183 Times a Year (3 page)

As the years rushed by I continued to read with great voracity; Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, John Steinbeck, Louisa May Alcott, George Orwell, The Bronte sisters and Jane Austen to name but a few. I even attempted to read writers like Angela Carter with her allegory, symbolism and surprise – although I must confess I didn't fully understand her writing at the time – I loved them all. I loved to escape.

My passion for books was passed on and cultivated by my Baby boomer parents.

Married young with a common desire to reject the stuffy values and traditions of their parents, they forged their own path in life. They had their own ideas about bringing up children. Money was tight though and with only a portable black and white TV and three channels to choose from, music and books played a key role in my childhood. Both my parents were avid readers, providing them with the means to create weird and wonderful worlds for both my brother and I. Worlds that at any other time were only experienced on our rare trips to the cinema.

Over the years though, Dad excelled in the eccentricity of his preferred reading.

In between his shift work at the shoe factory he created his very own bolthole at home; a garage converted into a mini library of the classics as well as obscure books about philosophy
and
alchemy. Dad also acquired (for reasons as yet still unknown to me) the odd Bunsen burner and collection of test tubes. This sanctuary has come to be known as Grandad's laboratory and Connor for one thinks it's pretty cool to have a mad professor type Grandad.

My love of reading never waned over the years. I knew I wanted to work with books in some capacity and no one was particularly surprised when I began working at the campus library after I finished my English degree. My secret ambition was to be a writer but as a teenager growing up in a small town I was contemptuously directed by the resident school careers advisor (who preferred to play Olivia Newton John getting
Physical
on repeat on the school's newly acquired VCR during our careers guidance lessons (allegedly for the one girl in our class considering a career in Dance) than actually give any careers guidance) to aim for something a little more realistic. “Being a writer is not for the likes of people such as you Lizzie Lemalf” he'd said. Arrogant prick. Despite his advice though, I did hold onto that dream, at least for a while. Wrote the odd short story, a poem or two, then I met Scott and life just got in the way. Married, then children, then divorced.

It was way back though, at junior school and Miss Fenn – our school librarian – who had planted that seed and inspired me to work within the library service. As far as librarians go she most definitely broke the mould, a far cry from the older librarians at the local town library. They had stern faces with wiry grey hair and defunct reading glasses that dangled around their neck from a chain. They were always smartly dressed but their clothes were dour and old fashioned; frumpy pullovers and scratchy tweed jackets. Miss Fenn however, was like a breath of fresh air.

Young and beautiful with very long, straight, red hair, she didn't need to wear glasses but she did wear make-up and her clothes were really trendy. Miss Fenn liked me and would
sometimes
let me help her. I quickly developed the idea that shelving books at a sedentary pace and checking them out for the occasional patron wasn't particularly hard work. Oh the naivety of youth.

‘Oi, scuse me,' someone shouts in my ear. ‘That stupid machine has stopped working again.' A rather irate looking gentleman is pointing at our all new, all dancing, state of the art self-service checkout. I conjure up a smile and take his books from him.

‘Let's have a look shall we,' I say. I try to sound helpful but I'm not at all confident I will be. The black metal boxes stand to attention at the main entrance. On first sight they look a little foreboding and soulless. Older customers are cautious. They follow the on screen instructions with trepidation, unsurprised if they fail to navigate this new piece of jiggery-pokery, a suggestive smile of victory if they do. The kids of course are completely unfazed. This machine is positively simple compared to their X-Boxes, Wii's, Smart phones, iPad's, iMac's, laptops and various other 21st century technology at their disposal.

Much to my relief, I successfully manage to check the irate customer's books out for him. I pass them back to him with his return-dated receipt.

‘There you go and not to worry, the machines are still new, you'll soon get the hang of them.'

‘Stupid bloody things,' he replies. ‘What's wrong with real people checking your books out with a proper date stamp instead of these bits of bloody paper that I ALWAYS lose? Besides, it can't leave too much for you lot to do can it?'

‘Oh don't you worry sir, I'm sure I can find something to do,' I call after him as he walks out shaking his head.

The day has barely started and my legs are already aching. I have a computer course to run, shelving in the archives to do, the holds list to complete and I've offered to cover Story Time
with
twenty-five under-3-year-olds because Angie is off sick and as usual we are short staffed. I need a coffee.

CASSIE

Oh god that English paper was so bloody hard. God help me if I fail. I can just see Mum's face if I do, full of disappointment, which in actual fact is at least something. Dad won't give a shit whether I fail or pass. He's too busy looking after my little sister. Why doesn't he love us, me and Connor, like he loves her?

Chelsea's bloody bragging again about how easy it was. Why do some people have everything? She's so pretty and everyone likes her. All the girls like her and all the boys fancy her. None of the boys fancy me. They think I'm weird because I play the piano and ugly because I have a bump in my nose. I have the same nose as Mum – Roman she says. Well I'm not bloody Roman, I'm English, and would prefer an English nose thank you very much.

It suits Mum though. It wouldn't really matter if it didn't though coz she's like
old
now, well not as old as Nan – I think she's 68 or something so she's ancient – but 45 is pretty old. Mum's life is done really so she doesn't need to look attractive or anything, although all the boys in my year say she's a MILF, the sickos. And she's divorced and we've got “Simple Simon” as a step-dad, although he's not really our step-dad coz he can't even be bothered to marry Mum. I don't blame him though; she is pretty annoying.

Chelsea's Mum and Dad
are
still married and still together and just to top it off Chelsea's brother Ollie is gorgeous and good at everything. Good at science, good at English, good at Football, good at playing the guitar (the guitar is sick unlike the piano apparently). Perfect like his perfect sister and his perfect Mum and Dad who are
still
perfectly together.

Everyone keeps talking about what they are going to wear to
the
end of exams party at Chelsea's house. The perfect family live in a mansion of course and the perfect parents have offered to throw a party for the perfect daughter. Apparently she messaged everyone that was invited. I wasn't invited. Phoebe showed me the message on her phone coz she is invited.

Message for all my boys and bitches. End of exams party at my house, Saturday 23rd 8pm. Message me back all those coming. Get ready for a sick night. Bring it on!!!!!

Feel a bit gutted Chelsea didn't include me coz I thought we'd been getting on well good. Pheebs told me not to worry about it and said that maybe Chelsea just forgot to add me in and she's sure I'll get an invite. Secretly, I think Pheebs loves that I've been left out. She thinks she's well better than me now. And Joe has started talking to her. He was talking to me before she got drunk and flashed her boobs at Marcus Longthorpe's party. Now he's started ignoring me and talking to Pheebs all the bloody time. Come to think of it all the boys have started talking to Pheebs – a lot.

Oh my actual god, I don't believe it. Chelsea has just tweeted:

£50 for every A I get. A trip to New York if I get all A's! #SORTED!

Bitch.

LIZZIE

Where did it all go so wrong? I'm standing midway on the stairs, stunned at the sudden eruption that has just taken place. I merely asked Cassie how her English exam went. Forgetting to ask about her Maths exam had resulted in accusations of failing to take an interest in her life so I was pretty confident remembering this one would surely score me a few brownie points. How wrong could I be? I'm still not entirely sure what I said, or did, that was so wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have corrected her when she
said
Shakespeare wrote in Islamic pentameter instead of iambic pentameter. Or perhaps it was when the conversation turned to Chelsea and her “undivorced” parents. It doesn't seem to matter that Scott
left me
for another woman and had another child, sidelining ours; it's my fault anyway. Everything's always my fault.

I stare at the photo of Cassie hanging on the hallway wall. She's about 6 years old, her hair is in pigtails and her nose is wrinkled from smiling. No, actually she's laughing. I feel sad. She loved me then. Maybe Scott leaving us was my fault and my teenage daughter's malaise is entrenched in me?

How had I failed to notice Scott's avarice and ambition? I don't remember him being like that when we first met. The house, the cars, the golf club, the other women all took priority over us. I – we – were never going to be good enough for him. God only knows why he married me? I feel wretched. Right now the only emotion I can remember from our marriage is worthlessness. What the hell was it all about Scott?

I look at a photo of Simon (I know Cassie calls him “Simple Simon”) on the same wall and smile. The irony is, he IS far simpler than Scott. He doesn't buy into all that status shit. He loves me for me and he loves the kids – all three of them – and that's certainly not easy at times. I was burned and frightened when I met Simon but he promised me he was in for the long haul. He didn't lie.

I run my fingers along the collection of framed snapshots of times past, ephemeral moments gone but not forgotten. I look at a smiley, fat cheeked Connor held, almost in a vice like grip, by an equally smiley but toothless Cassie. My thorax tightens and my vision blurs. It was shortly after that photo was taken, Scott left us. I still don't get it though. Can't get my head around his complete lack of interest in Cassie and Connor. I understand his apathy towards me but not the kids? Why Scott? Why?

I use my hand to reach up behind me and rub the back of my
neck,
twisting my head from side to side in a bid to banish the stresses of the day. It's not really working so I perch on the stairs for a moment staring into space. An unwelcome feeling washes over me. The black dog has made an appearance and looms at my feet. I shake my head, suddenly angry. I use my hands now resting on my knees to push myself to a standing position again. I will not give in to this ridiculous melancholy threatening to descend upon me. Yes, Scott is a fully-fledged, first class arsehole but as far as I'm concerned it's his loss if he chooses to miss out with Cassie and Connor. And besides, the bottom line is simple – teenagers, whether you are married or divorced, single or cohabiting, straight or gay, rich or poor, simply don't like their parents. And that's official. Every parenting book I've ever read clearly states that any parent hoping to be liked by their teenage children is on a damned path of discovery.

Looks like I'm fucked then.

CASSIE

For god's bloody sake does she do this to me on purpose? Why? Why does she even ask about my exams if all she wants to do is make me feel shit? Dad and all my
so-called
friends do a bloody good job of that. There really is no need for you to jump on the band wagon, wagon wheel, whatever the bloody saying is, too Mum. You have a degree in English (you've told me since the day I was born – boring!) so you know damn well I meant to say Virginia bloody Woolf instead of Canary Wharf (shit, did I call her Canary Wharf in the exam?) and you know I meant imbecilic, whatever the bloody word is, pentameter when you asked me about Will.i.am Shakespeare.

Wish we had been writing about Will.i.am, would have been a lot more bloody interesting than
“To be or not to be”.
What kind of stupid question is that anyway?

Arrggghh
Dad's so right, you think you're such an academic but only an idiot wouldn't know what I meant. Not that he's any better. Knob head. You promised you'd ring me, but you didn't. Again!

Chelsea still hasn't invited me to her party. I hate it coz everyone keeps whispering about it behind my back. I don't even care about the stupid party, I really don't. I just feel so ashamed I haven't been asked. It makes me look like such a loser. And Joe still isn't talking to me, much. Maybe I should gate-crash the party, snog Ollie and flash my tits at all the boys. Bet they'd bloody like me then? My tits are not as big as Pheebs though, and I'm pretty sure one of them is smaller than the other. Scrap that then, they'd probably think I was an even bigger loser. Pheebs is texting me:

Hey there besteee. Come to mine for a sleepover on Friday. We'll get takeaway pizza and I'll get my mum to buy us some boooooze! Shots maybe. Well Lambrini at least. Xxxxxx

Shit, I wanna go but I have so much revision to do. Mum's bound to get pissy at me if I ask. God she is such a fun sucker. She so doesn't know how to have fun. She must have been born old. But I have to go to Pheebs. She may be able to get me an invite to the party.

I swear to god I'll bitch slap Mum if she says no.