I might be all fired up with the stuff that’s happened today – and waiting to find out why exactly Alice B. Lovely has brought us here – but I’m suddenly very aware that I don’t know very much about her life. I spent so much of last week trying to pretend that Alice B. Lovely didn’t exist that I ignored the fact that I was curious about her.
There are a whole heap of “Tell me something else?”s that I want to ask her. And straightforward questions; I have lots of those. Like…
Which school does she go to? (Is she the coolest girl there?)
Does she have brothers and sisters? (Are they as arty as she is, and their Auntie Maggie?)
What does the “B” in her name stand for? (Brilliant? Beautiful? Bonkers?)
“Does you dad work in that park?” I ask, starting with a particular question that’s just pinged into my head, and pointing down to the treetops.
Her dad’s a park ranger; I remember that much. He once went on safari. She told Stan that when he was talking about Uncle Bob and how he ended up with Arthur (and I ended up with that useless, dumb hippo).
“Yes, that park, and other places,” she says vaguely.
I don’t mind about the vagueness.
I’d be vague if I had to describe my dad’s job. “He designs websites … for a bunch of people.”
“What about your mum? What does she do?” I find myself asking.
How weird. For the last few hours I’ve been seething, my head a mush of anger and embarrassment and betrayal. It must be the air up here; the wind from the faraway hills and the unseen sea beyond it are blowing the bad mood from my mind.
(The hands of the happiness clock are back exactly where they should be.)
“She works in fashion, a bit like your mum,” says Alice B. Lovely, blinking today’s eyelashes – the rainbow ones – at the birds circling all around us. “But just part time. She does other stuff too.”
“Is that where you get your ideas about clothes?” I ask, intrigued.
My mum goes to work in her boring navy suit. I bet Alice B. Lovely’s wears amazing things: 1960s Chanel-style suits, 1970s kaftans, 1990s rave neons, maybe. Who knows? I’m just about to ask when Stan comes swooping between us.
“How did you say you knew the code to get up here?”
His freckly nose is all crinkled up as he squints in the sunlight and I notice a brown streak of crocodile-coloured paint in his hair.
I also notice that he’s a different boy from the one I’ve been hanging out with for the last few months.
That boy was pale and serious and clung on to my hand at all times. He lost himself in Lego for hours and had long, quiet conversations in his bed with his toy crocodile, telling him all about his nightmares. He hid behind me when we passed Mrs Kosma’s pigeons, as they strutted under her windowsill, waiting to be fed. The only thing that got him even slightly perky was watching me torturing nannies.
But this boy in front of me is lightly tanned and grinning, happy to skip and run and swoop without any help from me. His Lego has stayed in its tub and Arthur gets thrown into the air and does a variety of somersaults at bedtime. He stood and chatted with Mrs Kosma at her window this morning before school, telling her all about Buddy as the pigeons cooed around his feet. And the only time he isn’t extremely perky is when he finally falls asleep, and dreams his sweet dreams.
It’s as if Alice B. Lovely somehow fixed him.
And Mum seems fixed too … she presented her amended designs at her conference on Saturday and no one could speak. She thought at first it was because her colleagues all hated the splashes of silver and blasts of cherry, but they were simply stunned into silence by the new design styles. They loved them. She loved that they loved them. She spent yesterday wearing jeans and bright colours and screaming her head off as we all got soaked on the rapids ride at the amusement park she treated us to, then got as messy as me and Stan painting his metre-long croc project.
And of course, I felt like I’d been fixed too, or at least had a plaster or two stuck on the painful bits.
All Saturday, all Sunday, all this morning, I’d walked taller, felt happier, laughed more, and sensed the gloom slip away.
Till lunch time…
“I told you already, Stan,” Alice B. Lovely smiles at my brother, as she holds down her bottle-green velvet skirt, which is flittering and flapping in the breeze just now. “I used to visit someone who lived here. I know the codes to get in.”
“Oh yeah!” nods Stan, happy with her explanation. “Can I feed my leftover packed lunch to Buddy?”
For a brief, windswept moment, I drift away, thinking how impressed I am at Alice B. Lovely’s incredible memory. Not only does she remember the main entrance-door code to get into the building, but the code to this private, special place too.
“Well, yes, if you like,” I hear Alice B. Lovely telling my brother, bending down to lift the black cloth a little on the pet carrier. She uses it whenever she transports Buddy around, she says. It keeps him calm and unstressed. “Don’t lift the cloth too high, Stan, or he’ll see the other birds and might get a bit anxious.”
“So he doesn’t ever have contact with other birds?” I ask, forgetting my small access-code question and remembering that Buddy lives indoors.
“Well, he watches them from the little aviary Dad built for him on our balcony,” explains Alice B. Lovely, glancing up at me through her rainbow fringing. “He’s fine there, when he can hop and fly from perch to perch. I guess he’s at home enough not to feel threatened when he sees sparrows and pigeons and crows spiralling around.”
I glance at the Edwardian terraces below and try to imagine Alice B. Lovely’s house.
In my mind I see a first-floor balcony overlooking a glass conservatory, perhaps, and a gently overgrown cottage garden, stuffed with blooms and blossoms and heavily laden fruit trees.
I see a happy mum and dad at a huge dining-room table, laughing at the antics of Buddy and praising their daughter for her creativity when she shows them her latest images on her phone.
Maybe her dad has a study, full of bookshelves about wildlife, with framed photos on the walls from his days on safari. (My dad’s always dreamed of having a study, instead of having a small workstation in the hallway.)
Maybe her mum’s got a room too, with walls covered in inspirational odds and ends: clipped-out pages from magazines, strips of gorgeous fabrics. (Mum’s always wanted her own space at home, instead of just plonking her laptop on the small kitchen table.)
And what’s Alice B. Lovely’s room like, I wonder?
Maybe she’ll invite me and Stan around one day and I’ll see for myself.
Maybe—
“Stan!” Alice B. Lovely exclaims as my brother opens his lunch box and a bunch of pretty random stuff tumbles out. “Why didn’t you eat your dinner?”
“It was a bit horrible…” he says, holding up a sandwich bag with a dry-looking bun in it. The small bunch of grapes seems a bit sad and shrivelled too, and the best-before date on that yoghurt pot is long gone.
“What was in here?” asks Alice B. Lovely, holding the sandwich bag aloft as if it’s a piece of evidence.
“Marmalade,” says Stan, pulling a yuck-face. “Mum was busy getting ready for work, so I said I’d get my own sandwich. But there wasn’t any ham. Or cheese. Or peanut butter. Or even jam.”
“Right,” says Alice B. Lovely, getting to her feet and rummaging about in her bag.
Is she going to get her phone and call Mum to tell her off? Or get in touch with Dad to let him know that Mum’s failing in her parental duties? Or contact the Social Services? (Would they pay us a visit if they knew Stan was eating stale marmalade sandwiches and we didn’t have any nit shampoo?)
“She can’t help it – her brain’s been a bit scrambled since she got her new job and split up with Dad,” I say hurriedly, suddenly
protective of Mum and her current domestic uselessness.
“Yes, I know,” says Alice B. Lovely, producing not a phone, but a notebook and a pen. “I’m going to write her a long list of groceries and stuff. Then when we get back, I’m going to get on the computer and set her up with an account for online supermarket shopping. I’ll get her to order it tonight.”
“Or we could order it ourselves – I know her credit card number,” I suggest.
“Good! And I’ll book a delivery slot for tomorrow evening, when she’s back from work. What time will she finish?”
“I’m not sure,” I mutter, with an uncertain shrug.
On Tuesdays, Mum works extra late, since me and Stan are at Dad’s. Who knows what time she’d finally fall exhausted through the front door?
“Fine. We’ll worry about that later,” says Alice B. Lovely, flicking the notebook open. “So what do we need?”
“Bread that’s not rock hard for a start,” I say, pulling a face at the sight of Stan struggling to pull a piece off his bun to feed to Buddy.
It makes me glad that I have school dinners.
Not that I had any today; I spent lunch time hidden round the back of the gym, sulking by the bins.
Argh, I’m in danger of thinking about Tash again … of setting the hands of the happiness clock juddering backwards once more.
I try to block her from my mind by chanting out my shopping wish list.
“Pasta – the twirly sort; jam – strawberry; tuna – in brine; shower gel – any kind; nit shampoo – extra-stength…”
Alice B. Lovely scribbles frantically, pausing only to flick the breeze-swirled curtains of hair back from her face.
I amble around the open roof space as I talk, my mind jumping from the useful to the necessary to the delicious.
And then I walk around the big block shape that I think is the top of the lift shaft and see something kind of surprising on the far concrete wall.
A flutter of heart-shaped yellow Post-it notes.
There are maybe ten, stuck up here and there, in no particular pattern.
Some are a faded-by-sunlight lemon-white; some are bright crocus-yellow new.
They all have words on them, messages written in the swirly writing that I recognize from Alice B. Lovely’s ad on the library noticeboard.
I lean closer.
Let them understand, says one.
Can things change, please? says another.
My eyes flick to some others.
Bring me luck!
Will it get easier?
Make it stop.
“Make it stop”? What’s that abou—
“You found my worry wall, then!” Alice B. Lovely says brightly, appearing by my side. “It’s what I wanted to show you, Edie. If things are bugging me, I come up here, have a think about what my problem is, then write it down and stick it up here.”
“Does it really help?” I say dubiously.
“Yes, it does,” she smiles, her sea-green eyes looking particularly vivid in the sunlight. “I feel like I’ve left whatever worry I have behind when I go back down to the ground. And I like the way the wind eventually whisks them away.”
As if to prove the point, an extra strong gust chooses this second to loosen one of the faded Post-its – Will it happen? – and send it quivering and dancing into the sky.
Laughing, I watch as it then judders and tumbles through the air, heading off in the direction of the faraway treetops of the park.
“Maybe it’ll land in a magpie’s nest,” I murmur.
“Maybe it will,” says Alice B. Lovely, handing me a small Post-it pad and pen. “Your turn.”
Alice B. Lovely leaves me alone and goes back to Stan.
So what will I write?
Maybe just: Can we ever be friends again?
Yep, that’s it.
I take my time, doing my neatest handwriting, then adding swirls like Alice B. Lovely’s for luck.
And then I stick it on the worry wall, give it a pat for luck, and walk away.
“Hey, how long before I get an answer to my question?” I call out with a grin to Alice B. Lovely, who’s sitting with her back to me, beside Stan, Buddy’s box and our school bags.
“Who knows? Maybe sooner than you think,” says Alice B. Lovely, turning to look at me with a sparkle in her sea-green eyes – and a wink for Stan.
Stan winks back (with both eyes; he’s not so great at it).
They seem to have a secret, but I don’t mind.
I don’t mind anything any more, even happiness blips.
’Cause with Alice B. Lovely looking out for me, I’m sure everything really will turn out all right.
In a weird and wonderful way, I bet…
It’s an ordinary Monday afternoon at home.
I guess I should say nearly at home.
Somehow we’ve ended up having juice and biscuits in Mrs Kosma’s flat – even Buddy, who’s busy caching chunks of digestive under either his best friend Arthur the crocodile or one of Mrs Kosma’s knitting patterns.
“Smile, sweetheart! Smile!” he squawks, happy in his work.
Mrs Kosma is beyond charmed.
“Oh, my!” she claps her hands.
Actually, I don’t know if she’s clapping her hands at Buddy’s dexterous beak or the suggestion Alice B. Lovely has just made to her.
“He’s just … wonderful,” she exclaims, unbothered by the mess of crumbs Buddy is making. “And yes, of course I’ll help you with the surprise!”
OK, so she was clapping her hands to both.
So why are we here, in a flat I’ve never once been inside before? (It’s mostly made up of floral wallpaper and furniture, and several million framed photos of grandchildren I’ve never seen visit.)
And what’s Alice B. Lovely’s suggestion?
I think I’ll answer the second question first: we’d been walking towards the flats, and spotted Mrs Kosma leaning out of her window, noseying as usual and feeding her fat pigeons.
“The shopping; why don’t we ask Mrs Kosma to let the delivery guy in tomorrow, while your mum’s at work?” said Alice B. Lovely. “Can you imagine the surprise of seeing all the bags?”
I had to think about it for a minute; would Mum mind having Mrs Kosma in the flat? But she was happy enough to have her come look after us last week (the night I set the pasta on fire), so I figured it would be fine.
The next question was, would Mrs Kosma be up for helping us with our shopping surprise?
“Excuse me,” Alice B. Lovely had begun, as Mrs Kosma stared at her warily. “But me, Edie and Stan would like to arrange something nice for Mrs Henderson, and we wondered if you could help?”
Next thing we knew, we were being ushered inside and force-fed chocolate Hobnobs (which answers the first question).
“I won’t just let the delivery man take the shopping upstairs, no, no,” Mrs Kosma says now, shaking a fat finger at us. “I will put away all the shopping in the cupboards and fridge too!”
“Really, you don’t have to do that!” I say, as I hand her my spare key. I feel bad now for thinking of her as nosey and wide and phoney. (Well, there’s no getting away from the wide part, I guess…)
“No! It will be my pleasure!” Mrs Kosma positively beams. “Who else do I have to help around here?”
As she says that, I look at the photos on the wall again, lots of them taken outdoors in olive groves in baking sunshine. Cyprus, says the angular lettering next to a map on the wall. Is that where all her family are, I wonder? Is that why I’ve never seen these children in all the years we’ve lived here?
Is Mrs Kosma maybe a little lonely?
Did Alice B. Lovely guess that?
Has she just started to fix someone else?
“Thanks, Mrs Kosma,” Alice B. Lovely says
politely, and Mrs Kosma leans forward to pat her on her bottle-green velvet knee.
“Lovely girl!” Mrs Kosma smiles happily, without realizing she’s got the lovely girl’s name spot on.
Drrriiiiing! trills my phone.
“Excuse me,” I say, as I slip my hand in my school bag.
Mrs Kosma goes back to admiring the cleverness of Buddy, who is now snuggling the soft toy crocodile which has just been pulled out of Stan’s school bag.
I read my text message.
Sorry … can we talk?
Well, it looks like the worry wall and the yellow Post-it worked already.
I glance up and see Alice B. Lovely smiling at me.
She knows.
But before I get the chance to smile back, I realize something with a jolt of shock.
I forgot something.
Something really important.
There I was this afternoon, way, way up in the sky, and I completely forgot to be scared of heights.So much for this ordinary day; I think the girl with the rainbow eyes has cast some kind of spell on me…
“Oof!” says a voice from somewhere down below.
“Uh-oh!” I wince. “I think I just hit someone!”
Me and Tash both hunker down out of sight on the balcony, bursting with barely contained giggles.
Yes, we’re friends again.
Yes, she’s here having tea with us at Dad’s place.
Yes, I just clunked a man on the head with a piece of wholemeal bread that I was trying to throw to the ducks in the canal.
“Do you think he saw us?” Tash grins.
“Yes!” I grin back.
We’re sitting like naughty six-year-olds who’ve just nicked some Jammie Dodgers out of the biscuit tin, clutching our knees and hee-hee-hee-ing.
It’s like the moment in yesterday’s lunch queue and the hurt and the happiness blip never happened.
Well, sort of.
I’m still a little battered and bruised from the chat me and Tash had on the phone yesterday afternoon, of course. Some of that stuff was hard to hear.
Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Page 11
