V for Violet

by Alison Rattle

  ‘Look,’ he says, pointing. ‘There’s St Paul’s. And over there, the Houses of Parliament. Can you see?’

  I nod. It’s all so beautiful I don’t want to speak. I think of all the people down there, scurrying around, heading for home. And the late-night office workers still sitting at their desks and policemen walking their beats and all the young girls dancing with their fellas. And all of them with their own cares and worries and dreams and their own pasts and futures.

  ‘Best view in the whole of London, that is,’ he says.

  I think he might be right. I’ve never seen the city like this before. I never knew it was all so vast and fast and throbbing with life. It makes me feel tiny and insignificant. Like I really don’t matter at all. Like I’m just a speck floating in the universe.

  ‘Here,’ he says. ‘You want some?’ He’s pulled a bottle of beer from inside his jacket. He prises off the cap with his keys and then sucks quickly at the hissing foam. He hands me the bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I take a mouthful of the beer. It tastes like warm metal. He takes off his jacket and lays it on the ground and we both sit down and pass the bottle between us.

  This is his favourite place, Beau tells me. He comes here a lot. Just so he can get away from the crowds. Crowds bug him. He loves his motorcycle. It gives him a sense of freedom. Means he can escape from the world from time to time. He’d die without his bike. He likes to smoke too. He smokes properly, taking two drags at once and blowing the smoke through his nose. He offers me a cigarette from a battered packet. I’ve never had a smoke before, but I take one anyway. He cups his hand around a lighter and holds it to the end of my cigarette. I suck, like I’ve seen Dad doing, and my throat is filled with stinging smoke. I cough until my eyes water and Beau laughs at me.

  ‘Virgin,’ he teases.

  V for Violet, I think. V for Virgin.

  I tell him I wish I had a motorcycle too. That I’d like to escape from the world sometimes. I tell him how much I hate working at the chippie. I tell about some of the customers. About mean old Mr Carver and how I always try to give him the smallest piece of fish and about Mrs Pearl and her gums and about poor old Mrs Robinson who eats her extra fish supper in secret. Beau laughs at my stories. ‘You’re funny,’ he says. And I feel all warm inside, even though I never meant to be funny at all.

  When the bottle of beer is empty, we walk down the hill and climb back on to Beau’s motorcycle. It’s easier this time, I know what to expect. I relax against his back and let the bike move my body where it needs to go. Beau pulls over on Chelsea Bridge and buys me a coffee from the late-night stall. There are other fellas gathered there, all dressed like Beau with slicked-back hair and shiny motorcycles.

  And there’s a couple of girls too. They’ve got the same black leather jackets on and boots that are covered in chains and studs. Their hair is amazing. They’ve pinned it back behind their ears and teased the rest of it into exaggerated quiffs. They’re laughing along with the fellas like they really belong. I stand next to Beau while he and the others rev up their bikes and talk about ton-ups and getting their kicks and pleasing themselves. With all the bikes growling so loudly around me, I feel like a lone deer surrounded by a pride of lions. But nobody attacks me. Nobody looks at me the wrong way or makes me feel like an idiot. One of the girls sidles up to me. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Violet,’ I reply.

  ‘Nice name,’ she says. ‘So what do you do then, Violet? You got a job?’

  I nod. ‘I work in my Dad’s chippie.’

  ‘Nice one!’ she grins. ‘I love chips, me. So … you with Beau, then?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Well … not with him. He’s not my boyfriend or anything.’

  She shrugs. ‘Whatever. It’s cool.’ She smiles at me, a proper smile that reaches her eyes. ‘You’re not like the others he’s brought here,’ she says. ‘You seem like a nice girl.’ She laughs, then saunters off and drapes herself against the arm of one of the other fellas.

  I sneak a look at Beau and watch him blow long curls of cigarette smoke from his nostrils. I wonder how many other girls he’s brought here. The thought makes me feel weird and uncertain. I bet they were Rocker girls, all cool and pretty. I shiver as I wonder what he sees in me. I warm my hands on the paper cup of coffee. I take a sip. It’s strong and sweet and exotic. It tastes of things I don’t even know about yet.

  The bikes are roaring loudly. The fellas are all sitting astride their machines with their denim thighs squeezing the flanks as though they’re trying to control a herd of powerful horses. ‘Hey, Violet!’ Beau shouts in my ear. ‘Time to go!’

  We follow the other bikes along the bridge. Faster, faster and faster. My heart’s in my throat. The wind’s in my face and all thoughts of anything other than this moment fly from my head and sail over Chelsea Bridge and into the Thames. ‘Yee ha!’ I scream into the night. ‘Yee ha!’

  I’m having the ride of my life and I never want it to end.

  I have no idea how late it is when Beau pulls up outside the chip shop. He keeps his engine purring as I quickly clamber off the bike. There’s an awkward moment as I wonder if he’s going to kiss me or not. He leans towards me and I breathe in sharply. But then his hand reaches out and he touches me gently under the chin. ‘See you later, Violet,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. See you,’ I say. Of course he was never going to kiss me. Why would he want to? But then he winks at me and it’s enough to give me goosebumps. He revs up his engine and disappears down the road in a burst of choking smoke. I stare after him. Did all that really just happen? Did such a good-looking fella actually notice me and speak to me and whisk me away on the back of his motorcycle? I pinch myself on the arm. It hurts, so I can’t be dreaming.

  I expect the house to be in darkness. Mum and Dad should have gone to bed hours ago. But as I walk round the side to the kitchen door I see a square of light shining on to the path. Hoping they’ve just left a light on for me to come home to, I open the door. I’m in a hurry to get to bed and think about the extraordinary evening I’ve just had. I want to think about the rush of the wind and the blood pumping through my veins as Beau flew us over Chelsea Bridge. I want to think again about the quiet of Parliament Hill and being alone with Beau at the top of the world. I want to remember the smell of the cold grass and the night air and the taste of beer and coffee. I want to remember Beau’s voice and the feel of leather against my face and how his muscles tensed as he guided his bike around sharp bends and along dark roads.

  But as I walk into the kitchen, Mum and Dad are both sitting there at the table. Mum’s eyes are small and furious and Dad’s face is grey with cigarette smoke. Mum jumps up from her chair. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ she screeches. ‘We’ve been worried sick! And don’t you dare say you were at Jackie’s. I went round there hours ago and they said they haven’t seen you for days.’

  ‘I just went out,’ I mumble. ‘Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.’

  Mum takes a deep breath. She’s trying to keep calm. ‘Out where?’ she says. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I say. ‘I’m sixteen. I’m not a baby. I’ll go where I like.’

  ‘Oi!’ Dad shouts, leaning forward across the table. ‘Don’t speak to your mother like that! While you’re living under our roof, we’ve every right to know where you’ve been!’ He sits back in his chair and slides a newspaper towards me. ‘It’s one in the morning, for Christ’s sake,’ he says. ‘And haven’t you seen the paper today? If you’d bothered to read it you’d know why we were so worried about you.’

  If I’d bothered to read the paper today? I can’t believe he’s just said that. Dad, who’s never read a book in his entire life and only ever usually looks at the sport pages is having a go at me just because, for once, I haven’t seen the paper today! I want to punch him. Right on the end of his ignorant nose. I look at Mum with her face all pink and pinched up with se
lf-righteousness and suddenly I can’t keep it in any longer. If they won’t let me have my own secrets then why should I let them have theirs? Ignoring the newspaper, I turn to Mum.

  ‘I’ll tell you where I’ve been, if you tell Dad where you went today.’

  There’s a horrible silence. Mum opens her mouth and closes it again, like a fish drowning in a bucket of water. The ash that’s trembling at the end of Dad’s cigarette falls on to the table and neither of them move to brush it away. ‘What does she mean?’ Dad says quietly. He’s looking at Mum and I know he means business because without even putting his last cigarette out properly, he’s lighting another one.

  I run out of the room, slamming the door behind me, and by the time I’ve got upstairs, they’re already yelling at each other. Mum’s crying. ‘I had to see him, Frank. I had to see him!’

  ‘You bloody promised me!’ Dad shouts. ‘I told you, just the once and never again! You lied to me! You bloody lied to me!’

  ‘But, Frank. Please!’

  ‘Does Violet know? Have you told her? Have you told Norma?’

  I shut my bedroom door and throw myself on the bed. The shouting is muffled now, but not muffled enough. I pull a pillow over my head to drown the noise in feathers. Mum’ll hate me now, and Dad probably will too. But I don’t care. It’s their mess, not mine. I don’t want anything more to do with it. I’ve got better things to do. There’s another world out there that I tasted tonight for the first time. And I want more of it. Because it tastes a whole lot better than fish and chips and salt and vinegar.

  The newspaper is still spread out on the kitchen table where Dad left it last night.

  GIRL, 15, MISSING

  Police in South London are becoming increasingly concerned over the welfare of a fifteen-year-old girl who was reported missing over a week ago. Joanne Thomas was last seen on the evening of October 15th at approximately 7.30pm at a funfair in Battersea Park, where she was spotted talking to a man. She has since failed to return home.

  Officers have described the girl as having shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, of slim build and approximately 5ft 4 inches tall. When last seen she was wearing a white skirt, black jumper and a blue half-length coat.

  Joanne Thomas? I recognise that name. A picture comes into my head of a pretty girl in the year below me at school. Not just ordinary pretty, but ‘stare at in complete envy pretty’. The sort of pretty that gets a girl into trouble. And now it looked like she was in trouble. Big trouble. I remember she seemed a lot older than me, even though she was a whole year younger. But some girls are like that. Born with boobs, Mum would say.

  Poor Joanne, I think. I bet the ‘man’ she was seen talking to was her boyfriend. They probably went too far and she got herself pregnant and now she and her boyfriend have run off together because they don’t know what else to do. They’ll have to come back home and get married though, whether they want to or not. It’s the only way they’ll ever be able to live with the shame of it all.

  I’m puzzled. Is this why Mum and Dad sat up waiting for me last night? Because a girl’s run off with her boyfriend and they thought I was out with a fella getting myself into trouble too? I’d be pretty narked if it wasn’t partly true. I was out with a boy, but I wasn’t getting myself into trouble. I’d never do that. Did they see Beau, then? Did they see me getting on his bike? I thought I’d been so careful.

  Or maybe they think something else has happened to Joanne Thomas. Maybe they think there’s a murderer on the loose. One that’s prowling around the fairground preying on young girls. They’d have to think the worst then, wouldn’t they?

  There’s no point in saying anything to them this morning though. They’re not talking to each other and they’re ignoring me too. Like it’s my fault that Mum’s got herself another fella. They’ve both got faces like statues. If they smiled or spoke the stone would crack and crumble and their heads might fall off.

  Breakfast this morning is a bundle of laughs. It’s like being at a funeral. Dad’s all ashen-faced. He doesn’t touch his eggs. He just slurps his tea and smokes his fags. There’s so much smoke wafting around the kitchen, I wouldn’t be surprised if a passing neighbour doesn’t call out the fire brigade. And as for Mum – she takes one bite of her toast, bursts into tears and runs from the room.

  And they’re meant to be the adults.

  I’ve still got to peel the potatoes though. Life goes on. The world still needs chips. Apparently. I imagine I’m cutting every chip for Beau. I have to make them perfect. No trace of skin and all of them an even length and thickness. I don’t know when he’ll come again and it doesn’t really matter. Because I know he will come again, in his own time.

  I counted out all my savings earlier this morning. I’ve got almost ten pounds. More than enough for a leather jacket. First thing Saturday, I’m getting the bus to Shepherd’s Bush market. I’m going to buy some eyeliner too and some tight denim jeans. I want to look like the girl on Chelsea Bridge. I want to drape myself against Beau and look like I really belong.

  I wonder what Jackie would make of Beau. Not that I care what she thinks. He’s not the clean and tidy sort, that’s for sure. Not like the fellas that work at Garton’s. Beau wouldn’t get all dressed up in a tie and suit to go to a dance.

  Fellas like Beau make old women tut and shake their heads and cross the road to avoid them. That’s why I like him, I think. He’s not like most fellas. Just like I’m not like most girls. I pick out another potato from the sack next to me. Mum and Dad can’t have seen me with Beau last night. Mum would have had a fit if she had. She’d think Beau was a bad sort straight away, just because he rides a motorcycle. But I don’t care what Mum thinks either. Why should I? After what she’s done.

  Speak of the devil. Mum comes into the room and puts her hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and carry on peeling the potato in my hand. ‘Violet, love,’ she says. ‘There’s some things you need to know … obviously … after last night.’ She sniffs and blows her nose.

  ‘Uh huh,’ I murmur, like I really don’t care one way or the other. I concentrate on the potato. I’m trying to peel the skin so it stays all in one piece. I used to peel apples like this, with Jackie. If we managed to get the skin off all in one piece we would drop them on the floor. However they landed would spell out the initials of our future husbands. At least that’s what Brenda would tell us. I’m thinking it would be quite difficult to get a spiral of potato peeling to land on the floor in the shape of the letter B.

  ‘We need to talk, Violet,’ Mum continues. ‘I don’t know what you know already … or what you think you know. But … well, it’s only fair that Norma is told the truth the same time as you. She’s coming here after she’s finished work, and your dad and me have decided not to open the shop tonight, so … there’ll be plenty of time for us to … sort everything out.’

  My heart sinks. Shut the shop! Mum and Dad have never shut the shop. Dad’s favourite boast is how he kept the shop going all through the war. Fish and potatoes were one of the few things not rationed. ‘Did my bit to keep the country going,’ he always says. ‘Would’ve been a rum do if folks couldn’t have had their fish suppers.’

  If a war and even the Blitz couldn’t shut the shop but Mum’s announcement can, it’s got to be really, really bad. It’s got to be the worst thing ever.

  Divorce.

  The dirtiest word of all. A word that makes Mum’s lips pucker like a prune. A word that’s only ever whispered. I can’t believe Mum would even consider talking about it, let alone do it! Sally Hayes was the only girl at school who came from a broken home. The only girl whose parents had actually divorced. Nobody was allowed to go to her house to play and she was never invited anywhere. It was like she had the measles or fleas or something else catching. Would Mum really do that to us? And would Dad really let her?

  ‘So …’ says Mum. ‘You can have the afternoon off now. But don’t go off anywhere, will you? Or, at least make sure you’re back by five. I won’t
ask where you were last night. Just be careful though. Won’t you?’

  I drop the half-peeled potato back into the bucket. Splashes of cold muddy water land on my legs. Just be careful. Did she mean be careful of fairground murderers or be careful of something else? Be careful of boys who might want to take advantage of me? Or be careful of spotting your own mother in Battersea Park canoodling with another man?

  Five hours is a long time to wait. It’s a long time to wait for anything, but it’s especially long if you’re waiting to find out what your future might be. What will happen to the shop? Will Mum move out? Will I have to stay and look after Dad? Will I be stuck there for ever now? What will happen if the shop closes? Will I ever see Beau again? Will I have to go and live with Norma and Raymond and live on a diet of frozen fish fingers? Five hours is a long time to wait for all hell to break loose.

  I take back my copy of The Country Girls to the library. Miss Read raises her eyebrows as I pass the book back to her over the desk. ‘You should read it,’ I say to her. ‘It’s brilliant.’

  She sniffs and colours slightly and I know instantly that she already has read it. I smile to myself as I think of her tucked up in bed with her hair in rollers, a cup of cocoa at her side, a cat asleep at her feet and a copy of The Country Girls in her hands. I wonder if she blushed when she read the rude bits. Perhaps she’s not such a stick-in-the-mud after all.

  The hush and warmth of the library helps to quiet the thoughts that have been banging around in my head like flies trapped in a jar. I go to the Family Health section first, and after flicking past Bringing up Baby, Life Saving and Water Safety and First Aid for Beginners, I pull out a book called The Good Housekeeping Marriage Book (Twelve Steps to a Happy Marriage). It’s all about courtship, getting engaged, the Wedding, working wives, having children, managing money … there’s nothing about the twelve steps to a happy divorce though. Not even one step to a happy divorce. It’s such a terrible word it can’t even be written down. I consider for a moment asking Miss Read if she knows of any good books on the subject of divorce. But I think she might throw me out. It would be like asking her if she knows any good books on the subject of