by Jean Ure
Still having morbid thoughts. They are getting morbider and morbider! Have been lying under the duvet, daydreaming, instead of doing my homework. (Which is only geography, so doesn’t really matter.)
Have just made a discovery: if I clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze I can make my elbows touch. I wonder if this is something that anyone can do or if it’s just me???
Carlito boy back on building site! Browner than ever. I definitely felt the Tingle Factor…
Thursday
The most embarrassing day of my entire life! Went into town with Mum to do some late-night shopping. She wanted to get a hat to wear for some wedding that she and Harry have been invited to. I still can’t really understand what she wanted me to be there for. To advise her, she said.
“Stop me buying something foolish and unsuitable!”
Which is plainly ridiculous, since she never listens to a word I say.
“Mum!” goes my frequent anguished cry. “You’re not going out dressed like that?”
“Why not?” she ripostes. (A word I have just learnt.) “What’s wrong with it?”
You can’t really tell your own mum that she’s wearing clothes that are way too young for her. She just thinks I don’t have any dress sense. So why ask me to go and choose hats?
Well, anyway. It wasn’t the hat that was the problem. All hats are pretty stupid, if you ask me. The one Mum chose wasn’t any stupider than any of the others. A sort of blue cartwheel affair with feathery bits. The embarrassing part came afterwards when she suddenly spied some jeans going cheap and decided that she had to have a pair.
“I mean, look, Cresta! Twenty-five per cent off! That’s a bargain!”
She’d have liked me to have some, too, but they were men’s ones and were all too big.
“You’re so beautifully slim,” sighed Mum.
I told her that she was quite slim, too, which pleased her. It is not more than the truth but unfortunately it was the wrong thing to say as it gave her the idea she might be small enough to fit into a size 28, so off she trolled into a cubicle with some 28 regulars over her arm while I hung about outside and scanned the horizon for any Carlito types. Not a single one!
After a bit it occurred to me that Mum was taking an inordinately long time, just trying on a pair of humble jeans, I mean there’s not much to it. Well, not if you do it in the normal way that everyone else would do it. Like just taking your shoes and your skirt off and sticking your legs into the leg holes. Dead easy!
But oh, no! That wasn’t the way that Mum had done it. I knew there was something wrong when I stepped into the changing room area and heard these thumpings and hangings coming from one of the cubicles.
“Mum?” I said.
I peered round the curtain to see Mum rolling about the floor on her back, like an upended turtle, performing prodigies of contortion with her legs in the air.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“I am trying,” panted Mum, “to get - out - of these -jeans!”
In her eagerness to get into them, and prove that she was a size 28, she had actually pulled them on over her boots, her cowboy boots. Now, lo and behold, they wouldn’t come off!
“They’re narrow leg,” giggled Mum, as she wriggled and squirmed. I don’t know what she found so funny about it! Her face was bright scarlet. “Do something!” she said.
“Like what?” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Why didn’t you take the boots off first?”
“Oh, shut up!” said Mum.
She had pulled the jeans down as far as they would go and was doing her best to peel them off inside out. Naturally, they wouldn’t come. They wouldn’t go over the heels of the boots.
“Look, just stop thrashing about,” I said. I was nervous someone was going to come and investigate. I mean, they must have thought a murder was going on, the racket Mum was making.
I grabbed hold of one of her legs and started tugging at the boot that was at the end of it. Needless to say, the boot wouldn’t come, either. The boot was caught in the jean and the jean was caught in the boot. Impasse!
“What are we going to do?” giggled Mum.
I said, “Maybe you should just pull them back up and say you want to wear them now.”
“I can’t,” giggled Mum. Totally unabashed. “They’re too tight! They won’t zip!”
She was right: they wouldn’t. I got her to stand up and used every ounce of strength to at least tug the wo sides together, but they wouldn’t even meet across her stomach.
I said, “Try pulling your sweater down! Maybe it won’t show.”
But the sweater wasn’t long enough. So then I thought of buying a coat that she could put over the top, but Mum said she didn’t need a coat, she couldn’t afford a coat. And anyway, she said, she didn’t trust me to go and choose one for her.
“We’ll just have to get the boots off,” she said. “Either that, or call the fire brigade!”
So down she went again, bang, plummet! on to her back, and there was me, hauling and tugging and bright scarlet just like Mum, with great globules of sweat dripping off me, and all of a sudden, without any warning, a boot comes shooting off with such force it propels me right out of the cubicle, across the gangway and into the one opposite, where some poor woman, half naked, is trying on a dress. It was just so embarrassing.
A few minutes ago Harry rang up and I heard Mum telling him all about what had happened, like it was the funniest thing since Charlie Chaplin in silent movies. Which actually I don’t find very funny at all, to tell the truth.
“Cresta’s ashamed of me,” gurgled Mum. “But oh, dear! You would have laughed!”
To think that Mum is going to be thirty-three next birthday. And she is still behaving like a child!
Friday
Still can’t bear to think of yesterday. No one can say I don’t have a sense of humour, I laugh uproariously at certain things. I fail, however, to see anything in the least bit amusing in Mum rolling about on her back making grunting noises with a pair of jeans round her ankles. That is just shame-making.
She and Harry have gone to meet their friend at the pub. I bet she’s telling them all about it. She is a terrible exhibitionist! And Harry just makes her worse. He encourages her. I can’t imagine why she should be like this, when I am not and neither is Nan. Nan likes to think of herself as “refined”. She would be horrified if she knew half the things Mum gets up to!
I am pretty horrified myself. But I, alas, have to live with it.
Now I am going to resolutely turn my mind away from Mum and her antics and write down my latest thoughts for tomorrow, for reading to Pilch. I am going to take the plunge! Carlito is going to die young… a slow, romantic death (like poor Leonardo in Titanic). Not in this particular episode, I hasten to add. This is just the beginning. I can make it last for as long as I want! Months, or even years. Today is when the doctors break the news. I dreamt it up in bed last night!
Oh, heavens! Mum and Harry are back and they have brought people with them. I can hear them all laughing and talking. Now I suppose they will start making noise.
Yes! There they go. Screech honk hoot. I bet they’ve all drunk too much!
Mum has just looked round my bedroom door and said, “Cresta! I’ve been telling everyone how stupid I was yesterday. Why don’t you come down and help me act it out?”
No, thank you! Once was quite enough.
Saturday
Went into Dandy’s with Pilch to see if we could find Mum’s record. It is huge! It has four floors, of which number four is where you can buy food and drink and memorabilia, such as postcards, posters, books, etc. The other three are all divided up into different sorts of music, e.g. pop, soul, jazz, punk, rock and so on, and then into years. We didn’t know where to start looking!
“When in doubt, ask,” said Pilch, and without more ado she went scooting across to where two boys, wearing green sweats with DANDY’S written on the front, were sticking price labels on to records.
“Ex
cuse me,” she goes, in this very loud penetrating voice that half the shop can hear. ‘“Scuse me! We’re looking for an album by this group called Dawn of Humanity?”
I was about to hastily explain that it wasn’t for ourselves - we weren’t the ones who wanted this grungy old music - when one of the boys goes, “In that case, you have come to the right hombre!”
Hombre. That’s Spanish!
He asked which album it was that we were after, and before I could even open my mouth Pilch goes, “Driftwood?”
Like it was her mum we were buying it for! This begins to seriously annoy me, I mean Pilch just taking over, especially as this boy is speaking Spanish. I mean, what’s it to do with her? She can be really pushy at times. So I elbowed her out of the way and said how it was for my mum, for her birthday.
“Imagine! It came out when she was 16!” gushed Pilch.
“1985,” I said, glaring rather hard at her.
The boy said, “Hombre! That is a long time ago.”
I don’t think he can actually be Spanish as his name is Sean, which sounds more Irish. But it is rather a coincidence, I cannot help feeling. Especially as it was me he smiled at, not Pilch, in spite of her having been so pushy and done most of the talking.
He said, “Let’s go take a look,” and led us upstairs to this section marked ROCK. The other boy (whose name is Tom. Very ordinary!) came with us, I am not sure why as we could have looked quite well by ourselves, but he engaged Pilch in conversation and that was good as it meant me and Sean could concentrate on the job in hand, i.e. finding Mum’s album. Except that we couldn’t as it wasn’t there. Apparently, it is very sought after.
Sean said, “How about this one? Does she have this one?” showing me a bright purple record sleeve with the word GLADIATOR spilling across it in what looked like blood.
I said, “I don’t think so. I don’t remember seeing it.” Which I surely would have done!
Sean said that if Mum was a fan then GLADIATOR was a must-have.
“It’s a classic!”
I inquired rather nervously how much it was, as I had seen several records marked as high as £25. Twenty-five pounds for a record!!! (But I have since learnt that some people pay hundreds.)
Sean said, “Call it a tenner. How about that?”
He had his thumb over the price as he said it, and when we went back downstairs he took out his little zapping machine and zapped another label on it saying £10, so that I am almost certain he knocked some off for me. I can’t think why! Pilch, later on, rather meanly suggested that he may in fact have added some.
“He could see you were a soft touch!”
I think she was just miffed because of Sean obviously preferring me to her.
Before we left I asked if the album was ever likely to come in. Because, I mean, if it did, I could always buy it for Mum’s Christmas present. Sean promised that he would keep an eye open for it. He said, “It does turn up from time to time.”
He then said why didn’t I leave my address and telephone number so that he could let me know? Whereupon Pilch instantly jumped in and said, “I’ll give you mine, as well!”
Why did she think he would want hers??? I asked her this when we had left the shop, and she looked a bit flustered, so that I could tell she was desperately trying to think of some rational-sounding excuse. In the end all she could come up with was, “Um, well, you know! In case you might be out, or something.”
Pathetic!
Sean said that he and Tom are there every Saturday, and will also be there over half term. He said, “You could always drop by and check what’s come in. We have new stuff all the time.” He said there are other albums by the same group that Mum might like. So I expect that is what we shall do. (I say we as we are used to doing things together and also it would be a bit mean if I were to sneak in there without Pilch. Though no more than she deserves. I mean, pushing herself forward like that!)
After leaving Dandy’s we did a bit of shopping then went back to Pilch’s place and tried out Mum’s album on Pilch’s mum and dad’s old record player. Her mum came in while it was playing and said, “My goodness! That takes me back a bit!”
Pilch said, “It’s for her mum. She wants to be young again.”
“It’s her new boyfriend,” I said. “She’s gone all girly.”
Pilch’s mum said, “Good for her! I’d go all girly if I had a new boyfriend.”
“Would you like one?” said Pilch.
Pilch’s mum laughed and said, “At my age? I should be so lucky!”
But we both knew she was only joking; she wouldn’t really want one. Pilch’s mum and dad think the world of each other. Pilch says they are a real ruddy duddy old married couple. Maybe Mum and Harry will end up like that. I wouldn’t mind! But I cannot seriously imagine it. Mum is just so dizzy!
After we’d listened to the album we went up to Pilch’s room to read our latest episodes. Pilch’s was quite adventurous! For her. All about Alastair “lying in the heather” with a girl called Zara, who is “just sixteen and very curvaceous.” Pilch isn’t sixteen, but she is curvaceous. I couldn’t help wondering…
“Do they do it?” I said.
Pilch turned scarlet and said, “Yes, but I can’t read it out.”
She wouldn’t, no matter how hard I pushed. I said reproachfully that we had never before kept things private, but I could see that it was embarrassing her. I said, “Is it a Passionate Love scene?”
“Sort of,” said Pilch. But she still wouldn’t read it! She said maybe sometime I could read it for myself. But not today!
“Anyway, it’s your turn,” she said. She was all of a ferment to hear about Carlito and whether I had done what she calls The Dreadful Deed.
At this point I have a confession to make. For the first time in my life I have told Pilch a lie. I mean, a real whopping big one. I told her that I hadn’t written anything down…
I don’t know what brought it on, but quite suddenly I started having these tremendous second thoughts. I don’t want Carlito to grow pale and thin! I don’t want him to die! I must have been mad ever to think of it! It is sick. Sick sick sick. And I am a sick person! I have a diseased imagination.
So now I have torn up all the pages that I wrote, about the doctor breaking the news, and I have burnt them. I set fire to them in my waste paper basket, and Mum yelled up the stairs, “Cresta, what are you doing? You’ll burn the house down!”
I told Pilch that I had changed my mind. I said, “I toyed with the idea, but it was kind of a dead end.” Which ho ho ho would be a joke if it weren’t so sick.
I could see that one part of Pilch was a bit disappointed, as I think secretly, whatever she said, she had been looking forward to a great Gloomfest. But on the whole she was relieved, because, as she said, “I really don’t like unhappy endings!” It is true: the end of Thelma & Louise always reduces her to tears.
Anyway, I have decided… Carlito is going to live!!! With his manhood intact! He is coming out of hospital immediately and is going to have passionate love scenes of his own - only not in the heather. I am going to lie down in a minute and think of it.
Not having any episodes to read, we started talking about the two boys we met in Dandy’s. Pilch had obviously got over her feelings of miffdom at Sean preferring me to her as she eagerly informed me that Tom reminds her of Alastair. I don’t see the resemblance myself, apart from the fact that he has fair hair and goes to a posh school. (King Henry’s. She says he asked her where she went, so she asked him in return. I didn’t realise they had entered so deeply into conversation. It must have been while me and Sean were searching for Mum’s album.)
“Don’t you think he looks like Alastair?” she said.
I said yes, just to make her happy - anything to stop her being miffed! - but I have to say that if either of them looks like anyone, it is Sean who looks like Carlito. I know that he is probably of Irish descent, but he has this very dark, very thick, very glossy black hair, and this
wild, unkempt, almost gypsyish air. I was surprised that Pilch didn’t comment on it! But I guess she is too busy dreaming of Alastair.
I asked her if she felt turned on by him, and she crinkled her nose and rubbed at her forehead and pretended to think about it before finally admitting that well, maybe, just a little bit.
“Be more precise!” I said. “What was the Tingle Factor?”
This made her rub even more furiously at her forehead.
“Mm… about… nine?” she said.
She calls that a little bit??? Fortunately she didn’t ask me about Sean as I am not at all sure what I would have answered!
We have agreed that we will go in again next Saturday and check whether Mum’s album has turned up.
Sunday
Woke to the sound of strange noises coming from Mum’s bedroom. Well, Mum and Harry’s bedroom as it is now. Strange thuddings and thumps. I thought at first it was a burglar, tripping over the edge of the rug and banging his head against the chest of drawers. I knew Mum was downstairs because I could hear her warbling to herself in the kitchen. (She does a lot of warbling, these days. A sign, I suppose, that she is happy.)
So, anyway, I crept out of my room, all prepared to do battle - or more likely shriek my head off, as at heart I am a coward - and what did I see, through the open door? Harry is what I saw! Harry, trying to get into his underpants…
He’d got one leg in OK but seemed to be having problems with the other. Every time he tried to put his foot through the leg hole, which is certainly big enough, I mean it’s leg-sized, for God’s sake! Well, every time he tried, he kept catching his toe in the waistband, losing his balance and hopping about on his other leg. (Hence all the thuddings and thumps.) Every time it happened he shouted ‘Ollocks!’ It was like some mad kind of song and dance.
Jab - thud! - Ollocks! - Jab - thud! - Ollocks!
I stood silently watching in the doorway. I thought to myself, this is my mum’s boyfriend, the man who could well become my stepfather, and he cannot even get into his own underpants!
