V for Violet (11 page)

‘Great,’ says Jackie. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Violet. Best glad rags and all that!’ She turns back to Joseph. ‘Really good to meet you,’ she simpers. ‘And I’ll see you again, I’m sure.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ says Joseph, and even though he’s old enough to be her dad, he actually winks at her.

It’s freezing this morning. There’s ice on the insides of my windows and my breath is frosting in front of my face. I’ve pulled my clothes into bed with me and I’m dressing under the warm tent of my blankets. Mum’s already downstairs cooking a fry up and Dad’s in the bathroom, shaving.

They were all up late last night; Mum, Dad and Joseph. They sat in the front room after the shop had shut, with a bottle of whisky. Dad was shouting again for a bit, about how ashamed he was and how he couldn’t look people in the eye. Mum was crying again and Joseph was talking softly to them both. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but just before midnight there was a terrible sound. Someone was gasping and choking. I crept down the stairs with my heart in my throat. I prepared myself to open the door of the front room to find Dad standing over Joseph with his hands round his neck. But as I put my ear to the door, I realised it was Dad making all the noise. And he wasn’t being throttled, he was crying. He was crying his heart out and it was the worst sound I have ever heard.

‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually managed to say. ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s been so hard. It’s my pride … I know … my stupid pride.’ His voice cracked. ‘When you came back, I couldn’t accept it was really you. My son was a hero … not a coward.’

‘Oh, Frank …’ Mum said.

‘I know … I know,’ said Dad. ‘I should have been overjoyed to have you back. No one could ever replace you. You were my son. My first born.’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m not like your mother. I’ll try and forgive you, I promise I will. But I need to know why you left it for so long to come back. How could you let us suffer for all these years?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that, Dad. Not yet anyway,’ said Joseph. ‘There’s so much stuff in my head. So much darkness …’

I didn’t wait to hear any more.
No one could ever replace you
, Dad had said. I always knew that. I always knew that Joseph was number one. Even now, after all that he’s done, he’s still the Golden Boy. He got the biggest slice of their love and Norma got what was left. I was a mistake, and all I got was the crumbs. Hearing it said out loud was like a knife in my heart.

I feel numb now. As cold inside as I feel outside. But I still have to get up. I still have to spend the day peeling potatoes that’ll be as hard and cold as frozen rocks. And I’ll have to watch as Joseph wheedles his way back into everyone’s hearts until there’s no room at all left for me. I’ll fade away bit by bit, day by day, until I disappear altogether.

V for Violet

V for Vanish

I touch the silver V at my throat. At least there’s still Jackie. There’s always been Jackie. She can’t let me down now.

I lay some clothes out on my bed, ready for later. There’s an old skirt of Mum’s, a shiny peach-coloured thing that swivels loosely around my waist, and a cream blouse with a stain on the bosom that I’ll cover with a brooch. It’s not exactly belle of the ball stuff but it’s the best I can muster from my measly wardrobe. In a few hours from now, I won’t care what’s happening at home. I’ll be at the Roxy. My stomach flips at the thought. Right now, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than go to the dance at the Roxy tonight. But if I want to hold on to Jackie, I’ve got no choice. Besides, I tell myself, maybe, just maybe, I might actually enjoy myself.

Mum calls up that breakfast is ready and I hear Joseph – the traitor, the coward – whistling as he makes his way downstairs. Now’s my chance to smuggle out the letters.

I creep out of my room and open Joseph’s bedroom door as quietly as I can. The room smells different now; of warm breath and clean sweat. He’s made his bed and smoothed out the candlewick cover. The tin soldiers are gone and instead there’s a pile of books arranged neatly on the windowsill. The bundle of letters is nowhere to be seen. I slip my hand under his pillow, but they aren’t there. I look under his bed and through each of his drawers and I check inside his wardrobe. The empty duffel bag is at the bottom of the wardrobe, but there’s no sign of the letters. What the hell’s he done with them?

‘Violet!’ Mum yells up the stairs. ‘Your eggs are getting cold!’

I groan. They must be here. They must be here somewhere. I stop in the middle of the room and try to think. Where have I looked? Where haven’t I looked?

‘Violet!’

I pull a chair over to the wardrobe and stand on it. I reach a hand out and search on top of the wardrobe. There’s nothing there but dust. I put the chair back in the corner. Think. Think. Think. By now, I know that Joseph hasn’t just put the letters away somewhere. He’s hidden them.

Where could he hide them in here? Under the floorboards? Then it hits me and I actually slap my forehead. Where does
everyone
hide things? Where’s the most obvious place in the whole wide world? I push my hand under his mattress and almost yelp in triumph. I bring out the bundle of letters and quickly stuff them in my pocket.

‘Violet! What the bloody hell are you doing?’ Mum’s shrieking now. Not a good sign.

‘Just coming!’ I shout. I close Joseph’s door and pull down my blouse to cover the bulge in my pocket. Then I run to my room and push the letters to the back of my underwear drawer. They’ll be safe there until I get a chance to go to the library. I can’t imagine anyone will want to rifle through my knickers. I don’t know what Joseph will do if he notices his letters are missing. I don’t want to even think about it.

‘I’ll find out what your secret is,’
I say under my breath.
‘I’ll find out what you’re hiding. Then you can say goodbye to being the Golden Boy, for ever.’

‘Did you hear the news?’ asks Mum as I shovel cold egg into my mouth. ‘Mr Harper’s been arrested. They think he might be the one. The Battersea Park Killer.’ She shudders. ‘I can’t believe he can have done those terrible things to those poor girls. And to think I used to say hello to him too.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you ever notice there was something not quite right about him? It was so obvious. I’ve always seen the evil in him.’

Mum snorts. ‘Think you’re so bloody clever sometimes, don’t you, my lady? Perhaps you should join the police force and tell them all how to do their jobs, hey?’

‘No need to be like that!’ I snap at her. ‘I’m only telling the truth.’

‘Well, your truth isn’t necessarily
the
truth, is it? Just remember that, Violet.’

I don’t know what she’s talking about. The truth is the truth, no matter what. Two girls are dead and Mr Harper killed them. You can’t get more truthful than that.

It’s nearly seven o’clock. Mum, Dad and Joseph are downstairs in the chip shop and I’m staring at my reflection in Mum’s dressing-table mirror. I look ridiculous. Even I can see that. I look like a five-year-old dressed up in her mother’s clothes. Actually, I look like a sixteen-year-old dressed up in her mother’s clothes. The lipstick I’ve put on is too bright, the mascara is already smudged, and my hair looks like someone set fire to it and put the flames out with a bucket of chip oil. Jackie’s going to be calling for me soon. I can’t let her see me like this. She’ll run a mile and never come back.

I run into the bathroom and scrub my face clean with the flannel. Then I tug a comb through my hair and tuck it behind my ears and the arms of my glasses. There’s not much I can do with my clothes, apart from taking them off, and I can’t go to a dance in my underwear. I run back to my room to fetch my shoes and that’s when I see it. My leather jacket. Still hanging on the outside of my wardrobe, gleaming at me invitingly.

I don’t give myself time to think. I pull off Mum’s skirt and throw it on the floor, then I pull on my old denim jeans instead. I slip the leather jacket on over my blouse and run back to Mum’s room. I take a deep breath and carefully paint on a fresh slick of eyeliner and a brush of mascara. I remember the girls on Chelsea Bridge and I keep a picture of them in my head as I use a handful of Mum’s bobby pins to secure my hair behind my ears. Next, I backcomb the rest of it and tease it into a giant quiff. Then, before I lose my nerve, I spray nearly a whole can of Mum’s lacquer over the whole lot. I squint into the mirror. I can’t tell whether I look good or bad, but by now I don’t care. I look like the girls on Chelsea Bridge and I feel like the real Violet, and for now that’s all that matters.

I shout through to the shop that I’m off and Mum shouts back, telling me to go nowhere near the park, to not speak to any strange fellas and to make sure I stay with Jackie at all times. ‘I’ll be all right, Mum!’ I yell back. ‘Don’t worry. Mr Harper’s banged up now, and I can look after myself.’

‘Violet!’ Jackie gasps when she sees me. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself? It’s a dance we’re going to, you know.’

‘It’s what I want to wear,’ I say. ‘I feel comfortable in it.’

Jackie shrieks with laughter. ‘It’s not about feeling comfortable!’ she says. ‘Do you think I’m comfortable in this get-up? My feet are bloody killing me!’ She looks amazing. She’s all tight skirt, tight jumper and heels. Her hair is stacked high on her head and there are huge gold hoops dangling from her ears. She looks me up and down again and smirks. ‘Oh, well,’ she says. ‘Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.’

The Sugar Girls are waiting for us outside the Roxy. They squeal with delight when they see us approaching. They totter up and kiss Jackie. ‘Oh, you look lovely! New skirt? Cool earrings!’

‘Remember Violet?’ Jackie asks them. They nod at me. ‘Yeah. Hi.’

‘Didn’t know she was a Rocker,’ says the blonde one. Mary, I think.

‘Neither did I,’ says Jackie. She wrinkles her nose.

‘I am actually here,’ I mutter. But already, they’ve all linked arms and I follow behind as we join the queue into the hall. We’re not even in there yet and I’m having second thoughts. I look around at all the other people in the queue. Tight knots of bottle-blonde girls mixed with groups of fellas dressed in shiny suits with tight trousers and pointy-toed boots. Dad would call them a bunch of Nancy-boys if he was here. I stuff my hands into my pockets and try to stay as close to Jackie as I can. As we shuffle further towards the entrance, the music from inside grows louder and louder. Everyone around me starts to jig around as though they’re already on the dance floor.

‘Ooh, I love this one,’ shouts Pauline. I remember her mean blackbird eyes. They’re even meaner tonight. They’re lined in thick black kohl and are startling next to her pale pancake make-up.

Then suddenly we’re inside, the music is deafening and the floor is shaking. It’s hot and smoky and there are bodies everywhere. Girls and fellas are writhing, hopping and jerking. I follow Jackie as she pushes her way into the thickest part of the crowd just as the band on stage strike up another tune.

‘Come on, everybody!’ shouts the singer. It’s like a secret signal passes through the crowd and all of a sudden everyone is moving in the same way. They’re twisting their hips from side to side as they lower themselves to the floor and back up again.

Everybody’s twisting again, like they did last summer, apparently. The singer on stage belts out the lyrics. I stand there, frozen to the spot, like an idiot. I don’t know what to do. Jackie hits me on the arm. ‘Like this, Violet,’ she yells. ‘Pretend you’re stubbing out a fag with your toes and drying your back with a towel at the same time!’

I try to do as she says, but my arms and legs don’t belong to me. They won’t do what everybody else’s arms and legs are doing. It feels all wrong. The Sugar Girls start sniggering. I know they’re laughing at me. The song goes on for ever. Some fellas have inched their way towards us. They’re dancing opposite Jackie and the other girls and they’re grinning madly at each other, as though all this twisting around is the best thing in the world.

Come on, Violet
, I tell myself.
This is meant to be fun.
I stretch my mouth into a crazy smile, I twist my hips around and shake myself from side to side until I almost believe I’ve got it right. I’m going round and round and up and down, just as the singer’s telling me to. I begin to understand what it’s all about and I’m actually enjoying myself and thinking it’s going to be a good night after all.

When the tune finishes, I’m as breathless as everyone else and I tag along to the bar with Jackie and the others and stand in line for a glass of lemonade. The fella that Jackie has been dancing with has got his arm around her waist and keeps whispering in her ear.

I tug Jackie’s arm. ‘You going to introduce me?’ I ask.

She can barely tear her eyes away from him. ‘Oh yeah,’ she says. She clears her throat and tries to pull a serious face. ‘Colin, this is Violet,’ she bursts into giggles.

Colin smiles at me apologetically, but I can see behind his eyes that he’s laughing at me too.

‘What’s so funny?’ I challenge Jackie.

‘Oh, chill out, Violet,’ she says. ‘You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.’ She turns back to Colin and they start laughing again at some private joke, except it’s not that private, because I know it’s me they’re laughing at. I sip my lemonade. It’s warm and flat, and suddenly that’s how I feel too. My blouse feels damp under my armpits and the tiny bubbles of fizz I felt on the dance floor have all burst. I’m a joke. A big, fat joke, and I don’t belong here.

I look around the hall at all the heaving bodies. Am I the only one here who doesn’t get it? The only one who doesn’t think it’s fun to gyrate around a dance floor like a demented puppet? I lean against the wall. I wish I could melt into it and disappear. I wish I was back on Parliament Hill with Beau, or on Chelsea Bridge sipping a cup of hot coffee with all the other Rockers. Even being at the shop would be better than this. At least there would be the hope that Beau might turn up.

My bladder pricks. The lemonade’s gone right through me. Great. Now I’m going to have to pee. The sign for the Ladies is high on the wall on the other side of the hall. I turn to Jackie to let her know where I’m going, but she’s gone. Not just moved from where she was, but proper gone. Now my eyes prick. I blink hard. I can’t cry here. I need to pee and I need to cry, and it’s urgent. I can’t bring myself to push through the mass of wriggling hips, so I walk around the edge of the dance floor with my bladder bouncing to the rhythm of the band’s ‘bomp bah bomps’ and ‘rama lama ding dongs’.