by Chloe Rayban
The woman sighed in disbelief and tied a kind of white plastic bib thing round Mum’s neck. I reckoned she should have been pleased. Mum was positively virgin territory as far as a make-over was concerned.
Anyway, Mum gave the consultant a free hand. Actually, she didn’t have much alternative because she had to take her glasses off, so she couldn’t see what the woman was up to.
I watched in silence as Mum’s familiar features disappeared and were gradually replaced by a stranger’s mask. Her eyelashes were standing out individually like spider legs and her lips were so glossy they looked as if they’d slid out of Hello! magazine. I looked at her doubtfully. Was this the kind of look men went for? Or, more importantly, was it going to impress Dad?
‘There you go,’ said the consultant and whipped the bib off. She seemed satisfied with the result. She started reeling off a list of compliments. Admittedly they sounded a bit like what she’d said to the other woman. Mum nodded vaguely and groped in her handbag for her glasses. As usual, she couldn’t locate them.
At that moment a bell went off to announce that Braithwaites was about to close. This was the cue for the make-over woman to go into a high-speed, hardsell on all the products she’d used. Mum tentatively enquired as to the price of a lipstick. Her eyes met mine in horror when she heard the answer. She backed down hurriedly to a kohl eye pencil and was about to fork out for that when luckily we ran out of time.
The counters were being covered with dust-cloths. So we managed to escape with our tiny gift bag of free cosmetics, containing, I established later, round about enough to make up a very small mouse.
‘I had no idea a lipstick could cost that much,’ said Mum when we were back in the car, heading towards school.
‘It’s a very good brand.’
‘It must be. But fancy paying that for a lipstick. Anyway, what are we talking about? I don’t wear lipstick.’
‘Maybe you should,’ I said meaningfully.
We’d stopped at some lights. Mum had at last located her glasses and she swivelled the rear view mirror so that she could take a look at herself.
‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Jessica, how could you let her do this to me? What do I look like?’
‘You look fine. You look great.’
She was groping in her bag for a tissue.
‘Leave it. You’ll smudge everything.’
We continued on our way with Mum grumbling and moaning.
‘What does it matter anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s only school.’
As we parked in the school car park there was an explosive farty noise behind us. O-m-G. It was Dad on his new Harley.
He climbed off. He was dressed from head to foot in biker’s black leatherwear – he even had on one of those round retro cycle helmets. He raised a hand in greeting. He looked just like a Michelin man in negative.
Mum didn’t recognise him for a moment. And then as he approached she muttered, ‘Oh my goodness, it’s your father. What does he think he looks like?’
‘It’s for the bike,’ I said.
‘I should think it is.’ Mum eyed the bike in silent hostility. Dad turned and gave it an affectionate pat as if it were a horse or something. ‘Fancy coming to a parents’ evening dressed like that,’ said Mum in an undertone.
Things weren’t going at all the way I’d planned. I had one parent looking really good, i.e. Mum après make-over plus cream sweater plus nice trousers … And the other one looking like an overweight bikerboy. I mean, I wished Mum had never made the effort. Now they were even more out of balance than ever.
M + (amo + cs + nt) > D + (ow bb) Mega Mismatch
Dad unstrapped the helmet. I could tell he thought he looked really cool. But actually he was red in the face and his hair was all over the place.
‘Hello there,’ he said, rapidly taking in Mum’s new glossy image. ‘You’re looking, er …well.’
He was impressed. I could tell. He hadn’t seen Mum looking like that for years. In fact, not ever. There was that awful pause when any normal couple would have given each other a peck on the cheek. Ever since they’d broken up they always looked as if they were about to – and then didn’t.
‘Umm, we’d better hurry,’ I said, to break the ice. ‘It’s nearly seven-thirty.’
‘Sure thing. Hello, Poppet,’ he said, giving me a hug. ‘Better find out what you’ve been up to, eh?’
Inside the school, the hall was seething with parents. The teachers had set themselves up behind desks armed with loose-leaf files full of lists of marks. I used my usual tactic which was to steer Mum and Dad to the teachers whose subjects I was best at, while they were fully focused. We could deal with things like maths and chemistry later on when their attention was waning.
So we started with Mr Williams. I was a bit worried about the Forest Vale encounter. I mean, Mr Williams said he wouldn’t tell, but you could never totally rely on adults when they got together. But he seemed to have his thoughts elsewhere. He took one look at Mum and did a double-take. I must admit, under the bright school lights she did look rather like a Barbie doll.
He hurriedly glanced back at his file notes and started running a pen down his list of marks. He seemed unusually flustered. His eyes kept resting uneasily on Dad’s leatherwear. I felt really embarrassed. I mean, most people’s fathers had come straight from work and were in suits and things. Dad looked as if he was about to produce a bike chain out of his pocket and attack someone. All this was bound to confirm in Mr Williams’s mind that I was a total drop out. No wonder I hung around in bars.
Mr Williams cleared his throat. ‘Ah, Jessica. Now, let’s see. Hmm.’ And then he had the cheek to say that my term’s average was somewhat disappointing. It worked out at a D. A D? I never get a D for English. English is my best subject.
‘But I thought I’d get at least a B, Mr Williams.’
‘Well, I was rather surprised. Now, what happened? Umm, yes. I think it was the Pygmalion coursework that brought your average down,’ he said.
‘But Mr Williams, I was really proud of that essay.’
‘What was wrong with it?’ asked Dad supportively.
Mr Williams shuffled through his papers and brought out some pages that I recognised as my essay. There was an awful lot of his red ink writing down the side.
‘Uh huh. Yes. You were asked to comment on the relationship between Professor Higgins and Eliza …’ he started.
‘Which I did,’ I protested. ‘Anyone could see that Eliza and Professor Higgins should end up married in the end. They were like made for each other …’
‘So why don’t you think Bernard Shaw ended the play that way?’ asked Mr Williams.
‘I don’t know. I think he got it wrong. The offer to teach her to talk properly and everything was just because the guy fancied her like mad. The elocution lessons were quite obviously an excuse. He just wanted her to stay over at his place …’
‘Don’t you think that maybe Shaw was making more of a social comment?’
‘But my ending’s so much better,’ I protested.
Mr Williams sighed. ‘“Eliza, be a doll” – it’s hardly Bernard Shaw now, is it?’
I could see Mum’s chin wobble, the way it did when she was about to crack up. Her eyes briefly met Mr Williams’s. Hang on. This was not in the least funny. That mark was going towards my GCSE coursework. I pointed this out. Dad agreed with me. In fact, he got to his feet and leaned somewhat threateningly towards Mr Williams.
Mr Williams started to gather his papers together and closed his file. He muttered something about not being able to enter into a discussion over coursework marks at an open evening. In fact, he seemed in a hurry to get rid of us. He called the next family up to his desk so we had to move on.
‘That was so unfair,’ I said to Mum.
‘He is your teacher, Jessica.’
‘Sounded like Jess had an interesting point to make … ‘ said Dad.
‘But that’s not what she was asked to do. The idea of
literary criticism—’ started Mum.
‘You’re taking his side then?’ interrupted Dad.
‘I’m not taking anyone’s side. You haven’t even read the play …’
Suddenly they were back into row mode. This wasn’t how the evening was meant to turn out at all.
I steered them over to the history teacher. ‘You’re still two assignments behind, Jessica.’
Mum and Dad looked on while I tried to explain that it was merely a problem of time. I mean, history is such a long subject. The homework goes on for ever. And it always comes on Thursdays. Don’t the teachers know about Thursdays? It’s the one nightmare evening of the week because they all want assignments back on Friday to mark over the weekend. It’s as if they each think their subject is the only one. What do they do in that staffroom of theirs? Don’t they ever talk to each other?
The geography teacher had no better news.
‘Six extensions this term, Jessica. It’s just not good enough.’
I won’t go into what happened further down the line of subjects. As we left the hall Dad and Mum were in a deep whispered discussion over whose fault it was that my marks had slipped. Predictably, they each blamed the other. As if I couldn’t take credit for my poor averages all by myself.
Chapter Ten
Back at home Mum rushed to the bathroom and scrubbed her face. She looked out through the door with eye make-up running down her cheeks.
‘That was the most embarrassing evening of my life,’ she said. ‘This stuff doesn’t even come off with soap!’
I went and found her some of my waterproof mascara remover. ‘I could see Dad thought you looked pretty good.’
‘Your dad wasn’t the only person there.’
‘Apart from the other parents who you’ve known for years, and the teachers who don’t matter.’
‘What did your father look like?’ she said, scrubbing vigorously at her eyes with a cotton-wool pad.
‘Black leather is pretty cool.’
‘He looked like a Hell’s Angel. An ageing one. Pathetic, if you ask me. And look at your term’s averages.’
‘There’s been a lot going on.’
‘Too much. I think from now on, it would be a good idea if you stayed in more and concentrated on your homework, Jessica.’
‘But I am concentrating. It’s just that no one sees things the way I do.’
‘The trouble with you is that you’ve too much imagination.’
‘Isn’t that meant to be a good thing?’
‘Not if it’s interfering with your work.’
I stared at her resentfully. She’d see things differently when I was a famous writer. The kind of person she studied in her OU set books. She’d be proud of me then.
‘You don’t understand. I’ve had a lot on my mind recently,’ I complained.
Her face softened. ‘Yes, I suppose you have. Like moving home and everything.’
I nodded. I hated fighting with Mum.
‘Come on, let’s have supper and a video. It’s too late to do any homework tonight.’
We finished the evening eating spaghetti in front of a video of The Bridges of Madison County. It was one of Mum’s favourites – she’d nearly worn out the copy from the video shop. It always made her cry.
‘I don’t know why you watch it,’ I said as she reached for the tissue box.
‘Nor do I,’ she said, half-laughing and drying her eyes.
‘I suppose it’s nice to think people can still fall in love when they’re old and everything.’
‘They weren’t old.’
‘Clint Eastwood was all wrinkly and had grey hair.’
‘So? Grey hair doesn’t stop people being in love.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Of course not. It’s the more important things that matter.’
‘Like what?’
‘All sorts of things. Liking the same people. Wanting to do the same things. Sharing the same interests …’
‘What sort of interests?’
‘Oh I don’t know … Films and music and books and things …’
This got me thinking. One of Mum’s constant moans was that Dad never read a decent book. So, that Saturday, instead of our usual meeting in the park, I’d suggested to Dad that we met up at Bookfest – our local bookshop, the one with the coffee bar which Cedric had mixed up with Costa’s.
Bookfest was halfway up the high street. To get to it you had to go over the bridge that crossed the river. I decided to walk because I always loved to see the river – steel-grey in winter, all silver and glittery in summer, or like today, in spring, a sleek olive grey-green that slid beneath me as I paused midway across.
It was the first really warm day of the year. The river was gleaming in the sunlight. In the distance bright sailing boats were darting to and fro. Along the riverside, couples were walking hand in hand. Families with kids in pushchairs were heading for the play area in the park. I paused to watch a pleasure boat as it set sail from the pier. Happy couples leaned on the rails as they embarked on their journey upstream to the botanical gardens …
Which made me think of Clare and Cedric. Happy couple NOT. What they needed was some quality time alone together. That last time I’d tried to set them up had been such a disaster.
I watched the boat getting smaller and smaller as it steamed away. Which gave me an idea. Anyone on board would be trapped for an hour and a half with no way of escape. Water lapping by. There’s nothing like water to bring on romance.
I made my way down the ramp to the timetable. There was another trip upstream at 4 p.m. Perfect! I texted Clare first.
dear wobble
love beckons
4pm boat upstream to Kew
be there or be dead
love j
Then I texted Cedric.
fancy a magical mystery tour?
4pm boat upstream to kew!
j
Then I made my way on up to the high street, happily imagining them meeting. Each surprised to see the other. They’d be looking out for me, of course, but when I didn’t turn up it would be too late. The boat would be pulling out from the jetty and they’d both say they were sorry I’d missed it, but secretly they’d be glad to be on their own.
As usual, Dad was late, so I started browsing through the ‘Three for Two’ offers. These were mainly novels – always an uphill job to get him to read one of those. I lingered over a few war books and then headed for the non-fiction shelves.
Here was a netherworld of gardening books and DIY manuals, hardly qualifying for what Mum would call a ‘good read’. I went back to the novels and searched through the titles. And then I spotted what seemed to be the perfect book. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The Zen bit would appeal to Mum and it sounded as if it might be a handy book to help Dad with the new bike.
I paid for the book and went and sat at one of the coffee tables waiting for Dad. In a corner of the children’s section a lady was sitting reading to a semicircle of noisy toddlers. The toddlers weren’t listening and I could see her getting hot and bothered behind her reading glasses as she tried unsuccessfully to win their attention without sounding cross.
Eventually, I spotted Dad coming through the doors. He was wearing a brand new jumper.
‘Hey. You look good. Like the jumper. Who chose it?
He hesitated. ‘Aren’t I able to choose a jumper for myself?’
‘Not without “go faster” stripes. No.’
‘So just maybe I’m learning.’
‘It must be my brainwashing.’
‘That’s right – clever you.’ He changed the subject. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘Birthday present.’
‘For me?’
‘Who else?’
‘Well, thank you. Can I open it now?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ah! Ah ha! A book!’ I could tell Dad was trying to sound pleased. ‘Looks interesting.’
‘Thought
seeing as you’d bought the bike …’
‘Nice one! Yeah, it looks … interesting,’ he repeated.
‘What do you want to do now?’
‘How about a coffee and a browse?’
When our coffee came Dad took a little pack of artificial sweeteners out of his pocket.
‘What’s that for?’
He patted his stomach. ‘Thought I’d try and fight back against anno Domini. I joined that gym, by the way.’
‘Really? Good for you.’
‘Your suggestion. Turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done.’
(Huh – so you see, you can influence people.)
When we’d finished our coffee Dad suggested a walk in the park. ‘Then I thought I’d do us lunch at my place.’
‘You cook lunch?’
‘Well, maybe not cook, exactly.’ He indicated a couple of supermarket bags he had with him. ‘Put it together, maybe.’
‘Cool.’
Dad hardly ever had me back to his place. I think he was a bit ashamed of it. He’d bought a flat in a really run-down estate. He’d wanted a two-bedroom one so that I could stay with him, and got it cheap. But I’d never actually stayed.
Dad had three locks on his front door. He even locked the door after us once we were in. The estate was pretty rough.
I went into the main room and stared out of the window. This was the view that Dad had every day. A stretch of patchy tarmac with a row of bins and a car without wheels that had been vandalised. There was a decaying concrete block of flats opposite whose doors and windows had been painted in optimistically bright colours: orange and turquoise, which somehow made the damp-stained buildings look even more bleak.
It seemed so crazy that once he’d had a house and a garden in a nice street and now all he had was this. Surely he couldn’t prefer it to living with me and Mum?
‘You can’t like living here,’ I blurted out.
Dad shrugged. ‘It’s all I can afford. Anyway, it’s central and I’ve got a lock-up down below for the bike.’
