V for Violet

by Alison Rattle

  Leaves swirl around my ankles. I kick at them angrily. Suddenly I’m in the playground. There’s not a soul here. The swings are jerking unevenly on their chains as though they are being rocked by ghost children. I crawl into the space under the slide. I’m ten years old again. There’s a bed of dried leaves on the ground. I sit down and pull my knees to my chest. It’s quiet in here and still, apart from my heart hammering against my ribs.

  I look above my head to the underside of the slide, where the wood is rough and full of splinters. I squint my eyes, searching. When I find what I’m looking for, I reach out my hand and touch the faded carving.

  Jackie + Violet = friends for ever

  I remember the day Jackie carved it. We were ten and had been playing around in the park all day. It was summer and our skinny legs were brown and mud-scuffed. From out of nowhere, a black cloud had parked itself in the sky over the playground and before we knew it, fat drops of rain were bouncing off our skin and soaking into our thin summer blouses. We ran squealing into our little hideout under the slide. Brenda had packed us a lunch of bread and cheese and apples which we unwrapped and ate as we watched the world outside being blitzed by raindrop bombs. We were safe and cosy in our shelter. We had each other and nothing else mattered. It could have rained for ever for all we cared. Jackie had a penknife in her pocket and after she’d sliced up our apples she reached up with the knife and began to dig into the wood above our heads. ‘There,’ she said when she’d finished. She turned to look at me. ‘You and me, Vi. For always.’

  And it was. Until now.

  I scrabble around on the ground until my fingers close around a small stone. Then I use the stone to scratch at the words, over and over and over again. And even when the words have completely disappeared, I keep scratching and scratching at them until my fingers ache as much as my heart.

  I can tell something’s happened as soon as I walk in the door. The air feels different – full of something other than chip fat and Dad’s fags. It sounds different too. I can’t hear Mum going on at Dad like she usually does and the wireless isn’t on either.

  Instead, there’s a strange sound coming from the kitchen. It might be crying, I’m not sure. I stand outside the kitchen door for a moment, trying to decide if I should go in and interrupt whatever it is, or go straight to my room and ignore it.

  I don’t really want to be alone in my room though. Not yet anyway. If I go there now, I might never want to come out again. I need something to take my mind off Jackie. I need someone to put their arms around me and tell me everything will be okay. Fat chance of that. Can’t remember Dad ever cuddling me. I suppose Mum must have done when I was little, but we’re not that kind of family. No one’s really into the touchy-feely, love-dovey stuff.

  Jackie would have made everything okay again. Jackie’s always been good at hugs. Ironic that the only person who could make me feel better is the person who’s made me feel so bad in the first place.

  I open the kitchen door. Mum lifts her head up, startled. She looks terrible. Her face is all blotchy and her eyes are pink and watery, as though she’s been peeling onions. She’s got something in her hands. It looks like a piece of paper of some sort. But when I glance towards it, she crumples it up and pulls it towards her and hides it under the table. Dad doesn’t even look at me. He’s got his head in his hands.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask quickly. ‘What’s happened?’

  Dad stands up suddenly. He pushes his chair back so hard that it knocks against the dresser and the cups rattle on their hooks. He’s furious. I can tell by the way his lips have turned white and his eyes are cold and glazed like the eyes of the dead fish that are piled in buckets of ice out back. He crashes out of the kitchen and slams the door behind him.

  ‘You’re … you’re back early,’ Mum stammers, her voice all tight and croaky.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask again. My stomach’s gone all swirly. Someone must have died, I’m sure of it.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Violet. Really,’ Mum tries to convince me. ‘Just me and your dad having words, that’s all.’

  She’s such a liar. Such a big, fat liar. She’s drawn the curtains across her eyes tight shut.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s happened. I know something has.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Violet. Just leave it now.’ She wipes the back of her hand across her nose and sniffs. She takes a deep breath and stands up from the table. As she does, I notice her stuffing the piece of paper into the pocket of her housecoat.

  ‘What’s that then?’ I ask. ‘That’s not nothing, is it?’

  She glares at me. Her face hardens. ‘I said. Leave it. It’s none of your business.’

  She walks across the room, but stiffly and awkwardly like an old lady. She stumbles and steadies herself on the back of a chair.

  ‘Mum?’ I start towards her, but she waves me away.

  ‘Sorry, Violet,’ she says. ‘But I’ve really got to go and lie down now.’

  As she leaves the kitchen, she seems to take all the air with her. It’s as though the room is left as winded as me. I’m surprised that I can still breathe. I’ve never seen Mum and Dad like this before. Not like this. They’ve always nagged and gone on at each other, but I’ve never seen Mum cry because of it. And I’ve never seen Dad so angry before. I try and imagine what can have happened.

  1. Somebody’s dead and they don’t want me to know.

  2. They’re getting a divorce.

  3. Mum’s really ill and she’s going to die.

  But nothing makes sense.

  1. If someone had died they would tell me, surely? I’m sixteen, not a baby.

  2. They’re too old to get a divorce. And besides Mum would die of the shame.

  3. Mum can’t be ill. I would know if she was. And Dad would be sad, not angry.

  As I climb upstairs to my room, I hear Dad banging around, heaving sacks of potatoes in from the yard. He’ll be shouting at me to peel them before too long. I close my bedroom door and look at my hands. I turn them over so I can see the backs of them. They’re like old women’s hands, all dry and wrinkly. They’re ugly, with stubby nails still full of potato dirt. Perhaps I should have tried harder. Perhaps I should have cared about keeping my nails filed all neat and tidy and painting them pearly pink. Maybe if I had, Jackie would still be my best friend.

  I look down at Norma’s old blue slacks hanging off my legs and I pull at the sleeves of the cardie that Brenda knitted for me. Maybe I should have cared more about these things too. Maybe instead of going to the library on Saturdays to choose books, maybe I should have caught the bus up West and pressed my nose against the windows of all the smart fashion boutiques. Maybe my greatest wish should have been to own a piece of Mary Quant. Maybe if I had tried to care more about stuff like that, then things could have stayed the way they were. And maybe, I could have sat in Ruby’s Café with Jackie and the Sugar Girls and felt as though I really belonged.

  Maybe it’s not too late. Hope sparks in my belly. Maybe, I can try harder. It can’t be that difficult to be like everyone else.

  I flop down on my bed. I’ll go round to Jackie’s tomorrow. She never goes out on a Sunday. We’ll sit at her kitchen table and Brenda will make us tea. Then we’ll talk. We’ll talk about everything. Just like we used to.

  For a moment, I feel a bit better. Everything’s going to be okay. But then I hear Mum making strange strangled noises in her bedroom and I remember that there’s more to worry about than just Jackie.

  Mum’s still in her room when I finally force myself to go down to the shop. This isn’t like her. She doesn’t normally give in. She always just gets on with life and pretends that everything’s fine. Something’s definitely wrong. Something’s really wrong.

  ‘Mum okay?’ I ask Dad carefully.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he says. But, he won’t look at me. He tips a bucket of chips into the fryer. ‘Now stop asking daft questions and get your apron
on.’

  The evening passes in a blur. The shop windows are thick with condensation and every time the door opens, the soup of fog creeps in from outside, hanging on to the coat tails of every customer. It’s a grey and miserable evening, and it matches my mood. Mrs Pearl from down the road comes in for her small piece of cod. She’s got no teeth and must have to suck the flakes of fish into her mouth and mash them up with her gums. Mr Brogan comes in with his rolled-up fag stuck to his bottom lip. Mum doesn’t like him because he’s Irish, but I like the honey in his voice. When he talks it sounds like poetry. Then there’s Mr and Mrs Rodgers. Her all sallow-faced and him with a huge dewdrop dangling and wobbling from the end of his nose. Then Eileen Carter with red lipstick on her teeth and another new baby on her hip, and then a girl whose face I remember from school but not her name. I smile at her anyway, but she ignores me and fiddles around with her bag while I wrap her supper for her like I’m her bloody servant or something.

  Suddenly, a horrible picture comes into my head.

  It’s me in five years, ten years, fifteen years’ time; I’m standing here in the same spot, wearing the same apron, serving up scoop after scoop of chips and the only thing that’s changed is the date on the sheets of newspaper. For a minute, I can’t move. I’m frozen in time. Then I shudder, like someone’s walked over my grave.

  ‘S’cuse me, love. You serving?’

  I blink. And then blink again. There’s a boy standing at the counter. My heart does a stupid flip-flop thing, and I don’t know why, but my hands reach up to my hair to try and smooth it back behind my ears. The boy is wearing a leather biker jacket that looks hard and dangerous but as soft as fudge all at the same time.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  He’s grinning at me.

  ‘You was away with the fairies then!’

  I open my mouth to ask what he’d like, but nothing comes out. I stare at his hair. It’s dark and long with a waxed quiff that falls into his eyes. Blue eyes that are laughing at me. And cheekbones like James Dean.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘What can I get for you?’

  ‘Six of chips,’ he says. ‘Plenty of vinegar.’ He taps his fingers on the counter and watches me closely as I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand before I bend to fetch his chips. When I straighten up and begin to pile his chips on to the waiting newspapers, he is still watching me. He is leaning close and he smells of cigarettes and petrol and warm beer. My insides feel all weird, like a dish of butter melting in the sun.

  ‘Sixpence, please,’ I say. I push the packet of chips towards him and hold out my hand.

  He digs around in his jeans pocket. ‘In here somewhere,’ he says. He checks his other pocket. ‘Nope.’

  He’s frowning now as he unzips a pocket in his leather jacket and rummages inside. ‘Sorry,’ he says. And he grins at me again.

  I watch his lips change shape as he purses them in concentration. My insides are totally liquid now. I look away from his lips. It’s rude to stare. Then – I don’t know why I do what I do next – the words just come out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘It’s all right,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t worry about the money. Here, just have them.’

  He looks up at me and his eyebrows flicker in surprise. ‘I have got some,’ he says. ‘Just can’t remember what bloody pocket I put it in.’

  ‘Really,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. You can have the chips.’

  He stares at me for a minute, like he thinks I’m joking or something. Then he reaches for the packet. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘It’s Violet,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Well, thanks, Violet.’ He winks at me.

  I swallow hard.

  ‘See you around,’ he says. Then he opens the door and disappears into the fog outside.

  Suddenly, Dad’s standing at my shoulder. ‘You have a problem with him?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No problem,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘We don’t want to encourage his sort in here. Bloody trouble makers. The lot of them.’

  What do you know? I want to say. A leather jacket and a motorcycle doesn’t make someone a bad person. But I don’t say anything. There’s no point. Because according to Dad, a leather jacket and a motorcycle is exactly what makes someone a bad person.

  The shop’s empty of customers now. I lean on the counter and try to stop my hands from shaking. I hear the roar of an engine from outside and it’s like the roar is coming from inside me too. ‘Thanks, Violet,’ he’d said. ‘Thanks, Violet.’ I can hear his voice in my head as clearly as if he was still standing next to me. I don’t know what’s just happened. But I know that whoever he was, I’ll see him again. I know that as surely as I know that the sun’s going to rise tomorrow. And for the first time in a long time, I’m glad to be me.

  Lost in the Amazon

  It’s Sunday morning, and Mum’s back to being Mum again. There’s sausages sizzling in the pan, hymns playing on the wireless and Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table in his pyjama bottoms, vest and braces. ‘One sausage or two? Mum asks me without turning around.

  ‘Just one, please,’ I say.

  The sun’s shining softly through the nets at the window and the smell of breakfast makes my tummy rumble. Everything feels as it should feel; normal and safe and boring. I imagine Jackie sitting having breakfast with her nan, their big, brown teapot on the table between them. I’ll go round there in a bit and I’ll ask Jackie to come shopping with me next weekend. I’ll tell her I need her advice about what to buy. I need new stuff to wear, and she knows what’ll suit me best. She’ll like that.

  I can’t stop thinking about the boy from last night. I still remember the smell of him and the way his leather jacket stretched across his shoulders. Perhaps I’ll tell Jackie about him too; about this new thing that’s happened to me. Because that’s what best friends do. They tell each other everything.

  I sit at the table and the sun slants warmly across my arm. I smile at Dad as he spears a sausage, and he winks back at me. But then, as Mum puts a plate of breakfast in front of me and I look up at her to say thanks, I see, with a shock, that her eyes are all pink and puffy and her cheeks are flushed a deep and angry red, like the ketchup that Dad’s got smeared across his plate. But I don’t want to spoil my mood by asking questions again, and besides, I don’t expect there’ll be any answers.

  I want to keep the morning perfect; as perfect as the fried egg that Mum has laid on top of a slice of buttered toast for me. I cut the end off a sausage and push it against the yolk. The thin skin wobbles promisingly. I push harder, and in an instant the yolk breaks, the yellow insides spill out and soak into the toast, and the beautiful shimmering egg is spoiled.

  The back door at Jackie’s is ajar and I don’t think twice about walking in without knocking. ‘Hello!’ I call out. ‘It’s only me! Violet!’ There’s no one in the kitchen and no sign that anyone’s eaten breakfast. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I shout. There must be someone up, for the door to be open.

  ‘That you, Violet?’ Brenda shouts out from somewhere in the house.

  I smile to myself. ‘Yeah!’ I shout back. ‘You two are having a lazy Sunday!’ I fill the kettle and turn on the gas. Then I swill out the old brown teapot and tip a handful of tea leaves inside. I fetch three cups and put them on the table along with the sugar bowl. I’m just pouring boiling water into the teapot and enjoying the dark perfume of the leaves, when the kitchen door opens.

  ‘Hello, love,’ says Brenda as she shuffles over to me in her slippers. ‘Didn’t expect to see you this morning.’

  ‘Just thought I’d pop in,’ I say. ‘And have a cuppa with you both.’

  She looks at me, puzzled. ‘Both? You think I’ve got the milkman hidden away upstairs or something?’ She cackles at the thought and pats the rollers that are tightly curled into her hair.

  ‘You wish!’ I laugh at her joke. ‘No. Not the milkman. You and Jackie. Thought I’d
come and have a cuppa with both of you.’

  ‘But she’s not back yet, love. That’s why I’m surprised to see you. Didn’t you stay out with them all?’

  ‘Stay out where? With who?’ As soon as the questions are out of my mouth, I groan. I wish I could snatch them back, but it’s too late now.

  Brenda pours tea into two of the cups. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Wendy’s, was it? Or Pauline’s? You know, one of her new friends from Garton’s. They were all having a girls’ night in or some such. Whatever one of those is.’ She glances up at me before I have time to wipe the dismay from my face. ‘Oh, love,’ she says gently. ‘Didn’t you know about it?’

  I force a smile. ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course I did. I couldn’t go though. Too busy at the shop, you know. Forgot all about it!’

  ‘Shame,’ she says. ‘Well, never mind. Don’t expect you missed much. Sit and have your cuppa. She’ll be back any minute.’

  I imagine Jackie breezing through the door, her face all lit up and shining with secrets I know nothing about. I imagine how her smile will disappear when she sees me sitting at her kitchen table. She’ll be nice enough. But I’ll know what she’ll really be thinking. Oh, God. Not Violet. Not boring old Violet with her frizzy hair and hand-me-down clothes. Not dull old Violet who’d rather read a book than kiss a fella.

  ‘Actually,’ I say. ‘I can’t stop. There’s something I have to do for Mum. Sorry. Tell Jackie I’ll see her some other time.’