sleet and snow probable.” In front of us the cows moved, side to side, with a slow sway like the back of a woman’s skirt.
“Christ, I don’t want to get snowed into this place,” my father said to me. I nodded and looked up, out of the car window, at the sky. It was a darkening blue and not too cold, mild like plain water. The trees were still. It didn’t seem like there would be bad weather.
“Come on!” my father shouted to the back of the cows. “We’ll be here all night!” Nothing changed; the cows didn’t care. A farmer walked up the road, leading them. I only saw the back of him, in knee-length Wellingtons and a brown jacket, his hand resting on the back of one of the cows, walking along slowly next to them, just like the cows. He would laugh if he saw us, sitting in the bright- red fast car, stuck, behind his herd. I was hoping my father wouldn’t beep the horn.
“So, is this girl your best mate?”
I nodded my head. When you start lying to people, you know it’s over, because you don’t care anymore; you’ll never know them well enough to let them find out the truth.
I felt him looking at me, at my lap, near my shoulders, the side of my face, my hair. I kept my face turned, looking out of the window at the cows, watching the sky get darker bit by bit. I squeezed my hands and toes together. The car seemed small, tight.
“You look nice tonight, darling. That outfit suits you,” he said.
“Thanks.” I put my hand on the window knob and rolled down the window a crack. Cool air blew in, brushing the top of my head.
“Smelly,” my father said loudly, sounding it out. “Smel-ly.” He held his nose like a child. I rolled the window back up. It was the cows and horses and mud and cool air, the smell of a farm.
“Do you have a little boyfriend there?” he asked.
“No, it’s an all-girls overnight.”
“All girls?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard me.
I nodded. He was looking at me in a strange way, as though I were upside down.
“Then what’d you get all dolled up for?”
I felt my face turn warm, my cheeks. And the lipstick on my lips felt like a badge.
“Where’s her house?” He seemed impatient, leaning his head back against the seat, turning the knob on the radio, but it was all news; it was that time of day.
“Over there.” I pointed past the cows with my finger, but I wasn’t sure. I had never been to Barbara’s house before.
A man’s voice came over the radio. It was the local police news. “Mr and Mrs Derby of Lord Lane have reported that their missing garden gnome was returned sometime late last night. They did not catch sight of the person, but nevertheless they are thankful to have him back.”
“Thank God,” my father said, letting out a loud sigh of relief. “I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” *
I laughed, making my shoulders shake, but it sounded like little scratches.
“Can’t you walk from here? We’ll be here all night if we have to wait for these slowpokes,” he said, and flung his arm out at the cows.
“Okay.” I opened the car door and stepped out onto the road.
“Have a good time, babes,” my father said, when I reached in to pick up my overnight bag.
“Thanks,” I pushed the door behind me. It didn’t close all the way, but I turned and walked away. He would have to lean over and close it properly himself, from the inside. That was something that would annoy him, I knew.
I held my hands together on the bag in front of me so I wouldn’t turn around to wave goodbye, and I walked straight ahead on the stone road. I heard my father turn his car around. The engine roared. I thought, Maybe the wheels are stuck in the mud, but I didn’t look back.
There were thatched cottages and red brick houses just a short walk away from each other. I felt the stones through the bottom of my shoes. Here the sea couldn’t steal your voice; you could stand in your doorway and shout hello to the house next door, and they would hear you and wave back. Neighbours, they had neighbours on this street. Inside the windows in the houses there were tinsel and fairy lights. “Christmas is coming,” I said to myself. “Christmas is coming.” I stopped for a moment. The sky moved dark white away from me. You couldn’t see the stars yet, but the lights inside the houses shone like gold coins. I thought, This is where they live, those girls: on this street and other streets like it.
I couldn’t see the numbers of the houses on the doors. It wasn’t like London, wher
e the numbers went up and up. Here some of the houses had names. I ran to someone’s house and looked up at the door, trying to see a number, but I felt like I was stealing something and ran away quickly.
I was late for the party and soon it would be completely dark. I ran on the side of the road, next to the cows, to the farmer. I felt the grass and earth soft beneath me, and something splattered against my heel. Mud, I thought, it’s just mud. I didn’t want to be lost, even here on this street, I didn’t want to be lost.
I wiped the lipstick off with the back of my hand as I ran, and when I was right behind the farmer I said, “Excuse me?” He was looking up at something in the sky. “Do you know which house is the Whitmores’?” He pointed straight ahead. I saw it, the balloons tied to the front door. As I ran ahead I heard him yell, “Mind the ditch!” I looked down. Right to the side of me the road went down suddenly.
Mrs Whitmore answered the door, pulling it open, looking down at me. “May?” she said. I nodded. She was older than my mother. Her hair was a greyish-blond folded in neatly to her chin and her eyes two blue drops that had fallen.
“You’re the last one here. We were getting worried.” She leaned forward, put her arm on the top of my back, and led me inside. We stood in a small room with peach-coloured walls. There was a small wooden table with a lamp and a silver bowl full of sweets on it. “I’ll hang your coat here,” she said, and her fingers brushed over the tops of mine. “Cold hands,” she said, taking them between hers.
“The girls are in the front room.” She walked ahead of me, in her pale yellow cardigan and grey pleated skirt. She wore skincoloured stockings with brown pumps. We walked through different rooms. In one, a man sat reading the paper. He stood up as we walked past, and Mrs Whitmore introduced me. It was Barbara’s father. He was shorter than his wife, with thick grey hair and wide shoulders. He shook my hand tightly. Braces held his trousers up over a round belly. He worked at the bank.
We walked through a dining room with a long wooden table and red-cushioned chairs lined up against the walls. I could hear the girls’ voices, each a gold ring thrown through the wall.
