by Meera Syal
A bad influence; that sounded like a curse. Maybe she had looked right through my eyes like a telescope and seen the wicked thoughts and easy lies and bitter frustration that sometimes seemed to fill my head until it felt like it would burst.
I pulled my hands away quickly, feeling suddenly light-headed, and shot Anita what I hoped was a mocking, completely unimpressed grin. But Anita looked deadly serious; she wiped her hands down her dress ceremoniously and placed them on the table. The woman took Anita’s hands in hers and drew a short breath as her eyes darted from the palms and then back again to Anita’s eager, determined face.
‘Don’t think I can read you, darlink,’ the woman said suddenly, letting go of Anita’s hands.
Anita’s nostrils flared, her pupils dilated until her eyes seemed black holes, ‘You did her! I paid you and all! You did her, missus!’
The woman pursed her mouth and shrugged her shoulders, making the tiny coins sewn onto the rim of her bandana jingle and dance. ‘Okay darlink. Is what you want. Your momma is not around anymore, yes?’
Anita sneered, ‘Yeah! She’s mekking me tea right now, actually! What you on about?’
The woman remained impassive. ‘Okay. Is nothing then.’
‘What? What do you mean? Where’s she going?’
‘Is nothink I say!’ the woman spat back angrily, making Anita retreat. ‘You want this or no?’ She took Anita’s silence as assent and continued, ‘I see troubles for you. Married too young, babies too fast. Why you always in such a hurry eh?’
Anita said nothing, she was chewing her lip fitfully, affecting boredom, but held her hands out as if they had suddenly become very heavy.
‘Something bad is coming, in two maybe three years time, an accident, or maybe not an accident. Is up to you. You could be lucky, young lady. But why you try and spoil everything good, eh?’
Anita was now breathing heavily, her eyes blinking rapidly. She yanked her hands away and grabbed the two sixpences off the table as she stood. ‘You’re shit, you are!’ she hissed into the woman’s face. ‘Yow don’t know what you’m talking about! I ain’t paying nothing for you!’
Anita pushed the sixpence into my hands and strolled off into the crowd, banging into people as she passed. The Mysterious Stranger watched her with detached amusement and then turned to me, fixing me with a long challenging gaze which made me feel as if all my clothes were gradually being unpeeled and falling in a crumpled heap at my bare feet. I replaced my sixpence on the table and whispered, ‘Sorry about me friend, like …’
‘Is that what you think she is, darlink?’ she smiled, and tucked the sixpence away into a hidden pocket in her gown, a purple night studded with a million twinkling stars.
I followed Anita around like a shadow for the rest of the afternoon, keeping a respectful distance behind her, letting her know I was there without going too close to the dark mood that hung around her like a forcefield. By now I was used to Anita’s tempers and knew how to ride them as skilfully as Uncle Hugo rode the unbroken ponies in my favourite Saturday morning programme, White Horses. I knew if I got too close to her during one of her wordless seething tempers, I would be sucked into it like a speck into a cyclone. Her fury was so powerful it was almost tangible, drew the energy and will from me until the world reversed like a negative and I found myself inside her head, looking out of her eyes and feeling an awful murderous hatred. But if I retreated too far she would sense my fear and detachment and turn on me, accusing me of betrayal.
Now I understood what had made Sherrie and Fat Sally do their merry dance of repulsion and attraction around Anita, for like the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead, the good and the horrid in her were equally irresistible. I used her thin rigid back as a compass, pursuing her through the crowd as she passed from stall to stall, watching her finger the knitted baby bootees, tinker with vases and dried flower arrangements, rifle through stacks of old magazines until she finally nicked a couple of lemon curd tarts off a cake stall which we ate in quick hurried gulps. There was no need to discuss what had happened; I knew that the fortune teller would never be mentioned again.
We came across Sherrie sitting under a tree smoking a cigarette. She looked so much older than when I had seen her at the funfair; her hair had been cut in ‘feather’ style, layered completely from crown to ends so that from the back, she could have passed for a blonde version of David Cassidy. She wore faded jeans which ended in huge panelled flares and a tight cheesecloth top which revealed two small, but perfectly formed, buds of breasts. Sherrie nodded to us and flicked open her fag packet expertly. I was seized with panic; if papa saw me hanging around juvenile smokers, I knew he would have a fit. Luckily, Anita refused Sherrie’s offer, ‘I’ve given up,’ she explained airily. ‘Me too,’ I said, to save her the trouble of offering one to me. Sherrie shrugged and leaned back, deliberately pushing her chest forward, screwing up her eyes against the thin blue line of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from her lips. I thought she looked beautiful.
‘Am yow wearing a bra?’ enquired Anita, who then poked a forefinger into the centre of one of Sherrie’s bumps.
‘Gerrof yow daft cow! Course I am!’ Sherrie cried, pushing her away. ‘I got to, specially when I’m riding Trixie, or they wobble about like buggery.’
We all giggled, I did not know why I was feeling embarrassed all of a sudden.
‘Yeah, it’s dead painful, innit?’ Anita continued. ‘I ain’t wearing mine today. Wanted to get some air on them, like. So they grow bigger.’
I had never seen Anita wearing a bra, the only straps I had seen falling out of her sleeves definitely belonged to a vest, but I held my tongue and nodded wisely, resolving to have a good look at my chest as soon as I got home to check if I needed one too.
‘So yow got a horse then?’ Anita said. I could hear the envy icing the comment.
Sherrie nodded. ‘Trixie’s so gorgeous, I kiss her all the time. Dad says he’s gonna enter me for the showjumping next year. I’ll have to get a hard hat though first. And a sports bra probably.’
Anita kicked at a clump of grass, I could feel some sort of heat rising from her. It was spooky, I knew what she was going to make Sherrie say and she did, faltering over her words like they were being pulled from her mouth. ‘You er…why don’t you come down to the farm and have a ride, like? It’s dead good.’
Anita did not even look up, making Sherrie feel like she was doing her a favour by even considering her offer. ‘Meena’s got to come too,’ Anita said finally, making my chest swell with gratitude. Bet I need a bra right now, I thought.
Sherrie threw her cigarette onto the grass and left it smouldering there whilst she got up and picked leaves off her bum. ‘Tomorrow then, yeah? In the morning. Trix is dead frisky in the morning.’ And she sauntered off, her clogs making wet slaps on the grass.
It was only when I saw that the ends of her hair were turning flaming red that I realised it was late afternoon and the Fete was drawing to a close. People were gradually gathering around the Tombola stall where every year, Mr Pembridge would tell us the exciting news of which village had managed to raise the most money. I glimpsed Sandy and Hairy Neddy clearing away the few remaining toys from her stall and whispering to each other, occasionally looking up to receive someone’s congratulations or to shake an outstretched hand. I saw papa chatting to a woman who I presumed was Fat Sally’s mother, as Fat Sally herself hovered nearby finishing off the crust of a large bakewell slice. She was squeezed into a denim waistcoat and skirt and had the obligatory shimmery scarf fastened around her waist. She ate like she wanted to choke herself, without pleasure or pride, not even seeming to taste the food but cramming it into her mouth, willing it to disappear. And when I looked at her mother, I understood why; she was a petite, coiffured brunette in a tight-fitting trouser suit who waved her skinny arms around as she laughed and talked with my father, rather too cosily I thought. She only glanced at Fat Sally once, and then returned to her conversation
whilst bringing a tissue from inside her sleeve and pushing it at Fat Sally who cleaned round her mouth with furtive swipes. I had not liked Fat Sally up until this point, but I knew what it was like to live inside a body you did not feel was yours. I wondered if we should invite her to come with us to Sherrie’s farm and resolved to ask Anita’s permission later on.
Papa glanced up and caught my eye, and held up a whisky bottle with a ticket stuck to its side which he waved about like a trophy. I waved back and was about to move towards him when a high-pitched whistling emanated from the direction of the Tombola Stall. Mr Pembridge was speaking into a rusty looking megaphone but none of the growing crowd could hear anything but feedback, and many cupped their hands to their ears, waving madly at him to stop. Reverend Ince was immediately at his side, fiddling ineffectually with the control knobs whilst Uncle Alan stood behind them, looking on with weary amusement. Finally the odd word began filtering through the crackles and squeals until we all paused as one to listen to Mr Pembridge’s speech.
’…three hundred and seven pounds and eight shillings which is once again a marvellous effort, and I think we should all give ourselves a big round of applause!’ Everyone complied heartily to this request and we were momentarily united in an orgy of clapping, basking in the glow of our charitable efforts. I glimpsed Mrs Pembridge swaying in the cavernous front porch of her mansion; she was cradling a wine bottle to her cheek like a child and was staring at Mr Pembridge with an expression that somehow contained both utter contempt and profound pity.
Her son Graham was standing next to her. He had obviously had something better to do this afternoon and looked as if he had just returned from safari somewhere, dressed in a mud-splattered tweed jacket and corduroys. By the way he looked at his watch I could tell he was counting the seconds until he could claim his house back as his own. He did not seem bothered by his mother’s obvious emotional state. I checked Mr Pembridge’s grinning red face, wondering why he couldn’t feel those eyes burning into the back of his head, and when I looked back, both his wife and son had gone.
Mr Pembridge raised his pudgy hands for silence and continued, ‘We have just done our totting up of all the village stalls and I am especially, um, proud to announce that this year, the largest amount raised was a wopping ninety-three pounds, three shillings and eight pennies by my home village of Tollington!’ A huge screaming cheer erupted from a far corner of the grounds where the Ballbearings women were whooping and clapping their hands above their heads. In the midst of them were Sandy and Hairy Neddy and by his face, you could tell he attributed every penny of our success to his brilliant future wife and her unique needlework skills.
Reverend Ince was shaking Mr Pembridge’s hand, whilst Uncle Alan stood silently at his shoulder, his face slowly turning a deep, warning crimson. Reverend Ince took the megaphone off Mr Pembridge and cleared his throat noisily before speaking in his familiar, resonant boom: ‘Well done everyone, we certainly had the Lord on our side today!’
‘Amen to that!’ shouted Mr Ormerod, who I had not recognised out of his usual brown overall. He was leaning against the now empty trestle table where Sandy had set up stall and held a rapidly melting ice cream cornet in his hand.
Reverend Ince had a moment of panic when he thought Mr Ormerod might launch into a chorus of hallelujahs so he quickly continued, ‘And now we come to how this money should be spent. You remember last year we sent most of it to our Missionary Project in Africa, a lot of paper work involved I can tell you, that kept me busy for months …’ Everybody knew the African appeal had been pulled together by Uncle Alan, and I watched him, waiting for some kind of protest or self deprecating laugh, one of those moments he often shared with us in which he acknowledged our pity and shrugged it off with his usual modest optimism. But Uncle Alan did not even look up, his gaze was fixed on something in the far distance, his lips drawn shut.
‘But,’ Reverend Ince continued, ‘this year we felt that maybe charity should indeed begin at home, especially considering what is happening to our village. We thought, what can we do to bring a little blessing and light into our beloved, besieged Tollington?’ And here he paused for dramatic effect, the space filled by urgent whispering as people speculated on what particular form this blessing should take. ‘The school appeal, of course…A shelter for the bus stop, it’s frigging freezing there of a morning…A gate round the mine shaft, I dread the littl’uns falling in one day…Nah, a bloody big party, free booze, we deserve it …’
‘I’d buy a pony,’ Anita whispered to me, gripping my arm tightly in anticipation.
The Reverend Ince ploughed on over the hubbub. ‘So we have decided that this year, the proceeds of our Spring Fete will be put towards a brand new roof for our chapel!’
Mr Ormerod burst into wild applause which was quickly taken up by other members of the church choir standing around him, and gave a huge thumbs up to Reverend Ince who acknowledged his supporter with a proud nod.
All around me mutters of discontent and resignation hung in the air like whispering fog; Uncle Alan had turned on his heel and was about to walk away when a loud barking voice cut through the air, jerking him back like he was on a leash. ‘Bloody rubbish, the lot of you! Bloody crap, you lot!’ We turned as one to see Sam Lowbridge standing at the gates, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his lips. The rest of his gang lounged around their mopeds smirking self-consciously, a pile of empty lager cans at their feet. ‘Bloody church roof? What’s that gonna do for us, eh? Wharra about us?’
Reverend Ince stroked his nose, feigning amusement, but I could tell he was seething at this public humiliation. Mr Pembridge was looking round, ineffectually, for help, as if he expected two burly minders to appear and drag this heckler off for a good pasting. I tried to spot Mrs Lowbridge in the crowd, I knew if I had made such a spectacle of myself, mama would have dragged me off by the hair by now to a quiet corner for some moral rehabilitation. But strangely, there was little reaction from the crowd; I expected the Ballbearings women to be up in arms, defending the honour of their village, but instead they all stood with crossed arms, looking from Sam Lowbridge to the Reverend, expectant, and I thought, somewhat pleased with themselves.
Sam sensed this unspoken support, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved closer, confident now, high on the sound of his own unchallenged voice. I did not care for his new haircut; it made him look like a blonde bullet, and I wondered where all the soft shadows I had so admired in his face had gone. ‘Yow don’t know what we want! None of yow lot! Kowtowing to the big lord and bloody master here like he’s doing us a favour! Yow want to stop the motorway, ask him! He’s a bloody builder and all, in’t he?’
The crowd erupted now, some people shouting at Sam to ‘shuttit!’, others calling to each other excitedly, ‘He’s got a point! He could stop the diggers! Maybe they’re his diggers, eh? Ask him!’
Only Uncle Alan’s voice cut through the babble, ‘Sam! Listen! We do understand! You’re right! Maybe this isn’t the best way to use the money!’
Reverend Ince grabbed hold of Uncle Alan, who threw him off with such violence that the crowd gasped and instinctively moved back, clearing a pathway between Alan and Sam. The grounds had become some great leafy arena, the air fell quiet, punctuated only by distant birdsong and a collective intake of anticipatory breath; we all knew something important was happening, epic even, and our job was to witness and listen. Uncle Alan took a step forward, ignoring the fierce exchange starting behind him between Mr Pembridge and Reverend Ince. ‘Sam, a lot of people feel the same as you. This is our money. We could have a vote, yeah? A meeting, let’s talk about …’
Sam interrupted, a sly grin curling the corners of his mouth: ‘Yow don’t do nothing but talk, “Uncle”. And give everything away to some darkies we’ve never met. We don’t give a toss for anybody else. This is our patch. Not some wogs’ handout.’
I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. My legs felt watery and a hot panic softe
ned my insides to mush. It was as if the whole crowd had turned into one huge eyeball which swivelled slowly between me and papa. I wished I had stood next to papa; I could feel Anita shifting beside me, I knew she would not hold me or take my hand. Papa was staring into the distance, seemingly unconcerned, gripping his bottle of whisky like a weapon. Uncle Alan’s mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish, Reverend Ince whispered to him, ‘Good work, Alan. One of your supporters, is he?’
And then a rasping voice came from somewhere in the throng, ‘You tell him, son.’
I jerked my head towards the sound. Who was that? Who said that? Who had thought that all this time and why had I never known about it? And then another voice, a woman’s, ‘Go on, lad! Tell him some more!’ The sound had come from somewhere around Mr Ormerod, I stared at him, straight into his eyes. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced away.
My mind was turning cartwheels; I wanted to find these people, tell them Sam Lowbridge was my mate, the boy who had taught me how to shoot a fairground rifle, who terrorised everyone else except me. I was his favourite. There must have been some mistake. When my ears had stopped ringing and I gradually returned to my body, I could hear catcalls coming from all over the grounds; ‘Yow shuttit, yow bloody skinhead idiot! Bloody disgrace, Sam Lowbridge! Yow wanna good birching, yow do! Yow don’t talk for me, son! I’d be on my deathbed before that’d happen!’
