Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles (17 page)

Friday 14 March

Kitchen, 10 p.m.

Mother came back
earlier than usual today with a big bag under her arm and a big grin on her face. She’d bought herself a new dress ‘to wear tonight’. It’s been raining since four o’clock – big wet horizontal rain that drenches you in seconds. She came in the front door bedraggled, like a half-drowned black cat, but she was laughing and singing, ‘I am singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.’ Her eyelashes sparkled with raindrops. She dipped her head forward and shook it, so that droplets ricocheted on to the floor. She didn’t stop laughing until she’d stripped off all her clothes and got into her big towelling dressing gown. Then she hugged me. ‘Cheer up, chicken,’ she said.

‘Going somewhere special?’ I said, gesturing at the bag.

She dragged the chair into the middle of the sitting room and stood up on it, holding the garment in front of the dressing gown and preening. She got down and sat on the edge of the sofa, folding the dress on to her knee.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Yes, maybe.’

She looked at me and gave a little smile. Then she patted the seat next to her. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘chérie.’

‘What?’ I said in a sulky voice. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

‘I am feeling happy,’ she said, once I’d sat down. ‘I have a date tonight and I am excited.’

‘Is it Bert?’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Bert? No. That was nothing. It was French lessons. Bert! No.’

I should have felt relief, but I didn’t. ‘Victor Savonaire?’ I said, clutching at straws.

She shook her head and frowned.

‘Who, then?’ I said, my tongue heavy in my mouth.

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t guessed?’

‘No.’

‘It’s someone you know,’ she said teasingly. ‘The other night, your little supper, it triggered –’

‘So it’s John?’ I said.

There was a pause before she answered. A dreamy look came into her eyes, rather like Delilah when she’s imagining Mr Right. Then she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’

Well, I didn’t feel the need to say anything else. I nodded and said, ‘Have a nice time,’ and stomped up here.

I shut my door and threw myself on the bed. It was as if all the blood in my body had rushed up to my head. I wanted to open the door and slam it again, so hard that it came off its hinges and the whole house rocked.

I should be delighted. She isn’t seeing Uncle Bert. She is seeing John Leakey. I have arranged it all. But I’m not delighted. I feel sick and… and… and what? I feel sick and jealous. There. I’ve said it. I know what the problem has been all along. John Leakey belongs to me. I want him for myself. I am in love with John Leakey the chemist. Me. Not Mother. Me.

And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all.

Saturday 15 March

Bedroom, 8 p.m.

I dreaded going
to work today. I thought he would be able to read my face. I didn’t know how I would get through it.

When I got there Gail greeted me by saying she’d heard I was a ‘proper little cook’, which I suppose is better than ‘proper little madam’, which is what I thought she was going to say. All day she got on my nerves, twittering like a sparrow John came in late. I couldn’t look at him. But he was in an efficient mood anyway, and just said, ‘Thanks for supper,’ before getting all beetle-browed over the prescriptions. Maybe he’s embarrassed too. I love the way his hair falls over his face.

At about 11 a.m. Gail said, ‘Oh, look, there he goes again, your young man, up and down, checking you’re behaving yourself,’ and I looked up just in time to catch the tail end of William’s bike flashing past the window. I rushed out and yelled down the street at him, so he had to brake and come back.

‘What are you playing at?’ I shrieked.

I’ve got a new wheel,’ he said, all innocent. ‘Picked it up just now.’

‘Yes, but you’re checking up on me. I know you are.’

‘I’m allowed to pass the shop, aren’t I?’

‘Gail says you’re always passing.’ I had my hands on my hips. I felt like a fishwife, but even as I was yelling at him, I noticed the dark marks under his eyes, the white pinched look to his cheeks, and I felt a pang in my chest. He had that pathetic cornered expression on his face, like a sheep about to be sheared or a dog being whipped for someone else’s crimes.

‘Well, just don’t,’ I said, and stalked back into the shop.

It wasn’t until after lunch that John said anything to me. One of those lulls descended – there must have been a big football match on the telly or something – and Gail had taken the opportunity to pop out to Sainsbury’s. He was doing some paperwork and I was standing by the till, twirling my foot.

He looked up and called over, ‘It was so nice of you to invite me on Wednesday. I had such a nice evening. I was really touched, Constance.’

‘Good,’ I said.

‘And what a break from bacon sarnies. Will I ever be able to go back to them now?’

He was trying to make me laugh. Had he guessed how I was feeling? ‘Humph,’ I managed.

‘And your mother is so nice. Not at all how I imagined, I mean…’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Well, you’re more like sisters, aren’t you?’

Normally I enjoy the thought that we’re like sisters – it makes me feel unconventional and romantic – but at that moment I wished she was pouchier and older, with grey hair at her temples, like Julie’s mum. He was saying something else.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘I asked about your dad. Do you mind me asking? When did he die?’

‘Didn’t she tell you? When I was a baby. He was in a motorbike accident. Delivering pizzas.’

Most people grin when I tell them and they have to work hard to look serious. His mouth didn’t betray the smallest of smiles. ‘How awful. And how hard for your mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘And it didn’t work out with Cyril and Marie’s father?’

‘No. He kept having affairs.’ I wished he wasn’t using me to find out this. Maybe he already knew the answers and just wanted an excuse to talk about her. Or maybe he was getting the practicalities over, leaving time for the two of them to discuss the meaning of the world, or
ER
, or whatever it was they’ve talked about so far.

‘Well, she’s amazing considering the life she’s had. So funny and poised.’

‘Yes.’ My voice sounded odd to my own ears.

He was asking me more questions. When did she leave Paris? Would she ever go back? Until finally I said, ‘Why don’t you ask her herself?’ and it may have come out more crossly than I intended because he drew his chin in, said, ‘OK,’ rather quietly, and went back to his prescriptions. I wished I hadn’t offended him. I just couldn’t stop myself.

Mother is out again tonight. She seemed a bit sheepish. Jack couldn’t babysit because he’s having a big bust-up with Dawn. After he’d rung to tell her that, Mother said, ‘Babies, do you mind me popping out for a tiny while?’

Marie and Cyril were too involved in Scooby-Doo to answer, but I said, ‘No. It’s fine.’

‘I could cancel…’

‘No. Go.’

‘It’s just… Constance… ‘There was a pleading expression in her eyes.

‘Yes?’

‘Things have been a bit mad recently. I’ve been a bit involved, a bit all over the place, but this time… it’s different. I feel more positive and, er… I want us to be a family’

‘S’all right,’ I said. She didn’t move, just studied me. Shortly after that, she left.

*

I had one last brainwave, which has turned to nothing. Victor Savonaire is not, let’s face it, a common name. I looked him up in the phone book and there he was. There was a moment of excitement and glory, but it came to nothing. When I rang, a woman answered. She called, ‘Vicki! Darling! Phone!’ It must have been his fiancée. I could tell by the way she said his name. They must be back together, which explains why he didn’t come to tea. I hung up before he came on the line. That’s that, then.

William called round earlier, but I wouldn’t let him in. I said, ‘I’m asleep,’ through the door, and after a little while there was a plop of chocolate buttons on the mat and the sound of his footsteps retreating. Julie rang too, but I told Cyril to say I was out.

The awful truth is that when you’re unhappy you’re horrible to everyone and end up without any friends. And that makes you even unhappier. It’s a vicious circle and I’m in the middle of it.

Sunday 16 March

The roof, 8 p.m.

Red roses on
the doorstep this morning. And a note: ‘Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. J xx’.

I wish I was dead.