bloody, bloody! ’ I said the last one loud, right in her ear and she flinched. I had a bad habit of trying to wind Claire up, just to get a reaction. It always worked.
‘You’re a … you’re an idiot, Jo,’ she said, and her cheeks flushed crimson. Claire was such a goody-goody. Even idiot was a bad word to her back then.
‘OK. But I’m going to ask for sausages for tea,’ I said. ‘I’m not a rabbit.’
Claire rolled her eyes and we picked up our bags and left the classroom. We were the last to leave, and Polly was waiting for us at the main gate with her mum. Her mum had a curled-under fringe like Karen Carpenter and wore a garish, flowing kaftan. Polly had a similar fringe, but her hair was a bit too coarse so it always uncurled at the edges and looked like it was trying to escape off her head. She was wearing a purple hand-knitted dress, even though it was July. Claire blended in, with her dungarees, and I was pleased I’d decided to wear the short red double-frilled skirt that made me look far trendier than both of them.
‘Polly tells me you’re thinking of playing the trumpet, Joanne,’ Polly’s mum said.
‘Hmm,’ I said, trying to buy myself a bit of time. I’d forgotten I’d made that up and I was struggling to think what else I might’ve lied to Polly about to make myself sound more interesting than her. ‘Maybe. Or the double bass.’
Polly looked at me like she’d just scraped me off her shoe. ‘Ten-year-old girls can’t play the double bass,’ she said sniffily. ‘It’s far too big!’
Polly and Claire giggled and I felt a little knot of rage in my stomach.
‘Can too!’ I said. I kicked a stone and it flicked up and hit Polly’s mum on the back of the leg. She whirled round, her face full of anger, then the look slid off her face and she was Mrs McAllister the smiling hippy again and I muttered a quiet ‘sorry’.
‘It’s aubergine and sweet-potato pie for tea, Joanne,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
‘My favourite,’ I said, and then we were there, at Rose Cottage, and all I could think about was how soon could we leave and go back to Claire’s, where her mum would have a freshly baked chocolate cake to celebrate the first day of the summer holidays.
I was vaguely aware of a change in the light. The sun making its way westwards to start a new day in another world. I was still staring at Rose Cottage when I saw the yellow hue of a lamp being switched on in the bay window, a shadow of a figure, then the curtains being drawn.
I wondered if it was Gareth Maloney.
On the other end of the bench, an old man was singing quietly to himself, and I turned to him with a feeling of mild alarm. I hadn’t noticed him sit down. Had he been talking to me?
‘Excuse me, have you got the time please?’
He pulled up the sleeve of a threadbare beige cardigan to reveal one of those watches with the elasticated metal strap. It looked about as old as him. ‘Ten to, hen,’ he said. ‘Bus’ll be here the now.’
‘Ten to six?’
He laughed, and it turned into a cough. I waited for him to recover himself, feeling panic rising in my chest. ‘Naw. Ten to seven.’
Had I really been sitting there for over two hours?
‘Thanks,’ I muttered, already off the seat.
I took off down Burndale Road in the direction of town.
Claire hated it when I was late.
12
I nodded at the barman as I walked in. He was slowly drying a pint glass with a blue and white dishcloth.
‘She’s up the back,’ he said. ‘You’ve got one in the tap, I’ll bring it over.’
His name was Gary and he’d been the year below me and Claire at school. He was all right now, but he used to be a nasty little shit at school and I hadn’t completely forgiven him. I ignored him and walked past a crowd of teenagers who were nursing a pint between them and methodically ripping up the beer mats. Next to them, an elderly couple sat, studiously ignoring each other, him with a half-drunk pint of something
‘You’re a … you’re an idiot, Jo,’ she said, and her cheeks flushed crimson. Claire was such a goody-goody. Even idiot was a bad word to her back then.
‘OK. But I’m going to ask for sausages for tea,’ I said. ‘I’m not a rabbit.’
Claire rolled her eyes and we picked up our bags and left the classroom. We were the last to leave, and Polly was waiting for us at the main gate with her mum. Her mum had a curled-under fringe like Karen Carpenter and wore a garish, flowing kaftan. Polly had a similar fringe, but her hair was a bit too coarse so it always uncurled at the edges and looked like it was trying to escape off her head. She was wearing a purple hand-knitted dress, even though it was July. Claire blended in, with her dungarees, and I was pleased I’d decided to wear the short red double-frilled skirt that made me look far trendier than both of them.
‘Polly tells me you’re thinking of playing the trumpet, Joanne,’ Polly’s mum said.
‘Hmm,’ I said, trying to buy myself a bit of time. I’d forgotten I’d made that up and I was struggling to think what else I might’ve lied to Polly about to make myself sound more interesting than her. ‘Maybe. Or the double bass.’
Polly looked at me like she’d just scraped me off her shoe. ‘Ten-year-old girls can’t play the double bass,’ she said sniffily. ‘It’s far too big!’
Polly and Claire giggled and I felt a little knot of rage in my stomach.
‘Can too!’ I said. I kicked a stone and it flicked up and hit Polly’s mum on the back of the leg. She whirled round, her face full of anger, then the look slid off her face and she was Mrs McAllister the smiling hippy again and I muttered a quiet ‘sorry’.
‘It’s aubergine and sweet-potato pie for tea, Joanne,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
‘My favourite,’ I said, and then we were there, at Rose Cottage, and all I could think about was how soon could we leave and go back to Claire’s, where her mum would have a freshly baked chocolate cake to celebrate the first day of the summer holidays.
I was vaguely aware of a change in the light. The sun making its way westwards to start a new day in another world. I was still staring at Rose Cottage when I saw the yellow hue of a lamp being switched on in the bay window, a shadow of a figure, then the curtains being drawn.
I wondered if it was Gareth Maloney.
On the other end of the bench, an old man was singing quietly to himself, and I turned to him with a feeling of mild alarm. I hadn’t noticed him sit down. Had he been talking to me?
‘Excuse me, have you got the time please?’
He pulled up the sleeve of a threadbare beige cardigan to reveal one of those watches with the elasticated metal strap. It looked about as old as him. ‘Ten to, hen,’ he said. ‘Bus’ll be here the now.’
‘Ten to six?’
He laughed, and it turned into a cough. I waited for him to recover himself, feeling panic rising in my chest. ‘Naw. Ten to seven.’
Had I really been sitting there for over two hours?
‘Thanks,’ I muttered, already off the seat.
I took off down Burndale Road in the direction of town.
Claire hated it when I was late.
12
I nodded at the barman as I walked in. He was slowly drying a pint glass with a blue and white dishcloth.
‘She’s up the back,’ he said. ‘You’ve got one in the tap, I’ll bring it over.’
His name was Gary and he’d been the year below me and Claire at school. He was all right now, but he used to be a nasty little shit at school and I hadn’t completely forgiven him. I ignored him and walked past a crowd of teenagers who were nursing a pint between them and methodically ripping up the beer mats. Next to them, an elderly couple sat, studiously ignoring each other, him with a half-drunk pint of something
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