‘night, night, sleep tight, watch the bed bugs don’t bite’ and is always telling me to ‘speak the Queen’s English’ if I ever say ’ouse instead of house.
And then there’s this other woman, who looks just like Mum, right down to her wrinkled stockings and varicose veins, but who is a complete stranger to me. I don’t know this woman at all. I don’t know what she’s thinking or feeling or what she dreams about at night.
My eyes slide to the pocket at the front of her housecoat. If I’m really careful I could slip my hand inside and pull out the letter or whatever it is she’s hiding in there. I could find out right now what her big secret is. I hold my breath and tiptoe towards her. I stretch out my hand, but just as my fingers reach the pocket opening, Mum grunts in her sleep and shifts around. I pull my hand away and freeze. Her eyes flick open.
‘Violet?’ she mumbles. ‘What is it? Can’t I even snatch forty winks in peace?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, turning away from her. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
But it does matter. Of course it matters. I just can’t tell Mum that.
Private Detective Stuff
It’s Wednesday afternoon. The dead part of the day. Dad’s having a nap in the front room, along with the rest of the world it seems. I’ve swept the shop floor and given it a once over with the mop, ready for opening later. The whole place smells of lemons now. I stare out of the shop window. Even the street is empty and sleepy. There’s no kids out playing and everyone’s front doors are closed.
I still haven’t seen anything of Jackie. Part of me has been waiting and hoping that she’d pop in one evening. Just poke her nose round the door and say,
Hi, Vi. Long time no see. Fancy doing something on Saturday?
But of course, she hasn’t.
I wish we’d had a row at least. Something big and bad with loads of swearing. A huge, walloping argument, where we’d screamed at each other and said hateful things.
Bitch!
Ugly cow!
Scrubber!
At least with an argument there’s a chance to make up afterwards. There’s a chance that one of you will say sorry and the whole thing can be forgotten about.
But there’s never been anything to argue about. All there’s been is a kind of slipping and loosening. Like a pair of tightly knotted laces that came undone without me noticing and then tripped me over.
I finished reading
The Country Girls
last night, but it didn’t give me any answers. Kate and Baba ended up being expelled from the convent for writing a disgusting thing on a picture of the Blessed Mary. They moved to Dublin then, to learn how to live and drink gin. But they became like strangers to each other, just like me and Jackie.
Maybe that’s what growing up is all about? You grow too big for playing with dolls, you grow too big for your favourite dress, and maybe you just grow out of your friends too.
I carry the mop bucket back through to the kitchen. Dad’s snoring rumbles like distant thunder from the front room. I pour the dirty water down the sink and am just wondering where Mum is when she hurries into the room. ‘Just popping out,’ she says, knotting her headscarf under her chin. She’s got the kingfisher-blue one on again.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Where you going?’
‘Just nipping to the shops,’ she says quickly. ‘Won’t be long.’
I stare at the back of her coat as she walks out of the door. It’s her Sunday best one. I’ve only ever seen her wear it to funerals before. It’s usually at the back of her wardrobe covered in mothballs. She can’t seriously think that no one will notice her wearing it. And she can’t be stupid enough to have forgotten that it’s Wednesday. It’s half-day closing. There won’t be any shops open.
I count to one hundred and eighty. Then I grab my anorak and close the door carefully behind me so as not to wake Dad. I peer out onto the road, looking quickly in both directions and I just catch sight of Mum disappearing around the
And then there’s this other woman, who looks just like Mum, right down to her wrinkled stockings and varicose veins, but who is a complete stranger to me. I don’t know this woman at all. I don’t know what she’s thinking or feeling or what she dreams about at night.
My eyes slide to the pocket at the front of her housecoat. If I’m really careful I could slip my hand inside and pull out the letter or whatever it is she’s hiding in there. I could find out right now what her big secret is. I hold my breath and tiptoe towards her. I stretch out my hand, but just as my fingers reach the pocket opening, Mum grunts in her sleep and shifts around. I pull my hand away and freeze. Her eyes flick open.
‘Violet?’ she mumbles. ‘What is it? Can’t I even snatch forty winks in peace?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, turning away from her. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
But it does matter. Of course it matters. I just can’t tell Mum that.
Private Detective Stuff
It’s Wednesday afternoon. The dead part of the day. Dad’s having a nap in the front room, along with the rest of the world it seems. I’ve swept the shop floor and given it a once over with the mop, ready for opening later. The whole place smells of lemons now. I stare out of the shop window. Even the street is empty and sleepy. There’s no kids out playing and everyone’s front doors are closed.
I still haven’t seen anything of Jackie. Part of me has been waiting and hoping that she’d pop in one evening. Just poke her nose round the door and say,
Hi, Vi. Long time no see. Fancy doing something on Saturday?
But of course, she hasn’t.
I wish we’d had a row at least. Something big and bad with loads of swearing. A huge, walloping argument, where we’d screamed at each other and said hateful things.
Bitch!
Ugly cow!
Scrubber!
At least with an argument there’s a chance to make up afterwards. There’s a chance that one of you will say sorry and the whole thing can be forgotten about.
But there’s never been anything to argue about. All there’s been is a kind of slipping and loosening. Like a pair of tightly knotted laces that came undone without me noticing and then tripped me over.
I finished reading
The Country Girls
last night, but it didn’t give me any answers. Kate and Baba ended up being expelled from the convent for writing a disgusting thing on a picture of the Blessed Mary. They moved to Dublin then, to learn how to live and drink gin. But they became like strangers to each other, just like me and Jackie.
Maybe that’s what growing up is all about? You grow too big for playing with dolls, you grow too big for your favourite dress, and maybe you just grow out of your friends too.
I carry the mop bucket back through to the kitchen. Dad’s snoring rumbles like distant thunder from the front room. I pour the dirty water down the sink and am just wondering where Mum is when she hurries into the room. ‘Just popping out,’ she says, knotting her headscarf under her chin. She’s got the kingfisher-blue one on again.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Where you going?’
‘Just nipping to the shops,’ she says quickly. ‘Won’t be long.’
I stare at the back of her coat as she walks out of the door. It’s her Sunday best one. I’ve only ever seen her wear it to funerals before. It’s usually at the back of her wardrobe covered in mothballs. She can’t seriously think that no one will notice her wearing it. And she can’t be stupid enough to have forgotten that it’s Wednesday. It’s half-day closing. There won’t be any shops open.
I count to one hundred and eighty. Then I grab my anorak and close the door carefully behind me so as not to wake Dad. I peer out onto the road, looking quickly in both directions and I just catch sight of Mum disappearing around the
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