‘Long-Term Relationship. Much harder to destroy. You’ve got habit as well as affection to deal with then. Now. I’ve had a few thoughts. It’s clear to me that part of Uncle Bert’s attraction to your mum is her availability…’
‘Steady on,’ I said.
‘No. I don’t mean that rudely. I just mean Sue had gone off to Australia and there was your mum, pretty and flattered and in need of saving. I know my uncle. He was bored. He was hungry He always needs a woman to feed him. If it had been a bit hard, on the other hand, he wouldn’t have bothered. What was that Shakespeare thing we did in English last year? “Thou shalt not to true love admit impediments”? Something like that. Anyway, impediments are not Uncle Bert’s thing. So. We need to make it hard for him.’
‘How would we do that?’ A memory of Marie’s last tantrum came into my mind.
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’
‘We’d better be quick,’ I said. ‘They’re out again tonight.’
‘OK.’ She checked the display on her phone again. Then lay forward on the bed, on her stomach, with a pen in her hand and the notebook resting on the pillow. I paced the room, occasionally pausing to stare out of the window up at the sky, or down at the patchwork quilt of suburban gardens, stitched with fences. Finally we came up with a list that went like this:
Impediments
1. Make it hard for Bernadette to see Uncle Bert. Cancel babysitter (do this tonight?). Fake illness. Pass on false messages. Generally bugger it up.
2. Put Bernadette off Bert, and Bert off Bernadette. Besmirch characters, spread malicious rumours. Hide Bernadette’s make-up.
3. Find new love interest for Bernadette.
Most of this came from Julie. Point three was my addition. I insisted. After all, it was Operation New Man that began all this.
Every few minutes while we were plotting, Julie would check on her phone. We were about to refer to our initial list when it finally rang. Well, I say rang. It actually played the chorus from the Electric B’stards number-one single, ‘Spit on My Shoes’.
Julie leapt up, grabbed the phone and then sat on the edge of the bed holding it in her palm for a few bars before answering. When she did, she said, ‘Hell-o,’ on a half laugh as if she was in the middle of sharing a joke with someone. ‘Oh. Hi.’ She sounded cool, slightly surprised to have heard from whoever it was. ‘This afternoon? Oh. Um. Let me think.’ She put her hand over the phone, waited and then lifted it. She was so offhand I was sure was going to say no. ‘Er, actually that should be OK. The UGC at 5.30? Sure. See you.’ When she hung up, she clasped the phone to her breast and closed her eyes. ‘Connie,’ she said, ‘I am in love.’
‘Oh yes?’
She opened them. ‘He’s called Ade. He was at Dan Curtis’s party.’
‘And?’
‘He’s gorgeous. He’s in the sixth form at St Antony’s – doing his AS levels this year. Quite posh, but well fit.’
Apparently she and Carmen had been outside the party, which was in the recreation centre, having a ciggie on the swings, and he’d come up and bummed a light. They’d ended up messing around outside for a while. He’d climbed up the frame of the swing and hung upside down from the bar and then Carmen had got cold and had gone back into the party and Julie and Ade had talked for ages and then he’d walked her home. They’d spent her cab money on chips and had sat on the wall outside her house sharing them and talking some more until her mum had banged on the bathroom window and Julie had to go in.
Partly I loved hearing about this. She was so funny doing an imitation of her mum’s face, peering out into the darkness without her specs on, but a tiny bit of me felt envious and yearning. I sort of wished I’d gone to the party. I mean, even Cinder-delilah had in the end. Would I have felt out of place, like I always think I will?
‘And now he’s asked you on a date,’ I said. I was doing pretend sixties dancing with my arms, rolling them round with one flying out, to illustrate excitement, and to hide the fact I was feeling left out. I was wearing my zip-up mohair cardy and a pair of baggy men’s trousers. ‘And you’re seeing him – when?’
Julie looked at her watch and rubbed her forehead. ‘Oh God. In a couple of hours. I’d better go home and put on my warpaint.’
I was still doing my silly jerky dance. ‘You. Better. Had.’
She went ahead of me down the stairs. ‘So, Mission Break-Up. Are you on the case? You’ve got to think of a way to stop Jack from babysitting tonight.’
I followed, jogging down each step one by one. ‘Yup,’ I said. I don’t know why I was behaving so stupidly. I expect I was still feeling a little self-conscious around her and also a bit disappointed that, after everything, she was leaving so soon.
But Julie turned when she reached the bottom of the first flight and watched me. She was laughing. ‘Con,’ she said, ‘in all seriousness, do you think it might be time you bought a wired bra?’
That was two hours ago. Since then, I have studied myself in the mirror, stationary and joggling, sideways and front-on. Julie is right. There is quite a lot of movement there now. But do I really have to get a proper upholstered bra? I don’t want one. Is it because I don’t want to grow up? It can’t be that. I am grown-up. When I was, like, five, people were telling me how grown-up I was. I like my support-vests. They’re cosy and safe. Real bras look so uncomfortable. I can see the purple lacy one Mother was handwashing earlier on the line. I’m going to experiment.
I’ve just sneaked down and slipped it off the dryer to bring it back up to the bathroom. Cyril saw me. ‘What are you doing with Mother’s bra?’ he said. I just glared at him and ran past. It’s still a bit damp, but the main problem is it was actually too small. I’d need a bigger one. Oh Lord.
My room, 9 p.m.
I had to have a lie down to recover from the bra exertions, and was reclining on the sofa when the doorbell went. Mother opened the door. It was William.
‘You all right?’ he said, squatting down next to me on the floor. He was wearing baggy army shorts, a washed-out red T-shirt with a torn neck and writing you couldn’t read, and his huge, new, gleaming white trainers. I noticed the muscles on his calves, and the pale inner thighs where there aren’t any hairs.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked him.
‘Playing tennis with my brother.’
‘Glad you’ve made some concession to whites,’ I said, nodding at his Nikes.
‘No one cares down the rec,’ he said. ‘You ill?’
‘Malingering,’ I said truthfully.
He stood up and put out his hands to pull me off the sofa. ‘Come on, let’s go for a bike ride down the towpath. It’s quite sunny out. Unless you’ve got homework.’
‘I’ve done it,’ I said. ‘Did it on Friday afternoon.’
He grinned at me. ‘Course you did.’
It was sunny down by the river, warm on the back of your neck. William raced ahead of me. He’s still wearing his pant elastic above his shorts. He turned back once. ‘Having a bit of trouble with your old men’s trews?’ he hollered, which made me put on an extra spurt to catch up with him. It’s bumpy along the towpath, and you have to slow down for the occasional ambling family group, but we cycled alongside each other most of the way. I’d forgotten my lingerie crisis and was filled with good spirits, and relief. William has that effect on me sometimes. And I don’t think I’d realized how unhappy the Uncle Bert thing had made me. I knew he was wrong for Mother, but couldn’t face up to it with Julie behaving so oddly towards me in case it made things worse between us. Now both anxieties had been cleared up in one fell swoop. All I had to do was think of a way to prevent their date tonight. And it was sunny at last. So bugger bras.
When we reached the boathouse we threw our bikes on the ground and ran down the ramp to the sludgy beach below. ‘What are you smiling about?’ William asked.
‘Nothing.’ I picked up a pebble and skimmed it across the grey water. ‘I’ve made up with Julie.’
William was trying to hit a buoy several metres into the river. ‘What was all that about, then?
‘I don’t know. But it’s all right now.’
‘Funny girl.’
‘Who? Me or her?’
‘Julie.’
‘She is not.’
‘She is. Likes things her own way.’
‘At least she’s not spoilt like Delilah.’
‘Delilah’s not spoilt, she’s messed up.’ His last stone hit the buoy. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Did you hear what she did last night?’
‘Who? Julie?’
‘No. Delilah.’
‘Did I hear about it? I saw it. Or them, I should say.’
‘Oh.’ The impact of William seeing Delilah topless was momentarily swept away by the realization that everyone I knew had been at Dan Curtis’s the night before. ‘You were there too, then?’
‘Yup. Poor little cow.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I didn’t see much. There were too many people around her. By the time I reached her, she had put her top back on. She was out of her head. I don’t know how I got her home.’
‘You took her home? That was nice.’
He looked a bit grim. ‘Someone had to.’
‘Julie was there too.’
‘I know I saw her walking off with some bloke at the end.’
We had sat down on the end of the ramp. The sun was getting low and I pulled my mohair cardy round me and rested my chin on my knees. ‘He’s called Ade. He’s asked her out,’ I said, looking out at the river. I watched a couple of swans glide past a large piece of driftwood. ‘They’ve gone to the cinema.’
One of the swans was floating away from the other, towards the bank, where the water gleamed like petrol. William was saying something.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, “Do you fancy going to the cinema some time?’”
‘What?’
‘The cinema.’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you want to go some time?’
The swan had drifted back towards its mate. It was feeling cooler now.I didn’t have much time. How was I going to stop Mother going out with Bert tonight? Could I ring him and say Mother was ill? How could I do that without being found out? ‘Not really,’ I said absent-mindedly.
William cycled back with me to my house, but didn’t come in. Delilah must have been watching from her window, though, because she was in his face before he had a chance to cycle off. She was wearing her black Juicy tracksuit, sparkly flip-flops and big pink lipstick.
‘Will, Will, Will,’ she said. ‘I made such an idiot of myself last night. I was just, like, wasted. How can I ever, ever thank you for being such an angel?’
‘Hi, Delilah,’ I said.
‘Sorry. Hello, Connie.’
William – or should I call him ‘Will’? – muttered, ‘S’all right.’
I said, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t get cold, that’s all. I mean, it’s only March.’
She laughed and I felt mean.
William got on to his bike, muttering about homework, and Delilah drifted back into her house. I went in, still trying to cook up a plan. My family was watching 101 Dalmatians, for about the hundred and first time. Marie looked up when she saw me in the doorway and said, ‘Daddy’s not coming because Mum’s not going out, after all.’ I looked at Mother, who was in the armchair next to the fridge mending Cyril’s school jumper. She said, ‘Bert rang. Something came up.’
I stared at her, my mind racing. So I didn’t need to think of a way to cancel Jack. Julie must have got to Uncle Bert first. What on earth could she have said to him? (I’ve just tried to ring her, but she’s still not back from the cinema.)
Then Cyril said, ‘I’m sad because I wanted to see Dad,’ which gave me a momentary pang. That’s the problem with war. There are always innocent casualties.
After Cyril and Marie had gone to bed, Mother and I looked at the photo albums like we used to. There are pictures of her, a young girl in Paris, on the back of someone’s Vespa. (So romantic.) There are pictures of a small smart couple, arms round each other, outside a church. Her parents. But she closed the book then and put it back. We watched the news – more soldiers, more politicians – and then we watched my father’s video. She didn’t look sad. In fact, even as I write I can hear her singing the jingle in the bathroom. ‘Cari, Cari, Carrrrib-vod.’ And if a tiny jolt of loneliness crossed her face when I said I was going up to bed, it has only hardened my resolve.
Monday 3 March
My bedroom, 6 p.m.
Julie wasn’t inschool today, so I still don’t know what she cooked up yesterday. V frustrating. Carmen and I rang her from Carmen’s mobile at break. We could hardly hear what she said, her throat was so bad. Tonsillitis, she thinks. She managed to whisper, ‘How’s the project?’ to me before her mother made her hang up.
Yikes. I thought I was off the hook. I suppose one cancelled date does not a relationship break. I’d better get to it. Bad-mouthing, I think. Bad-mouthing I can manage.
Back from a trip downstairs, 7 p.m.
Mother was making tea for Mr Spence, who was in the sitting room leaning against the shipwrecked fridge, wriggling his shoulders and rubbing his back in a ‘phew, I’ve been busy with the old manual work today’ sort of way (I’m sure it’s time he was getting home.)
I went to the bookshelf and said in a casual way, as if it was something that had been idly bothering me for a while, ‘How old would you say Bert is?’
Mother was holding the teabag and dipping it in and out of the hot water. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she said.
‘Well, what do you think? Thirty-eight? Forty? I know he acts like a teenager, but he can’t be much younger than Julie’s mum and she’s at least forty-five.’
‘Connie!’ She gave me a steely look and then smiled at Mr Spence as she handed him his mug. ‘I don’t know. It’s rude to comment like that.’
Marie, bless her little cotton socks, piped up from the plate of spaghetti hoops she was eating at the table, ‘I think he’s ugly’
‘Marie!’ Mother threw Mr Spence another smile.
‘And he smells.’
Mother said, ‘Really!’ and frowned, but I did a thumbs up to Marie. Completely unrehearsed! Marie may well be an untapped resource.
Rang Julie to tell her. Her mother says she’s too ill to come to the phone.
Tuesday 4 March
Bedroom, 8 p.m.
Today I started on Granny Enid.
She had just settled Marie and Cyril in front of the television and was standing in the kitchen doorway, giving Mr Spence a pursed look. (She clearly doesn’t think much of the way you can see his hairy legs through the holes in his tracksuit bottoms either.) Mother was late in, so I had time to say, ‘Have you heard about this man Mother’s giving French lessons to?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, isn’t it good, dear?’
‘No, it’s not.’ I was whispering because of Mr S. ‘He’s not very nice.’
‘Constance!’
‘He just isn’t. He’s…’ I lowered my voice even further. ‘He’s seeing other women.’
Enid took a sharp intake of breath. I’d got her on a raw spot. (She’s never recovered from Jack’s treatment of Mother.) ‘Poor lamb. Widowed at such an early age and then shackled to such a disaster of a man…’
This distracted me. I always feel I need to stand up for Jack when even his mother’s horrible about him. I said brightly, ‘The fish thing doesn’t seem to be going too badly,’ but she just sniffed, as if she could smell it from there. I said, ‘Anyway, can you have a word with her about this bloke Bert?’
She shook her head. ‘I really don’t think it’s my place. Sssssh.’ Mr Spence had materialized at my shoulder.
He said, ‘Sorry to disturb your little confabulation, but if it is all right with you two lovely ladies, I need to move, to redeploy, my ladder.’ Now he’s more relaxed around our house – he should be, he bloody
well lives in the place – he keeps putting on silly voices like this.
I raised my eyes to the ceiling and moved out of the way, and after that I didn’t have a chance to say any more, because Granny E. realized the time and left, but at least I’ve planted a seed.
Wednesday 5 March
Sitting room, 5.30 p.m.
I’ve progressed to wanton destruction. Desperate measures. I was late in from school and came straight up to my room to avoid having to talk to Mr Spence.
I ran down when I heard the phone go, but he got there first. I heard him say, ‘Wandsworth Borough Lunatic Asylum. Only joking, how can I help? No, she’s not here. I’ll take a message, shall I?’
When I came down again later, Mother was home and Mr S. had changed into his smart clothes. If you ask me, he definitely hangs around each night to see her.
‘Bernadette,’ he said (no messing around with surnames any more, I’ve noticed). ‘Could I have a little word about the… the roof tiles? In the garden. If that’s all right?’
‘John, of course,’ she said, and followed him out.
I watched them. He was talking, looking up at the roof. She was listening hard. At one point, she put her hand on his arm. I shuddered, looked away, and that was when I saw the piece of paper on the counter. It was a Sainsbury’s receipt. And on the back of it Mr Spence had written, ‘5.05 p.m.: Bert rang. He’ll be in tonight. Please could you ring him back.’
I inhaled sharply. So, he’d called. He hadn’t been completely put off by Julie. Yet. I wavered for a moment and then I picked up the receipt, scrumpled it and stuffed it into my pocket. Outside in the garden, I heard Mother say, ‘All I care about, John, is that it doesn’t happen again.’ I paused, suddenly guilt-struck. Her with a leaky kitchen roof and a flaky boyfriend. I took the receipt out of my pocket, smoothed it and put it back on the table. But now it looked suspicious. Who would write a note on a crumpled receipt? It was too late. I picked it up, ran back up here, tore it into pieces and ran down again.
They were coming in from the garden. Mother was laughing in a flirtatious way, stroking Marie’s head at the same time. She was still wearing her coat and holding a bag from work. A carrier bag with Pritchard & Benning on the outside. Suddenly, she turned and handed it to me. ‘I had to guess the size,’ she said.
Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles Page 8
