Even when they didn’t notice her, she noticed them. She watched them, ‘going down the shops’, ‘going up the rec’ and, on one thrilling occasion, ‘going up the off’. They came home with two cans of Cream Soda.
Sometimes she’d catch them playing separately. Not Sarah so much, but Mandy. Colette at the end of Cherry Gardens, counting all the red cars, and Mandy coming round the corner from the main road with her bike, getting a fright when she saw Colette there.
‘Gordon Bennett!’ she said. ‘You scared me!’
‘Can I come to your house?’
‘No. Sorry. I’m having my tea.’ She walked away. There were two more red cars, and an orange one that probably didn’t count, and then Satish appeared from the same direction. ‘Hello, Colette,’ he said, and ruffled her hair. She ducked out from under his hand and watched him turning into his drive the way Mandy had turned into hers a couple of minutes before: a mirror image, the two houses opposite each other. In her head there was already a triangle: Sarah’s house, Mandy’s house, her own. Now there was a line, a short one, between Mandy and Satish. After that, she watched the line between their doors and saw them on it sometimes, running, looking both ways, slipping quickly into each other’s homes. On Jubilee morning they must have managed it without her seeing.
That day Colette had woken up early to help her dad, and seen her new clothes draped playfully over her chair. There was the red pinafore which had caused so many quiet curses during its production. The blue blouse with leg o’ mutton sleeves had been a womanly touch and far too old for her, but she had begged for it and loved its graceful lines, the sleeves bagging gently at the long cuffs. They were propped up on the chair back, the pinafore hem reaching the edge of the seat, new white socks hanging down from it to red patent shoes on the floor. It was as if Colette had put them on, then dissolved inside them. She would show the outfit to Mandy and Sarah. They would tell her how smart she looked.
‘They’re to stay clean, all right Colette?’ her mum had lectured. ‘Keep your sticky fingers off them until it’s nearly lunchtime. Jeans and T-shirt for the morning.’
It was a long morning, waiting for the party to start. Her dad put up the bunting, and they saw Satish and Mandy kissing. Then it rained and that took ages, all of them waiting indoors for it to stop. Only after that, when the tables had been set out along the street, did it really start to look ready for the party. Miss Walsh brought out the paper cups and plates. Colette was sent to find stones to weigh down the Union Jack tablecloth after one gust whipped it up and sent cups, bowls and plastic cutlery tumbling onto the tarmac.
It was time to get excited. Colette stood at the head of the table and gazed up its length. It was perfect and untouched. Colette pictured it just an hour into the future, when the festivities were due to start. Soon, she thought, really soon, they could pour Coke into the paper cups, and put hamburgers and cakes on those plates. She could make a mess – nobody would tell her off – and would not have to finish her main course before she had pudding. She might sit next to Mandy, or Sarah. She heard a scraping two tables down; Mrs Miller was pushing a chair back into place, before turning and wandering back into her house to cook, or rest, or get changed. The thought occurred to Colette that now, with everything ready, her mum might let her put on the new clothes. She ran towards her own front door.
Her parents were in the kitchen. When Colette came in, they both turned towards her.
‘Can I get ready now?’
Her mum glanced up at the kitchen clock. ‘We’ve got about an hour. I suppose so. You can keep your outfit clean for an hour, can’t you?’ She sounded tired. There was a puffed-out feeling about her. As Colette turned to go upstairs she felt a silence weighing between her parents, and though she dawdled on the way to her room, hoping to hear what happened next, they remained quiet.
When she came down again, hungry for approbation, her dad had gone. She had dressed with great care, putting the socks and shoes on first because they were her favourite things, then polishing the red patent on a bathroom towel, just in case. After she had dressed, she had pulled the pinafore skirt up and tugged the blouse sharply down, wiggling a bit so that it sat properly on her shoulders. Her mum would do her hair in the kitchen.
‘Look at me!’ She entered with a grin.
‘Oh, Collie. That’s lovely. Go on then, give us a twirl.’ As she spun, her mother’s eyes narrowed.
‘I really struggled with that piping. Is it a bit wobbly? Hang on, stop a minute.’ She looked at the pinafore closely. ‘No, I think we can just about get away with that. What do you think?’
‘It’s great,’ and then, a beat later: ‘Thanks, Mum. Will you do my hair?’
‘Yes. Brush and bobble.’ Colette nipped into the hall to pick them up, then stood obediently as her hair was brushed in great scrapes against her scalp.
‘Up or down pony?’
Colette considered. She thought of Mandy and Sarah. ‘Down pony. Please.’
Her mum started stroking the hair downwards in long movements, pausing sometimes for quick little catches underneath to bring it all into line. The soft hairs at the nape of Colette’s neck twanged in pain. She tried not to make a fuss. When the ponytail was done, her mum knelt in front of her, pulling strands out to curl around her ears.
‘Lovely. If you hang on, I’ll let you have some hairspray. Special occasion.’ She came down with her big gold can of Elnett, redolent of grown-up elegance and babysitters coming.
‘Close your eyes.’ Colette braced herself while her mum sprayed round and round in the air above her. Opening her eyes a little too early, she could see the particles float down on her arms and hands. She could feel them settling on her face.
‘Oh, no. I don’t like it, Mum. It smells funny.’
‘Don’t complain. Please.’ The syllables fell sharply between them. ‘It’s meant to be a nice treat. If you really don’t like it, go upstairs, wash your face, pull out your ponytail, wash your hair, start again.’ The room went quiet. Colette couldn’t work out where this had come from, what she’d done wrong.
‘I’m doing my best,’ her mum said. ‘It’s just a bit of hairspray, for Christ’s sake.’
Holding still at the shock of the swearing, the bitterness of it, Colette searched for the magic words. ‘I didn’t mean anything bad. I’m … I didn’t mean anything …’
Colette had seen her mum like this before. She didn’t want to be cross, but once she’d started she found it hard to stop. Colette knew it was up to her to fix it, to help her make friends again.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m just not used to it. I’ll go and look in the mirror. I bet it’s nice.’ When she came back from the bathroom, trailing words of comfort: ‘It looks ace. Really brilliant,’ she could see this had done the trick, though whether it was her words or her absence that had achieved this, she did not know.
‘It does look good, Collie. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Tired and grumpy. Give us a hug.’ Her mum pulled Colette against her belly and held her there. When they separated, she pursed her lips in a squashed smile.
‘Hey, I know. How about one final treat? You want?’
‘Yeah. Yes, please.’
As her mum disappeared upstairs, Colette looked down at herself, a sweep of red polyester, white socks, the gloss of her Mary Janes. She leaned over experimentally, letting her skirt fall forward to obliterate her knees, then her buckles, then everything except the shiny curves of red at the very tips of her shoes. When her mum came back down, she was holding something behind her back.
‘Now, how about …’ – she pulled her hand round with a flourish – ‘… this?’
It was her clay sun pendant, Colette’s favourite. She’d never been allowed to wear it before. It wasn’t red, white or blue, like they were meant to wear that day, but Colette decided not to let that matter.
‘Wow! That’s great! Thanks, Mum. Can I wear it out?’
‘Yes you can. Special treat. Let’s pop it on.’
Col
ette dipped her head, reached towards the smiling sun as it bumped against her tummy, then watched as it rose higher. When it got to the V of her collar, it stopped.
‘I’ll just tie a little knot here; make it a bit shorter for you. There! Perfect!’ Her mum tucked the extra length of cord into the back of Colette’s blouse and the two stood silent for a moment.
‘You look lovely. Why don’t you pop over to Sarah’s? See how she’s getting on. Ask her mum if she needs any help, OK?’
‘OK.’
At Sarah’s, Colette was greeted by Mrs Miller, her apron clotted with patches of orange mush.
‘Come in, Colette. Quick!’ She held one arm away from her, sticky with the mess, and grasped the door latch delicately between the finger and thumb of her other hand. ‘The apricots came through the top of the blender. Now I’ve got to do it with tinned. Come inside.’
In the kitchen, a corner of tiling and the underside of a wall cupboard bore fruity witness to the accident. Mrs Miller busied herself with a cloth.
‘How’s your mum getting on? Not much for her to do now, I shouldn’t think?’
‘She’s fine. She said, could she help?’
‘That’s kind, but I’m OK. We’d just trip over each other. Tell her to enjoy the rest. Hey!’ She looked at Colette, surprised. ‘You’re really smart! Are those your special party clothes?’
‘Yes. Mum made them.’
‘She did a great job. Lovely red, white and blue. Wouldn’t the Queen be pleased? Do you want to look in on Sarah?’ Colette nodded. ‘Go on then! Tell her not to dawdle.’
Upstairs, Snoopy barred entry to Sarah’s room. Colette knocked with her fingertips.
‘Who is it?’
‘Colette. Your Mum said I could come up. I’ve got my new outfit on.’
There was a short pause, then Sarah opened the door, peering round from behind it.
‘Come in. I’m in the nuddie.’
Colette looked at her quickly, a narrow paleness, the bee-sting breasts, then looked away.
‘What are you wearing, then? Do you like my blouse?’
Sarah, pulling something from her wardrobe, glanced back. ‘Yeah, it’s nice. I thought I’d wear my jeans – blue – and this.’
It was her halter-neck top, the one she’d tried on before, when Colette had tied the bow.
‘It’s really nice. White and blue. I could tie it for you, if you like.’
‘OK.’
Sarah pulled on her pants, then her jeans. She turned her back to Colette, wriggled into the top and settled it across her chest. Patient as a horse being shod, she waited while Colette tied the bow.
‘How does it look?’ She turned for approval.
‘Great. No red, though.’
‘I’ve got red. Look at these. They’re new.’ She held up a pair of red wedgie sandals, with long straps that wrapped around her ankles. When she stood up in them, she wobbled slightly. Colette glowed with the luxury of it; Sarah was hers for a while. Had Mandy even seen these new shoes?
‘That looks great. Really good and … sexy.’ She stumbled on the words she’d heard them use. She looked into Sarah’s face for confirmation that it was the right one.
‘Thanks. And look: this is new. It’s from Mandy. Her mum gave it to her, but she didn’t want it. She said I could keep it.’
Sarah held up a necklace: an enamelled heart on a silver chain, its lobes fat and pillowy. More red.
‘That’s kind of her.’ Colette was quiet as Sarah turned towards the mirror to put it on. After a couple of slips she secured it, then started on her hair, brushing it into Farrah flicks, then soaking them with hairspray. She studied herself from the front, from one side, from the other. When she stepped back, she almost trod on Colette.
‘Oh! You’re still here. Thanks for helping, Colette. Doesn’t your mum need you?’
The moment was nearly gone. Soon, Sarah would be walking up the road to show Mandy her outfit, and sitting next to Mandy at the party, and – Colette could see her doing it right now – reaching up to touch her new necklace and thinking how generous Mandy was. Colette needed something special to stop those things happening, to stretch this moment a little longer, and in searching for this special thing she thought about her brother, Top Trumps and the Citroën GS.
Cai was completely mad about Top Trumps. He’d never sit still to do his homework, was always fiddling and wriggling and wandering away from the dining room table, but he’d spend hours in his room with his cards.
‘You know my secret weapon?’ he told her one morning. ‘It’s the Citroën GS. Everyone always thinks it’s a really bad card. It almost never wins. But when you look at the whole pack, it has the highest revs! Of any car!’ That was what she needed. A Citroën GS. Then, suddenly, she had it.
‘I saw something funny this morning, when me and Dad were putting up the decorations.’
‘Hmm?’
‘It’s something about Mandy.’
Sarah paused, lipgloss in hand, and looked at Colette, who continued slowly. ‘It’s something she did … with Satish.’
‘What did she do?’
Colette paused, enjoying it. She had Sarah to herself, for a little time. ‘She kissed him. On the lips.’
Sarah angled one hip out, jutted her jaw. ‘I don’t believe you! She fancies your brother.’
This was news. Colette faltered. Had she really seen it? Yes, definitely. And her dad … She tried again.
‘I was with Dad. We both saw it. Dad was cross. They kissed in Satish’s room. He kissed her first, on the cheek. But she kissed him too, on the lips, for a long time.’ There was something about the grown-up way Mandy had done it – all of it, not just the kissing. The grown-upness made Colette feel funny, sort of left out.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Sarah was saying. ‘How do you know, if it was in Satish’s room?’
‘We saw through the window. Honest.’
‘She fancies Cai,’ Sarah repeated. ‘And Satish is a Paki, anyway. She can’t fancy Satish.’ She gazed out of the window for a moment. ‘Anyway, your mum will be wanting you. We’ll go out together.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Mandy’s. Come on. You’re not to tell anyone about this, Colette. I’ll be really cross if you do.’
‘Am I coming to Mandy’s too?’
Sarah laughed. ‘No. You’re going home. This is for us big girls.’ Forestalling argument, Sarah held the door open and gestured for Colette to leave.
Chapter 12
Maya has spent the afternoon making lists, and now Satish is getting the fall-out. It’s the end of the day, but she’s not winding down. She’s putting the children’s packed lunches together and running through the things he needs to get done. He won’t remember half of it.
‘It’s really time to redecorate our bedroom and your study. I’ll get a couple of quotes but I need you to sit down with me and talk about colours.’
‘Colours?’
‘Yes. Don’t complain. I’ll do everything else. The water softener needs more salt, and your car is due for a service. Asha’s dance thing is after school next week and I know you can’t come, but have a word with her about it so she knows you wanted to.’
‘Salt, car, dance,’ he says, but he’s thinking about the sweet viscosity of his dose, about the curve of the upside-down spoon against his tongue.
‘She’s a mermaid.’
‘A mermaid?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll jot it all down for you.’ She zips up the lunch bags and dispatches the countertop mess with centrifugal speed: knives and chopping board to the sink, cheese and red pepper to the fridge, crusts to the green bin. She pushes the lunches across to Satish: ‘Will you?’
‘Of course.’
Satish has a minute or so in the garage, and then it will start to look suspicious. He stacks the kids’ lunch bags on the bottom shelf of the fridge, fumbling in his hurry. Maya doesn’t go upstairs immediately; he can hear her bustling about in the h
all and it makes him twitchy. They are separated by the width of the door, no more. He hears her muttering: ‘Shoes, shoes, shoes.’ If he gets out the diazepam and she comes in and catches him … If he delays and she starts to wonder what’s keeping him …
Doing without is not an option; he’ll have to get it over with. He gets his briefcase down, snaps it open, and is about to pull the zip on the inner pocket when he stops. There’s an envelope in the back compartment. He didn’t put it there. Satish draws his hand out and yanks the case open further, tilting it so he can get a better look. There’s a word on the envelope, mismatched letters cut out from a newspaper. It says, read this.
He stares for a moment, not touching it, getting used to the fact of it. This could still be innocent, he tells himself. It could be – he searches for innocuous things this could be. There are none. He knows what this is: it’s the heavy hand on his shoulder, the one he knew was coming, right here, in the same place where he keeps his … medicine! In a sudden panic, he jerks open the zip and feels inside: a bottle, a plastic bag. It’s still there.
‘Satish?’ Maya’s right outside. The handle starts to turn.
‘No! I mean, don’t! I’m … lifting something … heavy.’ (But he wants to shout at her, dreadful things. He can feel them waiting in his throat.)
‘What? Do you need a hand?’
‘No! I’m just …’ He puffs loudly, bangs his fist against the door. ‘… I’m right behind the door. A couple of suitcases slipped.’
‘Oh.’ She’s quiet for a beat, then: ‘I said you should have a tidy-up.’
‘Mm.’
‘I’m going to bed, OK?’
‘Yes. I’ll be there soon. I’ll just sort this out.’ He hears her go up, the familiar creaks and a muffled padding as she takes each stair. In her wake he has time to feel disgust at what he’s becoming, a latent emotion that dissipates quickly, like heat from the skin when you walk into cold air. He lies, he stumbles over his words; he is losing his dignity.
He reaches towards the bottle again, but then he diverts – a sleight of hand, tricking himself into it – and picks up the envelope instead. He tells himself: it’s not what you think, it’ll be fine, but even as he does so he feels the distance narrowing between himself and something terrible. He unseals the envelope, a forensic exactitude preventing him from ripping it indiscriminately. Inside, there’s a folded piece of A4 paper, the words in type.
Jubilee Page 10
