Friends Forever!

by Grace Dent

  “Well, whatever, Fleur,” I continue huffily. “You didn’t try that hard to reach me. Did you? You could have rung me last night.”

  “Pgggh . . . well maybe I didn’t feel like ringing you last night, okay?” Fleur snaps back. “I thought that you’d be round at . . . ,” Fleur begins to say something, then stops herself. “I thought you’d be too busy.”

  She means Claude. She won’t even say her name.

  “I was playing bass guitar in my bedroom like a right Billy-No-Mates all last night, Fleur!” I yell. “I reckon Claude was on her own too.”

  “Doubt it,” Fleur hisses. “She’ll be with her new best friend!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I say. “This is soooo stupid! We could have all gone to Emerald Park together today. We could be in the food court slurping milk shakes and checking out the passing hotties right now!”

  “I’ve slurped my last milk shake with Claudette Cassiera,” Fleur scoffs. “Claude and I are over, Ronnie. She’s out of my life now. I feel much better for it too!”

  “Don’t be daft, Fleur,” I say. “Look, let’s have an LBD meeting tonight at my place. Let’s talk about this.”

  “What?!” Fleur says. “After her behavior?! I’d rather kiss the cat’s bum.”

  “This isn’t all Claude’s fault, y’know,” I begin to argue.

  “Oh, go on, stick up for her. Like you always do!” Fleur says, sounding like she’s almost blubbering. “Look, why don’t you all just be friends together this summer? I’ll find something else to do.”

  “Like what?!”

  “Like . . . like whatever I want,” she says firmly. “See ya, Ronnie.”

  And then the phone goes dead.

  I slump back on the sofa.

  What on earth do I do now? Tell Claude? Call Fleur back? I feel sick.

  Dad puts down his newspaper gently. “What’s going on there?” he says.

  “Nothing,” I say, chucking my phone and folding my arms.

  “Oh, right,” Dad says. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

  I stare ahead at the TV.

  “You girls had a bust-up?” Dad says.

  “No, we’re fine,” I say, clearly fibbing my head off.

  “What’s it about?” he says. “Lads?”

  I scowl at him.

  “Knew it,” Dad says. “It’s always lads.”

  “It’s not lads,” I grump.

  “That’s all you ladies ever row about,” Dad says, trying to cheer me up. “Cuh, I’ve had a few young chickadees cat-fighting over me in my time, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” he says, miming straightening his invisible tie.

  Who’s he kidding? His face looks like it was knitted by his mum.

  “It’s not about lads,” I say.

  “Well, it’s something . . . I saw Claude yesterday night walking up Lacy Road. She looked like a wet weekend.”

  “You saw Claude?” I say, my eyes widening. “Which way was she going? At what time?”

  “Er . . . back to her mum’s, I s’pose,” Dad says. “Six-ish?”

  “Hmmmph,” I say. Claude hasn’t returned my calls for days.

  “I can always count on little Claude for a smile and wave,” continues Dad, “but she didn’t even see me. Had her head down. She looked really miserable.”

  A tear forms in the corner of my eye. I bat it away. Dad sticks his big arm around me.

  “Awww, come on, Ronnie! Give us a clue, eh?” he says. “I’m not as useless as I look. I bet I can help.”

  “You can’t, Dad,” I say quietly. “No one can. It’s all a big mess.”

  “But what . . . I mean, where . . . ?” Dad begins. “Isn’t there . . . ?”

  My lips simply become tighter. Dad knows from long experience that there’s no point in questioning me further.

  As tears dribble down my face, my mind is racing. Claude, Fleur and I have hung out together since, like, Day 1 of Blackwell School. Ever since the gangly blonde chick and the little prim black girl with her hair in bunches sat down beside me in Year 7 French. We’re like sisters. We’re a team. We live our lives together! If they’re sad, I’m sad. If I’m sad, well, they try to sort things out for me. And, sure, we’ve had bust-ups before, but that’s just because sometimes we can all be extra-specially infuriatingly annoying! Like when Fleur falls in love with a different aftershave-drenched drongo every ten minutes. Or when Claude gets all swell-headed about her straight-A grades. Or when I forget birthdays or turn up late for stuff. Or, say, when Claude and Fleur post pictures of me all over the Internet, taken at a sleepover, asleep with my mouth open, wearing Blu-Tack devil horns. Oh, how I laughed.

  But we always make friends in the end. Don’t we?

  “C’mon, precious,” Dad says. “Dry your eyes. Look, are you sure you can’t give me a clue what’s up?”

  “Maybe later, eh?” I sniff, wiping tears down my hoodie sleeve.

  “Okay,” Dad whispers. “Leave you to it. For now.”

  not an octopus

  Suddenly, Mum appears in the doorway, freshly painted lipstick denoting her imminent exit.

  “Ah, good girl. You’re up!” she smiles, picking up her car keys. “Huh, Loz, I’m going to make that wholesaler’s life hell this morning! Eight items missing on the last order. Eight! I’m not leaving his office until I get at least forty percent off next week’s invoice.”

  “Good luck, my little tinderbox,” Dad nods. “Go easy on him, won’t you?”

  “Not likely,” says Mum, making a googly face at Seth, then turning to me.

  “You can cope with him, can’t you, darling?”

  “Mmm,” I say. I’ve had enough flipping practice.

  “Word of advice, though, Ronnie,” Mum says, blotting her lipstick on a beer invoice. “You need to watch him every single second these days. He’s smarter than he looks. He found a staple gun at your aunty Susan’s yesterday and tried to pierce her cat’s ears.”

  Seth smiles at us all and waves his hands. He’s the epitome of cute.

  “She’s not wrong, Ron,” nods Dad sagely. “I like to think of him as the face of evil.”

  “Uh-huh,” I sigh.

  Mum peers at me awhile longer, eyeing me up and down.

  “You’re, erm . . . ,” she says, pointing at my baggy hoodie and jeans, “not going out dressed like that, are you?”

  Oh God.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tut. “I’m looking after your son.”

  “Oooh, that time already? Must fly,” Dad announces. He’s such a chicken. Last month, after one of me and Mum’s screaming bust-ups, I found him two hours later, sitting in the beer cellar, wearing his Discman and reading the Sporting Post.

  “Loz! I need you—don’t go anywhere,” Mum commands, turning again to me. “It’s just those shapeless jeans, Ronnie. They do nothing for your figure! And that hooded top makes you look like a painter and decorator.”

  “Oh, leave me alone,” I moan. “What do you know about what people my age wear?”

  This is a foolish thing to say. My mother is an authority on absolutely everything.

  “Well, I saw Nicole Jones, your aunty Susan’s goddaughter, in Asda yesterday and she looked absolutely gorgeous!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

  “She was wearing a peach cardigan, and a fresh white tailored blouse and fitted black trousers. She looked immaculate! Her mother must be so proud of her.”

  “Nicole Jones is a complete buttmunch, Mother,” I fume, glaring at my mother. “She competes with her brother in Scottish country dancing competitions! She eats school lunch with an imaginary friend! She collects thimbles!”

  “Well, at least she makes the best of herself,” Mum drones, “not like you and your bunch.”

  “Oh, here we go,” I say. I am not in the mood to discuss the LBD.

  “There’s you, off to paint the Forth Road Bridge, there’s Claude, who looks like a little old granny most of the time in those old moth-eaten dresses
. . . oooh, and as for that Fleur Swan, well, she had jeans on so tight the other day, I could see the outline of her . . . well, I won’t say! Poor Paddy Swan, he must be absolutely driven to despair with her!”

  “Whatever,” I sigh.

  “C’mon, play nice now, ladies,” Dad says, trying to move past Mum. Mum frowns at us both, picking up her cardigan and throwing it around her shoulders. She walks across and stares out the living room window for a few seconds, letting out a long sigh. Then she turns to me again. She looks pretty anxious about something.

  “What’s up now?” I tut.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just your nan,” Mum says. “She called last night. She’s not sounding too good.”

  “Really?” I say, feeling guilty because I’ve not visited for almost two months. “What’s up with her?”

  “Well, she just sounds confused, y’know?” Mum says quietly, sounding more angry at life now. “She was wittering on about police chases and drug raids near her house.” Mum rolls her eyes, biting her lip slightly. “She’s getting herself worked up again.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say. I think Nan’s going a bit bonkers.

  “I called the local police to double-check,” says Mum, “but they said that there hasn’t been a disturbance in her post code for more than four months. They don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Mum’s eyes go a little glassy.

  “Maybe she’s getting mixed up with something on TV,” I say. “You know she loves cop dramas.”

  “Well, either way, it’s not good, is it?” Mum says. “Everyone forgets she has a heart condition. She’s eighty-two, you know?”

  “Mmm,” I say.

  “If you were any sort of granddaughter,” Mum says, switching on the moan again, “you’d go and see her. It’s only an hour away on the train. She’d love to see you . . .”

  As my mother drones on and on, I switch to “white noise” in my head and block her out. But now that I think about it, I’d love to see my nan. She never gives me a hard time. In fact, the dafter I dress, the more she likes it. And she bakes her own cakes too.

  She might even know what to do about the LBD. She’s pretty sussed for an old lady.

  “Okay,” I interrupt. “I’ll go this afternoon.”

  “ ‘Where’s Ronnie?’ That’s what she always asks,” Mum twitters, oblivious. “But oh no, you can’t spare the time for an old woman, can you? Unless it’s your birthday and she’s got her hand in her purse—”

  “Mother! I’ll go this afternoon!” I yell. “I’ll get the two-thirty train and I’ll be in her kitchen eating scones and reminiscing about Princess Diana’s lovely wedding dress by four. Is that okay?!”

  Mum stares at me, slightly dumbfounded.

  Dad gives me a “nice one” wink.

  “Today?” she repeats.

  “Today!” I say, flaring my nostrils. “Try and stop me.”

  “Well . . . okay then!” Mum says, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “All I need is a bit of help!” she shouts as she stomps down the stairs. “I’ve only got one pair of hands to do everything! I’m not an octopus, y’know. I’m not a flipping octopus!”

  In the living room, Dad and I are left staring at each other in utter bemusement.

  “She’s not an octopus, y’know?” says Dad mock seriously. “I’m glad we got that one cleared up.”

  “Hmmm,” I say.

  “How long before school starts again?” asks Dad, wincing as Seth toddles over smelling distinctly like an explosion in a bum factory.

  “Nine weeks,” I say, holding my nose.

  thunder and lightning

  Because pheasants are on the track just outside Chipping Tanbury, the 2:30 Mainline Clipper service to Little Chipping is delayed by approximately forty-eight minutes. Actually, this might have been “peasants on the track”—the Mainline Trains announcer had a dreadful mucus problem.

  Whatever, the delay allots me a nice lengthy space of dead time to sit on a cold metallic bench beside a railway track and think about my future without the LBD. I’ve got a specific iPod play list of angry songs for when life is beginning to make me commit murder, so I cue up “Another Homicide” by Psycho Killa, a blistering 3:20 rap ditty involving plenty of bad language and mild glorification of violence, then sit staring at the tracks, brooding about my own personal misfortune.

  I am utterly bereft.

  The train pulls into the station and I jump off. I wander miserably down Little Chipping’s sleepy main street, past the post office and the dressmaker’s boutique, past the Village Hall where Nan has her Tuesday Club meetings, past the kids’ swing park, turning right into Dewers Drive, where Nan lives at number eleven. The white paintwork on Nan’s terraced house seems a touch tatty now that Granddad’s not around to climb ladders with a paintbrush every other day, although Nan’s rosebushes, dotted all over her small front garden, look typically fabulous. As the tiny gate snaps closed behind me, I ring Nan’s bell.

  Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  I pause for a minute. Total silence.

  Mum promised me Nan would be in.

  Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  Inside I hear the tapping of a walking stick. “Helloooo!” a little voice shouts. “Who is it?!”

  “It’s me, Nan!” I smile. “It’s Ronnie!”

  “I’m very content with my gas supplier!” Nan shouts. “None today, thanking you kindly!”

  “It’s Ronnie,” I repeat, giggling. “Your granddaughter!”

  Total silence. Has she gone?

  “Nan! It’s Ronnie. Let me in!” I say, ringing the bell again.

  More silence.

  “Ronnie?! Oooh, Veronica! It’s you!” Nan shouts eventually, chuckling wildly. “Hang on!”

  A multitude of keys are jangled, locks turned and bolts undone before the door flies open, revealing Leticia Warton, aka Nan, in her full Nan glory. Mischievous smile, large brown reading spectacles that make her eyes ginormous, snow-white tightly permed hair, wearing her trademark blue-and-lavender floral shift dress with a gold brooch, slightly hidden by a pink house-coat, a brown walking stick firmly in one hand. Every time I see Nan, the fairies appear to have stolen a little more of her away. She’s simply not the huge stout woman I think I’m going to visit.

  “Good afternoon to you! Come inside!” Nan says excitedly as I kiss her powdery cheek. “They’ve almost got him! Come on!”

  “What?” I say as Nan vanishes down the hallway, moving surprisingly speedily for a woman supposedly crippled with rheumatoid arthritis.

  “The man they’re chasing!” shouts Nan, beckoning me into the kitchen. “The man with the gun! He’s a drug dealer, you know?”

  Oh, no. Please God, not today, I think. Trust her to choose the day I’m here alone to go totally crazy. What do I do now? What would Claude do?

  “Nan,” I say, moving gingerly into the kitchen behind her, “there isn’t a man with a gun. Let’s just sit down, shall we? I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Shh,” Nan says, walking over to a mysterious black radio on the kitchen table and fiddling with the dials. “I’m listening.”

  “All points are on full alert, Sarge,” a voice says anxiously on the radio. “We have one IC1 male. Armed. Repeat, armed! Approaching Harpingdon. Do you read me?”

  “Nan . . . what’s that!?” I say, staring at the hissing contraption.

  “One second,” Nan says, putting a finger to her lips.

  “Nan, is that a police scanner?” I say in disbelief. “Are you listening to police broadcasts?”

  “Go on! Get him!” Nan shouts at the scanner. “Block him off at Junction Fourteen. If he gets past the Harpingdon bypass, you’ve lost him!”

  “Nan, where did you get that thing?” I shout over the racket.

  “Tango Delta 435, are you receiving? He’s out of the car and on foot! We’ve got him covered, Sarge,” says a voice on the box. “Unit 234 is closing on him . . . he’s m
aking the arrest.”

  “Hurray!” shouts Nan, clapping her hands. “They’re so much faster than those numskulls on The Shield.”

  “Nan, where did you get that scanner?” I repeat firmly.

  “What, this thing?” Nan says, turning off the machine. “Miriam from church’s son Tony gave me it.”

  “Tony Crossgate?” I moan. “Nan! He’s totally shady.”

  “Nonsense!” laughs Nan. “He’s a lovely young man. He’s just so madly keen on electronics—his bedroom’s full of them. He keeps all his extra stuff in Miriam’s garden shed.”

  “Extra stolen stuff,” I mutter.

  “You see,” Nan says, “I was at Miriam’s last Tuesday having my hair set and Tony said that seeing as I was one of his favorite old ladies, I could have a police scanner or one of those DNA whatchamacallits.”

  “DVD players,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “That’s the fellows!” laughs Nan, putting two tea bags into the teapot. “Why, what’s up? Am I in trouble again?”

  “No,” I say, smiling. “Not really . . . I’m relieved. Mum thought you were going cra . . .”

  I stop myself. Nan rolls her eyes.

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware everyone thinks I’m losing my marbles,” she smirks. “Nobody listens to me properly! I told Magda about Tony’s scanner. She just kept telling me to calm down. She’s always been the same, that girl. Bossy. Never listens.”

  “Hmmm,” I say.

  “Veronica,” Nan continues, pouring boiling water into the pot, “I’m not ready for the funny farm yet.”

  “Sorry, Nan,” I mutter, blushing.

  “Anyhow, petal, take a seat,” she says, pouring the tea. “I want to hear all your news. Exams . . . they’re over?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh.

  “Well, that’ll be a relief, then?” Nan twinkles. “A-levels next, eh? Then, off to university? How exciting!”

  “Mmm, s’pose,” I say. I’ve never actually agreed that I’m going to university. Mum might have. I certainly haven’t.

  “So, what’s the plan for the summer?” she says. “I bet you and those pals of yours, Claudette and Fleur, have got some high jinks in order to celebrate, haven’t you?”