The Generation Game (17 page)

Lying on the camp bed soon after this, teeth brushed extra carefully, hair combed one hundred times, the way Helena instructed me all those years ago, I stare, not at curtains,
but at a Habitat roller blind. Behind the blind, the trees move like shadow puppets, acting out their own drama in the orange of the street lights. I imagine the tree-figures as all of the romantic
couplings I know: Romeo and Juliet… Cathy and Heathcliff… Charles and Diana… John and Yoko… Bruce and Anthea… even my mother and father, lost across the Ocean, in
the snowscapes of Canada and the tropical rainforests of the Amazon. But best of all, I imagine T-J’s puppet moving mysteriously against mine. If only the Cavalier could see me now. He would
feel the green-eyed monster tugging at his long curly hair.

Is Diana as in love as this? Is she as excited about seeing Charles tomorrow as I am about seeing T-J? What future can the princess-to-be see in her curtains? Or does she feel the same niggle of
doubt creeping up on her from behind, in the dead of night, trying to put a dampener on things. Or maybe that is Bernie’s phlegmy cough emanating through the flimsy excuse of a wall.

Linda has taken over the organisation of the big day. Her travel alarm pings off sometime in the middle of the night. It is still dark when Cheryl and I are prodded awake with
a cup of tea that is completely inappropriate when sleep is all that should be required of our bodies. But as the seconds tick by on Linda’s travel alarm that she’s left considerately
by my ear, in the midst of my haze of sleepiness, the excitement muscles its way through: Diana and Charles.

And then the excitement hits me full whack: T-J!

‘Happy birthday, Phil,’ murmurs Cheryl, her eyes glued together with the generous deposits of the Sand Man.

‘Thanks,’ I say but I am hardly bothered by my birthday. My birthday is just the icing on the cake. (Though I do have time to wonder if there will be an actual cake.)

Cheryl delves in her duffle-bag and produces a small box tied up with ribbon. It looks promising.

‘It’s from me, Mum and Dad and our Darryl as well,’ she says as I open the box and find inside, nestling amongst the shocking pink tissue paper, a silver bracelet with a
‘P’ on it. And I remember Miss Pitchfork who was the one to point out my name didn’t begin with an ‘F’ – which was about the extent of her teaching that
year.

‘Cheryl, it’s lovely, thanks. Thanks a lot.’ And I hug my best friend so hard she starts complaining.

Now, I am pleased it’s my birthday. Everyone is keen to acknowledge the importance of being sixteen. It is a milestone. A bridge I have crossed. A gateway I have entered into (etc, etc).
Not quite a grown-up but certainly no longer a child. I can tell this by the way Auntie Sheila and Uncle Bernie refrain from the usual summer dress, and give me instead a card with a ten pound note
tucked inside. The way Linda looks at me anew, as if seeing me as Philippa, not just Bob’s daughter. And Bob himself has tears in his eyes as he hands over a present that I wasn’t
expecting in a whole century of birthdays. He’s given me a small box, so like Cheryl’s that I wonder if it is a matching bracelet. But no. It is a ring. A gold ring with a fairly
decent-sized opal set in it. I’ve seen it before.

I look at Bob.

‘It was Helena’s,’ he says. ‘She left it for you.’

‘Why have you waited so long to give it to me?’

‘She said to wait till the time was right. I always thought she’d be back to give it you herself but… ’

He runs out of words though they are obvious enough. Instead, he slips the ring on my finger. Well, not so much slip as shove, my fingers not being as slender as Helena’s.

‘Does this mean she’s not coming back?’ I say them, the obvious words, because suddenly they need to be said. Suddenly I am a little girl again.

‘I don’t know Philippa,’ he shrugs. ‘I wish I did.’

Then he plants a kiss on top of my head. My Mr Bob-Sugar. And I believe I know why he’s never asked Linda to marry him.

You’d imagine that getting up at three o’clock in the morning would’ve guaranteed front row seats as it were, but when we arrive at the Mall – the
destination of Linda’s choosing – we find it already filling up with half the Commonwealth. Linda’s organisation and determination secure us a spot a good long way down the Mall,
almost at the Queen Victoria Memorial with its soaring gold Victory, a cake decoration of the gods. And there, in front of us, impressive against the clear blue sky, is the huge, ugly, outrageous
Buckingham Palace. We put down our picnic bags and rugs and settle in. We have a long wait.

By breakfast time, the streets of London (yes, those again) are bulging. Despite the lack of space there is a euphoric atmosphere and we find a happy place amongst it: Linda
and Bob hold each other’s hands, like teenagers, the impending marriage casting its spell over them, bathing them in a glow of romance that has been missing of late. Cheryl and I recite songs
from the Top Twenty, chew Hubba Bubba and plait each other’s hair in an attempt to make ourselves into Bo Derek. Poor Cheryl has her work cut out. My hair still frizzes around my shoulders as
it has always done, never to be tamed by mere mortals. I have greater success with Cheryl’s long glossy chestnut hair but she would score more points at a gymkhana than on a film set. Those
long ago Saturdays spent masquerading as a pony, with Toni as my groom, haven’t gone to waste.

Toni has gone off with work friends somewhere near St Paul’s. T-J is down his local (one of them). Bernie at the last minute decided he wasn’t up to the crowds and the long day and
has stayed behind in bed.

‘Don’t forget my ticker, Sheila,’ he said.

‘How could I?’ she replied.

I think Auntie Sheila is secretly glad not to have Bernie to worry about. She has other things on her mind, not least getting the snap of a lifetime. She is convinced the bride and groom are
going to kiss in public and she wants to be ready for that moment. If Bernie were here she’d no doubt miss it as she would be otherwise engaged pandering to his needs, topping up his tea from
the Thermos or tying up his shoelaces as he has difficulty bending down.

But she didn’t tell him this. She said, ‘Really, Bernie you might as well have stayed in Torquay and watched it on the box.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see our Toni, didn’t I.’

When she glared at him, he added: ‘And our Terry.’

I realise there is a third reason any relationship with T-J is doomed: Auntie Sheila. Auntie Sheila, like Luke Skywalker (or Darth Vader on her darker days), is a force to be reckoned with. I
know she has a soft side that Bob (and even Bernie on occasion) can tap into. She’s always shown this side to me and of course to her Terry and Toni. But I remember the time at the shop,
waiting for my first cup of tea. I remember the tinkle of breaking glass. I remember Helena’s blotchy face as she realised her one and only friend was walking away from her. And she was a
friend, Sheila. She came round eventually, only to be let down by Helena again. (But then weren’t we all.)

I’ve seen Auntie Sheila protecting her family with a fierceness I can only envy. She wants the best for her Terry. And that won’t be me. To Auntie Sheila, I am the poor girl with no
mother. The girl who needs help from time to time: choosing clothes, trips to the hairdressers, a slab of Victoria sandwich on a wet Saturday afternoon.

The thought of a wet afternoon is quite appealing right now. It is getting hot and sticky and it is barely half past ten. The ceremony doesn’t start for half an hour at least and who knows
how long it will go on for (apart from the Archbishop of Canterbury and Linda). But we are happy to wait for our fair share of history, our first hand experience that we can pass down the
generations. For although Toni will be one of the privileged few to see Diana pick her way up the red carpeted steps of St Paul’s, dragging a train as long as the Penzance to Paddington, we
are experiencing the joy of a nation all around us, in this most historical of backdrops.

Time passes quickly, people offering round sandwiches, strangers swapping crisps and KitKats and Silk Cut. Before long, Diana will have married someone called Philip Charles Arthur George (and
an unexpected third person to be made known to us in the years to come). Kiri Te Kanawa, a bird of paradise, will have belted out a song that captures Bernie’s (weak) heart as he slouches
indoors eating his daughter out of house and home. Even Terry will have found time, at some point during his fourth pint, to comment on the shocking state of Diana’s creases.

Time doesn’t quite pass quickly enough for Cheryl though, who starts to burn under the ferocious midday sun just as the bridal carriage, escorted by the Household Cavalry, is sweeping
Charles and Diana along the procession route lined with flowers and every police officer in the country (apart from the ones otherwise engaged trying to stop rioters in any way possible). Nearer
and nearer, sweeping down Fleet Street, along the Strand, through Admiralty Arch and finally into the Mall. Linda won’t relinquish her place to get Cheryl into the shade so she shrouds her in
a wedding tea towel that she brought in the picnic hamper, like a bridal veil. She looks no less ridiculous than half the crowd who are likewise draped in Union Jacks.

‘Not long now,’ says Bob, slurping his tea. ‘Then we can go home for a lie down.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again,’ says Linda, as the carriage looms into view, the roar of the crowd swallowing her words and carrying them off somewhere
over our glorious capital city. The place that Helena loved. My birthplace.

We catch a glimpse of the bride, Diana in a halo of sunshine, waving in our direction and then all too soon she’s passed by with her new husband, closely followed by the Queen and Earl
Spencer and behind them, Prince Philip and Mrs Shand-Kydd, then Prince Andrew and his gran.

‘That’s a convoy and a half,’ Linda gushes as the royal party disappear into the forecourt of the palace and away to the wedding breakfast inside. We hold our collective
breath, knowing they’ll reappear before long, for all to see, out on the balcony, in the glittering sunshine, then there is a surge, a rush to fill the Mall, the crowd urging itself forward,
those at the front pressing against the railings of the palace, the best view in the land.

And they do. All the royals you could ever hope for, gathered together in one family grouping (an ideal situation, if you were a monarchist or a member of the Paparazzi or an assassin). But
unfortunately Auntie Sheila misses the magic moment of the predicted Kiss – a chaste, embarrassed peck on the lips rather than a fully-blown snog – because something else has grabbed
her attention. Or rather someone. Auntie Sheila finds herself drawn to Linda. Linda who’s taken this opportunity to get down on bended knee, in front of the nation and indeed the Queen
herself, and ask Bob for his hand in marriage.

Several hours later we are congregated back at Toni’s flat with tales of royal sightings and wedding stories that will go down in folklore. And with a double celebration
of the wedding and an engagement to be endured. Oh, and my birthday which has been completely bypassed. Still, the Champagne (well, Asti Spumante) is flowing and who am I to complain? Especially as
any minute now a certain someone’s due to come in that front door.

But we are also waiting for another guest. Linda’s son Clive (the sailor) is on leave and, with Bob’s connivance, has arranged to turn up at the flat as a surprise for his mother.
Only he is the one in for a surprise when he discovers he is to have a new father. (Bob is still reeling from the shock himself, though he has managed a strangled ‘Yes’ to his
now-fiancée.)

While we wait, there is music – a toxic mixture of Toni’s Duran Duran records and Bob’s Elvis tapes. It isn’t the cool party most sixteen-year-olds hope for but then
again I am more mature than most sixteen-year-olds (in some ways anyhow) and realise I am not the centre of the universe and never have been. Plus, I know things will pick up once T-J has torn
himself away from the pub. My greatest concern is that he’ll end up staying till closing time. That he’ll be too drunk to remember who I am. To remember that I am that sweet
sixteen.

Just as I am cutting the cake (yes, Linda remembered and got Auntie Sheila to bake one of her finest), the door goes and my heart rate doubles so I know what it must be like
for Uncle Bernie. But it is Clive, looking dapper in his uniform, though more like a sea cadet than a fully-fledged member of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. Linda is in tears of rapture but soon
pulls herself together to tell him off for not letting her know he would be on leave. Then she breaks the news to him, a little red-faced because she knows how much Clive thinks of his dad. And so
the evening progresses, Duran Duran being completely usurped by the dead king, though we have gone from the
Hound Dogs
to the
Love Me Tenders
of Bob’s extensive collection.

Until. The door again. And this time it is. T-J. Looking ever-so-slightly-worse-for-wear but looking right at me. I feel like everyone in the room must know but actually they are all too
involved with reminiscing, with cake, with brandy, with reunions, with plans, with sunstroke. Yes, poor old Cheryl has had to go to bed early. But it is alright, the party doesn’t have to
end. There is now a bedroom going spare and she can lie down in it without impeding our celebrations. The spare bedroom is a result of the other surprise of the day: Linda has booked her and Bob
into a five star hotel using her well-earned commission. After an hour or so they disappear, leaving a bemused Clive to make his own arrangements.

‘Well, nobody told me,’ says Linda who hates surprises, being a control freak. ‘I’m not wasting the hotel room.’

Bob agrees and shepherds his fiancée out of the flat before she changes her mind, the prospect of a five star massage overwhelming any fears he might have of impending marriage.

So, poor over-heated Cheryl has T-J’s tiny room as Sheila can’t stand another night cooped up in such close quarters with Bernie. Especially as she won’t get an ounce of sleep
fretting over the latest engagement. They move into Toni’s room. And I’ll be on my own in the living room. Only that leaves Clive. No-one seems to have a problem with him sleeping on
Cheryl’s vacated put-you-up, alone in the living room, with me. They obviously trust him because he’s in the navy and a respected citizen. But surely that is exactly why they should be
worried. Surely I will be too much for him to resist after all those weeks at sea. Why can’t they see this? Do they think I am a child after all? Does no-one care about my virtue?