Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  Once the horsey woman had left, all friendly and pony-like now, John gave me a funny look. His eyebrows went up very slightly in the middle. And after that I decided perhaps he wasn’t as scary as I’d first thought.

  We got out of there finally and walked slowly and maturely down the high street, saying things like, ‘So that’s interesting, isn’t it, about the Office of Fair Trading guidelines,’ and, ‘Well, Julie, I suppose really we ought to interview the manager of Boots next for a really rounded view,’ until we got to Chelverton Road, when we ran for a bit, tugging on each other’s coats until we were past the bus garage, and then collapsed in a heap of nervous giggles in the gutter. It seemed glorious for a moment to be fourteen, to be so mad and wicked and find each other so funny. But then Julie had to get home so we got up, dusted ourselves down, and walked to the bus stop. Once there, we ran through What We Had Learnt So Far.

  A. He owns the business – which is very good only it does make his surname Leakey, which has unfortunate incontinent connotations.

  B. He appears to be single. I was not so sure about this, but Julie said he wouldn’t have been so cagey if he had a family. Any excuse and people with children get out their photos.

  C. He’s nice. Julie wanted to know how I could be sure. I reminded her about the reassuring hand he had put on his assistant’s shoulder. Sweet to his staff. Can’t say more than that.

  ‘The only thing is,’ I said, ‘if I had to throw one spanner in the works, it’s quite clear the nature of his job renders him impervious to the charms of the opposite sex.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I drew attention to the fact that our chemist hadn’t flirted at all, not one iota, not a glimmer, zilch, with the racehorse woman. ‘And she was attractive,’ I said. ‘Very.’

  Julie said yes, but that she did have threadworm.

  ‘As far as he’s concerned,’ I pointed out, ‘everyone has. What our chemist sees is the inner ailment. “Oh, hello, top supermodel: how’s the stress incontinence?” Young Hollywood starlet: “What news on the piles?”’

  Julie said she thought I was looking for trouble where there wasn’t any, but that it was worth covering ourselves. ‘We’ve started on The Chemist,’ she said. ‘Now for Plan B. Watch out, Uncle Bert.’

  I’m writing this on the loo and I’d better be quick because I’ve just heard Jack turn up to babysit. I can smell fried fish and he’ll be laden with a new bag of knock-off vids. Squeals of laughter are coming from downstairs and the occasional bellow from Jack. In a moment there will be a banging on the door. He’ll want to know what Mother’s up to. She’s actually having a drink with her friend Carol, but I won’t let on. I’ll tell him he’s burnt his bridges and ask how Jane is. I mean June. I mean Jackie. Oh, sorry, what’s the new one called again? And then he’ll pretend to box my ears. And the four of us will sit down together, like we used to when he lived here, and watch Star Wars, episode five or six or 532 or wherever we’re up to. I hope the quality’s not too bad; it was quite hard to hear last time. Oh, and then Marie and Cyril will fall into bed, overexcited and tearful. But under the circumstances – viz. my appalling attendance record of today – I can’t exactly complain.

  I’ve just got one more thing to write. When I got home after the chemist’s, there was William on the doorstep – again. He told me he was locked out, which sounded like an excuse. I was longing to think about today and make plans for Friday – I’ve told Julie I will go to see the Electric B’stards to suss out Uncle Bert – but I let William in anyway.

  We went straight up to the roof, where I was hoping we could sit in companionable silence, but it turned out I was doomed to have my peace shattered because who should stick her curly head out of next-door’s window but Delilah, my next-door neighbour.

  Delilah is one of those friends you have because of circumstances rather than choice. We’ve lived next door to each other all our lives – my mother used to child-mind her while her mum was at the hairdresser’s (about eight times a week) – so I’ve grown to love her. Well, sort of anyway. She’s going through a funny boy-mad phase and also she’s at the girls’ high, which is private, so even though we’re next-door neighbours (our houses couldn’t be more different – hers is like something out of Elle Decoration, mine out of Recycling Weekly), our lives are miles apart.

  This evening she said, ‘Can you two stop yakking? Some of us have got Latin declensions to do.’ They do a lot of declenshing at the girls’ high.

  William said, ‘What are you wearing?’ and she darted back in again. I knew what she was doing: getting out of her school gingham pinafore.

  I was right. When she came back, she was wearing pinky eyeshadow that clashed with the blueness of her eyes, and a tight white top with can-can dancers prancing across the squishy outline of her padded bra. Delilah’s as bad as Mother when it comes to boys. She’s even got a Snog Log by her bed.

  She said in a mock-Cockney voice she often uses when she talks to William, ‘So you two coming down the youth club on Friday? They’ve got a Valentine’s Pitch and Putt Special.’

  William said, ‘Might.’ He can be quite laconic when it comes to Delilah.

  She said teasingly, ‘Connie?’

  I pretended to think about it for a moment. ‘Valentine’s Day, is it?’ I said. I haven’t been to the youth club since the summer disco when that boy from north London put his tongue in my throat and I thought I was going to gag. (I do not have a Snog Log and have no intention of EVER GETTING ONE.) I said, ‘Nah, I’m going to the Electric B’stards.’

  Delilah and William both looked at me. Delilah was so surprised she forgot to stop sounding posh. ‘Really?’ (It came out like, ‘Rilly?’)

  ‘Yup. With Julie. Her Uncle Bert gets free tickets.’

  Delilah said, ‘On Friday?’

  William said, ‘With Julie?’

  They were beginning to annoy me. I know I said I don’t go to the youth club, but am I so weird that the thought of me doing anything remotely ‘teenage’ is completely out of the question? I said, ‘A girl’s got to start somewhere.’

  Delilah was leaning out so far I was worried she might topple, and that would be a shame. She said excitedly, ‘Ooh, can I do your make-up? What are you going to wear? Hang on.’ Her curly head disappeared again and then reappeared along with an arm brandishing a magazine. Her voice got all squeaky. She said, ‘Can I do a Mates Makeover? There’s one in here. Look at her there, minging, and then look at her – lush. Oh, go on, Con. I’ve always wanted to do a Mates Makeover.’ She gave me one of her appealing gap-toothed smiles.

  I became all dignified then and told her that I was happy as I was. William, laughing, said the polyester dress and thick stockings look was greatly underrated, so I had to dig him in the ribs.

  He did lots of ‘Ow’ing and schoolboy doubling up, all feet and limbs.

  Before she poked her head back in, Delilah said prettily, ‘See you on Friday, then, Will.’

  Will? Who does she think she is?

  Saturday 15 February (Or the morning after the Electric B’stards)

  11.30 a.m.

  It’s a boisterous day – the glass in the back door is rattling and birds are wheeling high up in the white sky. We’ve just been to confession. It’s ironic but true that when I last wrote in here – four days ago – I felt gloriously wicked. Now I’m deep in sin.

  I did confess something. I said how furious and resentful I felt yesterday when everyone was bandying their French-exchange letters about. I asked Father O’Connor whether I wasn’t too young for self-sacrifice and he said, ‘My child, you are never too young to do what the good Lord wants.’ So then I was in a sulk and didn’t confess any of the things I should have.

  Confession No. 1: Unkind Words

  The first thing I should have confessed to was my reaction yesterday morning to William’s valentine card. I should have thanked him nicely and left it at that. He stood rubbing the back of his neck while I opened it. I knew what it
was going to be. Our house that morning was no stranger to the valentine card. Mother had two (TWO! One from Jack, but the other?), and Marie has been busy with the glitter for weeks now.

  William said, ‘Is it OK?’

  It was quite plain as cards go: pink flowers on the outside and ‘Love?’ in pink bubble-writing within. Technically it was my first ever. I got sent one a few years ago, but it turned out to be from Mother. (Note to self: never, unless you are into ritual humiliation, send a valentine card to your own daughter.)

  ‘Yeah,’ I said lightly.

  ‘I bought it just now,’ he said.

  I told him I could tell because the glue on the envelope was still damp. I yanked my bike out past him and said, ‘But you didn’t have to.’

  And then a goofy expression came over his face, like he was expecting something more from me.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Race you.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Girly from the block.’

  ‘What?’

  Well, I won’t bore on. But basically it turned out he’d got a valentine card himself which – duh – he thought was from me. Would I ever call myself ‘girly from the block’? I ask you. He pulled the card in question out of his pocket – if I had sent it, I might have wanted to have words about how scrumpled it was – and one look at the handwriting and I knew which blue-eyed pink-eyeshadowed ‘girly from the block’ it was from.

  ‘That’s not from me. That’s from Delilah,’ I said. I held the card he’d sent me out to him and said, ‘Give it to her, then. I don’t want it.’

  William had been laughing – not at all embarrassed like he should have been – but at this he flushed. He got on his bike and rode off. I cycled after him but I didn’t catch him up. Time was when I won any race, but recently he seems to be outpacing me. Still, at least I’ve still got an inch on him in height.

  I met Delilah in the street later. In honour of the Valentine’s Day Pitch and Putt, she was wearing a T-shirt with lipstick kisses all over it and had painted a red heart on each cheek.

  ‘Big on hearts today, aren’t you?’ I said.

  She smiled coyly. ‘Did Will tell you about the card, then? What did he say?’

  I hesitated and then said he was chuffed.

  She smiled again, her cheek-hearts bunching. ‘I sent ten,’ she said.

  I said I hadn’t realized she knew ten boys.

  She sniffed. ‘Don’t forget I was in the school play. We borrowed boys for that.’

  Confession No. 2: Deceiving Others

  At school Julie was clutching two valentine cards. They were both the size of billboards with padded velvet hearts in the centre. Inside of each was printed: ‘Roses are red/Violets are blue/My heart’s all furry/Stroke it, please do.’

  One, she said, was from Mother to The Chemist, the other from Mother to Mr Baker. There was no point sending one to Uncle Bert, as Mother hadn’t met him yet.

  I said, ‘I’m not sending a card to Mr Baker.’

  She tried to persuade me, but I wouldn’t be budged.

  ‘Oh, all right, then,’ she said, running her tongue over her sumptuous lips. ‘But The Chemist? OK? You’ve got to do it because you know your mum’s handwriting.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘And you’ve got to think of something she buys there that he might know her by.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. Toothpaste? Lipstick?’

  I racked my brains. Mother hadn’t been in for months. Not since Marie had that weird rash. There was only one thing she bought regularly…

  ‘OK. I know,’ I said.

  We did it in break and I dropped it in on my way home. Luckily, the woman with the wiry hair didn’t see me. There was a new poster in the window saying AID NOT BOMBS and a small notice next to it, advertising a vacancy. I slipped the card through the letter box.

  What he’s going to think when he sees it, I don’t know. The card read, ‘All my love from the satisfied purchaser of Neutrogena T/Gel Anti-Dandruff Shampoo.’

  Confessions Nos. 3, 4, 5: Appropriation of Another’s Property, Inconsideration Towards Fellow Human Beings, Total Lack of Compassion, or Just General Wickedness

  Which brings me to last night, Uncle Bert and the Electric B’Stards.

  Julie, who seems to be having more fun with this than I could have thought imaginable – really, she’s wasted at school, I’ve told her that – said I had only one job when she and Uncle Bert came to pick me up, and that was not to come down after I heard the doorbell. I was to wait upstairs, pretending to get ready, for thirty minutes. She needed the time, she said, a) to give Mother and Bert a chance to get to know each other, and b) to plant her props. Her plan was to steal his phone and hide it somewhere in our house. I was to ‘find’ it the next day and then he’d have to come by to collect it.

  Naturally I didn’t need the extra time to get ready. I hate looking at myself in the mirror. There are all these bulges these days that don’t seem to meld together like they should. I know I should have a proper bra – not just a support-vest – but I don’t like drawing attention to my boobs. I’d rather they were hidden away. They’re nowhere near as big as Julie’s anyway. And I already knew what I was going to wear: what I was wearing already (which happened to be the knee-length tweed skirt and purple polyester top I’d worn to school).

  So when Julie, Uncle Bert and Sue, his girlfriend, were drawing up outside our house, I was just sitting in the bathroom, waiting. I missed the next bit, but Julie told me about it later.

  Apparently Bert didn’t switch the engine off, just told Julie to run in and get me. He’s ‘in merchandising’, you see, and needed to get back to the venue ‘sharpish’. Julie, thinking fast, put on a little girl’s voice: ‘Oh, but it’s so dark.’ Uncle Bert, impatient to get the show on the road (literally), switched off the ignition, got out and came to the door with her – leaving Sue in the car. (God, Julie was pleased with herself when she told me this.)

  All I heard was Mother calling, ‘Constance! Time, time, time!’

  ‘Just doing my hair,’ I yelled back. ‘Give me five minutes. Sorry’

  Downstairs, Uncle Bert huffed a bit, but Mother told them to come in and they stood in the kitchen while she cleared the dishes. She’d taken her eyes out because they were hurting and I knew she was wearing her big black-rimmed glasses. By now she had also stepped out of her heels and was tiptoeing around the kitchen in her tights. Julie said this wasn’t a problem, that it made her seem even more petite (in a completely unrelated aside, can I point out how uncomfortable it is being so much bigger than one’s mother?), which was lucky because Uncle Bert is quite small himself.

  Unfortunately Mother’s charm was not in full flow. For one thing, she kept coming to the bottom of the stairs and calling up. Julie said Uncle Bert looked at his watch and jigged about, but some sort of conversation struggled through. Mother said it was very kind of him to take me – ‘if Constance ever, ever, ever appears!’ – and he said it was a pleasure, that it was nice to let others enjoy the perks of his job. Silence. He studied the photograph of Euston Road in the rain which we have on the wall. He said, ‘Is it New York?’ and Mother said, ‘No, it’s ’uston Road.’ He said, ‘Houston? In Texas?’ And she said, ‘No, ’uston Road in ’uston, London.’ Unlucky this: she gets annoyed when people pick up on her accent. (She thinks she doesn’t have one.)

  For me, upstairs, waiting the first ten minutes wasn’t too bad. Then I began to worry. It’s my worst sort of thing, not doing what’s expected of you. I paced for a bit, and then I sat on the stool, listening to the leaking bath tap drip, drip, drip. Each time Mother called up my heart gave a leap of anxiety. Then I began to pick at the stool’s cork top. I studied the stain on the bath until I made it look like a wizard with a huge gold cloak. And then a strange thing happened. I began to think I would sit there forever. I would just sit there picking at the stool all night. My watch ticked round to seven o’clock and for a few seconds I stared
at it, wondering what I was supposed to do now.

  Then I heard Julie shout, ‘Constance. We’re ready for you!’ and I jumped to it.

  When I came down, all I could smell was cKone. Mother looked at my hair, which I’d just pulled back, and said, ‘>Chérie!’ rather weakly. Julie snorted. (What were they expecting? A Mohican?) Uncle Bert didn’t say anything. He was already halfway out of the door. Julie gave me a thumbs up behind his back to show she’d done the deed. Mother kissed me, smudging with her thumb a little bit of what I assumed to be toothpaste away from the side of my mouth, and told us to amuse ourselves.

  In the car there was ‘an atmosphere’. I don’t think Uncle Bert’s girlfriend had appreciated being kept waiting. She was squashed up in the back with me and I kept saying I was sorry, but her annoyance didn’t seem to be directed at me. There was a sports bag gaping open between us with a white T-shirt bundled in at the top, half hanging out. It smelt of Bert’s cKone and she kept twisting it with one hand and punching it further in.

  Uncle Bert’s car, according to Julie, is a Spider, but it felt more like a Fly in the back: zippy, still and then fast with sudden spurts of acceleration. Something was buzzing too: I think it might have been a vibration in the window frames. All the way to Hammersmith, Julie would twist round from the front seat and say things like, ‘So how old was your mother when she had you?… So young.’ ‘A widow at twenty-three! How did your father die? Killed delivering pizzas? That’s so sad. So brave. Brave as well as beautiful.’ ‘Bernadette. That is such a romantic name.’

  I couldn’t help laughing out loud at that one, but most of the time I was more worried about Sue. It may just have been the position she was in – her knees bent round to one side, her blonde head slightly ducked – but she seemed to have lost some of her karmic poise. She’s very pretty, despite the length of her hair.