Imperfect Strangers (16 page)

I needn’t have worried about t
hinking of things to talk about because Poppy has enough conversation for the both of us. Even so, I wish Sally would hurry up. Little girls crucify me, they always have.

“You do know you can’t actually be friends with someone like Sal, don’t you?
Some things just go together, like fish and chips. Some things don’t go together… like you and Sal. You can’t be with her. Not looking like that, anyway. I mean it’s just so, lame. What do you think you look like in that jumper?”

I inspect myself, speechless. I
then scan the cafe to see what other people are wearing, as if all these years I’ve been oblivious to the fact that others might dress differently. I don’t see anything wrong with it.

“Your hair could do with styling too. Don’t you use any products?”

Products? What are products?

Poppy must be either a mind reader, or extremely good at reading expression, for she answers my unvoiced question.

Poppy shakes her head and her eyes roll. “Where’ve you been all your life? How can you not know what products are? Everyone uses products on their hair these days. Sculpture wax. Gel. Fudge. You haven’t got a clue have you?”

She’s correct
; I haven’t. Why would anyone put fudge on their hair? Surely it would attract wasps. I don’t know what to say in mitigation, so I simply shake my head. Hurry up Sally, I think, not that I’ve anything against Poppy, just that I feel like a frog being dissected on a laboratory table. I’m pinned down, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the cutting inspection.

“Oooh! I know,” she states with sudden enthusiasm, sitting upright and
gesticulating wildly with her hands. “I could be, like, your personal Sty-yer-list. Like on the telly, Yeh?
Beauty and the geek,
or like
Trinny and what’s her face.
Yeh, like, you could be like my project. Or that Wok guy. I could make it work, like when my mum made chilli and there was no rice, so she cooked pasta and invented spaghetti-chilli-naise. That was really nice, so sometimes things that aren’t meant to be together can work. You could come shopping with us, right? You’ve got real pale skin. I guess that’s because you work at night. Yeh? That’s cool. You can be like the vampire one, and Steve – he’s all muscle – he can be the werewolf one. You have to look good first though. That’s where I come in. I’ve got some body spray that has glitter in it. Do you fancy wearing red contacts sometimes? Never mind. It’ll be, cool, like a love triangle.”

If I wasn’t already silent, I would be stunned into silence. The child I thought hated me suddenly seems to like me, though I wish she wouldn’t have mentioned Steve. And why would she want me to wear red contact lenses? I recall Pete’s sculpted hair. Yes, women seem to like that sort of thing, but red eyes?

“We’ll go to Coles’, ‘cause that’s Sal’s fave place. Everything in Sal’s House is from Coles. Like there’s no other shop or whatever.”

Poppy jumps to her feet when Sally returns. “Come on, Sal,” she says, taking Sally’s hand, dragging her toward to door. “We’re taking Keith shopping with us. I’m going to be, like, his personal stylist. He wants us to transform him like them programmes he’s seen on telly.”

Sally titters, picks up her coffee, and takes a sip, before sitting. “You two drunk up already? Sorry, there was a crisis in the toilet. Some old dear, who’d got herself locked in the cubicle, and panicked. Anyway, what have you two been chatting about, telly?”

“I don’t have a television.” I do however like the idea of shopping with Sally, even if it means dragging Poppy with us. Suddenly I feel conscious of the jumper I’m wearing and its apparent foulness.

“No telly. Oo-est, that’s just wi-erd. Anyway, like I said, Keith’s coming shopping with us.”

“I’m certain Keith has better things to do than go shopping with us, Poppy.”

“How do you live with, like, no telly.”

“No, I’m not busy.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes, of course I have a bed.”

“I don’t think Keith wants to come shopping with us, Poppy.”

“It’ll be like Beauty and the Geek.”

“POPPY!!!”

“I, I, would like to.”

Sally flushes a deep shade of crimson as she knocks back the rest of her coffee. Obviously it was too hot and the heat made the blood rush to her cheeks. She agrees that they will take me shopping, if only for an hour, because Poppy’s mum will be expecting them back.

“Oh
! By. The. Way,” Poppy says, emphasising every word with her hands, as we step from the cafe. “Keith does not like coffee.”

CHAPTER
23

“Why didn’t you say you don’t like coffee?” I shout above the sque
al of brakes as a coach pulls up full of kids that must be out on a theatre trip. I doubt they’re going to see
Calendar Girls
at the Lyceum, so it must be
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
at the Crucible.

“Because he’s shy.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Poppy.”

“Sorr-eee.”

Keith hangs his head, as if shamed and mumbles, “don’t know, really. Seemed impolite.”

His reaction churns me up inside. I feel as if I’ve been overzealous in the chastisement of a young child. “You really need to speak up, Keith
; tell people what you actually think, rather than what you think they want to hear.”

“Maybe he didn’t know what a crap-in-chino was.”

“Don’t be silly, Poppy, everyone knows what... Oh, you didn’t, did you?” Keith colours with embarrassment. “Well, if you don’t like coffee, I don’t suppose you would, necessarily.” How bad do I feel now? Seems like Poppy is more attuned to Keith than I am. In some ways he seems closer to her age. That’s it, I realise, intellectually he is very adept, but sociologically, he is perhaps not even a match for my niece.

We make our way up the high street in an uncomfortable near silence
that I find rather uncomfortable, but which doesn’t seem to bother Poppy or Keith in the slightest. I wonder if he has some sort of condition. I look across at the Winter Gardens, and for a moment I forget what used to be there before it was built. Funny how the mind soon forgets. Wedding cake, I think, the round registry office. No, it wasn’t. It was the town hall that had weird windows, like the surface of one of those trays that hold thirty or so eggs. Pity the wedding cake’s been knocked down, Steve once said. That’s where I’d have got married. Good job it had been knocked down because it saved me having to say that I wouldn’t have got married there, if even if it was the last place available. Maybe Steve has a condition too, maybe we all have. Maybe there’s a sociological sliding scale and we’re all on it at some level, those that cope well with people but end up being arrogant shits, and those who don’t cope so well, and despite being decent people get taken for, and treated like, morons.

The expanse in front of the theatres, which has seen many changes, looks really good. Bedraggled pigeons mill around, scratching for crumbs thrown by children waiting by their teachers, while a tramp sits on a bench, ignored, not as worthy of charity as the winged-rats that seem to crap everywhere. The pigeons scatter and settle ten feet away, and I’m shocked to see Kerry exiting the doors of the winter garden. Even on a weekend she is looking a
s severe as ever. As yet, it doesn’t seem as if Kerry has spotted me. Being with Keith, especially dressed as he is, is one thing; batting aside Poppy’s comments another, but the last thing I need – the last thing Keith needs for that matter – is Kerry’s acerbic tongue as a finishing touch.

“Come on, we’ll go this way,” I say urging K
eith back towards the crucible with the intention of heading up Fargate, grabbing Poppy’s wrist and tugging her behind. “It’s quicker.”

Keith stops dead and appears to be considering various routes. “No, it isn’t. It’s quicker to cut through the peace gardens.”

Great, now he decides to speak his mind. “This way is quicker! If you want to call at a cash-point, that is. Thankfully all the banks are on Fargate. Now come on, move, quickly, I haven’t got all day.” I sound like one of the teachers standing outside the theatre:
Why didn’t you go before we left
, I hear one of them ask a child who’s plaiting his legs.

“Surely he uses plastic, Sal. I mean, cash, it’s like so last year.”

“Do you have a credit card, Keith…? No, I guessed not. Now come on, Poppy, move.”

At the cash point Keith places his bag on the floor, between his legs, gripping it with his ankles. He looks around, as if for men in balaclavas, then cautiously draws back the zip. He crouches over the bag and rummages inside, hiding what, I can’t even begin to guess. We’ve not
walked far, and Kerry could easily be coming this way, and I wish he would just hurry up. I resist the urge to hurry him though, because, if my theory about him is correct he would become flustered and end up taking even longer. Finally he stands and takes his place in a queue of three. Kerry must have gone down to the bus station, or straight across towards the markets. She would have been upon us by now otherwise.

There was a cheetah on a wild life documentary I saw some time ago. I feel just like her. The cat was worried about her cub hiding in the long grass and concerned about losing the carcass she had recently killed, no doubt hoping neither would be spotted and ripped apart by approaching hyenas. Should I duck low and hope to be camouflaged by the crowd, or hide the cub, abandon the carcass and run across the hyena’s path in hope of causing a distraction. Fargate
is busy though, so we’re partially masked at least.

Keith finally reaches the front of the queue. Poppy jumps in front of him as he slips his card into the slot
, her eyes fixed on the screen.

“How much will I need?” Keith enquires, glancing over his
shoulder as the card registers.

“Whatever,” I reply, distractedly, looking in the direction of
the High-street, eager to move on at the earliest opportunity. I think there used to be a fountain at the top of here, but now there’s a wheel that’s a poor interpretation of the London Eye, as if I need any reminding that I’m the poor sister still living up north.

“Best max it, Keith.” Poppy begins pressing buttons. “How much you got in there?” She presses the button by the green letters requesting a balance update. “Wow dude!
Twenty-seven grand. You’re proper minted.”

“Poppy!!!” I take a step back and yank Poppy away
with me. “That’s private. Sorry Keith, I–”

“Hi there, Sal. Who’s this?”

See what you’ve done now, Poppy? A mere moments distraction and the hyena closed in.
Please ground open up and swallow me now.
Sheffield once had a big hole in the road – Dad used to point it out at the opening titles of the
Full Monty
film (
There it is
, he’d say with pride.
That’s hole in’t road
) – maybe it was built for occasions like this. I hold a fixed grin on my face, hoping that Kerry’s only spotted the cub, and knowing I must look as false as a plastic manikin, I turn to face Kerry. “Hi Kerry. This is Poppy, my niece.”

“
And security-Keith, too... My, don’t we look a bunch of happy shoppers.”

Kerry looks Keith up and down as if he actually is a carcass. What’s more, that he’s already been picked over and gone so rotten that even a hyena would not dream of touch
ing him, never-mind eating him.

“Nice jumper,” Kerry comments. “Ooo, and
a matching bag as well, the perfect ensemble. Very fetching.”

Come back with something
, I silently urge, but Keith says nothing. I’m certain he’s intelligent enough to run rings around her, but he’s so lacking in sharp wit he couldn’t cut blancmange. He just stands looking in the direction of the cathedral, biting the inside of his cheek.

“We’re giving him a make-over,” Poppy announces. This has the effect of splitting me in two. Half of me winces at the shame of Kerry knowing such a thing and the other half is filled with pride, because Poppy intoned her voice in such a way that there could be no mistaking the fact that she was speaking in defence of Keith.
This is my friend
, she’s implying,
so don’t you dare hurt his feelings
. Listen up Keith; learn from a master. As much as I generally like Kerry, as much as I would much prefer to shop with her rather than with Keith, my pity for the man combined with wanting to do the right thing in front of Poppy directs my choice of words.

“Yes, we
’re off to Coles, actually, to see if we can’t smarten Keith up a little.”
It’s no biggy
, my tone implies. At least that’s what I aimed for.

Kerry raises her brows at me and sucks on an insistent smirk. “It’s gonna cost hell of a lot to smarten him up.”

“No worries, he’s, like, minted.”

“Poppy! Private. Remember?”
             

“I
– I’d b-best go.” Keith steps away into a reluctant-looking backwards retreat. His body posture collapses, reverts back to its usual semi-crumpled-awkwardness, an appearance which states his discomfort in the outside world, a look which gives the impression that his joints have seized and that movement of any kind is a pain-filled exercise.

“Best p-p-pick up a penguin,” Kerry mimics with a snort of derision. “Go on then night-man, shoo. Go away, now. Bye-bye.” Kerry raises her right hand, palm by her shoulder, and waves with only her fingertips, as if any more effort spent on Keith would be a waste.

Keith turns away from us his shoulders slumped, and begins to trudge up the hill. He looks so unsure of himself that as others approach he allows them to determine his path and waddles indecisively, truly verifying Kerry’s penguin reference. There’s a battle going on inside me. I never actually wanted to take Keith shopping; I still don’t. I know that Kerry probably feels as if she’s done me the biggest favour of my life. For all she knows Keith could have bumped into me and simply latched on. Poppy looks up at me, then at Keith, then back at me. I try to convince myself that I can pretend to have not seen Poppy looking at me, but something weighs heavy in my gut. Guilt? Pity? Shame? It’s Hoppy the three-legged dog in the animal pound all over again, and Kerry’s playing the part of my mum saying no to giving it a home. The feeling this brings is a strange one: one that feels like having something ripped out of me. It leaves me feeling hollow, unworthy of being Poppy’s aunt. It’s a feeling that feels so horrid that I’m actually concerned it might fester and bring on a genuine sickness.

“I like you as a friend, Kerry.” I say this with a heavy sigh, “but, sometimes, you can be such a bitch.” Looking into Kerry’s eyes I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge Kerry’s,
what-it’s-only-Keith
look. “Come on Poppy.” Taking Poppy’s hand, I stride out after Keith.

“Keith, hold up,” I shout, my weekend-flats pounding a soft beat on the retro-cobbles amid a flurry of pigeon wings.

Poppy turns around, sticks her tongue out. “See ya, bee-atch.”

“Poppy!!!
Language.”

“What? You said it.”

“That’s different... Keith. Keith, wait up.” As I quicken the pace, knowing that Kerry is likely to still be watching, I wonder,
have I just chosen Keith as a friend over Kerry.
If I have it was not by choice, I was pushed into it by circumstance.

Kerry pushed me into it, and I feel angry.

“KEITH! I SAID, WAIT.”