Read Online Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles by Sabine Durrant - Free Book Online Page A

at work. Remember that man who bought the set for his fiancée? Today he was back. ‘Was a larger knicker necessary after all?’ suggested Mother. Well, no. Not as such. In fact, no knicker was necessary at all. Engagement was off. ‘Was it anything to do with the thong?’ asked Mother. He shook his head as if it was the least of his worries.
    ‘These foolish thongs,’ he said. Then he reddened, shuffled his feet and asked if they did refunds. Sadly, Pritchard & Benning, Corsetières by Appointment to the Queen, does not offer refunds. No matter how tragic the circumstances. But he could have a credit note. He stared at this dolefully and then turned to leave the shop. At the door he spun round, dashed back and thrust it into her hands. ‘You have it,’ he said. ‘Do something with it. You’ve been so kind. So understanding.’ And then he was gone.
    That explains the pancetta and the good spirits.
    In bed, later
    Bert dropped by just as we were sitting down for supper. It’s funny how he always seems to arrive at mealtimes. Mother gave him half of her spaghetti carbonara. I gave her a look and she said, ‘I’ll fill up on bread.’ She told him the story of the man and the lingerie set right from the beginning. But all he said was, ‘Seventy quid? Is that how much that stuff costs? Just for a bit of French tat.’
    I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude. He’s Julie’s uncle and she loves him.
    Then Mother took Marie and Cyril up to bed and Uncle Bert and I watched the news. It was all about the build-up to war, lots of soldiers marching and missiles being counted. They showed you a picture of a village that was near the firing line, some little children playing in the street with no shoes on. It made me think about the effect it would have on ordinary people. There was an expert talking about other ways of bringing about change, of different sorts of governmental policy, of stopping trade links and stuff like that. It seemed to make sense to me. I can’t wait to talk about it with John The Chemist. But Uncle Bert started huffing and talking about small businesses and ‘who does he think he is, stupid bleeding-heart liberal’.
    I said I’d probably go on the school march and he got quite cross. He said, ‘What do you think a demonstration like that will achieve? It’s just troublemaking. How many of you lot are old enough to have a properly thought-through opinion? Don’t you realize the value of a show of might?’
    I felt my face get hot. I told him I thought it was a mistake to assume all young people were politically apathetic.
    He said, ‘Have you spared one thought for merchandising?’
    I’ve made up my mind. I’m definitely going on the march now.

Tuesday 25 February
    6 p.m.
    Would you call me an activist? Maybe not, but I have done it. I’ve marched. I’ve marched, I’ve carried a banner, and now I’m home. The only problem is my head isn’t full of an unjust war in a far-off place. It’s full of my row – could you call it a row? Not really: more of a situation – with Julie.
    It’s been quite an afternoon. Fun and misery all mixed up. The whole school was there, or so it felt. We went all the way from school, down Hillcroft Road and the high street, to the river. ‘What do we want? Peace now. What do we want? Peace now.’ I’ve got it stuck in my brain.
    I wanted to walk with Julie, but I looked for her everywhere and couldn’t find her, so I went with William instead. He was on his bike – the pillock; it kept getting in the way. And we met Delilah, with her friend Sam, at the estate agent’s as planned. Delilah and Sam were all giggly I had to have words with D about her outfit. ‘Delilah,’ I said, ‘do you really think combats are the thing?’
    She looked horrified. ‘Are they finished?’ she said. ‘Is no one at your school wearing them?’
    I said, ‘Delilah, it’s just it’s a peace march, that’s all.’
    She was carrying a big plastic bag and she dropped