Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles

by Sabine Durrant

  I opened it without thinking. Inside, wrapped in rustling layers of pink tissue paper, was a pale-blue cotton bra with daisies along the cups and a matching pair of pants. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there with them in my hands, feeling my face flush. When I looked up, everyone was looking at me, including Mr Spence. I avoided Cyril (the little sneak – he must have told her about me trying on hers) and said thank you to Mother. ‘But… how –’ I began.

  She laughed and sort of sang, ‘Ah. The man with the set, with the credit note! Remember!’

  ‘But, Mother.

  ‘No. Not another word. Try them.’

  I began to get out of it, but she was so excited and pleased with herself that I didn’t have the heart. Sheepishly, I went up to the bathroom and put them on. I told her through the door that the pants were fine, which they were – like thin shorts really – but she insisted on coming in to check the bra. She fiddled with the straps, raising them up a bit, and tightened the back. Finally she looked me over, with a proud expression on her face. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘You see? How much better your profile? And a good fit, no?’

  I nodded, a thought about the man with the set idly playing in my head.

  When we went downstairs later, Mr Spence was still there. He was just sitting there with the cat on his knee as if he owned the place. (On reflection, I suppose he does own the place.) He said, ‘Lovely jubbly,’ at me like he thought he was Jamie Oliver, and I was almost sick.

  7 p.m

  Just back from dropping in on Delilah. William had, apparently, dropped in already.

  He was sitting on her chair, blue and silver to match her computer desk, kicking off against the floor and swivelling back and forth. Delilah was reclining up on her platform bed; her head at the step end, her dark curls fanning out like Medusa’s locks. She had taken off her socks and was trying to touch the stars on the ceiling with her bare toes.

  ‘It’s a party!’ she said when I came in.

  ‘Your life’s one long party,’ I told her. Then I smelt the incense – Delilah likes to create an atmosphere – and started coughing.

  ‘You OK?’ William stopped swivelling when he saw me. I may have imagined it, but I think his eyes flicked momentarily to my new bust.

  I crossed my arms. ‘Bit of a chest, that’s all.’

  William raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Just so long as it’s not glandular fever like Julie,’ he said.

  ‘Is that what she’s got?’ I said, surprised. ‘I thought it was tonsillitis.’

  ‘Glandular fever’s the story going around school.’

  ‘Too much kissing,’ said Delilah.

  William and I looked at each other and then looked at her. We both laughed.

  ‘What?’

  I pushed the keyboard out of the way and sat on the edge of her desk, ‘I suppose we’re still thinking about your antics last weekend. Have you recovered yet?’

  She got up and threw a pillow at me. ‘Oh, don’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had all that again from Will.’

  I ducked the pillow, which tumbled on the desk, knocking over William’s tea. He hauled up the pink towel on the floor by his feet and started mopping it. She squealed something about her new Oasis dressing gown and plunged down the platform’s steps to pull it out of his hands. There was some jostling and some giggling. I think Delilah may have slapped him round the chest. He dropped the dressing gown and grabbed her wrists.

  ‘Children. Children,’ I said. Delilah, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, picked her dressing gown up off the floor. ‘Hands off my intimates,’ she said, eyeing William flirtatiously with those big blue eyes of hers. You’d think she was a lady of the night the way she carries on, not some virginal Year Nine from an all-girls’ high school.

  ‘Right, I’m off,’ I said. I uncrossed my arms and stuck my chest out. I’d had enough of this. There were more important things going on in the world. Like war, for one thing. ‘Coming?’ I said to William.

  ‘Owh,’ said Delilah. ‘I’ll have to do my prep if you go.’

  ‘Prep?’ William had got up off the chair.

  ‘Posh girls’ homework,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not posh!’

  ‘All right. Keep your top on!’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Right,’ I said, and started leaving. Gratifyingly, William followed me down. ‘See you, then,’ Delilah called after us, at her door.

  Delilah’s parents hadn’t let William take his bike in – they’ve got a new oak floor they didn’t want scratched – and when we came out, someone had nicked a wheel.

  ‘That’ll teach you,’ I said, and even now I don’t know really what I meant.

  In bed, 9 p.m.

  Was happily writing the above when I was disturbed by something AWFUL. The smell of rose and geranium…

  Mother was getting out of the bath, ‘Going out?’ I said.

  ‘No. No,’ she said airily. ‘Bert’s coming round for his lesson.’

  ‘BERT!’ I yelled. I wasn’t expecting to hear his name again. EVER. I thought I was on the case. I thought this was something being dealt with. ‘Here? We still haven’t got our kitchen back.’

  ‘Ah, well, maybe we’ll have a takeaway, chérie.’

  ‘Is he paying?’ I said.

  She looked defensive. ‘Well, it is my house,’ she said.

  ‘It’s ridiculous. We can’t afford it!’ The bra straps were digging into my shoulders.

  She tutted. ‘It is not a good time for merchandise,’ she said. ‘What with –’

  ‘I know, what with the war,’

  I stomped downstairs ahead of her to the sitting room. Cyril and Marie were lying on the floor in their pyjamas, next to the fridge, wrapped in Mother’s duvet.

  I hissed, ‘Ugly Bert is coming round, so you’d better tidy up,’ I was thinking fast. What could I do to impede this visit?

  Marie, who is very impressionable, said, ‘Ugly Bert. I think he’s yuk,’

  ‘Unless we can stop him,’ I said.

  Cyril studied me with a curious expression on his face. Marie was drawing a Barbie princess’s horse and carriage and didn’t seem to notice.

  It was six o’clock. I had two hours to put my plan into place. The first thing I did was go upstairs and get into my pyjamas and dressing gown (phew: the relief of taking off that bra). Then I came down again and lounged on the sofa bed. Mother was tidying up around the children, putting her clothes into piles, the milk back in the fridge, their scabby toast plates into the sink. ‘Aghhh’ I said after a while. The television was on quite loud and no one noticed. ‘Aghh’ I said again.

  Mother looked at me in surprise. I’m very rarely ill. ‘Chérie!’ she said. She felt my forehead. ‘Are you unwell?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel funny’ I said.

  This piqued Marie’s curiosity She was over like a shot. ‘Are you going to be sick?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Aghh.’

  ‘If so, can I watch?’

  ‘Marie!’ Mother’s scold contained a note of alarm. ‘No. No. I can’t have you being sick too.’

  Then I remembered something. About six months ago, Cyril got some bug and spent a whole night puking. About four in the morning, Marie joined in and Mother assumed she’d caught it too. Suspicions were only raised at breakfast when Marie mysteriously tucked into her cornflakes without a care in the world. I didn’t say anything, but I was sure she’d been a victim of sympathy-puke. Some people are more susceptible than others. Marie, whose tastes are finely tuned at the best of times, is very susceptible.

  ‘Yes. I do feel sick,’ I said. ‘I think it’s the smell of the fridge.’

  ‘The fridge!’ Marie turned to stare at it, still looming over the television.

  Mother tutted. ‘No. No. Not the fridge.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The fridge.’ Then I gave another bone-vibrating groan.

  Mother flapped about, getting me a hot-water bottle. Marie went back to her princess, but kept shooting me,
and the fridge, interested glances. Occasionally I would make a gagging motion with my throat and she would quickly look away. I could see her own throat jerk.

  ‘Go to bed if you’re not feeling well.’ Mother got more on edge as 8 p.m. approached. When the doorbell went, she said, ‘Come on. Up,’ switched off the TV and pulled the duvet off Marie and Cyril. Crossly, they both got to their feet just as she let Uncle Bert in. He looked slightly less confident than usual, almost diffident. He made some reference to the builders and the state of the house, and just stood there, a bottle of wine in his hand. Mother was in the doorway saying, ‘Come on, children. Cyril! Marie!’ They began to follow her. I began to panic. But just at that moment, Bert came to my rescue. He was unwrapping the wine from its paper – Californian, I noticed – and touching the side of the bottle with a disgruntled expression on his face. With one pace he crossed to the fridge and, bottle held out, swung it open. I saw my chance, made a lurch with my torso, and let out as loud a gulp as I could muster. Marie spun round. She sniffed. She looked at me. She swallowed. Her eyes glazed. She swallowed again. Her whole body went into spasm and then she was violently, satisfying, sick all over Bert’s feet. Untapped resource, as I said.

  Everything that happened then happened very quickly. Bert, his face screwed up, uttered a succession of horrified noises and disappeared upstairs into the bathroom. Mother, cooing over Marie, who was crying, stripped her of her clothes and then tried to get into the bathroom to wash her down, but couldn’t because Bert had locked the door. ‘Just a minute!’ he shouted quite nastily. ‘I’m cleaning my shoes.’

  ‘Yes, but I need to sort out Marie.’

  ‘Can’t she wait?’ he yelled.

  Marie was still crying, the poor thing. It’s horrible being sick. Guiltily, I could hear her sobs from downstairs, where I had set to with a bucket and cloth. The only thing more horrible than being sick is having anything to do with other people’s sick (funny how, no matter what the person’s eaten, sick always smells the same), but it was the least I could do. Actually I did start gagging, and had to exert all my powers of control to prevent a little sympathy-puke of my own.

  I was on my third bucket of water, careful to breathe through my mouth not my nose, when Uncle Bert thundered down the stairs, holding his shoes in his hand. ‘A bag,’ he said, flicking his blond hair out of his eyes. He had obviously been sponging his trousers too because the bottoms were all wet.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A plastic bag. Have you got a plastic bag? For my shoes.’

  ‘Um.’ I got up and rummaged around in the kitchen. All I could find was the stiff cardboard Pritchard & Benning carrier from earlier. ‘This do?’

  He grabbed it. ‘It will have to.’

  He put his shoes into it and then, his lip curled, pulled off his damp socks, smelt them and stuffed them in too. I got back on to my hands and knees to finish off. The cat was sniffing around the damp patch in a revolting way. ‘Hungry?’ I said, getting off the floor. ‘I’ll get you some proper food.’

  ‘What a to-do!’ I said to Bert as I passed him, swinging the bucket in my hand.

  He glared at me. ‘Are you all ill?’

  ‘Just a bug’ I said airily.

  ‘What sort of bug?’

  ‘Oh, you know, upset stomach and the squits.’ I opened a can of KiteKat and started spooning it on to a dish for the cat. ‘It’s going round school. Julie’s off sick, as you probably know’

  I saw him glance at the cat food and blench. ‘I thought that was a throat infection.’

  I paused. ‘Oh. Maybe,’ I said. And then added very quietly, ‘If that’s what they’re telling you.’

  ‘Oh, Bert. I am so sorry’ Mother had come down the stairs, holding Marie’s hand. Marie was still shuddering with the after-effects of tears. ‘What will you think of us?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I shouldn’t head off. You know, you seem to have your hands full.’

  Mother looked at the wet floor and the bucket filled with swill and gave him a look, which may have contained reproach and may have contained relief. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  ‘Right. OK. Chickacheet.’ He kissed her on the head. ‘Call yer, right?’ And he swung out of the sitting room, still dangling the Pritchard & Benning carrier bag from his fingers. He had got to the end of the hall and was halfway out of the door before he remembered us. ‘Ciao, kids,’ he yelled before escaping with a slam.

  Mother was terribly impressed that I’d cleared up, and very solicitous about my health. After she’d settled Marie, she made me some toast and Marmite. I ate it on the sofa, watching the news. The prime minister was on, looking grave and determined. War has been declared. It really is going to happen now.

  I’ve got a bit stuck in this illness malarkey. I began pretending to feel ill and now I find I actually do feel ill. It must be all that shallow breathing and groaning. I expect it restricts the oxygen to your vital organs or something. I’m lying here in bed, all limp and listless. Occasionally I imagine myself jumping out on to the window sill to see if Delilah’s up, or phoning Julie again, but it’s too late to do either.

  I could be preparing for confession, of course. I’ve now lost count of my sins. It’s awful how one seems to lead to another and each one seems quite valid at the time. It’s other people’s – in particular Mother’s – welfare that is driving me on, after all. It is also astounding how much you can achieve when you put your mind to it. In the past two and a half weeks, I have brought Bert and Mother together and wrenched them apart. The next step – finding her someone else – is bound to be easy All this and I’m only fourteen. The cat is next to me, and he’s purring in approval.

  I wonder what the prime minister is thinking. Does he really want a war? Does he think of himself as all-powerful, omnipotent, as being able to do anything he wants? Or is he lying in bed, sick with dread and fear at what might be about to happen next?

  Thursday 6 March

  Still in bed, 9.20 p.m.

  I didn’t go to school today. I knew we’d have double French with everyone flashing their latest French-exchange letters about. And I didn’t even have to work on an excuse. Mother asked how I was the moment I came down. ‘Still feeling poorly, chérie?’ she said, so I only had to nod.

  Mr Spence was sitting at the table in the back bit of the sitting room, drinking tea and eating toast. He seems to get here earlier and earlier. He and Cyril were discussing the relative merits of crunchy versus smooth peanut butter. I heard him say, ‘I like crunchy on top of ordinary butter, particularly combined with jam, but smooth if I’m just having a cracker. What about you?’

  ‘Same,’ said Cyril.

  Mr Spence said, ‘You’re just copying.’ Cyril and Marie giggled. Honestly, the last thing Mother needs is another child at the table.

  ‘Yeah, well, I think I’d better stay at home today,’ I said. Mr Spence and Mother exchanged a glance. I should have seen what was coming. He said, ‘Well, I’m here all day. So I can tend to the invalid if ness.’ He was wearing a tight red top with a show-off logo on the shoulder and the kind of narrow jeans Julie calls ‘ankle-thinners’.

  I shot Mother a pleading look. ‘Can’t I come to work with you?’ I said. ‘I don’t feel ill ill, just sort of not well. But I won’t be sick or anything.’

  She ummed and ahhed. Mr Spence went into the kitchen and changed into his work clothes. I saw a flash of white leg and royal-blue he-man knickers. Yuk. ‘Please,’ I said, shuddering. ‘I’ll be very good. I don’t want to be –’ I rolled my eyes in his direction (she must know how creepy he is) – ‘left.’

  She studied me for a moment, all sorts of thoughts chasing themselves across her face. ‘Oh. OK,’ she said finally. ‘But be good, huh? Bring a book.’

  I hadn’t realized what a rush it was for her to get C and Μ to school, catch the train, change at Clapham Junction and get to work in time for 9.30 a.m. We had to stand all the way too. No wonder her legs ache all the time.

 
Pritchard & Benning Corsetières is tucked away in a backstreet off a backstreet behind Victoria Station, between a tanning shop and a dry cleaner’s. It has a very unprepossessing shopfront and when it’s shuttered up, as it was when we arrived, gives no outward indication of the wares inside. It’s like something from the olden days. You’d imagine only very ancient and grand ladies totter here to buy 18-hour girdles and Cross Your Heart bras. But actually it’s very much ‘on the map’, as Mrs Pritchard puts it. Posh women – or ‘girls’ – flock in their kitten heels from Hampstead and Notting Hill for their expert fittings. It is in certain circles the only place to get your bosom measured.

  Last time I came was at Christmas, when Jack, the kids and I collected Mother on our way to see Puss in Boots in the West End. We hooted in the street and Mother came flying out. Today, Mrs Pritchard, a great owl of a woman with iron-grey hair and spectacles on a clanking chain round her neck, looked puzzled when she saw me. Mother, hanging up her coat and leaving no room for disagreement, said firmly that I would be ‘like a little mouse’ in the corner. Mrs Pritchard gave me a tight smile and said if I was good I could help double-check sizes with her in the stockroom. ‘Well, Bernadette, it looks like you guessed correctly with 34B,’ she said. ‘Are you happy with your Lejaby Fantasie, Constance?’

  She’s so good at her job I hadn’t even realized she’d sized me up. I crossed my arms over my chest without thinking. ‘Yes, thank you,’ I muttered. I have to say The Bra was a bit more comfortable today.

  There are lots of drawers in the stockroom, for each kind of bust, and basically I had to go through them checking they all contained what they should, that no 36EE had slipped into 32C. It didn’t take long – there were only a few strays in the lower ranges – and after that I made Mother and Mrs Pritchard some coffee in the little narrow kitchen behind the stockroom. ‘How’s Mrs Benning?’ I asked Mrs Pritchard when I brought the cups out. (I’d checked the shop was empty first; she’s quite strict about that.)