I got my instructions from Julie at school today Do camouflage the rug rats. Don’t hog the conversation. Do go to the loo for long periods of time to give them a chance to talk. Don’t let him leave early. Do put on romantic music. Do go to bed early myself.
I’ve plumped up the sofa-bed cushions. I’ve laid the table. I’ve dusted the TV. The food’s ready… Mother’s set the tape for ER, but she hasn’t changed. She hasn’t had a rose-and-geranium bath either. She’s very relaxed about it all, unlike me! Oh, I wish I didn’t feel so nervous.
Doorbell. HELP!
My bedroom, 11.30 p.m.
I’ve left my door open and I can hear the occasional peal of laughter above the music. The CD seems to be on repeat and no one has noticed. I should get into my pyjamas, but I can’t stay still. I can’t go to bed until he leaves. They’ve both got work tomorrow. This can’t go on much longer.
He looked twitchy when he arrived, handing me a bottle of wine – not New World, but French! – and a foursome of Cokes, and sort of peering in past me like he was worried what he might find. He had on different jeans from the ones he had on in the shop; these were stonewashed in places, dark blue with artificially faded grooves across the thighs and knees. And he was wearing a black leather jacket over a thin black polo-neck jumper, which I didn’t really like. I think he needs light, or bright, colours to compensate for the darkness of his colouring. Not that I said anything, of course.
Mother was washing up the children’s fish-finger plates and came out, drying her hands on a tea towel. She looked taken aback when she saw him. I suppose she might have been expecting someone much older, like Mr Leakey senior, retired. I introduced them, and they shook hands. A little while later, Mother went upstairs to check on Μ and C, and when she came down she’d refreshed her lipstick.
It was a bit awkward at first. From the kitchen, where I was fiddling about with the grill pan, trying not to set light to the chicken breasts, I could hear faltering attempts at conversation, to do with retail and market forces. At one point I heard them talking about me – my ‘maturity’ (yikes). But then she, not very subtly, went over to check the video and he asked what she was taping and she said, ‘ER,’ and he said, ‘But I love ER,’ and before I knew it (which was actually after quite a bit of time as the chicken didn’t seem to be quite cooking through) they had sat down together to watch it. When the meal was finally ready, Mother asked if they could have it on a tray and I got quite snippy. ‘I’ve laid the table,’ I said. After that, it all went with a buzz. He wasn’t grumpy like he can be. He told lots of jokes and did impressions of some of his customers. He didn’t even look annoyed when the conversation came round to the war and Mother said she thought those pictures of the injured and dead people looked ‘manufactured’. He simply said, ‘Well, I don’t know. The pictures may be used as propaganda, but that doesn’t mean the bombing didn’t happen.’ And she shrugged, but not rudely, more as if perhaps she agreed, after all.
I’d still be down there if it wasn’t for Julie. She rang during supper. ‘You still up?’ she hissed.
I was still laughing from John’s impression of the Zantac drug rep. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Supper was rather late in the end.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t still be there. Go to bed. Leave them.’
‘But – John hadn’t stopped for my phone call. He was opening an invisible briefcase with the self-important flourish of a cabinet minister. Mother had thrown back her head to laugh. ‘It’s early. It’s only…’
‘Ten thirty. Bugger off.’
‘But we haven’t had pudding.’
‘Connie.’ There was a warning in her voice.
I felt my knees go weak. ‘OK.’
I went back to the table. Mother’s feet were resting on my empty seat. She moved them out of the way when she saw me, but I didn’t sit down. I poured them both another glass of wine (they’d drunk Bert’s white and were on John’s red) and said I was turning in. John stood up to see me off. He thanked me for inviting him, said what a change chicken à la mushroom made from bacon sandwiches and, checking his watch, said he should be heading off himself.
‘But –’ there was something hard in the back of my throat preventing the words from running smoothly – ‘you haven’t had your pudding yet. It’s… it’s treacle tart.’
‘I’m too full,’ said Mother languidly from the table.
I snapped, ‘I bought it for John.’
I saw her incline her head very slightly. John widened his soft brown eyes a fraction, then laughed. ‘Treacle tart,’ he said. ‘My favourite. Well, if you’re not longing to get rid of me… Maybe we could take our bowls through and watch the end of ER?’
Mother nodded her agreement. So I got their treacle tarts and kissed Mother to say sorry for being short with her. Then I came up here.
That was hours ago! Or an hour anyway. And since then I’ve been pacing the room, pausing to strain my ears at the door to see if I can pick up what they’re saying, then pacing over to the window, then to the bed, then back to the door. I’m feeling weird, left out and resentful, grumpy and anxious. My head feels as if there are drill holes all over it. My eyes ache. It seems wrong that John, who is my boss, after all, should be downstairs on his own with Mother. I think maybe he’s too young for her. Isn’t he closer to my age? There’s another giggle. What’s he saying now that’s so funny? They’ve hit it off, haven’t they? It’s worked. But I wish they’d be quiet. Some of us have school tomorrow.
I know what the problem is. It’s… it’s unprofessional.
Thursday 13 March
Bed, 9 p.m.
Mother hasn’t said much about John since last night. I thought she would be full of him at breakfast, but she was too busy chatting to Mr Spence about his evening. (He’d gone to the greyhounds which – ‘ooh la la’ – she seemed to find fascinating.) The washing-up was still in the sink from the night before: the grill pan with the bits of chicken suspended in cold fat, the pot with the dried-up mushroom sauce. I tried to show my irritation by washing up loudly and sighing in an exasperated way. But no one seemed to notice. Mr Spence had moved on from greyhounds and was making silly Donald Duck noises for Marie.
Then Mother, who was putting her mascara on at the kitchen counter, said, ‘Constance had her first little dinner party last night. Which is why she wanted you out of the house!’
He said, ‘Oh, I see,’ in a rather meaningful way and looked relieved, which he had no right to. Mother must have seen my expression because then she said, ‘And very nice it was too,’ and gave a little laugh. Mr Spence laughed too. And then they went upstairs to discuss the new tiles in the bathroom and they were still doing that when William called for me.
I told Julie all about it at school. ‘A triumph, then!’ she said. And she started talking about Ade, the big pash of her life, which has survived even her illness. ‘He’s not afraid to show he cares,’ Julie says. I would have thought it would put her off, but it hasn’t. On the way home I bumped into Delilah, who is gearing up to her party. She’s asked William – ‘dear Will’ – to go on the door and he’s said he will. Mug.
Everything was normal this evening until about 8.30 p.m. when the phone went. Mother answered it. I didn’t think much of it – I was about to take Μ and C up for bath and bed – but when I came back down again half an hour later she was still on the phone. She was curled up in one corner of the sofa, with her feet tucked under her, and her head back, and she was talking softly and laughing from time to time. I made her some tea, which she acknowledged with a slight tilt of her head, but she didn’t hang up. When I put the TV on, she went through into the kitchen. Finally I came up here. And she’s still on it.
I could have sworn I heard her say ‘John’
Friday 14 March
Kitchen, 10 p.m.
Mother came back earlier than usual today with a big bag under her arm and a big grin on her face. She’d bought herself a new dress ‘to wear tonight’. It’s been raining
since four o’clock – big wet horizontal rain that drenches you in seconds. She came in the front door bedraggled, like a half-drowned black cat, but she was laughing and singing, ‘I am singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.’ Her eyelashes sparkled with raindrops. She dipped her head forward and shook it, so that droplets ricocheted on to the floor. She didn’t stop laughing until she’d stripped off all her clothes and got into her big towelling dressing gown. Then she hugged me. ‘Cheer up, chicken,’ she said.
‘Going somewhere special?’ I said, gesturing at the bag.
She dragged the chair into the middle of the sitting room and stood up on it, holding the garment in front of the dressing gown and preening. She got down and sat on the edge of the sofa, folding the dress on to her knee.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Yes, maybe.’
She looked at me and gave a little smile. Then she patted the seat next to her. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘chérie.’
‘What?’ I said in a sulky voice. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.
‘I am feeling happy,’ she said, once I’d sat down. ‘I have a date tonight and I am excited.’
‘Is it Bert?’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Bert? No. That was nothing. It was French lessons. Bert! No.’
I should have felt relief, but I didn’t. ‘Victor Savonaire?’ I said, clutching at straws.
She shook her head and frowned.
‘Who, then?’ I said, my tongue heavy in my mouth.
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t guessed?’
‘No.’
‘It’s someone you know,’ she said teasingly. ‘The other night, your little supper, it triggered –’
‘So it’s John?’ I said.
There was a pause before she answered. A dreamy look came into her eyes, rather like Delilah when she’s imagining Mr Right. Then she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’
Well, I didn’t feel the need to say anything else. I nodded and said, ‘Have a nice time,’ and stomped up here.
I shut my door and threw myself on the bed. It was as if all the blood in my body had rushed up to my head. I wanted to open the door and slam it again, so hard that it came off its hinges and the whole house rocked.
I should be delighted. She isn’t seeing Uncle Bert. She is seeing John Leakey. I have arranged it all. But I’m not delighted. I feel sick and… and… and what? I feel sick and jealous. There. I’ve said it. I know what the problem has been all along. John Leakey belongs to me. I want him for myself. I am in love with John Leakey the chemist. Me. Not Mother. Me.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all.
Saturday 15 March
Bedroom, 8 p.m.
I dreaded going to work today. I thought he would be able to read my face. I didn’t know how I would get through it.
When I got there Gail greeted me by saying she’d heard I was a ‘proper little cook’, which I suppose is better than ‘proper little madam’, which is what I thought she was going to say. All day she got on my nerves, twittering like a sparrow John came in late. I couldn’t look at him. But he was in an efficient mood anyway, and just said, ‘Thanks for supper,’ before getting all beetle-browed over the prescriptions. Maybe he’s embarrassed too. I love the way his hair falls over his face.
At about 11 a.m. Gail said, ‘Oh, look, there he goes again, your young man, up and down, checking you’re behaving yourself,’ and I looked up just in time to catch the tail end of William’s bike flashing past the window. I rushed out and yelled down the street at him, so he had to brake and come back.
‘What are you playing at?’ I shrieked.
I’ve got a new wheel,’ he said, all innocent. ‘Picked it up just now.’
‘Yes, but you’re checking up on me. I know you are.’
‘I’m allowed to pass the shop, aren’t I?’
‘Gail says you’re always passing.’ I had my hands on my hips. I felt like a fishwife, but even as I was yelling at him, I noticed the dark marks under his eyes, the white pinched look to his cheeks, and I felt a pang in my chest. He had that pathetic cornered expression on his face, like a sheep about to be sheared or a dog being whipped for someone else’s crimes.
‘Well, just don’t,’ I said, and stalked back into the shop.
It wasn’t until after lunch that John said anything to me. One of those lulls descended – there must have been a big football match on the telly or something – and Gail had taken the opportunity to pop out to Sainsbury’s. He was doing some paperwork and I was standing by the till, twirling my foot.
He looked up and called over, ‘It was so nice of you to invite me on Wednesday. I had such a nice evening. I was really touched, Constance.’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘And what a break from bacon sarnies. Will I ever be able to go back to them now?’
He was trying to make me laugh. Had he guessed how I was feeling? ‘Humph,’ I managed.
‘And your mother is so nice. Not at all how I imagined, I mean…’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Well, you’re more like sisters, aren’t you?’
Normally I enjoy the thought that we’re like sisters – it makes me feel unconventional and romantic – but at that moment I wished she was pouchier and older, with grey hair at her temples, like Julie’s mum. He was saying something else.
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘I asked about your dad. Do you mind me asking? When did he die?’
‘Didn’t she tell you? When I was a baby. He was in a motorbike accident. Delivering pizzas.’
Most people grin when I tell them and they have to work hard to look serious. His mouth didn’t betray the smallest of smiles. ‘How awful. And how hard for your mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘And it didn’t work out with Cyril and Marie’s father?’
‘No. He kept having affairs.’ I wished he wasn’t using me to find out this. Maybe he already knew the answers and just wanted an excuse to talk about her. Or maybe he was getting the practicalities over, leaving time for the two of them to discuss the meaning of the world, or ER, or whatever it was they’ve talked about so far.
‘Well, she’s amazing considering the life she’s had. So funny and poised.’
‘Yes.’ My voice sounded odd to my own ears.
He was asking me more questions. When did she leave Paris? Would she ever go back? Until finally I said, ‘Why don’t you ask her herself?’ and it may have come out more crossly than I intended because he drew his chin in, said, ‘OK,’ rather quietly, and went back to his prescriptions. I wished I hadn’t offended him. I just couldn’t stop myself.
Mother is out again tonight. She seemed a bit sheepish. Jack couldn’t babysit because he’s having a big bust-up with Dawn. After he’d rung to tell her that, Mother said, ‘Babies, do you mind me popping out for a tiny while?’
Marie and Cyril were too involved in Scooby-Doo to answer, but I said, ‘No. It’s fine.’
‘I could cancel…’
‘No. Go.’
‘It’s just… Constance… ‘There was a pleading expression in her eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Things have been a bit mad recently. I’ve been a bit involved, a bit all over the place, but this time… it’s different. I feel more positive and, er… I want us to be a family’
‘S’all right,’ I said. She didn’t move, just studied me. Shortly after that, she left.
*
I had one last brainwave, which has turned to nothing. Victor Savonaire is not, let’s face it, a common name. I looked him up in the phone book and there he was. There was a moment of excitement and glory, but it came to nothing. When I rang, a woman answered. She called, ‘Vicki! Darling! Phone!’ It must have been his fiancée. I could tell by the way she said his name. They must be back together, which explains why he didn’t come to tea. I hung up before he came on the line. That’s that, then.
Will
iam called round earlier, but I wouldn’t let him in. I said, ‘I’m asleep,’ through the door, and after a little while there was a plop of chocolate buttons on the mat and the sound of his footsteps retreating. Julie rang too, but I told Cyril to say I was out.
The awful truth is that when you’re unhappy you’re horrible to everyone and end up without any friends. And that makes you even unhappier. It’s a vicious circle and I’m in the middle of it.
Sunday 16 March
The roof, 8 p.m.
Red roses on the doorstep this morning. And a note: ‘Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. J xx’.
I wish I was dead.
Monday 17 March
School library, lunchtime
I’ve decided I can’t work at the chemist’s any more. I realize this decision may sound sudden, but it is one I have been considering for some time. I don’t want to let anyone down, but it’s probably best if I leave straight away. I have greatly valued the experience I have gained in the post and will never forget the kindness and encouragement that has been proffered to me. I hope in the future I may even consider a career in the pharmacy business.
That’s what I’m going to say anyway.
I can’t, can’t work there any more. I just can’t. Aghhghghg. It feels all murky and wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s too agonizing: the proximity to the man I love, the painful realization there is nothing I can do about it, that we’re not talking boyfriend but stepfather material, that I’m too young for him ever to notice me anyway.
I shouldn’t even think these things. It’s wrong of me. Because Mother is a woman in love. She hasn’t been out since Saturday, but she was on the phone giggling all yesterday evening. I should be happy for her. I don’t deserve a Saturday job. I should go and work, for free, in an old people’s home, or a hospital for very, very ill people, clearing out bedpans and listening to stories about the Second World War.
Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles Page 12
