I wasn’t brave enough to tell the kids at school the truth – not even Nuala. They wouldn’t have understood. They’d have felt sorry for me, because my own mum doesn’t love me enough to kick the drink. She’d rather drink herself to death, slowly, having a few laughs along the way.
Grandad sits down, hiding behind the newspaper, trying to read, hands shaking. Gran keeps knitting, a rainbow-striped scarf that’s quite new, just a metre long. Her knitting needles click quietly, and the tears slip down her face in silence, almost as though she knows what’s going on.
On Valentine’s Day, Giovanni arrives on the doorstep at eight in the morning with an armful of red roses and a box of chocolates for Mum. She is still in bed.
‘Tell her I’m taking her for a special day out,’ Giovanni grins, gesturing towards the ice-cream van parked skew-whiff on the kerb. ‘We will go to the seaside and walk hand in hand along the beach, eat tiramisu at the best Italian restaurant I know, dance until the early hours and then kiss beneath the stars.’
‘Yeuch, Giovanni, too much information.’ I shudder, stomping off up the stairs to try and wake Mum. The room smells of whisky and stale smoke. I spot a clutch of old fag ends in a makeshift saucer ashtray and a crumpled cigarette packet on the bedside table. My heart thumps. She gave up smoking two years ago.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. Mum is curled up beneath the covers, clutching a plastic bottle that says it’s ginger beer but almost certainly isn’t. I tug back the blankets and shake her shoulders gently but she swats me off like I’m some kind of annoying insect.
‘Mum,’ I hiss. ‘Wake up. It’s Valentine’s Day and Giovanni is here with flowers and chocolates. He’s taking you for a special day out.’
Giovanni knows about Mum’s problem. The last time she was ill, he visited her in hospital, brought her flowers, drove her in the ratty old ice-cream van to the AA meetings that helped her stay off the drink afterwards. He knows what she’s like at her worst – he must have noticed what’s going on now, surely?
‘Tell him to get lost,’ Mum says, grumpily. ‘I’m asleep.’
‘Then wake up,’ I tell her. ‘Come on, Mum, he’s made a real effort. You’ll enjoy it – a day at the seaside, a romantic dinner for two. It’ll cheer you up.’
‘I don’t need cheering up,’ Mum snaps, dragging the blankets back so she can burrow back down. ‘Tell him to go away.’
At that moment, the chimes of the ice-cream van start to play at full volume. I pull back the curtains to look out of the window, and there’s Giovanni, leaning on the gate, waving. Gran, Grandad and Toto wander out on to the garden path, and Giovanni serves them all an early morning ice-cream cornet, adorned with nuts and raspberry sauce.
‘Come on, Rosa, bella!’ Giovanni shouts up to the window. ‘Wake up! Come away with me, for a life of love, romance and ice-cream sundaes!’
I let the curtain drop before anyone can see me. Isn’t it bad enough to have relatives that are seriously weird without them attracting whole shedloads of loopy hangers-on? Why can’t Mum date someone normal, a bloke who wears Next suits and shiny shoes and doesn’t wake up the whole neighbourhood on Valentine’s morning with wailing ice-cream sirens and declarations of love?
‘What’s he playing at?’ Mum scowls, crawling out of bed, bleary-eyed, hair sticking up in all directions like a backcombed, auburn scarecrow. She drags back the curtain and flings the window open.
‘Ciao, bella,’ Giovanni calls, blowing Mum a kiss.
‘Giovanni, just get lost!’ she shouts. ‘I’m not interested, OK?’
‘Mum!’ I protest. ‘Don’t! People will hear!’
She takes no notice, leaning out of the window and waving her fist. I notice she’s wearing nothing but a lime-green satin slip, trimmed with pink lace, and I want to die of shame.
‘Go on,’ she roars at Giovanni. ‘Get lost! Take the hint! Take your stinking roses and your fancy chocolates and that heap of junk you call a van and leave me alone. OK?’
She slams the window shut and stomps past me in a cloud of whisky fumes, flinging herself down on the bed.
‘As if I’d waste my time with a no-hoper like that,’ she mutters, snuggling under the blankets. ‘I have better things to do with my time.’
I can see that. She reaches out for the ginger-beer bottle and unscrews the lid, taking a few swigs of watery brown liquid, then fumbles for a cigarette. She produces an ancient silver lighter and flicks it a couple of times, lighting up.
Well hey, who would want a life of love, romance and ice-cream sundaes when you can settle for smoking and drinking yourself to death? It’s obvious.
Giovanni is still there as I grab my bag and leave for school, serving cornets to a knot of neighbourhood kids and talking to Grandad.
‘She didn’t mean it,’ Giovanni is saying. ‘I know she didn’t. Perhaps I handled it wrong?’
‘It’s not you, Giovanni,’ Grandad says, shaking his head. ‘It’s the drink.’
Giovanni shrugs. ‘What can I do? I love her, but she needs help. I have to let her see that she can’t drive me away.’
Grandad scratches his head. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘But I’d stay out of her way for a while, son. I’m sorry.’
‘Want a lift to school?’ Giovanni calls as I slip past the crowd of kids slurping at their breakfast cornets.
‘Er, no thanks, Giovanni,’ I tell him. ‘I – um – I have a bus pass.’
The thought of arriving at school in a rusty old ice-cream van is enough to make me feel faint.
‘A cornet, then?’ Giovanni suggests. ‘Extra nuts and sauce?’
‘OΚ, thanks.’ I reach up for the ice-cream cone and try not to worry about being seen eating ice cream in February. Lots of people do, I expect. Especially around here, this morning.
‘Sorry about Mum,’ I say. Giovanni may not be who I’d pick for Mum, but he’s a nice bloke and he loves her. He is kind and thoughtful, and doesn’t complain when Toto sniffs his trousers.
‘She breaks my heart,’ Giovanni declares, pulling a dramatic face and striking his chest with his fist.
I know how he feels. She breaks mine too.
I am half expecting Carter to appear from behind a dustbin or skate up as I wait at the bus stop, but there’s no sign of him. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it’s Valentine’s Day. Perhaps he isn’t the card-sending sort of boy, or maybe he’s finally got the message and given up hope. He’s probably canoodling at the school gates with Kristina Kowalski right now.
Boys are so fickle.
At the school gates, though, there is no sign of Carter, or Kristina Kowalski. I hook up with Nuala in the playground.
‘So, did you get a card from Carter?’ she demands. ‘Hearts, flowers, fluffy bunnies?’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘Like I care, anyhow. Valentine’s Day is just a load of commercial rubbish. And besides, I do not like Kevin Carter.’
Nuala smirks. I hate it when she does that.
When we get to our form room, Kristina Kowalski is perched on a desk at the back, clutching an armful of padded, fluffy, outsized cards and fluttering her eyelashes.
‘I don’t know why I’ve got so many,’ she simpers to an admiring audience. ‘Boys just seem to like me. I guess I’m just a popular girl. I don’t know why!’
I roll my eyes. Kristina is wearing hipsters today, slung so low you can see the back of her thong peeking out over the top. Her white shirt is tight, short and scarily see-through. A silver belly-clip glints at her navel, drawing attention to her flat, brown tummy. Boys gawp at Kristina, bug-eyed, but of course, she doesn’t know why.
When Brendan Coyle saunters in and slaps her on the bum, she just giggles and tosses her hair and wiggles over to where he’s sitting for more of the same. Nuala makes puking noises behind her hand, and I notice with relief that Kevin Carter is sitting alone in the corner of the room, busy with some homework. He wouldn’t fall for a girl like Kristina. Would he?
There’s something st
uck to the seat of my chair. I edge over to investigate, and find a small, pink Love Hearts sweetie with Hot lips written on it. It’s stuck down with Blu-tack, and I have to prise it off, carefully. I can’t help glancing over at Carter. He’s still engrossed in his homework, but he’s smiling.
There’s a pale green sweetie that says My girl stuck to my desktop. I’m grinning as I pick it up, and Nuala raises an eyebrow.
‘Don’t like him, eh?’ she whispers, as Miss Devlin sweeps into the form room and starts rattling through the register.
After games, I find Love Hearts sweets in each of my boots, as well as in the pockets of my school blazer.
‘How did he do that?’ Nuala asks. ‘Get into the girls’ changing room? He must really like you.’
‘They’re just sweets,’ I tell her.
‘No, Jude, they’re valentines,’ she corrects me. ‘They’re clever, cute and resourceful. Admit it.’
I pull a face. ‘I can’t exactly eat them,’ I complain. ‘These two had Blu-tack on them, these were in my boots …’
‘You’re not supposed to eat them,’ Nuala sighs. ‘You’re supposed to treasure them forever. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing!’ I protest, as a sweetie saying Wild thing drops out of the pages of my French book.
Nuala thinks my heart is made of ice, but the ice is melting, very slowly, and just around the edges. It’s a scary feeling.
In the dinner hall, I open my lunch box to find Trust me stuck to the inside lid, and a scattering of other messages strewn in among my cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. Carter, munching happily on a chip roll, winks as he strolls past me.
In art, I find Love Hearts sweets in my folder, inside my sketchbook, in my pencil case. ‘They’re like little badges,’ Nuala says, stroking the pastel coloured sweets. ‘Hey! Why don’t you wear them as badges? Wear your heart on your sleeve?’
‘No way!’ I protest. ‘People would see!’
‘And?’ Nuala shrugs.
‘And they’d want to know, and … it’d be embarrassing.’
‘Does Carter look embarrassed?’ Nuala demands.
‘No, but …’
‘Go on,’ she teases. ‘Live a little!’
She asks Mr Latimer if she can use the glue gun, and together we stick the Love Hearts sweeties all over my black canvas school bag. It looks cool.
‘Nice idea,’ Carter says as we walk down to the bus stops. ‘Sticking them all over your bag. I’m glad you like them.’
‘You’re not meant to admit it was you,’ I tell him.
‘Aren’t I? Does that mean I’m not allowed to ask you out, either?’
‘Carter, no way,’ I say, panicked. I stop mid-stride and let the crowds of people stream on past. ‘You can’t ask me out, not ever. I’m not the dating kind. I … I think you’re wasting your time with me.’
Carter looks at me. ‘I don’t,’ he says. ‘Can I walk you home?’
‘I’ve got piano practice.’
‘So, can I walk you to piano practice?’
I shake my head. ‘This is not going to work,’ I tell him.
‘Sure it is.’ Carter laughs. ‘You worry too much.’
He sits down on the grass and pulls his skates out of his rucksack, dragging them on. I turn and walk away.
‘Hey wait,’ Carter calls, but I break into a run and jump on to a bus for the city centre just as it pulls away from the kerb. As I push through the scrum of uniformed teenagers, I glance back through the window and see Carter, skating after the bus, waving.
At piano practice, Miss Lloyd leaves me to set my books out and run through my scales while she fixes herself a cup of coffee. I open my Grade Four book at my first piece, and a small, pale-yellow sweetie drops out, landing on the piano keys.
I love u.
I am standing in the bedroom at Dad and Victoria’s place, wearing a sugar-pink minidress and a scowl.
‘Shorter?’ Victoria wants to know. ‘You’ve got good legs, Jude.’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I insist. This is a lie, but then again, a sugar-pink bridesmaid’s dress is never going to be fine, no matter what length it is.
Victoria shrugs and starts pinning a length of red tassel trim round the hem. ‘Red winkle-picker boots and a red hairband … you’ll look amazing!’ she declares.
I bite my lip and try hard to smile.
Surprise, surprise, Dad and Victoria are having a 1960s wedding. ‘We’ll do your hair all backcombed, Jude, with that flick-up thing round the edge like we did for the New Year’s party,’ Victoria is saying. ‘It’s just the tights we need, now. White or pink? What d’you think?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I tell her. I don’t. Either way, I’ll look disgusting.
Victoria is getting married in the black beehive wig and a white minidress with a huge, frothy veil, white crinkly knee-boots and white lacy tights. Dad is going to wear a custom-made white satin catsuit with a silver lurex collar and cape, and, of course, blue suede shoes. Beside them, I will look almost normal.
‘It’s so-o-o exciting!’ Victoria squeals, securing the last pin and steering me towards the mirror. I catch a glimpse of pink above white legs and knobbly knees, and shut my eyes quickly.
‘I’ll carry pink roses, and you’ll carry white,’ she gabbles on. ‘We’ll complement each other. We’re going to have “Love Me Tender” instead of the wedding march, too!’
‘That’s cool, Victoria,’ I say, through gritted teeth. Victoria and Dad are happy, planning their big day. They’ve already shown me pictures of Las Vegas, USA, where you can get married in a tacky chapel of lurve with an Elvis preacher to perform the ceremony. Scary. Luckily for me, their savings do not stretch to a Las Vegas wedding.
‘It doesn’t matter about Las Vegas,’ Victoria tells me later, as the three of us curl up beside the gas fire with mugs of tea. ‘Gretna Green is just as romantic, and all our friends can be with us too.’
‘Gretna Green?’ I echo.
‘That’s right.’ Dad grins. ‘The famous Old Smithy at Gretna Green, just over the border in Scotland! In the past, English teenagers used to run away to Gretna to get married, because the Scottish laws were different back then, and they could get married without their parents’ consent!’
‘You’re forty-five!’ I point out.
‘Well, yes,’ Dad admits. ‘Obviously. I mean, we’d just be doing it for the romance factor.’
I roll my eyes. At least Gretna Green is a long, long way from Coventry. The chances of anyone from school seeing me in my 1960s puke-pink mini are almost nil.
‘Just wait till you hear what your dad has planned for the honeymoon,’ Victoria says. ‘Tell her, Bobby!’
Dad produces a glossy brochure with a weirdo-pink car on the front. He has hired a 1950s pink Cadillac to take them up to Gretna Green, and then on for a tour through the Highlands of Scotland. They will stop off at social clubs and old folks’ homes in Killiekrankie, Glencoe, Inverness, Stirling and Perth for a whistle-stop series of Elvis gigs.
‘It’ll be a sort of working honeymoon,’ he tells me. ‘Rock ‘n’ rollin’ by night, cruising along single-track roads and through heather-clad hills by day. Watch out, Scotland, here we come!’
I study the brochure, taking in the shiny chrome and pointy pink tail fins. This car looks like it was designed by a deranged child with a Barbie fixation. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘And you think the pink Cadillac will be up to the single-track roads and heather-clad hills? It being fifty-odd years old and all that?’
Dad frowns. ‘Of course it will,’ he says gruffly. ‘Those classic cars were built to last. You’ll see, anyway – you can drive up to Gretna Green with us. We’ll have the works – a sixties karaoke and bagpipes and fireworks, the lot. Keep your diary free for the first of April!’
‘The … what?’
‘April the first.’ Dad grins. ‘Thought it’d be a bit of a laugh! April Fool’s Day!’
‘The date fitted,’ Victoria explains. ‘We wante
d a spring wedding, and all the later Saturdays were busy. There were gaps for April the first. Some people don’t fancy getting married that day, apparently.’
‘I wonder why?’ I mutter.
‘It’s funny, Jude,’ Dad insists. ‘A day to remember. Think about it – we’ll never be able to forget our anniversary, will we?’ He leans over to kiss Victoria on the cheek, then winks at me.
I sip my tea, wondering if I am the only sane person in my entire family. Looks like it.
An invitation to Dad and Victoria’s wedding appears. The card is shaped like a profile of Elvis, with a curling lip and a quiff made of black fur fabric. Mum, making a rare pre-lunchtime appearance at the breakfast table, picks it up distastefully, as though it may be carrying germs.
‘Bobby and Victoria would like to invite Patrick, Molly and Jude to celebrate their wedding at 11.30 on Saturday 1 April at the Old Smithy, Gretna Green, and to the reception afterwards at the Thistle Hotel and Diner. 1950s/60s attire optional. For goodness’ sake! How tacky is that!’ she exclaims. ‘And they haven’t even had the courtesy to invite me!’
‘Rose, pet, you wouldn’t want to go to Bobby’s wedding, now, would you?’ Grandad reasons.
‘I shouldn’t think that any of you would want to go,’ Mum says, stubbing out her ciggy on a side plate. ‘Out of loyalty to me.’
‘Well, now, I don’t suppose Molly and I will go,’ Grandad admits. ‘It’s too far for Molly. All that travelling – she’s not really up to it. Nice of them to think of us, though.’
‘Nice?’ Mum barks. ‘Nice? Really!’
‘But you left Bobby’ Grandad points out. ‘Not the other way round, Rose. It’s good that he’s found someone else, settling down at last.’
‘I always knew it would work out in the end,’ Gran says dreamily. ‘Perhaps I’ll get a new hat. You’ll need a new suit, Patrick, to walk our Rose down the aisle.’
‘It’s not my wedding,’ Mum says scornfully. ‘Thank goodness.’
Sundae Girl Page 6
