Finish: The woman is ready to wrestle. Her hands are leather, her tongue is a whip. More than would care to speak of it recall being on its sharp end. Mostly mothers whose kids had called Mrs Clark’s son hopalong at nursery. The children were young. They knew no better, their mothers claimed. Everyone knows better than they let on, Mrs Clark would reply, teach your kids some manners or I’ll teach you some.
Overall: A woman who makes holding a grudge an art form. She stands beside her son oblivious to his shame, willing to fight for him until the last tooth in her head. It was strange to see her speak about kissing. The woman’s demeanour made people think she’d pucker up to nothing, never had, or would in her life.
‘It’s that girl or nothing.’ Aileen Clark pointed at Sylvie. ‘Don’t ask me why her. I’ve seen bigger lips on a trout,’ she said, ‘but it’s her he’s stuck on. I’m sick of him mooching around, scribbling stupid little poems for her, all of it. Let him kiss her and get it out of his system.’
We saw that, to Mrs Clark, kisses were as simple as the chocolates in the confectioner’s window, irresistible when you peered in carrying a sack of potatoes from the grocers. You could save up to buy one, take one bite and walk on. They were never as luscious as they looked in the display. The craving was cured by having a nibble, then you were done.
‘Ma, it’s OK. I don’t want Sylvie if she doesn’t want me. I hate this, let’s go.’
Joe’s cheeks were as pink as someone in a play. His mother failed to notice. Men muttered ‘what’s the harm…’ Women shook their heads: ‘if the lass doesn’t want to…’ Joe reminded them of a hundred good-looking boys who wouldn’t look at them twice. They saw his rejection as a victory for plain girls everywhere. Handsome or not, Sylvie was the one girl Joe couldn’t get. And she was one of their own.
Mrs Clark faced Sylvie, wild-eyed with rage. ‘So you won’t give him a peck? Not even for charity? You better than him? What’s wrong with him?’
‘It’s not that there’s anything wrong with him, Mrs Clark,’ Bunny interrupted. ‘I’m sure he’s a lovely lad. It’s just—’
‘Look at my boy right now and tell me what’s wrong with him.’
‘Ma, stop it. I’m not kidding.’ Joe pulled an arm. ‘It’s time to go.’
The crowd parted, pretending not to overhear Mrs Clark’s voice jabbing through.
‘Snooty cow… That Bunny Johnson is a self-righteous fu…’
The crowd slowly dispersed. People made their way to the swingboats, the ice-cream van, and the tombola. Bunny clapped her hands, returning to the business side of her stall.
‘Right, the show’s over. Come on,’ she called, ‘who’s got a sweet tooth? We still have plenty of cake for sale! I know someone took a slice and didn’t pay.’
1st May 1960
I’m just there with Ma faffing about with the sponges, arranging the shiny cherries on the top. Licking my sticky fingers. Looking anywhere but in the direction of kisses. There’s this wizened-looking fella on the other side of the field. The one I saw that morning outside Lorrie’s. He’s so skinny his shirt’s hanging off his collarbones without touching his chest. He looks like he’s scowling, though I can’t see his mouth. His moustache is so bushy his lips must have retired from yattering.
He climbs the fence when he sees Lorrie’s family arrive. He’s clutching the bag of sausages he’s bought to his chest and making a break for it. It doesn’t look easy. The gnarly fence snags his shirt. He pulls himself over it with stickman arms that might snap. I’m wondering why he’d go to all that bother instead of just using the gate. Then the whole island starts gawping at me.
It’s worse than when they dragged out Resusci Annie at Brownies. The lassies all huddled around itching for a First Aid badge. Pinch her nose. Clear an airway. Breathe. They all took their turn saving a plasticky life. Then it was up to me. I put my fingers into the rubber mouth to check for sweets or false teeth and I couldn’t breathe. The disinfectant reeked and everyone was gawping. My stomach was churning. I kept thinking about Ma smacking my knees. I didn’t save Annie that day, instead I puked all over her. I never went to Brownies again. The kids made pukey sounds when they saw me all year.
God, the whole world’s looking at me, and all I can think about is Brownies. I’m sweating lochs and my palms are redder and claggier than the cherries on the cakes. Don’t look up, don’t even move. I freeze like if I’m still enough folks will look through me and just see Victoria sponge. I was always doing that when I was wee. Ma would tell me to get out of her sight and I’d cover my eyes with my fingers. Frozen. Invisible unless I moved an inch, in my wee head anyway.
I stare over the stall at the grass. Mrs Clark has the smallest brown feather snagged to a silver buckle on her shoe. It wavers in the wind. Back and forth. Back and forth. There’s a toy soldier lying by her foot too. It probably fell out of the pocket of some laddie off and away to hook a duck. I focus on it until Mrs Clark turns and her foot presses the private into the dirt. I bow my head and sneak a peek through my fringe at Joe walking away.
He’s looking at me and mouthing a slow sorry. And it seems no one’s whispering with candyfloss tongues. It’s just me and him reading each other’s lips through the crowd. I know Joe’s sorry. And he knows I’m grateful he convinced his mother to leave. He trails behind her like the sickly wee laddie he used to be is still inside him. He’ll never outrun that kid no matter what he does. He’ll always be there somewhere, and he’ll never make his Ma see him any other way. I reckon I know how he feels.
God, I’d kiss him right now if I could, just for placing his bandaged hand on his mother’s shoulder and steering her away. I’d lean over the cheese scones and place my lips on his until he closed his eyes and the world fell away. If kissing was anything like the movies anyway. But, it’s not and I can’t. All I can do is wipe my claggy hands on my skirt and push slices of pie into smaller circles on the crumby plates.
Lorrie
The year was split for Domestic Science. Girls orbited around cooking and sewing while the boys made pine bird boxes and steel shoehorns that snagged their mother’s stockings. Sylvie wasn’t in my group. It was a relief not to be saddled with her. Our classmates were all whispering after the fair. Sylvie Johnson wasn’t all that. That girl thought she kept the sun in her underwear. Who does she think she is? Poor Joe, with his broken fingers, left standing, in front of everyone. He was so talented too. Everyone remembered him being the only redeeming feature of last year’s school show, with his guitar and a voice sweeter than a hot toddy on an icy day.
Joe was so admired it seemed Sylvie had posted a memo on the blackboard to us all:
A NOTE TO EVERY GIRL IN CLASS
Your dreams aren’t good enough for me. I’m better than you.
Blair Munro couldn’t sew a straight seam or keep a straight face. We shared a workbench for sewing. The class project was to make a nightdress. Girls sat in rows pinning lacy collars onto gifts for their mothers. Blair sucked her cotton, did a few tacks in gauzy cerise fabric and placed her foot on the pedal of the Singer, revving it, wishing it was a motorbike.
‘You’ll have to be careful with the tension if you want to work with that sort of fabric,’ Miss Stone said. ‘Besides, you’re not ready for machine work yet, Blair. It all needs to be tacked properly.’ Miss Stone nudged the curls on her shoulder, a woman full of gestures that resembled poses for photographs no one was around to take. If she hadn’t wound up being a teacher, she could have been a movie star. She had the sort of face that was ready for a close-up, and she wore homemade clothes that resembled woollier, more winter-proof versions of creations in Vogue. Looking at her, I thought: I’m going to be a woman like that when I grow up, but without the dot of red ink on my cuff.
The class all brought in similar fabric for their nightgowns; pastels, or plain white cotton, accompanied by embroidery thread and sketches of rosebuds to sew onto the collar. That is, everyo
ne except Blair and Marjorie Swift. Marjorie’s father was an upholsterer. He didn’t see why his daughter should fork out for fabric when he had plenty spare in his workshop. Marjorie winced pushing pins into a fabric strong enough to cover a chair. It was the sturdiest nightdress anyone ever saw. Wearing it, Marjorie’s mother would be part woman, part sofa. Marjorie knew this, but gritted her teeth and grabbed a second thimble. Blair laughed at her, flapping her own nightdress in the air.
‘You can see right through it,’ I said. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘Someone’s bound to keep you warm wearing this.’ Blair winked.
She wasn’t what I’d call a vamp, not when she was stationary. The freckles on her nose were orange. Her skin was silvery and breakable-looking as a doll. But when she moved she was shatterproof. She flicked her hair, crossed her legs and swung her feet under the bench, restless, ready to charge out as soon as the bell rang.
An Evaluation of Blair Munro
Nose: The bubblegum she snaps between her front teeth compliments her face. She does it so often. Whenever she isn’t impressed. The scent covers the faint waft of the cigarettes she sneaks out for between classes. When she returns, she spritzes perfume on her neck in the corridor to cover the smell, pleating more gum into her mouth. Juicy Fruit.
Palate: The chips she slips out to share with mechanics at lunchtime, the dandelion and burdock that fizzes up the paper straw she’s willing to share without wiping off the spit. There’s a certain laugh that bubbles out of her in the presence of boys. It is only for the company of the opposite sex and it can stop as fast as it starts. She snaps her gum again, making a point of trying to be unimpressed by their jokes. She turns away mid-punchline, suddenly bored. She doesn’t need to hear more. She can laugh just fine on her own.
Finish: Coppery as a kettle, freckle-coloured hair, a red purse and skirts she borrows off her mother as frequently as her lighter. Whatever day it is, Blair appears to be popping into school on her way to somewhere kids aren’t allowed. Everyone wants to follow her there, take her hand and be lead.
Overall: That girl you want to be, but don’t know how to become. Failing that, just knowing her will do. Blair’s friendship was a red dress I wasn’t sure I should wear. I tried it on without being sure if I could get away with it.
I lit a cigarette behind the school kitchens after class, air rippling out of the vents in the wall warming our legs. Blair didn’t believe in matches. Finding someone to give her a light provided too many opportunities to strike up a conservation with whoever she chose. I flicked a flame from the lighter I stole from my father’s jacket and cupped it with my palm.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
I shrugged. I’d tried my first cigarette a week ago. I wasn’t keen on the dizziness, the flavour, or the aroma, but I loved the lighter. It was gold-coloured, shiny and smooth. I loved the excuse it gave me to bump into Blair.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Blair blew a slow smoke ring. We watched it linger and fray.
‘Do you?’
‘Sometimes, when I feel like it…’
‘Who needs one full-time?’
Blair grinned. I’d passed some sort of test. Our schoolmates were starting to filter out of the building for lunch. They sat with paper bags on the grass and clustered in groups. I spotted Sylvie clutching her lunchbox by the gate, standing so awkwardly she reminded me of a child having her height measured against a door.
‘Is that your pal?’ Blair asked. ‘That Sylvie? Isn’t she the one who bit a chicken at a funeral or something?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘She’s not really my friend.’ I flicked ash. ‘She just lives next door.’
Sylvie started to eat lunch alone. I observed her at a distance, spreading out her coat, polishing her apple, peeling the crusts off her bread. It occurred to me I didn’t have to sit with her. I didn’t have to do anything. I knew Blair Munro.
I could feel the difference almost instantly, a stirring of curiosity directed my way. I’d become interesting, for doing nothing but knowing someone everyone wanted to know.
‘Are you still friends with Sylvie?’ Marjorie Swift asked in the changing rooms after hockey. ‘I keep seeing you skulking off for a smoke with Blair. Have you been to Blair’s house? What’s it like? I heard her mother plays Patsy Cline all day and has parties all night.’
I smiled, as if I knew more than I did, letting on that I was closer to Blair than I was. I spent the remainder of the day making a point of looking out the window, pretending to consider nothing but the bell, and the hundred plans after school everyone wished I’d include them in.
5th May 1960
I’m waiting for Lorrie to notice I’m dead different. I keep faffing around with my fringe. She won’t look. We’re popping to the café where they squirt a smidge more raspberry into the milkshakes just for us. I’m putting a couple of songs on the jukebox and staring out at the black-headed gulls. They’re all willing to give up a wee bit of their wildness for a few chips tossed their way. I slide my feet under the table and wonder how to dance to ‘Purple People Eater’. I won’t dance until we’re alone though. Just me and Lorrie, in our bedrooms on a dreich day. It’s the only way I can do it. When anyone’s looking I move like a robot, but in my head I glide like a swan.
I don’t wanna admit I waited for Lorrie at lunch again. I stood staring at the pavement dotted with ants doing a conga around a dropped chocolate lime. I watched them for ages. It was better than looking across the field and seeing Lorrie yattering with Blair. She can have more pals than one. Not everyone has to like me. I know, but when I see Lorrie with someone who hates me my stomach gets this feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth.
Blair’s one of those lassies who makes a face whenever she passes me. ‘Nice dress, Sylvie,’ she says. And she thinks I’m too daft to realise that when some people say ‘nice’ it means stinking.
‘I missed you at lunchtime.’
Shite. I didn’t want to say anything. I bite my lip and feel teeth digging in.
‘Oh, I was working on that stupid nightie,’ Lorrie says.
‘Oh. With Blair? She’s beautiful.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Do you like my hair?’ I ask. I hate myself as soon as I say it. Hate sniffing around for a compliment. Lorrie looks at me, finally. I’ve let my hair down like she always says I should. I’ve smoothed it behind one ear, instead of scraping my ponytail back so tight Lorrie says just looking gives her a migraine.
‘You look fine,’ she says.
Then she carries on chattering. Blair this… Blair that… Blair says… Blair helps her mother at work after school. One time, she found a necklace. A gold one, a heart. Another time, a bracelet. She let Blair keep them both.
We leave the café and dawdle past the shops painted in Easter colours. It’s only by the harbour where all the paintwork isn’t white. Pink. Lavender. Lemon. Mint. The shops facing the sea are defiant with colour, damned if all that weather whipping their faces is going to stop them looking cheery. The shop owners gripe about painting the walls every year. They swear they’ll just let it peel, then paint it again anyway. Whenever we’re here, me and Lorrie point at our favourite paint jobs and wonder what colours we’d paint our own houses one day. Baby blue for Lorrie. Yellow for me. Today Lorrie doesn’t mention the paint. Blair’s made her snow-blind. The lure of the lass is too bright to see anything.
I push my hair behind my ear ten thousand times and still forget to put it in a ponytail before I get in. Ma spots it as soon as she sets eyes on me and follows me to my room with the linen.
‘What’s with this?’ She strokes a strand of my hair. ‘This isn’t for that lad’s benefit is it?’
‘No, Ma. I just wanted to be different.’
It’s the first time we’ve really been alone since the day of the fair. Without being aware of Seth and Zach downstairs anyway. Ma can finally let rip
.
‘What got into that woman? Mrs Clark. Is there something going on with Joe I should know about?’
Ma looks at me relentlessly. The fresh bedding is piled high in her arms. There’s a loose strand of cotton on a hem. If I pulled it a whole line of stitching would undo.
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘You must have done something to lead the boy on. These things don’t come from nowhere.’
‘I haven’t done anything. I can’t control what folk think of me,’ I say.
Ma bundles the sheets off my bed and flaps on the fresh one. I fold a hospital corner opposite her, crisp as a sealed envelope.
‘Don’t lie to me, Sylvie. There’ll be consequences. I don’t want you seeing that boy. Promise me you haven’t.’
I shake a pillow so hard a couple of feathers fly and land on the pillowcase.
‘I promise. I have nothing to do with Joe Clark, Ma. I’d never lie to you, cross my heart.’
Ma nods. ‘Make sure it stays that way.’ She places the last cover on the bed and says, ‘I really do love this washing powder, don’t you? It smells so much fresher than the other one, like a meadow.’ She leaves to make the other beds become meadows. I breathe. It’s over for now.
Lorrie
Rook Cutler knocked off from the distillery and popped his head around the door. The day had been endless. It started with a pigeon on the step, stone cold. Grumps covered the silvery rainbow on its throat with a cloth and muttered. ‘Looks like the bastard’s running out of owls.’ My mother wasn’t letting it go, not this time. Even at dinner it was still on her mind. It was only a baby, poor thing. It still didn’t have all its proper flight feathers. She demanded to know who would do this. It must stop. She’d seen more dead birds than a woman could stand.
Something Like Breathing Page 10
