Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles (8 page)

Monday 24 February

At home, 5 p.m.

Doom and damnation
. Something is up with Julie. Definitely. I saw her talking to Carmen at break. They were sitting on the radiators. When I went up she hardly registered my presence. Finally, she said, ‘Enjoy the pancake rolls, then?’

‘Yes, they’re delicious, aren’t they?’ I felt like a puppy trying to lick her hand. But she just gave a chilly laugh and turned back to Carmen. In the end I walked off.

I saw Carmen as I was going through the gates later and asked her if she knew what was up. She said that I should know and that if I didn’t I wasn’t the friend I thought I was. So now I’m really confused. I don’t know whether to be upset or angry.

6 p.m.

Mother’s home and full of good spirits. She’s bought some posh bacon – pancetta – from the Italian delicatessen near the lingerie shop and so there’s spaghetti carbonara for supper. I don’t know whether to feel cross at the extravagance – you could probably buy a year’s worth of bacon for the same price at the supermarket – or simply greedy.

Anyway, it’s been all action at work. Remember that man who bought the set for his fiancée? Today he was back. ‘Was a larger knicker necessary after all?’ suggested Mother. Well, no. Not as such. In fact, no knicker was necessary at all. Engagement was off. ‘Was it anything to do with the thong?’ asked Mother. He shook his head as if it was the least of his worries.

‘These foolish thongs,’ he said. Then he reddened, shuffled his feet and asked if they did refunds. Sadly, Pritchard & Benning, Corsetières by Appointment to the Queen, does not offer refunds. No matter how tragic the circumstances. But he could have a credit note. He stared at this dolefully and then turned to leave the shop. At the door he spun round, dashed back and thrust it into her hands. ‘You have it,’ he said. ‘Do something with it. You’ve been so kind. So understanding.’ And then he was gone.

That explains the pancetta and the good spirits.

In bed, later

Bert dropped by just as we were sitting down for supper. It’s funny how he always seems to arrive at mealtimes. Mother gave him half of her spaghetti carbonara. I gave her a look and she said, ‘I’ll fill up on bread.’ She told him the story of the man and the lingerie set right from the beginning. But all he said was, ‘Seventy quid? Is that how much that stuff costs? Just for a bit of French tat.’

I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude. He’s Julie’s uncle and she loves him.

Then Mother took Marie and Cyril up to bed and Uncle Bert and I watched the news. It was all about the build-up to war, lots of soldiers marching and missiles being counted. They showed you a picture of a village that was near the firing line, some little children playing in the street with no shoes on. It made me think about the effect it would have on ordinary people. There was an expert talking about other ways of bringing about change, of different sorts of governmental policy, of stopping trade links and stuff like that. It seemed to make sense to me. I can’t wait to talk about it with John The Chemist. But Uncle Bert started huffing and talking about small businesses and ‘who does he think he is, stupid bleeding-heart liberal’.

I said I’d probably go on the school march and he got quite cross. He said, ‘What do you think a demonstration like that will achieve? It’s just troublemaking. How many of you lot are old enough to have a properly thought-through opinion? Don’t you realize the value of a show of might?’

I felt my face get hot. I told him I thought it was a mistake to assume all young people were politically apathetic.

He said, ‘Have you spared one thought for merchandising?’

I’ve made up my mind. I’m definitely going on the march now.

Tuesday 25 February

6 p.m.

Would you call
me an activist? Maybe not, but I have done it. I’ve marched. I’ve marched, I’ve carried a banner, and now I’m home. The only problem is my head isn’t full of an unjust war in a far-off place. It’s full of my row – could you call it a row? Not really: more of a
situation
– with Julie.

It’s been quite an afternoon. Fun and misery all mixed up. The whole school was there, or so it felt. We went all the way from school, down Hillcroft Road and the high street, to the river. ‘What do we want? Peace now. What do we want? Peace now.’ I’ve got it stuck in my brain.

I wanted to walk with Julie, but I looked for her everywhere and couldn’t find her, so I went with William instead. He was on his bike – the pillock; it kept getting in the way. And we met Delilah, with her friend Sam, at the estate agent’s as planned. Delilah and Sam were all giggly I had to have words with D about her outfit. ‘Delilah,’ I said, ‘do you really think combats are the thing?’

She looked horrified. ‘Are they finished?’ she said. ‘Is no one at your school wearing them?’

I said, ‘Delilah, it’s just it’s a peace march, that’s all.’

She was carrying a big plastic bag and she dropped it. ‘I hate myself,’ she said. ‘I get everything wrong.’ Poor Delilah. She tends to do that – lurch from one mood to the next. William told her no one would notice, that he loved her Puma trainers, and added, ‘Anyway, at least you’re not wearing tweeds and wellies like Miss I’m-Too-Square-to-Get-a-Boyfriend here.’ I’d have knocked him off his bike if we hadn’t been passing the chemist’s. John was at the window and he gave a big thumbs up and a peace sign when he saw us. It gave me a flutter of pleasure.

At the river things were a bit less organized. I think we were supposed to be crossing the bridge, but they had police there to stop us. The river was low and kids were assembling at the bottom of the slipway. There was some serious chanting, but a few boys were mucking about with a shopping trolley, giving each other rides, and others were trying to climb up to the bridge from the bank. I kept looking around for Julie, but I couldn’t see her. William said he was going then – we were really near the pub where his dad drinks and he probably didn’t want to bump into him – so I turned round to ask Delilah if she wanted to walk home too and saw that she’d wandered off. She was at the bottom of the slipway, with her plastic bag open, handing out what looked like leaflets to everyone who passed. I clambered down to join her and only then, seeing the amusement on people’s faces, saw what the leaflets were.
Invitations
. To a
party
.

‘Delilah!’ I said, lunging. ‘Put those invitations away.’

I tried to grab the plastic bag from her, but she grabbed it back. I grabbed again and this time she let go and I felt myself do one of those comedy windmills as I tried to keep my balance. But the problem with wellies – where they fall down in relation to, say, Puma trainers – is grip.

‘Oh,’ said Delilah, looking down at me. She started laughing hysterically. The invitations had scattered all around me.

And, naturally, according to Sod’s Law of personal relationships, that was when Julie came up.

‘What ARE you doing?’ she said. She was wearing her short white mac with the belt.

Delilah, still laughing, said, ‘Picking up my invitations. Would you like one?’

Julie said drily, ‘I’ve already got one. I think most people have. Not a great idea giving them out to everyone unless you’re prepared to accommodate the whole school. Are you?’

I was scrambling to my feet. I know Julie and Delilah don’t get on, but it was as if Julie was being particularly mean to Delilah to get at me. It was horrible. I said lamely, ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you, Delilah.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ she said, suddenly hoity-toity, and walked off.

So that was another friend I’d alienated. Then I asked Julie if she was off and she said yes, and I said did she want me to walk her to the bus stop and she said all right. But she didn’t talk to me at all on the way and when we got there a bus was just pulling in and she ran for it. As it moved off, I waved and scrunched my face up to make it try and say ‘What’s wrong and why aren’t you talking to me?’ She didn’t entirely ignore me. She gave a sort of half smile like she wanted to do more but something was stopping her.

It seems self-obsessed and frivolous that I should end the day flustered about a spat with my best friend. But I can’t help it. Half of me wants to call her up and plead with her to like me again. The other half is furious with her for making me feel like this. Why should I call her when I’ve done nothing wrong?

We should be beyond things like this. We’re not children. We’re
fourteen
, for goodness’ sake.