Con and Evan are in the kitchen, eating ice cream over the island.
‘I can’t believe you eat that stuff,’ I say to Evan, feeling my stomach turn as I watch the white mounds on their cones slowly disintegrate. ‘It’s basically just sugar and lard.’
‘Oh yes, I know,’ he says.
‘I can’t believe you let my children eat it, either,’ I say. The sight of it, right now, after what just happened is stomachwrenchingly disgusting.
‘It’s the best thing in the world,’ Evan says, through a mouthful of white filth. I want so much to slap it out of his hand, snatch Con’s away and dump them both in the bin. Out of sight, out of mind.
‘I’m going to wash my hands,’ I say, and turn to leave the kitchen.
‘Hang on, where’s Verity?’
‘Upstairs,’ I say. I had been hoping to break the news to him gently but now . . .
‘Did you two have a row?’ Evan asks, his voice full of concern, even though he only has eyes for the ice cream in his hand. Watching it ooze and melt all over their hands makes me want to vomit.
‘No, but she is a bit upset.’
‘Why? What happened? Hideous bridesmaid dress?’
‘No . . . On the way back we . . . kind of . . . were stopped by the police.’
‘You were what?’ he asks, finally able to tear his attention away from the confection in his hand.
Con’s eyes widen in awe. ‘Wow,’ he breathes.
‘Apparently I was speeding,’ I say. ‘I was overtaking and didn’t slow down soon enough. So the police car that seemed to appear from nowhere pulled us over. And Vee got upset because he said he could take me down to the station or breathalyse me.’
‘You who barely makes it over thirty, even in a fifty zone, were speeding? Now that’s one for the record books. Poor kid must have been terrified. I’ll go see if she’s all right.’ He stands up and comes towards me, still holding that thing in his hand. ‘Here,’ he shoves it into my hand, ‘hold this.’
I stare at it: the feel of it under my fingers, the sweet vanilla smell of it in my nostrils is turning my stomach. ‘I haven’t washed my hands,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll have to bin this now, you can’t eat it.’
‘Don’t you dare, woman!’ he calls from the foot of the stairs. ‘Con, you’re in charge – if she tries to bin it, come and get me.’
‘OK, Dad,’ Con calls back.
Any second I’m going to throw up on it. I’m going to cover it in bile and lunch’s Spanish omelette, and then he definitely won’t be able to eat it.
‘Here,’ I say, thrusting it at my son, ‘you look after it for your dad, I really need to wash my hands.’
I rush to the sink, turn the hot water tap on full, hoping for enough stored hot water to cleanse away the stickiness it has slicked on my hands, and the near-invisible stain it has left upon my skin.
‘What did the handcuffs feel like, Mum?’ Conrad asks through a mouthful of ice cream.
I stop for a minute, wanting to ask him what he knows, who told him that I’d ever had handcuffs linked around my wrists – then I remember what he means. ‘He didn’t handcuff me, sweetheart,’ I say, scrubbing again and again at my hands.
‘Oh. What’s it like in a police car?’
It’s like being buried alive, and knowing you’re being driven to a place where they’ll bury you alive again. ‘He didn’t put me in a police car.’
‘Oh. Did he at least talk on his radio thingy about you?’
Not while I was there. I’ll bet he’ll mention it to a few others, though. I’ll bet they’ll all be on the look out for my car after this. ‘No, love. But it did crackle a bit.’
‘Oh.’ My eight-year-old is deflated, disappointed – for one moment in time he thought I was exciting, that he’d have a good story to tell his friends about his boring mum suddenly becoming interesting. I am not. I am dull and I am proud of that fact.
I am still trying to get the ice cream off my hands. Physically it is gone, but it is still there in other ways, staining my flesh in the same way that blood does by hiding down in the little ridges of the skin.
I often think that my hands will never be clean, that no matter how long I wash them for they’ll always look how they did in the continuous reflection I saw in the bridal shop: they’ll always be unclean and drip-drip-dripping in his blood.
serena
October, 1985
History is the most boring subject on earth. On earth.
It has nothing to do with me and I really wish I didn’t have to do this lesson. ‘Srrenna, Srrenna,’ Veronica Bell, who sat behind me in History, kept calling at me under her breath. She wasn’t even saying my name properly. She wanted to me to take the note she’d written out of her hand and give it to Liam Ruthers who sat in front of me. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to get involved in her trying to get Liam to notice her. I knew I’d get caught, and end up in detention or something. I’d seen it happen to other girls who’d tried to help Veronica. The teacher always got the note, read it out to the class, Veronica pretended she knew nothing about it and the note-passer got detention. That wasn’t happening to me. Especially not in this class. Veronica didn’t even like me. Most of the time she ignored me or called me names behind my back: like maps – spam backwards – because, according to her, I had a big, shiny forehead that was just begging to have someone hit while they yelled ‘SPAM’ in my face. She wouldn’t dare try it, though. She wasn’t sure what I’d do in return. She was all talk when I wasn’t there, but nothing to my face. And despite all that, she wanted me to help her to get Liam to go out with her.
I stared down at the page in front of me, shutting out Veronica’s hisses. I was so bored I could yawn. I hated this classroom as well. It was smaller than the others, the windows weren’t as large and Sir never opened them, so we all seemed to be crammed in here, and the boys smelt. They all wore their dads’ aftershave even though most of them didn’t shave. And most of them kept a can of BO basher in their lockers so they could have a quick spray between classes. ‘Girls like boys to smell nice,’ that’s what Medina told me when I asked her why they did it. The girls were just as bad with their Yardley and Charlie, but the boys sprayed on loads and loads and I always felt sick afterwards.
‘Miss Gorringe, perhaps you would care to tell the class why policemen are sometimes called Bobbies?’ asked the new History teacher, out of the blue. He wasn’t like other teachers. He was only a little bit older than us. And all the girls said he should be a film star because he was good looking. His class was the worst for the smells: all the girls rushed to their lockers to spray on perfume before his class and the braver ones put on make-up and wore their jewellery, despite it being forbidden. I’d even seen Veronica pull up her skirt so her legs above her knees were on show.
I didn’t like him much. He was always picking on me. Always asking me questions, like there was no one else in the class whose name he could remember so if there was a question to be answered, he called mine.
‘Because they were created by Sir Robert Peel. And Bobby is a shortened version of Robert.’
‘What year did he form the police force?’ Sir asked.
‘1829, Sir,’ I replied.
‘What else was Sir Robert Peel famous for?’
‘Abolishing the Corn Laws.’
‘Year?’
‘1846.’
‘Show off,’ Veronica hissed loudly and a few people in hearing distance laughed.
She didn’t understand: I had to do extra reading because Sir was always picking on me and this was the only way to not give him a reason to give me detention.
‘Miss Gorringe, I’d like to see you after class,’ Sir said. My heart sank. If I got in trouble, they’d tell my parents and that was when the real trouble would begin.
‘But, S—’ I began.
‘After class, Miss Gorringe,’ he insisted.
‘Lucky cow,’ Veronica hissed, causing more laughter around me.
&n
bsp; ‘What was that, Miss Bell? You want more detention? What?’ Sir cupped his hand around his ear. ‘You’re desperate for it? OK, if you insist, Miss Bell. If I hear another word from you, I’ll make sure you have detention with the head for a month.’
Everyone in class laughed, and Veronica kicked my chair when Sir had turned back to the blackboard. ‘I’ll get you,’ she hissed.
‘I’m really scared,’ I replied. You didn’t grow up with two older sisters and not know how to stick up for yourself. I was quiet, I was shy, I did not have that many friends, but I wasn’t an easy target. Medina and Faye had made sure of that.
‘You should be,’ she said.
I turned to her, not caring if Sir saw, since I was staying behind after class anyway. ‘No, Veronica, you should be,’ I replied. From the way she immediately put her head down and stared at her textbook, I knew she’d got the message.
Everyone had filed out and I had stayed in my seat with my stomach tumbling and tumbling over itself like the washing machine did during a long wash. This wasn’t fair. I hadn’t done anything. ‘I’ll get right to the point,’ Sir said, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of me. ‘You’re a bright girl, Serena. But you’re easily distracted and I don’t like the people you hang around with. That Veronica Bell is nothing but trouble.’ I decided not to mention that I wasn’t friends with Veronica Bell. There was no point, teachers saw what they wanted to see. That’s why Veronica had never been caught for passing notes. No teacher ever saw that although the person caught passing the note might be different, they were always sitting behind or beside or in front of Veronica. ‘You’re getting Cs and Bs in my class when clearly you have the knowledge to do so much better. You could be an A student, Serena. I’ve been testing you, these past few weeks. That’s why I’m constantly asking you questions. I wanted to see if you would do what I hoped you would and start doing extra reading, and you did. Not many students would do that. You’re a gifted pupil. I want you to do better.’
‘How, Sir?’ I asked.
‘I want you to start taking History a bit more seriously. It’s a great subject if you try.’
‘OK, Sir,’ I said.
‘Look, how about I give you a couple of extra lessons after school, give you a chance to see what History is really all about? And then we’ll take it from there. I’ll talk to the head, let him know that I want to tutor you, and if you decide you can like History a little better, I can tutor you up to your O’Levels next year. Help you get an A. What do you think?’
‘OK, Sir,’ I said. Did I really have any choice? When he talked to the headmaster, he’d most likely ring my parents. And once they heard that I could possibly get an A in an O’Level, I’d have to do it whether I could like History or not.
‘Oh, come on, Serena, sound a little more enthusiastic than that. It’s going to be fun. Trust me.’
January, 1986
‘I want to take care of you for ever,’ he said, stroking his thumb against my cheek.
I was a little unsure what to say. I’d never had a boy tell me something like that before, and certainly not a man, a teacher. The closest I’d ever come was when Tommy Marison had grabbed me and pushed his lips on mine and said I had to be his girlfriend. (Medina and Faye had what they called ‘a nice little chat’ with him and he never bothered me again.) Sir was nothing like Tommy Marison, and I liked being around Sir. In the last three months, I’d started to like History a little more thanks to our after-school tutorials. I liked sitting in his classroom and listening to him explain history in a way that I could understand. When he talked about history, away from the other pupils, it wasn’t the most boring subject in the world about a group of dead people that had no relevance to my life. It was jam-packed with exciting stories full of danger and hope, intrigue and betrayal. And love. Always there was an element of love. I’d grown to like class, but I loved our tutorials. I could even call him by his first name in tutorials – ‘It’s more grown-up, don’t you think?’ he’d said.
This was the first time he said something like that or touched me, though.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ he said and leapt up. ‘I should not have said that or done that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ Red in the face, and shaking with nerves, I guessed, he moved to the other side of the classroom.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’ He stumbled over a few chairs as he went to the blackboard, picked up the chalk-powdered eraser and started to rub out the things he’d written on the board earlier that day. ‘I’ll, I’ll, erm, talk to the Head. I’ll find you another tutor. I’ll say it’s not working out.’ He cleared his throat, moving the eraser back and forth over the same spot, even though it was clear of his spidery writing. ‘I’m, erm, thinking of leaving at the end of the term anyway, but once you tell your parents and the school find out, I’ll probably be asked to leave before then.’ He stopped what he was doing, then turned to me. ‘I want you to know that it wasn’t your fault. I’m the adult, I shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. Blame me for doing something so wrong, OK? Not yourself. You have done nothing wrong here, OK?’
I nodded.
‘Good girl,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, you’d better go. Tell your parents that I’ll more than understand if they want me fired.’ He smiled at me again, then turned to the blackboard. ‘Goodbye, Serena.’
‘Bye, Sir,’ I replied, deciding I needed to be formal again. I slowly got up, started to pack my books away. I took my time shutting each book and then putting them carefully in my brown satchel. When I was finished, I swung my bag on to my shoulder. He hadn’t turned around at all: he stood at the board, rubbing it clean over and over.
When I was at the door, he said, ‘Have a good evening, Serena.’
‘Thanks, Sir,’ I replied.
I walked home instead of getting the bus and along the way, I kept reaching up to touch my face. His touch had been so gentle and soft. And the way he said he wanted to take care of me made my stomach tingle upside-down every time I ran it through in my head. He wanted to take care of me. That must mean I was special. Someone thought I was special. Someone as clever and grown-up as him thought I was special.
‘Hello, Serena,’ Mum called from the kitchen as I opened the front door and dropped my bag and took off my school blazer, hooking it over the globe of the banister.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ I said, as I ambled into the kitchen.
Mum was stirring something on the stove and the whole house smelt of tomatoes and oxtail and onion and garden eggs. I wasn’t hungry, I realised. My stomach had been rumbling after school but the hunger left me after he touched me – that one, quick touch had taken away my hunger and left in its place . . . I couldn’t properly describe what I felt.
‘Are you all right?’ Mum asked as I pulled out a chair at the dinner table and sat down.
I nodded. I was more than all right.
‘How was your History lesson?’
‘It was OK.’
‘Are you going to get an A for your O’Level, then?’ she asked. She asked me this after every lesson.
‘I hope so,’ I said, stroking the place setting at the table. ‘I just have to keep working really hard.’
‘Good,’ Mum said. ‘Now, go and get changed and start your homework before dinner.’
‘OK,’ I said.
I climbed the stairs feeling as if I could float up them, and as I changed I wondered if Sir would like my stonewash jeans and big white T-shirt? If he liked my hair in a ponytail or if he’d prefer it loose? If he would like me to wear mascara and lipstick like the other girls at school? I couldn’t concentrate on my homework. Instead, I flicked on the radio part of the tape player that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Faye and Medina’s room when they went off to university two years ago. Sade’s voice sang out, explaining about the sweetest taboo.
I lay back on my bed, listening to her sing, listening to her words, and when she had finished, I spe
nt the whole evening writing his surname after my name. I wanted, desperately wanted, to be a part of his life for ever and ever.
poppy
‘These are for you,’ Mum says as she slides what she has been holding in her hand for the last few minutes across the wooden kitchen table towards me.
She has managed to sit down at the same table as me for more than three seconds. She didn’t make herself a cup of tea, so I knew she wasn’t staying, but it was a start. She actually came into the kitchen and didn’t immediately walk out again. We can build on that. Dad being shut away in his study is something I do not know how to work on so I will not think about it for now. Now, I stare at what my mother has given me.
Keys.
She has given me five keys on a metal loop. Keys. For nearly twenty years I’ve only ever heard the sound of keys in locks, and seen them hanging on the belt loops or sitting in the hands of screws.
Heard them, seen them, not held them. Certainly never owned them.
Carefully, as though they are a potentially rabid animal that could snap venomously at me at any second, I extend my hand and stroke my fingers over the top of them. When they do not bite me, I pick them up, hold them in the palm of my hand, reacquainting myself with the coolness of metal and the delicious jagged edges.
‘Two are for the front door,’ Mum says. ‘The smaller three are for the padlocks to Granny Morag’s beach hut,’ she says.
‘She left it to you.’
‘And you’re actually giving it to me?’ I ask.
‘Of course, Poppy. It’s what she wanted. It would be illegal not to give it to you.’
Why don’t you just add, ‘Some of us aren’t criminals like you’ and be done with it? I think at her. I stare at the keys. Gosh, not only do I have keys, I have property.
The Ice Cream Girls Page 6
