PUFFIN BOOKS
Welcome to the very private notebook of Constance de Bellechasse. Also known as Connie Pickles. Please, please don’t read this without the permission of its owner. Especially if you are its owner’s mother, little brother or sister, or if you are William. Or Jack. Or Mr Spence. Constance de Bellechasse accepts NO responsibility for any embarrassment, blushing or crossness resulting from reading this notebook!
Signed: Connie Pickles
Books by Sabine Durrant
CROSS YOUR HEART, CONNIE PICKLES
For adults
THE GREAT INDOORS
HAVING IT AND EATING IT
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2005
3
Copyright © Sabine Durrant, 2005
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-192176-1
For my friend Hilary
Sunday 9 February
The roof, midnight
I’ve just written my name on the outside of this book and I wish I hadn’t. It’s midnight and I was feeling all romantic and blustery, and now I feel cross. Connie Pickles is NOT how I see myself. Constance de Bellechasse is how I see myself. It’s a good thing I’m writing this in the open air, and very high up, or I’d feel quite cast down.
I’m on the roof, you see. It’s freezing and I should be in bed, but I couldn’t sleep and I hate wasting time. I’m wearing my striped men’s pyjamas, two jumpers, my dressing gown and a pair of socks, so I’m quite warm. There are clouds wisping across the dark sky, tangerine from the street lights. The moon is right above my head – it’s a sort of semicircle, but it’s tipped on its side and if it wasn’t for the wind and the weird orange clouds blowing against it, you might think it would lose its balance altogether.
I’m not going to lose my balance. Or throw myself off. Don’t worry. I’m always on the roof, so I’m used to it. It’s my favourite place in the whole world. You can see all the gardens of the houses in our street laid out in little rows, and the gardens of the street that backs on to ours. You can even see my friend William’s window if you crane. I’m always telling him he should climb out too, but his roof hasn’t got a flat bit and he says he’s not breaking his neck just to wave to me, thank you very much. It’s not dangerous my end, but you have to be careful. The only tricky thing is getting here. You have to climb on the bed and then bend and jump up at the same time. You can’t overshoot, but sometimes I scrape my back on the window frame. In summer too, it can get really hot because it’s asphalt. Tonight it’s cool and soft like the skin of an apple.
Oh, there you go. I’m doing it again. I’m trying to be all poetic. And I’ve vowed not to; this delicious new diary is to have none of that. The thing is I’m not poetic. Or romantic. Or, much as I’d like to be, French. De Bellechasse is only my mother’s maiden name. And Connie is what everybody calls me. Not Constance. Just plain, dowdy, clumsy Connie. As for France, I’ve only ever been there once, on the school trip to Boulogne. And that was only for a day.
I’m Connie Pickles and that’s that.
Or is it?
Because something BIG hit me this evening. I’ve been reading this book called The Blessing by Nancy Mitford and there’s this small boy in it who decides to take his mother’s life in hand. Well, it set me thinking, and when I went down for supper – cheese on toast (again) – and Marie and Cyril wouldn’t go to bed, charging around like bulls in a… well, in a small rented house, and there was Mother in her threadbare black suit, flicking through a six-month-old French Vogue someone left on the Tube, looking vague and fragile and tired, it made me think. Just because I’m only fourteen, it doesn’t mean I can’t make things happen.
My dream used to be to reunite her with her parents, my grandparents, les de Bellechasses. They’re French and very grand. But they cut her off when she met my father, who was a penniless actor/pizza delivery man. He died and now she won’t speak to them. She never opens their letters. And she gets so cross when I ask her about them… So no, I think it will have to be something else. I think it will have to be a New Man.
It would be OK if I could trust her to find someone for herself, but she can’t. She works in a lingerie shop to make ends meet – which they don’t quite – and a bra shop, no matter how royally appointed, is not the best venue for meeting men. Also she has terrible taste. My father was very handsome. And Mother assures me he was a brilliant actor. But I can’t help wondering – if he was such a brilliant actor, what was he doing delivering pizzas on the night he died? As for her second husband, Jack, sweetie that he is – and I know Marie and Cyril adore him – he’s just not reliable.
The moon has gone behind a cloud. And I just yawned, which is a giveaway. I’m going to climb into bed now. The thing is not to worry about how things are, but to bring about change. That’s why I’ve started this notebook, this beautiful notebook with its crisp pages and delicious smell – I bought it on that trip to Boulogne (I love stationery) – although there are still some pages left in the old one. This notebook is a book with a purpose. With serious intent. It is a campaign diary. I hereby declare my resolution to put our lives in order, to find Mother a man. Requirements: 1) Money. 2) Experience of small children. 3) French connections.
Constance de Bellechasse… oh, all right, Connie Pickles is on the case.
Monday 10 February
8.30 a.m.
Usual chaos at breakfast. Quick scribble to repeat intentions before school.
Cyril and Marie are fighting over the Beano Jack brought round the other day. Breakfast is from the Tupperware where Mother collects the stuff no one will eat from the bottom of the cereal box: muesli dust and cornflake pap. It saves a lot on wastage, but it does tend to lower the spirits. Cyril has spilt milk on his trousers. We’ve run out of cat food and Dave, our tabby, is winding round everyone’s legs hopefully. The sofa bed, where Mother sleeps, is still out in the sitting room. The radio’s on. There is talk of a war and a ‘long shadow over the economy’. (That’s just what I need.) And Mr Spence, our landlord, ha
s dropped in.
I opened the door and physically barred his entry. ‘Hello?’ I said suspiciously. Marie scrawled felt-tip on the radiator the other day; I thought it might be best if he didn’t see that. Also he was wearing a T-shirt made out of blue string and the smallest pair of satin shorts you’ve ever seen, so I didn’t really want him in the house. His face glowed sweatily and there was a little drip on the end of his nose. He was jogging up and down on the spot as if he didn’t intend to hang around.
But then Mother bustled up behind me and said, ‘Mr Spence, enter, enter, enter.’ (She often says things in threes.) She put her lipstick on the moment she heard the door. She is all woman where all men are concerned.
He stopped jogging and said, ‘John, please. As I’m always saying,’ and she almost simpered. She was wearing her cheap brown suit, with a little pink T-shirt underneath. (She is always, always elegant, unlike me. She has a knack with colour.) Marie had been fiddling with her hair – putting in those sparkle things you twist in – and Mother had just been tickling Cyril to cheer him on with his breakfast, so there was a flush to her cheeks and she really looked lovely. And there was Mr Spence with his pale hairless thighs and his hopeful droopy expression and his damp satin shorts (frankly, I had to avert my eyes).
William will be calling for me any minute – we cycle to school together – and I’m not happy. Mr Spence is inspecting the leaking kitchen roof and Mother’s out in the garden hovering prettily by his bare legs. I don’t know what she’s playing at. It’s time she took the children to school. They’re going to be late. Marie gets in a tizz if she misses register, and Cyril’s got his SATs this year and everything. But she’s still out there flirting with him.
Honestly, if anything is going to galvanize me into action, this is.
Same day
Geography, period five
Push and Pull Factors. We’ve got a supply teacher, so no one’s paying any attention. Karen and Josie – aka The Shazzers – are in the corner fiddling with their gold jewellery. The Grungers are all buried in their headphones. And Joseph Milton, who’s said to be the scariest boy in our class (though not by me: he was at Our Lady of Victories, so I’ve known him since he had to keep a spare pair of pants on his peg), is kissing his teeth at the teacher suggestively. And Julie, my best friend, has got her head down as if she is working hard. Only I know she isn’t.
I found her at break and we sat on the bench near the concrete pit where some of the boys do their skateboarding. Her in her cool parka with the fake-fur collar, me in my pink pack-a-mac (bargain at Cancer Research). Recently the skateboarding seems to have been a bit more show-offy when Julie is on the bench. It’s not that she’s pretty exactly. She’s got large features – a huge nose and a jutting chin and big lips which she licks a lot. But she’s womanly, if you know what I mean. She wears a proper bra, not just a support-vest like me. And she doesn’t care what people think. She says I don’t either or I wouldn’t wear wellies and pink pack-a-macs to school. But I wear wellies and pink pack-a-macs to school because I do care what people think. There’s not enough money for me to buy trendy stuff, so I’d rather opt out altogether. I’d rather be wacky than boring. Charity-shop chic, I call it. Anyway, back to Julie. Not caring is why I think she’s so popular. William says it has more to do with certain other Large Features. That boy can be so childish.
I knew I could tell her about my plan to find Mother a boyfriend and that she would take it in hand. She’s really good at things like that. She’s more clued up than me romantically. She’s had two boyfriends herself, one of them, Phil from the sixth-form college, quite serious. I saw them in the high street at Christmas outside HMV. He had his hand up her jumper. I had to run home and eat chocolate to get over the shock.
‘Hm,’ she said when I explained and ran through my requirements (quick recap – money, interest in France, ability to handle small children). ‘Int-er-est-ing.’ She rolled the word out in a sort of French manner, and took a drag of her cigarette. I don’t smoke by the way. Julie does. It is one of the many differences between us. We met on the very first day of secondary school after she stood up for me when some girls in Year Eight started throwing my tartan beret around and calling me names. ‘Freak yourself!’ she said over her shoulder as she took my arm. We’ve been friends ever since.
At break she gave me a long look. Her eyes under the black eyeliner were very pale green, like the Wedgwood ashtray Mother and Jack got for a wedding present. She’s a bit funny about parents and their other halves. She puts on a voice when she talks about her stepmother. Like, ‘Ali-son thinks Dad should take us out to TGI Friday’s tomorrow night,’ and although I know she loves TGI Friday’s there’s something in the way she leaves the sentence hanging as if even she doesn’t know what she wants from it that makes you wonder. So I didn’t know whether she might be about to tell me not to be stupid or something. But then she grinned. ‘I think we can have fun with this,’ she said. ‘Leave it with me. Double geog. Supply teacher. I need something to keep me busy’
She’s just passed me a note. ‘Walk me to the bus stop after school. I’ve made a list.’
Same day
Kitchen, 5 p.m.
Blissful hour to myself before Jack’s mother, Granny Enid, who looks after Marie and Cyril straight from school, drops them back. It’s v peaceful if I close my eyes to the loose felt-tips and abandoned socks, to the damp spot on the kitchen ceiling. Bit hungry, though. There’s not much in the cupboard, but I found a packet of rice cakes. Some people think rice cakes are just card-board, but if you concentrate on them, you can persuade yourself they’re quite delicious. It’s important not to compare them to other things, like chocolate digestives, that’s all.
I have stuff to record. Operation New Man is under way.
Julie and I met at the sheds and we walked down the hill together – or rather, she walked; I rolled alongside her with my hand on and off the brakes. It wasn’t until the bus stop that she got out her list. This is what it said:
1. ‘Monsieur’ Baker
Don’t! Wait a moment before you move on. I know a teacher is a weird suggestion, but look beyond the hair (lack of) and the peculiar walk. Put the ‘Non, non, non, Mademoiselle’ out of your head. Think: culture. Think: connections. Think: already-speaks-the-lingo. He’s the right age – forty, d’ya reck? – he’s single and he’s got a mobile home in the Dordogne. Don’t puke; I’m thinking of you here, babe.
2. My Uncle Bert
Soo rich, sooo cool, soooo going out with someone else. She’s ghastly. We can fix it. Just imagine yourself living it up in his Chelsea penthouse. He says he can get me two comps for the Electric B’stards at the Palais on Friday. Any point me asking if you want to come? His only fault: an over-dependency on cKone aftershave.
3. New Chemist Guy
The hunky one in the old Levi’s who’s always up a ladder. Either he owns the shop (i.e. financial security, long-term prospects), or he’s just passing through (traveller/artist/possibly recovering drug addict, in which case bin him). Good bum, though (got to count for something).
4. Any exes?
Over to you here, Con. Is there anyone that may have slipped the net? We mustn’t overlook the obvious, e.g. wasn’t there some lush bloke she met on the Tube last year?
Julie was watching me as I read the list, with her head cocked on one side like an expectant dog. I looked at her. Then I said, ‘Monsieur Baker. No way’
Julie said she knew I was going to say that.
‘No way,’ I said again. ‘No way’
I put my head back and slunk, as if slowly dying, to the ground. I made a few choking noises while I was down there. I had a momentary vision of meeting him in the bathroom doorway, him with a towel on…
Julie turned to Margaret Jackson, who was next in the bus queue. ‘Mushroom bake,’ she said. ‘Always stick to cold food in the canteen.’
Then she kicked me, and I stood up.
‘I’m not joking,’ she
said. ‘I’ve thought it through. You don’t have to fancy him. Only your mum does. And just think: Monsieur Baker’s life ambition is to retire to France. Nuff said. Think about it.’
I nodded and said I would, but then her bus came and she got on and, as it shunted up to the lights alongside me, I did the Baker walk – a heavy marionette sort of galumph, sausages for limbs – resting my tongue on my lower lip at the same time (which was a bit unfair because, while he does funnel-up his mouth when he speaks French, he doesn’t actually do that). Julie sat looking out of the bus window, shaking her head at me in pity.
She’s right, though, he’s worth considering. OK, I’ve considered him. No.
We didn’t get a chance to talk about the rest of her list. She said to ring her tonight. Here’s what I think:
Her uncle: hm. Careful: Julie adores him. Boyish body, raddled face, yoof-ful clothes. Would he fill our house with the spirit of maturity I’m after? Would he make Mother happy? Perhaps. I’ve only met him once or twice, the last time at Julie’s mum’s Christmas booze-up. He had his girlfriend with him – one of those karmically poised women with hair that’s a bit too long for their face. He kept putting his hands inside her waistband at the back, which was a bit yuk. A possible.
Chemist Guy: you only ever get to see bits of him – bejeaned bum up a ladder (good spot, Jules), or a corner of his face through the little window at the back. I’ll have to get a full-frontal. Save a fortune on dental floss.
As for exes… Mother’s a disaster on the romance front. The men she meets are either homeless or hapless or, like the man on the Tube, married. And not Jack, please. I know that would make a wonderfully happy ending, but it’s not going to happen here. They are so ill-suited. Mother needs someone to provide order in her life, while Jack… Jack’s not just serially unfaithful. He’s always got some new mad plan – the latest one’s selling fish door to door (he pretends it comes from Newcastle) – but he’s never got quite enough ‘at this precise moment in time’ to pay the bills.
Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles Page 1
