Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles (3 page)

Chemist Guy: you only ever get to see bits of him – bejeaned bum up a ladder (good spot, Jules), or a corner of his face through the little window at the back. I’ll have to get a full-frontal. Save a fortune on dental floss.

As for exes… Mother’s a disaster on the romance front. The men she meets are either homeless or hapless or, like the man on the Tube, married. And not Jack, please. I know that would make a wonderfully happy ending, but it’s not going to happen here. They are so ill-suited. Mother needs someone to provide order in her life, while Jack… Jack’s not just serially unfaithful. He’s always got some new mad plan – the latest one’s selling fish door to door (he pretends it comes from Newcastle) – but he’s never got quite enough ‘at this precise moment in time’ to pay the bills.

Oh, I really ought to be able to think of a wonderful future husband for her myself. (There should be a big gap here to indicate the ten minutes I have just spent staring at the ceiling.) But I can’t.

Doorbell. I’m not allowed to open the front door if I’m alone in the house. Something has just rattled through the letter box. I’ll just go and see what.

My bedroom, 10 p.m.

Might have guessed: chocolate buttons. William and I have a thing about chocolate buttons. It’s like a private joke without the joke.

I opened the door and he was standing on the mat, looking sheepish and irritating. He’d just got off his bike – the skin on his face and arms was mottled red and white as if he was hot and cold at the same time. The chain with his crucifix was out of his T-shirt, skew-whiff across his shoulder.

He said, ‘Where were you? I waited for you at the sheds.’

Bother. We usually cycle home together and I’d forgotten to tell him I was walking with Julie. I should have felt guilty, but I just felt cross. I said, ‘I went down with Julie.’

‘Oh,’ he said, looking hurt. ‘Oh, sorry.’

He’s always apologizing, even when I’m at fault. It’s a vicious circle we’re in. I’m hoity-toity; he’s repentant. And the awful thing is, the nicer he is, the crosser I get. I’m really not a very nice person.

‘Do you want to come in, then?’ I said.

‘Yeah, all right.’

He wheeled his bike into the hall, leant it against mine and followed me into the kitchen. His jeans are so wide and baggy these days the legs seem to start down at his knees. He’s such a fashion victim. Sometimes I think I’m outgrowing him.

He sat on the stool while I filled the kettle. ‘Did you hear about the French exchange?’ he said.

I stopped what I was doing. ‘No. I didn’t have French today.’

‘Yeah,’ he said casually. ‘Easter holidays. You have to get your form in by the end of the week. Cheque for eighty quid. I doubt I’ll bother.’

I turned round and he was looking at me closely. He knows how I feel about France – the de Bellechasse thing – that it’s my spiritual home. (In fact, it annoys him; he thinks it’s pretentious.) I felt sick.

‘Eighty quid?’ I said.

‘Yeah. Probably not worth the hassle.’

I sat down next to him. ‘How does it work?’

‘Two weeks at Easter with a family in Paris. Then the French student comes back to you in the summer.’

‘Two weeks in Paris?’ My heart soared. I imagined myself reunited with my grandparents, an elegant woman in a bun clasping me to her bosom, a small dog at her heels. Two weeks in Paris!

William was still looking at me. He said, ‘Yeah. Probably not worth –’

How could I ask Mother for eighty quid? ‘No,’ I agreed, trying not to sound miserable. ‘No, it’s probably not.’ I stared at the table. I remembered the day trip to Boulogne with the school, how I envied the neat French schoolgirls in their brown suede boots. Even the stationery shop where I bought this notebook was heavenly. ‘Do you want a rice cake?’ I said. ‘They’re not exactly chocolate digestives, but…’

William was opening the packet of buttons. ‘Ah, but we could be inventive!’ he said cheerfully. He was probably trying to get me off the French exchange. ‘We could try melting these on top.’

We had a bit of trouble with charring. And clouds of dark-grey smoke started pouring out of the grill at one point. But it wasn’t completely unsuccessful. Heated up buttons go sort of powdery rather than melty. Chocolate rice cakes are not quite as good as chocolate digestives, but they’re not bad. When we had a pile each and had put the burnt tea towels in some water in the sink, we took them with our cups of tea upstairs to the roof. There’s just enough room for us both, though it’s squashier than it used to be – must be all the fabric in William’s trousers. It was a bit cold – a high blue sky darkening over the roofs – so we pulled the duvet out and tucked it round our knees. We had our usual vague munching chat – the stultifying dullness of suburbia, why supply teachers are always Australian. We didn’t talk any more about the French exchange, and I didn’t tell him about my campaign for Mother. We never do talk about things like that.

I had stopped feeling irritated with him. He’s like a different person out of school. Or maybe he’s the same, I just look at him differently. There are signs of hair growth on his chin these days and under his nose. I know he shaves sometimes, but he’d hate it if I knew. He’s had his hair cut too short – it’s the kind of cut that makes old ladies cross the road when they see him. And this evening he looked pale. When he yawned for about the fifth time, I said he needed an early night. He said he’d had one last night, only… He trailed off and I said, ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ and he said no, he hadn’t. He gave a humph of a laugh. I said, ‘Did you get woken up?’ and he stopped laughing. ‘A bit,’ he said, scratching his neck and looking up at the sky.

When Jack lived with us, before the Great Infidelity, he used to say he’d go round and sort William’s mum and dad out – or his dad anyway. All I remember from the sleepovers is the sound of shouting and glass being smashed and William telling me to put my head under the pillow. In the morning, his mother was really friendly and let us have Extra-Thick Single Cream on our Rice Krispies. Once I saw bits of broken glass in the bin and an empty whisky bottle by the sink.

Jack doesn’t talk about going round to sort them out any more. Maybe he thinks William’s old enough to look after himself, which is awful because he can’t even look after his hamster. It got out this morning. He thinks it’s gone under the floorboards.

Granny Enid dropped C and M back just after William left and then Mother got into one of her sporadic efficient moods. It usually means she’s feeling cheerful. Sometimes she comes in really tired. If she’s had a hard day at the shop – ‘a long, long, long day’, when there’s been a run on cup sizes or something – she stretches out in a chair, with her dark head back, her bony white throat showing, her high-heeled shoes dangling. Then she’ll smile and get up quickly, slip on her slippers and jolly everyone up, but for a moment in her eyes it’s as if she doesn’t notice what’s going on around her, as if her head and her heart are elsewhere. And that’s when I think what a waste it is that she should be stuck at home with three children (or two children and me – I’m very old for my age) when she is so very frail and beautiful.

But there was none of that today. She got the children to bed and then she gave a rapid little clap of her hands and said, ‘OK, young lady, homework, no?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve done it.’

She looked a bit disappointed, but soon started chatting about her day. Apparently, she served an ‘agitated man in a suit’ who wanted ‘a set’ for his fiancée. Mother said, ‘Do you mean a brassiere or a camisole? With panties? French knickers, briefs or thong?’ You have to imagine the rolled ‘r’s’ in that. They make it even more embarrassing.

Well, he blushed to his roots – his face was ‘red, red, red’ – and started muttering about sizes. Here’s a trade secret: men always overestimate the extent of their girl-friends’ bosoms and underestimate the extent of their bottoms. (My mother is quite petite but, because she knows her onions, some of her pants are enormous.) So, Mother applied fitter’s law and supplied him with a 34C and a medium thong. And then – he bent his head and kissed her hand! In front of her boss and everything! So, now I understand her cheerful mood. ‘Ooh la!’ she said, leaning back into the sofa and flushing at the memory.

We watched the news – more gloom and war in a far-off place – and I thought about mentioning the French exchange. But then she got out her mending – she’s adding some old material to the bottom of Cyril’s jeans to make them last another year – and she sighed, the man with the set forgotten, and I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I sneaked into the kitchen to ring Julie to tell her what I think of her list – Mr Baker a no-no, Uncle Bert and The Chemist to be pursued further – and she’s cooking up a plan. We had to be short and sweet because her mum yelled that the pizzas had come. ‘Oh, sorry, Con,’ she said. I told her not to worry. We don’t have pizzas delivered at our house out of respect to my father, but it doesn’t mean other people can’t. We’re going to talk tomorrow.

I’m up in my room now, with the cat on the end of my bed. Mother and I watched my dad’s video before I came up. It’s only thirty seconds long. You see him running along a jetty in the sunset, in shorts, with a couple of other young men. He’s the one with the curly dark hair and the cheeky grin in the cut-off jeans. He’s only about twenty-five. He’s laughing and horsing around with his pretend friends and then they all jump off the jetty into the water. It’s nice to see him happy. Even if it is in an ad for a vodka-based alcopop. Mother and I joined in with the slogan at the end. ‘Make a splash!’ we cried. ‘Drink Carrrrib-vod.’

I ran her a bath after that. I added rose and geranium oil, which is really for special occasions, like A Date.

‘Night,’ I said.

‘Sweet dreams,
chérie
,’ she answered, up to her neck in suds.

Tuesday 11 February

The bathroom, 8.30 p.m.

Julie made me
bunk off period six! I’ve never bunked off a lesson in my whole life. Boffins don’t. It’s how we get to be boffins (even weird ones). But friendship with me demands a lot of compromise if you’re someone like Julie, and I know when it’s my turn. She collared me the moment I got to school and pulled me into the girls’ toilets. ‘I thought we’d start with The Chemist,’ she said. ‘Today. Fact-finding mission. Meet me behind the science block at 3.05 p.m. I’ve brought the gear. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just be there.’

So I was. I was feeling a bit low because Mr Baker had handed me my French-exchange letter and I knew I’d have to hide it from Mother. But I cheered up when I saw Julie. She was on her haunches, crouched over her blusher compact reapplying her black eyeliner. She had her weekend coat on – a short white mac with a belt that pulls in tight at the waist – and her honey-coloured suede wedge boots. Even though ‘behind the science block’ means ‘in that damp, spidery old ditch between the school building and the fence’, and even though she was squatting, she looked sophisticated. At least sixteen.

She eyed me up and down. I was wearing my floral summer dress from The Notting Hill Housing Trust, with some warm tartan tights. ‘Hm,’ she said, and lurched towards me with her brush in her hand. Before I could move, she’d dabbed my cheeks and, holding my chin firmly, so I couldn’t move, applied some of her make-up to my eyes and lips. ‘Need you to look a bit more conventional,’ she said. ‘Bit less odd.’

I decided to ignore that and we set off, scrambling over the railings into Hillside Road. We stopped running when we got to Ashcroft Avenue, and leant, puffing, against a tree. Julie was carrying a big plastic bag and when she’d got her breath back she opened it. Inside were two clipboards. She handed one to me. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘We’ll pretend we’re doing a project on Shopping Distribution. We’re sixth-formers if anyone asks. Geography AS level. OK?’

The shop was empty when we got there. There was no sign of The Chemist. Behind the counter was a woman with wiry brown hair, flecked with grey, and pouchy eyes. I wanted to leave – we’d been giggling all the way down and it just felt like a laugh – but Julie marched straight up. ‘Hello. We’re from Woodvale Secondary,’ she said. ‘We’re doing an AS-level project on The Changing Face of the High Street. Could I speak to the owner, please?’

The woman had been reading OK! magazine. She said, ‘The owner?’

‘You know, the bloke who’s usually here? In the jeans?’

I cleared my throat. I was thinking about his bum and trying hard not to laugh. Julie jabbed me in the leg with her fingers.

‘Oh, John.’ The woman called through a door beyond the pharmacy section. ‘Jo-hn. Some girls to see you.’ To us, she said, ‘He’s developing.’

Under my breath I said, ‘Aren’t we all.’

Julie nudged me. ‘How interesting,’ she said. ‘Photos. Yes. We must remember – mustn’t we, Con? To bring our film here next time we’re back from our Club 18-30 holiday’

I took in a quick breath and held it. A gust of air blasted out of my nose. Julie put her head on one side and looked at me without blinking. I was working up to make her crack too. I was just by the pregnancy tests. Something wicked was building.

And then he came through the door, and we both turned. First thing: he wasn’t wearing jeans. He was pulling off a plastic apron and hanging it on the door and underneath he was all in black: black T-shirt, black trousers, black brows. He was frowning slightly and I suddenly felt rather nervous. He looked nothing like a traveller or an artist and everything like a handsome beetle. Or a rather cross chemist.

He came to the counter and Julie, who I could tell was also finding this slightly less funny now because she was gripping my dress between her finger and thumb, ran through her thing again, more nervously this time.

He said, ‘I see,’ when she’d finished. ‘OK. Fire away.’

While she fumbled for her clipboard, he looked at his watch.

I rather thought he might take us out the back or something, but we just stood there, leaning over the Clarins. Julie ran through some questions. How long had he owned the shop? (Six months; he has taken it over from his uncle, Leakey senior.) What was his training? (A five-year sandwich course in pharmacology at De Montfort, Leicester.) Was it convenient in terms of locality vis-à-vis his living arrangements? (Yes.) Then she asked him a question about competition within the high-street environment. His eyes had been darting around the shop, checking customers, keeping a note on the wire-haired woman’s response to them. But now he looked keenly at us and, as Julie had her head down writing, that meant me. His eyes, I noticed, were very dark. I feel cringingly embarrassed remembering this now, because I just stood there with a gormless smile on my face while he talked about sharks and minnows, my head nodding, occasionally glancing at the suppositories to the left of his ear to escape his glare. ‘So basically, if deregulation goes ahead, it’s undercutting on price versus personal service,’ he concluded. ‘You’re not going to find anyone from the big chains nipping round with Mrs Jones’s prescription when she can’t get out of bed.’

Julie looked up. ‘And where does this Mrs Jones live? Does she live within the high-street environment?’

He frowned.

I cleared my throat. ‘You’re making a general point,’ I said. ‘Using a mythical Mrs Jones as an example. We quite see that, don’t we, Julie?’

For a moment Julie looked lost, but then she remembered her notes. ‘And what about hours?’ she said, referring to her clipboard again. ‘Weekends, some Sundays, late opening, goodness, you were even open on Christmas Day this year, weren’t you – how does that work with domestic arrangements?’

He frowned again. ‘Sorry, is this relevant?’ He was looking over our heads. I realized a few people had come into the shop. The assistant with the pouchy eyes had begun serving, but a small queue was forming.

‘All she means,’ I added quickly, ‘is it must dissuade some people from running small businesses, particularly one of this nature. Um – you know, when you’re married and have children.’

He said, ‘I suppose so.’

Julie said, ‘So does it?’

He darted a nervous look at the woman with the pouchy eyes. She was bending down at the shelves just behind her – where the things called Benzadrille and Optak are – flicking through them in panic, humming quickly. The Chemist – John – said, ‘I’m sure it would. Now, if you’ve –’

I suddenly realized that the customer causing the problem was female and very attractive. She was wearing one of those long sheepskin coats which cost about a million pounds, and she was flicking her matching shoulder-length chestnut hair crossly. She looked like a racehorse refusing the water jump.

The Chemist Guy moved across. He rested his hand lightly on his assistant’s shoulder and asked what the problem was. The racehorse woman took a step back. She muttered something about orange flavour.

The Chemist Guy looked at the box on the counter. ‘I’m afraid Worvex is all we stock. Is it for the whole family?’

The racehorse woman said that no, it was just for her children.

‘Hm,’ he said. ‘It might be worth you taking a dose yourself. Most adults escape, but you can’t be too careful. It can be very… irritating.’ He had bent down and was now holding two packets out towards her. ‘Best to break the cycle.’

The woman was rearing back. She flicked her mane. ‘I’ve told HER I want orange-flavoured Threpsen, which is what I’ve always had before. And I only need one packet. I’m sure Boots can help.’ She turned to go.

Oh dear. And then this thing happened which I can hardly bear to recount. I think I had got caught up in imagining The Chemist taking some old lady’s tablets round to her, calling through the letter box, ‘It’s only me, Mrs Jones,’ being all caring and nice while the big chains ran his business over. I said, really quite loudly,
shamefully
loudly, ‘Oh, threadworm, that’s a nightmare. We’ve both had it, haven’t we, Julie? And the night itching. God. That’s when the female worm exits the anal passage to lay her eggs.’

Everybody stared at me, even a gentleman over by the vitamins, even Julie, whose clipboard was now hanging forgotten by her side. But do you know what? After a few agonizing moments, the horsey woman, who had also been staring at me, seemed to sort of weaken – she obviously liked being talked to like that – and she asked me if I really thought Worvex would do, and I told her that actually I thought it would do fine and that my younger brother and sister actually
preferred
the taste of Worvex, as long as you got them to swallow it quickly. ‘Don’t let them suck it,’ I said, ‘they kind of explode out if you do.’ And not only did she then buy one packet, she also bought a second – ‘to be on the safe side’. ‘You want to be on the safe side,’ I said. ‘That night itching. It’s a killer.’

Once the horsey woman had left, all friendly and pony-like now, John gave me a funny look. His eyebrows went up very slightly in the middle. And after that I decided perhaps he wasn’t as scary as I’d first thought.

We got out of there finally and walked slowly and maturely down the high street, saying things like, ‘So that’s interesting, isn’t it, about the Office of Fair Trading guidelines,’ and, ‘Well, Julie, I suppose really we ought to interview the manager of Boots next for a really rounded view,’ until we got to Chelverton Road, when we ran for a bit, tugging on each other’s coats until we were past the bus garage, and then collapsed in a heap of nervous giggles in the gutter. It seemed glorious for a moment to be fourteen, to be so mad and wicked and find each other so funny. But then Julie had to get home so we got up, dusted ourselves down, and walked to the bus stop. Once there, we ran through What We Had Learnt So Far.

A
. He owns the business – which is very good only it does make his surname Leakey, which has unfortunate incontinent connotations.

B
. He appears to be single. I was not so sure about this, but Julie said he wouldn’t have been so cagey if he had a family. Any excuse and people with children get out their photos.

C
. He’s nice. Julie wanted to know how I could be sure. I reminded her about the reassuring hand he had put on his assistant’s shoulder. Sweet to his staff. Can’t say more than that.

‘The only thing is,’ I said, ‘if I had to throw one spanner in the works, it’s quite clear the nature of his job renders him impervious to the charms of the opposite sex.

‘What do you mean?’

I drew attention to the fact that our chemist hadn’t flirted at all, not one iota, not a glimmer, zilch, with the racehorse woman. ‘And she was attractive,’ I said. ‘Very.’

Julie said yes, but that she did have threadworm.

‘As far as he’s concerned,’ I pointed out, ‘everyone has. What our chemist sees is the inner ailment. “Oh, hello, top supermodel: how’s the stress incontinence?” Young Hollywood starlet: “What news on the piles?”’

Julie said she thought I was looking for trouble where there wasn’t any, but that it was worth covering ourselves. ‘We’ve started on The Chemist,’ she said. ‘Now for Plan B. Watch out, Uncle Bert.’

I’m writing this on the loo and I’d better be quick because I’ve just heard Jack turn up to babysit. I can smell fried fish and he’ll be laden with a new bag of knock-off vids. Squeals of laughter are coming from downstairs and the occasional bellow from Jack. In a moment there will be a banging on the door. He’ll want to know what Mother’s up to. She’s actually having a drink with her friend Carol, but I won’t let on. I’ll tell him he’s burnt his bridges and ask how Jane is. I mean June. I mean Jackie. Oh, sorry, what’s the new one called again? And then he’ll pretend to box my ears. And the four of us will sit down together, like we used to when he lived here, and watch
Star Wars
, episode five or six or 532 or wherever we’re up to. I hope the quality’s not too bad; it was quite hard to hear last time. Oh, and then Marie and Cyril will fall into bed, overexcited and tearful. But under the circumstances – viz. my appalling attendance record of today – I can’t exactly complain.