Vintage

by Maxine Linnell

  He was smiling at her. The smile was wide. His teeth were very white, and there was a small chip off one of the front ones.

  Marilyn edged out from behind the door.

  “Did you want my mum? She’s in the bath.”

  He laughed. “It’s okay. I only wanted to meet you properly.”

  This was good. Nobody usually wanted to meet Marilyn. She grinned and edged out a bit further, so she was standing in the doorway with the door wide open.

  The boy looked down at her bare feet. “Haven’t I seen you at the club? With shoes on, I mean?”

  She looked down at her feet and blushed.

  “You look a bit shorter without those heels. Are you going down tomorrow night?”

  Marilyn remembered Kyle talking about going to the club, whatever that was. She expected it was a youth club.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “See you there, then. My name’s Saleem.”

  “Oh. I’m Marilyn.”

  “Marilyn. That’s a strange kind of name, retro, like Marilyn Monroe. ”

  “Oh. Right. Yes. She’s great. I love her films.”

  “Yes, all those old black and whites. Now they were really classy. Vintage.”

  She couldn’t believe they’d heard of Marilyn Monroe here. Her dad loved Marilyn Monroe. Her mum said he insisted on calling their first daughter after her. Her mum didn’t look pleased about it. There wasn’t another daughter. After Andrew was born, her mum said all that was over.

  Saleem was looking at her with his head slightly on one side.

  “It’s funny, I thought you’d be more – wild. You were when I met you up the street yesterday”.

  “Oh, that wasn’t…”

  Marilyn realised she had told the boy the wrong name, her own name. She’d stopped pretending to be Holly. But he went on.

  “That’s okay. I might see you tomorrow then.”

  “Yes. All right. I mean…” Her voice trailed off into embarrassment.

  The boy looked again at Marilyn, and smiled the big smile as he turned to go.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Marilyn watched him turn and walk away. She shut the door and held on to it for a long time, with her eyes closed, thinking through the conversation she’d just had with a truly gorgeous boy, who seemed to like her. Or, he seemed to like the other girl, Holly. But he knew she was Marilyn, so it must be her he liked.

  She wasn’t sure if she liked him.

  But perhaps that didn’t matter.

  Saturday morning. I didn’t sleep much last night. Thinking. Nobody came up to see me. After the dad sent me upstairs. I was going anyway.

  Marilyn’s room. It’s dead cold in here. No radiators or anything. I went to bed in her pyjamas. Flowers all over them. Scratchy sheets and blankets. About eight o’clock now, by the Noddy clock on the shelf. Nobody seems to be up yet.

  I’m writing in a school note book I found on the table. Have to write. To work out what’s happening. Or my head will burst. It comes out as a list.

  What’s happening?!

  1. I’m back in time, in 1962, in my own house.

  2. In someone else’s body. But still myself. Doesn’t make much sense.

  3. This family is bonkers.

  4. I want to go home. Now.

  5. Only things I have from back then – forward then – the mobile and the pendant Kyle gave me. Neither’s any use.

  6. I don’t know enough about this girl – Marilyn – to impersonate her properly. Could find out more from her journal. Feels wrong to read it.

  7. I don’t know what to wear. Have to look in her wardrobe. Don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Don’t know what I want to do. If I did know, I wouldn’t know how to do it. Totally crazy.

  8. I have to find a way. Communicate with her. Somehow.

  9. I have to get home.

  10. What if she’s in my time?

  11. What if we’ve swapped over??

  12. What could she be doing???

  13. What if she totally messes up my life????

  Something bad about ending with thirteen. And with that thought, another comes.

  14. What if I wake up tomorrow in my own bed?

  I should feel reassured.

  Not convinced.

  The more I think about it, the more I think that Marilyn and I have swapped places. Don’t know how. But why didn’t she come back home yesterday? Where is she, if not in my place, in my room? Looking at my things? Talking to my friends. My mum. Guy across the road – oh my god, the guy across the road! I have to get back there before she ruins everything.

  There’s a thought that’s skipping around in there somewhere. I don’t want to think it. Goes like this: what if I have to stay here? Living someone else’s totally terrible life. For ever?

  Positive thinking. I have to practice. That’s what the therapist said. Or I will totally fall apart. Who knows what kind of treatment they have for that in 1962? Could put me away in some lunatic asylum. For ever.

  What can I do to get in touch with her? Marilyn? The real one?

  There’s only one way I can think of so far. The kitchen. Mum’s going to be taking down the old cupboards this weekend. The ones Marilyn’s dad is putting up. This weekend.

  I think hard. This does my head in. But I’ll try anything.

  I tear out a sheet of paper and I write.

  Dear Marilyn

  Get over here and give me my life back! You wreck anything in mine, you’re meat!

  Holly.

  I read it back. That’s how I feel. She’s got to know that.

  But maybe it won’t work.

  I try again.

  Dear Marilyn

  If you wreck anything in my life I shall totally die. And it will be all your fault.

  Holly.

  Won’t do. Need a plan. Have to get out of here. No good screaming at her.

  Eight tries later, it’s beginning to look okay.

  Dear Marilyn

  I’m Holly. I’m living your life here since yesterday. I’m guessing you’re living mine. I mean, I know I wanted to be here in 1962. But that was only for my project. Didn’t want to stay. I don’t hate my life that much. Don’t know how you stand it here.

  No offence or anything, but I’d like my own life back. I’ve got plans.

  So weird. But I have to go on with it. Ink marks on my fingers. I rub at them. Doorbell rings. Carry on writing.

  Please get in touch with me. Any way you can think of. Let’s meet. Sunday at 4. At the bus stop. Where we swapped in the first place. Maybe we can get back then.

  All the best.

  Holly.

  PS Don’t screw up with the guy across the road. He’s hot and he’s mine.

  I cross the PS out.

  The door bursts open. I drop the pen on the floor. It’s that girl. The one who got off the bus with me. She comes in, out of breath. Doesn’t anyone know about privacy round here?

  “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be watching the school hockey team this morning! Did you forget?”

  I look down at the note. Fold it up.

  “Yes, I must have.”

  This girl’s life is so very sad.

  “Come on then, get your stuff. You’re not even dressed! Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Never eat it.”

  “Is that one of your new fads or something? You’ve got to eat breakfast, your mam will go mad.”

  I get up. Look round for clothes to wear.

  “You are so dozy – go and clean your teeth and I’ll get something out for you. Didn’t you put your rollers in last night?”

  Rollers? Night? Expecting me to sleep? With rollers in my hair? How could anyone?

  Looking at this girl, she did. It looks like there are ghosts of rollers all over her head.

  She clearly knows her way round this room. More than I do.

  I head for the bathroom. Who knows which toothbrush is Marilyn’s? No electric ones. Pick the best-loo
king one. Disgusting.

  When I come back, she’s got out a skirt and a blue shirt. And long socks. I put them on. She’s standing there waiting, jumping about.

  “Marilyn, stop looking at me gone out. Come on, we’ll be late! Mrs Summers will go mad!”

  Does everyone go mad round here?

  There’s only two pairs of shoes. Put one on. Flats. My legs will look terrible. But it saves time choosing. Relaxing, not having much choice. Pick up the note. She doesn’t notice. Too busy bossing me about.

  We head off down the stairs. Into the kitchen. The dad’s put up one cupboard so far. He’s scratching his head, looking at it.

  Andrew’s sitting at the table shovelling some cereal into his mouth.

  “Where you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Where?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I’ll tell Mum of you.”

  Brat.

  I slip the note behind the new cupboard. So it can’t be seen.

  Off out the back door, into this new world.

  The doorbell rang again. Holly’s mum was out of the bath.

  “That’ll be pizza!”

  How could pizza ring the doorbell? Whatever pizza was?

  Marilyn hesitated, then answered the door. There was a man outside, in a helmet. A motorbike stood by the roadside. He was holding a square flat box and a plastic bag.

  “Pizza! You ordered it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t tell me this is another hoax call. If I eat more of these I won’t be able to get through the door. This is 132, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Don’t you live here? Look, it’s all paid for, on the phone, here you are.”

  He held the box and the bag out so Marilyn couldn’t help taking them. The box was warm.

  The man ran back down the path and jumped on his motorbike. Marilyn stood there, watching him drive off.

  “Pizza!”

  She turned to see Holly’s mum running downstairs dressed in pink pyjamas, a towel wrapped round her hair.

  “Great. Bring it in. I’ll get a glass of wine – there’s a coke in there for you.”

  They sat with their feet up on a huge settee in the front room, made of leather. It didn’t seem to smell like leather, and it was soft.

  This was breaking all the rules. Marilyn wasn’t eating at the table, there was food in the sitting room and glasses on the floor. And the mum was drinking a big glass of red wine. Her own mum never drank, except at Christmas and weddings. Marilyn lost count of all the things she was doing that weren’t allowed at home.

  And she loved it.

  The pizza was a big flat cake with tomatoes and cheese on top. She looked round for plates and knives and forks, but the mum picked a slice up in her hand and ate it. Marilyn did the same. It was easy to eat, and sweet. They ate while they watched telly. It was huge, and the pictures were really clear with bright colours.

  Holly’s mother didn’t seem to expect her to do anything except grunt a few responses, which was great as Marilyn didn’t know what to say, even more than at home. Then Holly’s mum asked Marilyn a direct question.

  “Where’s your mobile?”

  Marilyn almost choked on her pizza. She didn’t know what a mobile was, let alone where hers was. If she’d ever had one. But the mum didn’t wait for a reply.

  “Holly, you haven’t lost it again! You know what your dad said last week. If you’ve lost this one you’re in big trouble. You are hopeless, where did you last see it?”

  Marilyn shrugged her shoulders, hoping that would be enough of an answer.

  “You don’t care, do you? Everything we give you – I work all hours, you’ve got everything any girl could want in spite of being a single parent family now, and you don’t look after any of it. I don’t know where we went wrong. Is it some kind of acting out? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Marilyn shrugged again, but the mother was carrying on. She was beginning to sound like her own mum, going on and on about everything.

  Nobody asked her to.

  “You’ll have to ring your dad. He’ll climb the walls. Go on then, ring him.”

  Marilyn didn’t know where the phone was. She hadn’t seen one in the hall when she got here. That’s where her family’s phone was.

  “Here, use my mobile.” The mother rummaged in her handbag and gave Marilyn an object she didn’t recognise. Marilyn looked at it, confused.

  “For heaven’s sake. I’ll ring him then.”

  This was a phone? There were no wires. But the mother was poking at the keys, and seemed to be able to talk to someone somehow, probably Holly’s dad.

  “You know what she’s done? She’s lost that phone.”

  There was a long pause while Marilyn imagined Holly’s father climbing the walls. Then she was handed the phone.

  She held it like the mother did and heard a man’s voice. He was shouting. She held the mobile further away.

  “Your mother says you’ve lost that bloody phone. Where did you lose it?”

  “I don’t know. If I knew that, it wouldn’t be lost.” She realised that didn’t sound good, but she was genuinely trying to explain.

  “Don’t you smart talk me, my girl. You’ve had that phone a week. I only pay for it so I can keep an eye on you. I know that mother of yours is out till all hours helping the needy – or whatever she does since she went to college and got that stupid job.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” It seemed to be the right thing to say. Somehow she felt sorry, as if she really had lost the phone. But it was annoying taking the blame for someone she didn’t even know.

  “I should think you are sorry. This is your last chance, right? I’ll ring the insurance up and get you a new phone. And cancel the old one. Then you’ll have the same number.”

  Marilyn didn’t understand any of this.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “That’s more like it. And you look after this one, right?”

  “I’ll guard it with my life.”

  “No need to go that far. If some hoodie tries to mug you for it, you give it to him. It’s not worth dying for.”

  He seemed to be softening, even though she didn’t understand what he meant.

  “Yes, Dad.” Marilyn was getting good at this.

  “Right. If I get them now you’ll have the new one tomorrow, express. That’s what I pay the insurance money for. Now hand me back to your mother.”

  The mother was shaking her head and smiling. Marilyn gave her back the phone.

  “Okay, Steve, all sorted?”

  There was another long pause while she listened, watching the television and twitching her foot up and down. Marilyn got back to her pizza, which was cold now. She put it back in the box. The mother put the phone on a side table and sat back on the settee.

  “You wound that man round your little finger!”

  “I just…”

  “He’ll get you another phone this time, but watch out. You wouldn’t want to be without one, would you?”

  Never having had one, Marilyn couldn’t answer that. She went back to grunting, and they sat together until the mother fell asleep with her head on Marilyn’s shoulder and started to snore. After a while, Marilyn gently moved her head onto a cushion and headed upstairs to bed.

  It’s freezing. Two hours. Standing on the sidelines, watching some sad girls play hockey.

  This is not my idea of a Saturday morning. Could be snug under the duvet. I don’t even know which side I’m meant to be cheering. The girl points it out. She jabbers away, but I keep forgetting. Not as if I care or anything. But I manage to keep quiet.

  “Come on, Gateway!” she shouts. There’s a few other girls watching. A few parents too, kitted out in hats and scarves. The women are wearing some kind of hijab. This scarf that covers their heads completely. Ties under the chin. Different colours and patterns.

  I must remember this. For my project. Should start taking n
otes. This will be a totally authentic project. Should get an A* at least.

  If I ever get back.

  I don’t know the rules of hockey. Looks vicious. Sticks are hard. So’s the ball. Girls’ legs are all blotchy from the cold. And the pleated shorts. Cellulite quivering. Running up and down clutching sticks. It’s almost medieval.

  I’m not into sports myself.

  Too much competition.

  Half way through the match there’s a break. They give out pieces of orange to the players. None for us. No burger stands anywhere I can see. We just stamp about a bit to get warm. And wait.

  The match finishes. Eventually. I’m frozen solid.

  We seem to have won. I completely lost the plot when the teams changed ends.

  We head off home.

  “What are you wearing tonight?”

  She seems to be a bit of a control freak. Kind of useful. It helps me to fit in.

  “Don’t know. What do you think?”

  “How about that empire line dress you made – Simplicity, was it?” Never heard of them. Terrible name for a designer. Sounds like stuff made in a cottage.

  “Which one?” Playing for time.

  “You know, the navy blue one.”

  It sounds terrible to me. The words dress and navy blue kind of make sense. Empire line sounds like a ship.

  Maybe some kind of sailor costume.

  Cringe.

  “Tell you what, I’ll come round to yours after the game, then we can have a look. You must have something. There’s no time to make a new one. It’ll be a laugh anyway.”

  “Come and have lunch with us then.”

  The invitation is out before I notice. My mum wouldn’t care. Just look in the freezer. Use whatever we want. She’s probably out on some date. Or pulling the kitchen apart.

  I think about the note behind the cupboard. Want to go home. Again.

  “Lunch? That sounds posh. Sure your mam won’t mind?”

  “No, I could text her…”

  “What do you mean, text her?”

  “No, it’s fine. She won’t mind. I’m sure.”

  But I’m not sure. Don’t know what the rules are here. So many hidden rules. Suppose there are hidden rules everywhere. But you kind of know them without being told. You don’t even realise they’re rules. You just do them. Or maybe if you know what they are, you don’t do them.