The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin

by Shea, Alan

  ‘That’s bribery.’

  ‘So?’

  Oh well, we’ve all got our weaknesses. I put my stuff away in my biscuit tin. Touch the girl on the swing for good luck. I’ve made a little secret space where I hide it. You never know when the Spicers are going to come snooping around.

  Outside the sun is showing off, splashing warm on the streets. I’m glad spring is here, it’s my favourite time of the year. It’s like everything is waking up again, getting ready for a new start. There are still puddles left over from yesterday’s rain.

  We stop to make mud balls. Throw them at the side of a building. Flash runs after them like he’s some great retriever dog, leaps into the air barking. Some of the mud balls stick, some splatter into goo and slide slowly down the wall in disgustingly beautiful patterns. It’s really babyish, but that’s the kind of thing we do. Best thing is, we don’t care.

  I tell Reggie about my play as we leave Hawkins Street, turn right into Sidney Street, over Mile End Road, and head for Vicky Park. Reggie’s got Flash on a piece of string because of the traffic. Flash likes string, but not when it’s tied to his collar. Every now and then he stops and tries to pull it off.

  The walk is long and warm. We cross Mile End Road to Mr Giovanni’s sweet shop, stop for a rest and admire the view. In the window, alongside the sleeping tabby cat, colours clash and riot in sweet jars – row upon row of them, marching into the distance – liquorice curls, aniseed twists, saucers fly, powered by sherbet. The smell of cough candy beckons us with a sly finger. Winter warmers wait to heat tongues.

  We go in. Mr Giovanni is Italian, and sing-songs his words as if they were poetry. His face is a gob-stopper, multi-coloured. His chins are jellies. He makes the best ice cream in the world. And his own drinks and ice lollies. One bottle keeps you going all day. You can burp for ever on his raspberryade. It bubbles on your tongue and cascades into flavour down your throat.

  Some time ago he came up with a new idea. When he makes a batch of ice lollies he writes a number on one of the sticks. You can’t see it until you’ve eaten the lolly, because it’s covered by the ice. If you get the stick with the number on it you can exchange it for a prize – anything you want in the whole shop!

  ‘If I ever w-win I’d have that jar of cough candy.’

  ‘Why? You ain’t got a cough.’

  ‘Or a jar of those p-pineapple cubes.’

  ‘If I ever win, I’ll have the box of chocolates in the window.’

  The box has a yellow ribbon around it, tied in a big bow.

  On the lid is a picture. I love this picture – it’s an old thatched cottage in a country lane. It’s summer, the windows of the cottage have beautiful little squared panes of glass in them, and the sun, bright as a newly minted penny, winks back its light from the windows. The front garden is full of flowers. There’s a washing line flying kites of clothes, and you can just see the back garden with its apple trees. A white horse is nuzzling the grass in the field behind. Outside the front door a woman in a bright summer dress sits in a rocking chair.

  ‘Come on, l-let’s get a lolly. You never know your luck.’

  ‘I know mine – bad.’

  ‘You ever w-won anything?’

  ‘No, never. I wish just for once I could. It’s my mum’s birthday on Wednesday. I’d give anything to win that box of chocolates for her.’

  ‘Law of averages s-says you’ll w-win something one day.’

  ‘Do the ice lollies know that, though?’

  ‘Maybe we’ll buy two. Law of averages says two chances are better than one.’

  The ice lollies are refreshing. Like your tongue’s been dropped into a bath of freezing fruity water. I break a bit of mine off and give it to Flash. He wolfs it down, except for a little bit that gets stuck on his nose. He tries to lick it off. It melts into a red moustache.

  Once we get outside, it’s not far to go to the park. I’m looking forward to seeing the swans on the boating lake. They’re so graceful – one long curve really, a gliding question mark. The sun sucks at my lolly, dribbles juice down my hand. Reggie bought a bottle of lemonade, too.

  ‘Want a s-swig?’

  ‘Please. Can you hold my lolly?’

  We pass them backwards and forwards. It’s a rule that you can’t take a bite from someone else’s lolly while you’re holding it for them.

  I take a gulp of the lemonade.

  ‘Oi, th-that’s enough.’

  ‘Hold on. I only had a sip.’

  He pulls it away too quickly and some of the drink goes up my nose. I burp.

  ‘Oi, d-don’t do that.’

  I get the giggles. I always do when I burp.

  ‘Alice, s-stop doing that.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  I get caught between coughing, burping and laughing. It starts Reggie off. When he sees me laughing, he always starts too.

  I finish the lolly before the sun has a chance to do it for me. As we pass a bin he throws in the bottle and holds out his hand for my stick. I suck off the last bit of ice and give the stick to him. He goes to drop it in the bin.

  I wish I’d won. I imagine it. In my head I see the numbers appearing on the stick. It’s so real I can see it. We’re waiting to cross the road.

  ‘Cor, l-look at that.’

  I think he’s seen something across the road.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your lolly stick.’ He holds it like a conjuror about to do a trick. I try to see it in his hand.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Can’t you s-see?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Look at the t-top.’

  ‘I will if you take your hand out the way.’

  ‘You’re never g-going to believe it.’

  ‘Believe what?’

  Suddenly, he pulls his hand away. The conjuror pulling out the rabbit.

  ‘You’ve d-done it!’

  ‘Pack it in, Reggie. Done what?’

  ‘It’s the l-lucky number.’

  ‘Don’t muck around, Reggie. That’s not funny.’

  ‘I’m not. See for yourself.’

  He shoves the lolly stick at me. There, in bold black writing, is the number twenty-seven. I can’t believe it. I must have bought hundreds of lollies in that shop, but never the lucky one.

  ‘Blimey . . . I’ve won. I’ve won something at last!’

  I grab him and plant a kiss on his cheek. He goes red.

  ‘I didn’t see the number. How did I miss that?’

  Part of my brain dances with joy. I’ve got the lucky stick. I can get the chocolates for Mum. The other part is whirring, telling me that something funny is going on here. There was no number on that stick when I gave it to Reggie.

  11

  Picksmeup and dropsy

  We carry on to the park. No sense in walking around with a box of chocolates. We’d probably eat them all. We can get them on the way back.

  Just inside the park is a fenced-off area like a playground with a few play things in it. Really they’re for little kids. They’re mostly old and beat up. Three swings with shiny, worn wooden seats. A big wooden roundabout with chipped green metal holding-on bits. An umbrella that no matter how hard you push when you jump on it still limps around lopsidedly like a one-legged tortoise. And one of those long metal rocking things that have a horse’s head at one end and something that’s supposed to look like a tail at the other end. There are little metal seats which you’re supposed to sit on, although when we were little kids we used to stand up on the running boards and work up really hard so that the whole thing jerked up and down like a rodeo horse. It’s better if you sit at the horse’s head and hold on to the neck. Then you get thrown all over the place.

  As I look across I see a familiar figure. Norman comes here a lot. Like I said, it’s supposed to be for younger kids but he doesn’t care. He’s sitting on one of the swings. I wave. He waves back. He looks lonely. I turn to Reggie.

  ‘I’m just going over to see Norman fo
r a minute.’

  ‘All right. I’ll go and s-see if I can find Charlie. I’ll be at the lake when you’re ready.’

  I cross the little road that runs through Vicky Park and go into the playground.

  ‘Hello, Norm.’

  He smiles. ‘Wotcha, Al.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Swinging.’

  ‘I can see that. I mean, what you doing here on your own?’

  ‘Nothing, just thinking.’

  ‘You’ve got all blood on your knee, Norm.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘How d’you do it?’

  ‘I fell off the swing. I’m always doing that.’

  His arms are cradled around the metal chains that hold the seat, so that he’s more rocking on the seat than he is swinging. I’m about to ease myself on to the one next to him.

  ‘Hold on.’

  He reaches across and wipes the seat with the sleeve of his jacket.

  I get on. Start to swing slowly.

  ‘So, what you thinking about?’

  ‘I saw you and Reggie coming into the park and I was thinking I wished I was you.’

  ‘Don’t think you’d fit into my dresses.’

  ‘No, I mean I wish I was clever like you.’

  ‘I’m not clever, Norm.’

  You are.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  He thinks for a while. Starts to swing slowly.

  ‘Well, when you make things up all the teachers and everybody say nice things about you; what a good imagination you’ve got, and that. When I do it they just shout at me and tell me off.’

  I’m still rocking. The thing with Norman is that it sometimes takes a while to work out where he’s going. Sherlock would do it by subtle questioning. Craftily deducing what was going on in Norman’s head by logic.

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  As he’s swinging he lets one foot trail in the dirt, scuffing the toes of his shoes. Good job my mum isn’t here.

  ‘Like the other day in class. You made up a story and got a prize. But when I made one up I got told it was a lie and a venial sin and sent to Sister and had to miss play.’

  First piece of evidence. I have to be careful how I handle this. Mustn’t disturb the scene of the crime. Leave my prints all over Norman’s feelings.

  ‘Was your story the one you told Mr O’Cain? About your dad being a secret service agent working for MI5?’

  He scuffs some more.

  ‘Yeah. That was it.’

  ‘Thing is, your dad’s a milkman, Norm, and he delivers milk to Watney Street, which is where Mr O’Cain lives.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Mr O’Cain knows he’s a milkman, not a secret service agent.’

  Norman pushes off, keeps pace with me.

  ‘Maybe my dad’s undercover and he’s really going round tracking down escaped German prisoners of war and poisoning them with milk.’

  I start to swing higher. Lean backwards. Lean forwards. Backwards. Forwards.

  ‘Never thought of that, Norm.’

  The wind wakes up. Who’s for a joy-ride? Buzzes around my ears. Faster, Alice. Faster. Forwards and back. Higher and higher. I lose my stomach. Find it. Norman starts to work up too. But we’re not together. He’s up. I’m down. I call across as we pass, ‘Tell you one thing.’

  He calls back; I can tell by the way his voice wavers that he’s losing his stomach too.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a good story.’

  He smiles.

  ‘Thanks, Al.’

  ‘Better than some of mine.’

  ‘Al?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘D’you reckon if we went too high we’d go right around the top bar and get wrapped up in the chains?’

  ‘Dunno. Want to try?’

  ‘No, I get sick if I go too high.’

  ‘What if you have to parachute out of an aeroplane when you join the army?’

  ‘I’d just pull me balaclava up so I couldn’t see.’

  ‘Fair enough. Look, I’ve got to go now, Norm. Reggie’ll be waiting for me.’

  ‘Here, Al?’

  ‘What?’

  I’m starting to slow down. It feels nice. Not leaning back or forward. Just sitting. The wind slows to a lullaby.

  ‘D’you reckon Mr O’Cain might be an escaped German prisoner of war?’

  Norman’s still swinging too. We’re in tandem now.

  ‘Don’t think many Germans would be called Mr O’Cain, Norm.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Irish.’

  ‘Is that why he talks funny?’

  ‘It’s called an accent, Norm.’

  My swing stops. Norman stops his by scuffing his shoes in the dirt. I get off. I get the feeling he doesn’t want me to go.

  ‘Want a quick game of picksmeup and dropsy?’

  We used to play picksmeup when we were little kids. I haven’t played it for years.

  ‘Long as it’s quick.’

  I go over to the old roundabout and start pushing. It’s big and heavy but once it gets going it soon picks up speed. Norman looks for a small stick. Old lolly sticks are best. He joins me. Helps push.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Few more pushes; let’s get it going really fast.’

  The roundabout comes to life, whizzes round, blurring the world against the background of the trees.

  ‘Go.’

  We both jump on. Me on one side, Norman on the other. Crouch into a sitting position on the running board. It’s not easy to hear, what with the wind whistling and the roundabout creaking. Norman calls out, ‘Dropsy.’

  Somewhere out of my sight, he drops the stick on to the ground. Next he jumps off and runs around clinging on to the roundabout and pushing as if his life depended on it, while counting to ten. As the roundabout spins around at breakneck speed I have to spot where the stick is, lean out and pick it up before he gets to ten. You have to be really careful. If you lose your grip you can get shot off and end up with a sore backside.

  He’s pushing fast. I look for the stick, see it near some leaves, but before I can get my fingers to it I flash past. The roundabout whizzes. Five-six-seven. I’ve spun back to where the stick is. I reach out. Eight-nine. Grab it. Shout out, ‘Picksmeup. One-nil lead.’

  Norman jumps on the running board. Crouches. I drop the stick.

  ‘Dropsy.’

  I jump off. Start pushing as hard as I can and start counting.

  ‘Here, Al.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Know what you were saying?’

  ‘About what?’

  He gets the stick too quickly. ‘Picksmeup-dropsy.’

  He jumps off. I jump on.

  ‘My story.’

  ‘Hold on, not so fast. What about it?’

  ‘You said it was a good story. Mr O’Cain said it was a bunch of lies.’

  I see the stick, pick it up.

  ‘Picksmeup. Ouch.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Scraped me fingers. Dropsy. So what about it?’

  I jump off. He jumps on.

  ‘Thing is, you’re clever so you know the difference. But how do I know if I’m just telling lies or making up a good story? You sure you dropped the stick, I can’t see . . . hold on . . . picksmeup!’

  ‘Good question, Norm. My stepdad doesn’t think I know the difference either.’

  Norman stands up on the running board. Sits on the top bit of the roundabout, stick in hand.

  ‘So what’s a good answer?’

  The roundabout slows.

  ‘Think you have to work that out for yourself, Norm.’

  ‘Al?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  ‘Yeah, know what you mean.’

  ‘’Ere, Al?’

  ‘Yes, Norm?’

  ‘D’you think I could ever write a play like what you do?’

  ‘’Course you could; it’s easy.’ />
  ‘How easy?’

  I look back at the swings moving gently in the breeze. Look at the blood drying on his knee.

  ‘Easy as falling off a swing, Norm.’

  He pulls his balaclava down under his chin and smiles.

  12

  Getting wet

  Reggie’s sitting on the end of the little wooden jetty by the boating pond. Flash is looking at his reflection in the water. Tries to dip his paws in.

  ‘You t-took your time.’

  ‘I was talking to Norman.’

  On the jetty, red-faced men fish. They tie worms to hooks, talking about all the big fish they caught last week when there was no one there to see them. I look around for Charlie. He’s painting an old, upturned rowing boat. He smiles when he sees us. He’s a walking plant – flowerpot boots, a grizzled beard of white prickles. We help him to look after his customers sometimes: take money, help them into the boats.

  ‘Charlie s-said he wasn’t very busy; we can take one out for a while.’

  ‘Bags you row.’

  ‘I b-bags you row.’

  ‘I said it first.’

  ‘I said it s-second.’

  Charlie looks up. ‘Leave Flash here, I’ll look after him. Looks like he’s in need of a bowl of water.’

  Flash doesn’t seem to like that idea; tries to get into the boat. Charlie goes to grab him. Flash ducks between his legs. Reggie calls him, makes him sit. Flash doesn’t look too pleased about that either. I think he fancied doing a bit of rowing himself.

  We step into the boat. I take one oar, Reggie takes the other. We work well together and soon get halfway across the lake, heading for Swan Island. The sky is clear and blue. We stop rowing and rest. It’s great out here, like being miles away from everybody. The people on the jetty have shrunk to doll size.

  We drift around the other side of Swan Island. I sit back. Overhead, birds swoop, darting their black, cut-out shapes against the sun. The air is calm, tranquil. I trail my fingers through the water – cool and dark and deep. The sun is hot on my head. I close my eyes, lift my face up. Once, people used to worship the sun. I can see why. I decide I’m just going to think of nice things. Thatched cottages, the chocolates I’m going to get for Mum, and let my mind drift off. The boat is a cradle. It’s so peaceful here. The light on the water. The sound of the birds. I feel the world rocking me to sleep.