“I’m, er, just going to make myself useful and walk the dogs,” I told Mum, awkwardly. “I can hear them from here.”
The Cold Room was Harry’s idea. Completely unsuperstitious, he’d brushed off our warnings about its potential hauntedness and heralded it as the perfect place to leave the pets to keep them from getting under our feet. The dogs hate the Cold Room. Prying Aussies should note that while us kids (and Mum) had always found it mighty vibey, once we’d got Fred and the doglets, it had become frighteningly plausible that there was something just not right about it. Of course, we couldn’t afford to move, so we were one room down in our untidy, ramshackle house before anyone extra came along. We eat cramped up in the kitchen, or on our laps before the TV.
I grabbed the minimal petkeeping money from the Kitchen Pickle on my way out, thinking we could do with a stock up anyway. That reminded me that we’d been so busy of late that I hadn’t had a chance to nip to Firth’s Furri for free pet nibbles and a natter. (Prying Aussies should note that the Kitchen Pickle’s just an old glass pickled-onion jar that we couldn’t call the “Kitty” ’cause it was too confusing. Me and Charlie and Shelley decorated it in Infants with shiny stickers.)
The bricklayabouts still hadn’t been back to finish the job, which was unfortunate. Fern’s dad’s a nice guy, and he doesn’t deserve a sign labelling him hirsute. If that was strange, there was something yet stranger. The combination of the Cold Room vibe and uncomfortable new family situation had me feeling weirded out enough already, but something else was starting to niggle. If only I could place what.
I was torn from my wondering by the sight of a long, pale, skinny arm hanging out of the window. It wasn’t until I heard Fern’s voice that I was thoroughly convinced that the pet shop hadn’t been taken over by long-limbed aliens.
“Hi!” she called, waving the one arm wildly. “Come right up; I’ve got something to tell you!”
“Can’t, I’ve got the dogs with me!” I called back. I’d be the first to admit that I abuse the hospitality of a pet shop that lets you bring your pets in when you pick up supplies. They even have water bowls by the door.
“Tie ’em up downstairs! Dad’ll keep an eye out!”
I slipped in through the brightly-painted yellow doors. If you want a comparison, try the roof lettering colour from Morrisons supermarket, timesed by a billion bananas’ worth of neon, and you may come close.
Mr Firth met me at the first aisle, happily taking the leads. “Fern’s upstairs if you’re after her,” he pointed out, kindly. I thanked him and waved a mini, low goodbye to the doglets before walking away. I felt kind of stupid for doing it, so the movement had reduced itself to a sort of involuntary-looking flap. When I reached the pale wooden door through to the staircase, I glanced back across the shop uncertainly, and eyed the German Shepherd and Collie-cross-looking mongrel who were being tied to what looked like metal door-handles in the wall.
That’s when I noticed what the niggling thing was – two dogs on leads. Layla and Hendy. That meant that Fisty had got lost somewhere along the way. But how?
Fern appeared before my ditheriness. “Is there a problem?”
I groaned. “It’s more the problem of a problem that’s not around that’s bothering me…”
“You’re vague…”
“Fisty’s missing!” I said, panicked.
“Who’s Fisty? Oh, your sister’s dog?”
I grimaced. “Please don’t call her my sister…”
“Well, where did you lose him or her?”
“If I knew that, she’d not be lost!” I snapped, though I felt instantly mean. Fern hadn’t asked for it; she was just trying to help.
She was silent.
“Sorry,” I sighed.
“D’you want me to tell my dad you’ve lost your – um, what breed is it? You only said about a titchy, yippy dog…”
“Chihuahua.”
“I’m sure we’ll find her.” Fern smiled. “Eventually.”
“That’s no good; we need to find her now!” I groaned. “She’s little and defenceless, and what’s more, she belongs to the most irrational person I have ever met! You’re honestly best not to be involved, or you’re for it too.”
Fern frowned, before saying. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Shall we start the search?”
And I never did ask what it was she’d been so desperate to tell me. What an awful friend I am…
#4 Peanut-Butter Jelly-Worm
Not long later, at bLIMEy, Fern, Keisha, Rachel, Rindi, Kay and I were finishing off our mid-search snacks. Well actually, they were mid-search smoothies. We were still attempting to work out what to eat. While I wanted to be at Andy’s for a lovely roast, I knew better than to set foot near ours without Aimee’s precious pookum.
“You ladies ready to order?” asked Ben, who’d been lucky enough to tear himself away from hauling sofas to work the brief Sunday lunch shift at the café.
“Yup, I’ll have another carrot and lime shake,” replied Kay. “Anyone else?”
“Tomato and raspberry smoothie,” grinned Keisha. “It’s surprisingly lush!”
Ben smiled back, more than politely. Keisha knew that any male between seven and a hundred answered her beck and call at the drop of a lipgloss, to serve her every wish on a silver platter. (Whatever a platter is anyway; maybe it’s like a plate – or is it more like a cocktail stick?)
“Um… an orange juice please,” said Fern, unadventurously.
“Got any of that fizzy blue stuff left?” asked Rachel.
I felt repulsed. “Uh, I’ll have a choccy milkshake, I guess.”
“That all?” asked Ben, finishing his jottings of hideous shakes and winking at Kay.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah…”
Seconds after he disappeared through the swing-door to the kitchen, presumably to chuck some random fruit and veg into a blender for us, Keisha hissed to Kay, “I think he likes you!”
“Well, he should do, when he’s my flipping brother who I have to live with,” Kay replied, sarkily.
That put Keisha into a rare silence.
“Now let’s get down to business.” (This was Kay again.) I could assume that she was actually referring to the menu she had in hand, and not our search for Fisty. “What’s caviar again?” she said with a squint.
“Fish eggs,” I answered on autopilot, in view of my general hate for all things gross and fishy, exactly like caviar. Not that I’ve tried it, or desire to.
“Wait a sec, they can’t possibly afford caviar in here,” giggled Rachel. “I tried it at my auntie’s wedding-” (pause to mime puking) “-never again! She only told me what it is after I’d swallowed some down. It’s dead expensive for what it is.”
Oh no – new worry alert! What if caviar was a wedding thing, and Mum and Harry insisted on having it on their catering list? I’d be staying well clear of it.
“Um, hang on,” added Ray-Ray. “It doesn’t say caviar. Kay you cottage cheese! It says cauliflower. Cauliflower in cheese sauce, with a ketchup border.”
That didn’t sound much more appetising – neither cauliflower nor cheese requires tomato sauce in my opinion.
“In her defence, that curly font is pretty hard to read,” I pointed out, peering at the laminated paper booklet covered in words I vaguely recognised as Russian.
“That’s ’cause you’re holding the menu upside down!” Keisha smirked.
I turned it rightside up so that my eyes refocused on English words. “Er… I suppose sandwiches would be alright.”
At a glance, the “sandwich board” above the counter appeared to be offering a totally normal selection. (Cheese and tom, tuna, peanut butter, ham and cheese, and egg and bacon sandwiches seemed unusually reasonable for this café. I should’ve known better.)
I had to get over my irrational aversion to sandwiches at some point, and where better to start than good old peanut butter – decidedly anchovy and caviar free?
“Which fillin
g?” Ben called, from behind the counter, where he’d been adding the finishing touches to our drinks (i.e. cheap paper parasols and slices of lime).
“Uh, peanut butter please.”
“Coming right up,” he promised, placing our Hawaiian-touch drinks on the table. “If you’re absolutely sure.”
Why would I not be sure? As pedantic as I could remember being about lunchbox items at one point in my life, I certainly felt old enough to decide on a sandwich and stick with it.
When Ben returned with the sandwich, he gave me a peculiar smile as he set the plate down. I gazed in awe at the incredible, inedible sandwich he’d laid in front of me. The peanut butter was there alright, sloppily oozing over the edges of the bread, but so were a couple of extra ingredients – one was deep red and gloopy, slathered all over the top so that it would be impossible to hold, but the other was a bit difficult to guess. Something was in my sandwich. It bulged where it had been patted down. I lifted the top piece of bread tentatively, smearing ketchup over my fingers as hard as I tried not to. There were several long, shiny, sauce-covered wormy things in amongst the expected tan paste.
“What do you think that is, Keish?” I asked my pettiest present friend. She always had some obscure thing to moan about, and would probably grow up to write letters of complaint to TV stations like her mother.
“I don’t know, but it’s gonna cost you £1.50 whether it’s tasty or not,” she snorted.
“Maybe it’s slugs,” said Rachel, not helping at all.
Fern gulped. She hates creepy-crawlies – no good if you live above a pet shop full of live meals for exotic reptiles.
“Maybe they’re anchovies in disguise, and they’re coming to get you, Harley!” tittered Rindi.
“Ugh, don’t!” I squealed, glancing fearfully at the sandwich.
“Maybe they’re worms, then!” said Rachel, still-unhelpfully.
Kay began to giggle uncontrollably.
“Kay!” I grumped. “Why’re you laughing?”
“It’s ’cause they are worms!” She pointed back at the “sandwich board” on the wall. When I looked closer at it, I noticed that the bottom of the sign read: “All sarnies served with tomato sauce ‘blood’ and jelly-worms, as a spooky Halloween treat!”
“But it’s not Halloween!” I protested in Ben’s direction. “That was last month.”
“Last month was only a few days ago.” Kay shrugged. “They have to keep selling the stuff until they run out. It’s alright, I’ll eat it.” She picked up the sandwich without caring about the slathering of ketchup, took a mammoth bite, swallowed, and licked her lips. “Mmm… yummy. Ben makes these at home, too – they used to be my favourite!”
Fern looked as if she was about to throw up, and I had lost my appetite too. I felt the itch to continue our search for the helpless little Chihuahua as soon as possible. My other two hairy charges had been tied up patiently outside the café while we bickered over the menus.
“I have to get going,” I said, apologetically. “Who’s coming to help with the search?”
There was a silence. Slowly, Kay seemed to realise that living right next door to me she’d either have to make some sort of excuse and help Ben with the washing up, or come back with me. Even Fern seemed about done with the Fisty search.
“I, uh, said I’d be back for Sunday lunch…” she mumbled.
“Me too,” said Keish. “I’ll miss my bus if I don’t go now.”
“Ditto.” Rindi winced, apologetically.
“Rachel?” I asked, hopefully.
She simply stood up and walked out.
So it was just me and Kay and the two hairy-fairies plodding back home from the eerily quiet highstreet. I hadn’t seen so many shops shut on a Sunday since I was little, way back when there was some sort of rule. These days, they were mostly open except for lunchtime and the evening.
“Harley,” said Kay, suspiciously. “You might’ve left Fisty’s lead at the pet shop.”
I blinked, confused. She had a point. If I’d lost the dog, how had I lost the lead too? Fern’s dad had definitely taken two from me, and definitely given two back. Had I not remembered to put Fisty on a lead? What an idiot!
My question was answered no sooner had I let myself into the house. A small, white, yippy dog dragged her chop enthusiastically towards me in the hallway as I was unclipping Hendrix and Layla. I hadn’t even remembered to take Fisty! I sure as heck hadn’t deserved my friends’ help looking for an invisible dog after all that…
#5 Imaginary Futures
I felt a prod in my back.
POKE.
Presumably, my invisible friend had landed. First I was imagining dogs under the crushing pressure of five people’s chores, and now I was going properly insane. Whatever it is, I told myself, it will go away if you ignore it.
POKE.
I had to show him/her/it that I wasn’t playing his/her/its game.
POKE.
I tried to concentrate on what our supply, Wacky Macky, was saying. She bent over to hitch up her over-the-knee stockings, and we got an eyeful of the veins running up her back as her shirt untucked from her skirt.
POKE.
“A few things you’ve got to get thinking about this term,” she told the class. I tried to focus on her shoes, instead of the tone of her voice.
Big mistake. She had big blue veins wriggling their way up her feet, too, and glaringly obvious corns that could be seen because she wore repulsive beige sandals. I’ll say this about her, and probably never about anyone again, but I wish she would have the decency to wear proper, thick socks with her sandals, as opposed to the thin, holey, minus-40 denier tightlike thingies.
Her old age and that she was still a “Miss” really said everything about her. Actually the school librarian, I was fixated on her because she embodied everything I didn’t want to turn out to be.
POKE.
“In a few months’ time,” she droned, “you’ll all need to choose your GCSE subjects. The ones you want to do.”
(In a nutshell, “I don’t care – I’ll get paid either way; do whatever all your mates are doing.”)
“You should not choose a subject just because your friends are doing it, or just because you like the teacher you have for it this year.” She beamed, clearly satisfied that she had read our minds, identically scheming as every year group before us.
POKE.
“I understand that some of you may feel it’s too soon to be considering your career options…”
Wait a sec! Too soon to consider career options? One minute she’s banging on about GCSEs; the next she wants us to grow up and go to work…? I could only assume she was so passionate about helping us make the right choices because she’s in a job she hates – paid to stack books; forced to teach PSHE.
Too right, it’s too soon! Just last week, when I was bemoaning how I’ll never grow out of my 32a, Kay’s gran popped her head round the door to remind me that I shouldn’t try to grow up too fast and that it’s important to enjoy my childhood. Maybe back in the 1960s when she was my age! Clearly, the program these days is that it’s never too soon to get put on a university waiting list.
Wacky Macky, though, was just casually asking us, “Now, what’re you going to do for a living?” as if we’d be packed off down Jobcentre tomorrow with no hope for further education. Had society just regressed a hundred years? We’re all thirteen and fourteen in this class.
“So who has a career in mind?”
“Ooh! Ooh! Me, Miss! I know!” Asta Price volunteered, up to her childish standard.
“OK, Asta.”
“I want to be an actress!” She tossed her bleach-blonde hair, showing off dark roots exactly the same shade as her cockroach-shaped eyebrows.
“That’s quite a common thought; why do you want to be an actress?”
“Because I’m ever so good at Drama, and totally gorgeous!”
Doesn’t Asta know that even if she went to a proper stage school, even if she
was the prettiest person on earth, she’d still most likely end up voicing someone on Bob The Builder, or wind up a puppeteer on The Hoobs?
POKE.
“Any other ideas?”
At that point, most of the class had their hands in the air. Hearing Asta’s pathetic suggestion obviously gave weight to their own ridiculous ideas.
“Norma?”
“I’d like to be a brain surgeon.”
Wow. I mean, seriously, wow. I’d known she was likely the cleverest person in our Year, but brain surgeon? That took some serious dedication.
“Why’s that?” asked Macky.
“Because I find Science fascinating and I want to help people.”
Wacky Macky got around nearly the whole class in ten minutes. Our row, second from the back, itched with anticipation.
“Mafia leader!” said Justin.
“Director,” said Tom.
“Vicar,” said Marco. (Did I catch a hint of sarcasm?) “Nah, I’m going to have a software rip-off company, Marcosoft!”
“King of the world!” said Arnold.
“Olympic runner,” said Rachel. “Or failing that, marine biologist.”
Kay winced with the strain of decision. “Hairdresser. No, model. No, actress. Art teacher! Fashion designer. Don’t make me choose!”
“Actress,” said Chantalle, vainly grinning at Asta. She stuck her tongue out.
“Air hostess,” said Danielle.
“Journalist,” opted Rindi.
“Vet,” said Fern, meekly.
Then, Wacky Macky said the one thing I’d been hoping in vain that she wouldn’t have time to say: “What about you, Mahala?” She has this infuriating manner of ignoring nicknames.
“Er…” I hadn’t ever really thought about it, but even Fern had already announced her career of choice to the class. (Not that I really counted on her ability to deal with all the blood and gore of being a vet – she’d probably wind up a vet’s secretary or wife or both.)
POKE.
I was prodded back to reality. “Uh… a writer, I suppose.”
Yeah, my imaginary future as a writer. I could tolerate the sound of it. Perhaps a librarian writer, I began to muse, or an unmarried librarian writer, or even an unmarried librarian writer with half-moon glasses, when-
POKE.
I suddenly gave in, the pressure of my angst against growing up to be Wacky Macky suddenly too much. I swung my head around to glare at the poker behind me.
A Bended Family Page 2
