‘So what are you going to do?’ Danny says. I’ve let him out my side, and now that I’m back in the car, he’s crouching down beside my window.
‘About what?’
‘About your dad’s grave.’
I close my eyes and sigh.
‘Dunno.’
‘You look shattered.’
‘Cheers, smoothy. You won’t be getting no action from me. Oh, babe, I’ve got to go. The pharmacy shuts at ten and I’ll just about make it.’
We have a quick kiss and then I drive off.
Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister. Actually, that’s a complete falsehood: I always wish I had a brother or sister. I’ve been playing my own fantasy sibling game for years. I used to fantasise about having a younger brother called Charlie or Rufus, or something quirky like Felix. He would be two years younger than me and would completely adore me, obviously, because I was his big sister, and I would have trained him from an early age to know that I was always right about everything. I would teach him about girls and help him shop for clothes, and spoil him rotten at Christmas. I would introduce him to everyone as my ‘baby brother’ and that would make him blush a bit because he’s quite shy. Mum would adore him as well, which would be good because then we’d have something in common. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t be nearly so mental if I had a baby brother.
However, I’m split fifty-fifty between Felix Flowers, the little cutie, or a nice, big, sensible sister who had an amazing ability to sort everything out. Wendy’s got the perfect older sister. Her name’s Lucy and she’s thirty-three, married with two children and she does things for Wendy like email her to remind her of family members’ birthdays. She even offers suggestions of what presents to get them. I’ve modelled my fantasy older sister on her. She’s called Alice and would be a maternity nurse. Alice is extremely capable. She would have noticed that Mum had stopped leaving the house way before I did and she would know how to make Mum happy. She would have stopped Mum spending thousands on her credit card, and best of all she would have twin girls, called Camilla, after dad, and Ginger, after Ginger Rogers, and I would babysit them and Mum would love them. And when we were together we would be a big, laughing happy family.
It would be lovely to know there was someone I could talk to about Mum, because I don’t know what to do about her. I haven’t known for ages. It’s become much worse since I left home two years ago. Fifty per cent of me feels guilty that she’s on her own, but then the other half of me knows I have to get on with my life. I can’t fade away in that mausoleum with her. I did it for long enough and I dreamed of the day when I would get out and breathe and live. It would be easier to deal with if she was nicer to me, but she’s not. And I don’t know why. I know she doesn’t hate me, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me. I always get the feeling I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.
This issue with the graveyard will be the biggest falling-out we’ve ever had. How can it not be? She can’t give my dad’s grave to a building company. What’s she on? And how did she get in so much debt? Somehow I’ll have to bail her out. The really infuriating part is that if I’d got that job I would be on much more money and would be in a far better position to help her.
‘John Whatever Your Stupid Name Is, I hate you!’ I mutter as I look for somewhere to park. There’s a bus stop outside the chemist, but I’d better not pull in there. In the past, people have commented that I’m anal about driving misdemeanours, but I prefer the term ‘sensible’. One of my most largely exercised rants is against people who park in bus stops, because then the bus can’t pull in and has to stop in the middle of the road, thus holding up the traffic. My heart beats faster just thinking about it. Anyway, if I were to park at this bus stop and someone who knew me saw my car there, I’d get proper ribbed, like those ultra pleasure condoms, for weeks after. It’s about two minutes to ten and I need to find somewhere quickly, so I turn off the main road and pull up in the side street.
‘OK, bag, money,’ I say, quickly making sure I’ve got everything. I get out of the car and lock it – no one would actually want my car, but I’d be completely lost without it – then throw my keys in my handbag.
‘ARGH!’ I scream as something knocks into me. I fall into the car’s bodywork with a crash and someone grunts behind me as my arm is wrenched away from me. I try to turn my head to see who’s attacking me, but as soon as I do I feel someone’s fingers in my hair and then my head is slammed into the car. I feel dizzy, like I’m going to throw up, then suddenly I’m released. I hear running footsteps and look up to see two figures, one swinging my bag as he runs across the road. I take a step forward but my legs buckle as if I’ve never used them before and I fall to ground. As I steady myself I notice a tear drop onto the pavement. I peer at it. It looks so strange. I haven’t cried in years, but as my eyes focus on it I realise it’s not a tear. It’s blood – my blood. I feel my face. There’s a cut at the top of my nose and a big hot bump forming on my forehead.
Someone’s taken my bag. Yet again I don’t have any money to buy this pill thing. Someone somewhere must be having a laugh. I get up slowly and walk tentatively to the chemist, hopefully they’ll take pity on me and let me use their phone to call the police. I reach the chemist, but a metal grille has been pulled down over the glass frontage. It’s closed.
‘Ferme la porte,’ I say quietly, which is a bit weird as I didn’t think I could remember any French. There’s a phone box on the corner of the next block and I make my way, unsteadily, towards it, dial 999 and ask for the police. The lady I speak to sounds concerned that I’m on my own and tells me someone will be with me shortly.
I hope she’s right. I really don’t want to be here alone. The street suddenly feels very hostile. The bastards might come back. They’ve got my car keys. They could come back and take my car. There’s a spare key at home. I dial 100.
‘Hello, operator.’
‘Oh hello, I’ve just been attacked and someone has taken my money. Can you help me? Can you put me through to the pub where my boyfriend is?’
‘Yes, we’ll reverse the charges. What’s the name of the pub?’
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘What’s the name of the pub?’
‘Oh sorry. It’s called The Festering Carbuncle, London W10.’
‘Right, and what’s your name?’
‘Grace Flowers.’
I hear a ringing tone, then a really loud din and an Australian accent shouting, ‘HELLO!’
‘I have Grace Flowers on the line, do you accept the charges?’
There’s a short pause when I can hear pub noises and then what resembles the amplified sounds of someone retching.
‘ANTON!’ the Australian voice barks.
There’s another short pause and I realise that the retching sound is someone trying to sing Elvis Presley’s ‘All Shook Up’.
‘Anton speaking.’
‘Hello, I have Grace Flowers on the line, do you accept the charges?’
‘What? Grace. Yes. Yes, of course.’
The operator hangs up.
‘Anton, I’ve been mugged. I’m waiting for the police. Can you—’
‘Where are you?’
‘You know the pharmacy on the Harrow road. It’s at the far end, opposite the graveyard.’
‘I’ll be five minutes.’
‘But—’
He hangs up as a police car pulls over and a policeman and woman get out. I walk slowly out of the phone box, feeling like I’ve just stepped into an episode of The Bill.
Chapter 16
Anton didn’t bring Danny or my car keys. His presence here is entirely unnecessary, but I’m so ridiculously glad he’s here. He came with his dog, Keith Moon, and even though Keith is the daftest dog on the planet and wouldn’t hurt a cauliflower, I feel much safer with him next to me.
It’s all happening now. There are three police cars in total. One has stayed with me, one’s been driving around to see if they can c
atch the bastards and the other one has gone back to the pub to get my spare car key from Danny after I’d called him on Anton’s phone. He sounded pretty wankered, so I told him not to come. The last thing I need is a drunken Danny smoking rollies and telling me repeatedly how much he fancies a kebab. I can’t be cross. I take full responsibility for his drunkenness because he didn’t have much to do except down glasses of wine while I argued with Mum this evening.
The first police car radioed an ambulance, so I got to sit in a real ambulance while I was cleaned up. It was very Holby City, although the novelty wore off when they taped a big bulky bandage to my forehead. That’s not the worst of it, though. The rest of my face looks pillaged. My chin and mouth are normal, but everything above them is sporting a shade from some grisly Gothic eye shadow palette. At least it doesn’t hurt at the moment because the ambulance people ‘gave me something for the pain’.
The rest of the time I’ve been sitting in Anton’s racing-green jaguar with Keith Moon on my lap.
‘Shall I put the radio on?’ Anton asks, reaching for his knob. Not his ooh-er knob, the one on the radio.
‘Oh, do you mind if we don’t?’
‘Do you not like music?’
I chuckle at the thought of not liking music. ‘I love music. I just hate the radio.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like the randomness. I want to know what I’m going to listen to,’ I tell him.
I’m not messed up at all about my dad dying, but there’s this one little personality trait that’s developed since the accident. I don’t think it’s that bad and it doesn’t make me a complete freak, I just don’t listen to the radio, that’s all. I haven’t for years and years. I know why it is. It’s because my father gave me music. Literally. Nearly every day of my childhood he introduced me to a new song. He did it delicately, excitedly, and always with a reverential smile. I loved those daily gifts. When I tried to play Nina Simone to other eight-year-olds they said she was revolting, and perhaps I would have thought so, too, if I hadn’t been introduced to her by my father. But then he died and the music started to hurt. There always seemed to be a song coming from somewhere, hurling a new memory towards me, and it made me feel out of control with grief. One minute I’d be functioning and doing fine, and the next I’d walk past a shop and hear the strains of a song he’d sung to me, or we’d sung together, and the sadness would feel like it was strangling me and I’d want to cry or scream or just curl into a ball and hide. Radio was the worst. It was like a trauma lottery. Why would I do that to myself? I haven’t listened to the radio since then. ‘Do you like music?’ I ask Anton.
‘Bloody love it.’
‘That was a stupid question really, considering that you spent years touring with bands and now do karaoke in your pub.’ I gasp. ‘Oh, Anton, I took you away from your karaoke.’
‘Urgh,’ he shudders. ‘Some of my favourite songs being massacred by the drunk.’
‘Did you sing?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘What did you sing?’
‘Oh, I sang with a friend of mine.’
‘What?’
‘A Simon & Garfunkel number. Way before your time.’
‘What song?’
‘“The Sound Of Silence”.’
‘Oh, I love that song.’
‘I have it on CD. No random radio required,’ Anton says, reaching towards the stereo.
He puts on ‘The Sound Of Silence’. I hear the familiar guitar chords and soft voices of Simon & Garfunkel, and it sounds warm and familiar, like I’m being welcomed back to an old home. Dad loved this song. I’ve never taken this to the cemetery to play to him. How could I have forgotten it? Dad was going through a Simon & Garfunkel phase the summer he died. Shortly before the accident he drove me to a singing competition in Chester. He had a tape of Simon & Garfunkel playing live somewhere and we sang along to it all the way there. ‘The Boxer’, ‘Scarborough Fair’ and a song called ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. Oh God, I hope Anton doesn’t play that one. Dad sang it so beautifully in the car that day, and he played it again when we parked at the theatre, before I had to go in and register. I remember him singing the words: ‘Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way’. And as I kissed him and got out of the car, he smiled and said, ‘All your dreams are on their way, Grace. Knock ’em dead, Silver Girl.’
It’s a bit sick, but I find myself pretending I’m not sitting here with Anton; I’m sitting here with Dad instead. I’m pretending I’m fifteen and we’re on our way to a singing competition. Yes, I know that makes me a freak, but I’ve just had a bang to the head. I close my eyes.
Anton starts to sing along. Wow! He can really sing. His voice isn’t dissimilar to Dad’s. It’s the same key and the same gentle style; he doesn’t push the song at you, he just sort of lays it gently at your ears.
I know it’s crazy to pretend that a pub landlord is your dead father, but it’s also blissful. Oh, so blissful.
The next song is ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ and I can’t bring myself to ask Anton to turn it off. Instead I keep my eyes closed as he sings the first lines to me: ‘When you’re weary, feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all.’
‘Your turn,’ Anton whispers, in the musical refrain in the middle, exactly as Dad would have done.
‘You swine, I get the belter notes,’ I would whisper back, because Dad always used to split songs so I got to sing the hard bits.
Anton sings the song just like Dad did, and I feel as if Dad’s talking to me. He’s saying that things will be all right.
‘You shine, Gracie Flowers,’ Anton says at the end of the song. But I can’t look at him because – and I know this is crazy lady speak – it feels like my dad is saying he’s proud of me. Even though I don’t think Dad would be. Not really.
‘Thank you,’ I sniffle back.
Then the police lady opens the car door and a blast of cold air hauls me abruptly back to the present.
Chapter 17
‘Oh, Gracie Flowers, it’s no use. You look like someone’s put foundation on a plum.’
I sigh sadly at my reflection. Covering up the bruises hadn’t worked, so I’d put a scarf around my head to hide the dressing and now I look like a fortune-teller with an abusive husband. It’s taken me forever to get ready this morning. Even longer than the morning after Wendy’s last birthday, and I didn’t think anything could be worse than that. I was sick four times.
‘Today so wasn’t supposed to be like this. I should be Lady Boss, not Scabby Mess,’ I groan. ‘What to do, Gracie Flowers? What to do? Your twenty-seventh year doesn’t seem to like you much. Talk about bad birthday weekend. Although I did enjoy the bit in Anton’s car. Now that is sad,’ I say, pointing at my reflection. ‘The highlight of your birthday weekend was sitting in a car waiting to give a police statement about your assault. Sort yourself out, girl.’
But the truth is, for some reason I loved the time I spent in Anton’s car last night. I don’t know why, but I felt happier there than I have done in a long time. It’s ridiculous. I’m a happy person. I’ve got Danny, a job, a flat. It must have been those painkillers. I should find out what they were and see if I can get some more.
I step back from the sink, take three deep breaths, straighten my back and look myself in the eye. ‘What’s the plan?’ I say loudly. My bruised face looks back blankly, then my shoulders slump forward because I don’t really know what the plan is and I’m tired.
I’m tired because I only had three hours’ sleep. I went to Casualty and had my head stitched after I’d made a statement to the nice policewoman. I should have asked the nurse at the hospital if they had any of the morning-after pill, but Anton was with me the whole time and I didn’t think he’d want to be acquainted with mine and Danny’s problematic two-minute Saturday-morning quickie. So, I still haven’t taken that stupid pill and those pesky little sperm are probably having a right old time.
�
��The plan is to get Posh Bloke out of Make A Move quick. Show him and Lube and everyone that you are the man for the job. Grow some balls, Flowers!’ I cringe. I’d hate to have balls. ‘That’s what you’re going to do, Grace, work hard. Work harder than everyone else! WORK HARD, GRACE, AND GROW SOME BALLS!’
My eyes flit to my new five year plan, which is sitting empty on the wall, waiting for me to fill it in. I pick up the felt tip I’ve left here expressly to write my next mission. I take the lid off.
In one year I will have …
In two years I will have …
In three years I will have …
In four years I will have …
In five years I will have …
‘Will have what, though?’ I whisper. ‘What will I have done?’ And for the first time in so long, I don’t know.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Grace, babe, I’ve got to go.’ It’s Danny and he sounds desperate.
‘Coming,’ I shout back, but I don’t move. I’m still staring at the blank space I need to fill.
‘Grace.’ Danny bangs on the door again. ‘We cannot leave it to chance that I will be able to keep clenching.’ He sounds in pain. I’ll have to let him in. I put the lid back on the felt tip and look at my blank five year plan one last time before unlocking the door.
Chapter 18
There are two things in my life that I’m proud of. The first is that I have never been in debt. Actually, let me clarify that, I might have owed the price of a bar tab because I’d forgotten to settle it on the night, like I did at the weekend, or borrowed a tenner off Wendy and paid her back a few days later, but I have never been in debt to the bank or had to pay a bank charge or interest. It’s a trait I clearly don’t get from my mother.
Unlike a Virgin Page 7
