Jacky Daydream (29 page)

33

Bournemouth

THE SUMMER I
left Latchmere we went on holiday to Bournemouth. We were branching out, staying in a three-star hotel for a whole fortnight.

I’d never been to Bournemouth before. It seemed to take for ever to get there. We still didn’t have a car. We struggled with the suitcases on a Green Line bus from Kingston all the way up to London, lugged them down the escalators and onto the underground, and then onto the train to Bournemouth. We flopped down exhausted, and ate our egg sandwiches and Lyons fruit pies and Penguin chocolate biscuits, sharing a bottle of Tizer in plastic cups.

We branched out big-time when we finally arrived at Bournemouth railway station and got in a taxi. It was my very first taxi ride. Biddy and Harry sat bolt upright, their eyes on the meter. I slid around on the leather seat, worrying that there might be a terrible row if it proved too expensive. But it was a paltry sum, so Harry paid it willingly
and
gave the driver a tip.

We were all three impressed by Hinton Firs Hotel. It wasn’t particularly
big
, just a perfectly
normal
family-size hotel, but it had that little extra touch of class. There was a welcome dance that first Saturday, so Biddy tweaked the flounces of her chiffon frock, Harry polished his patent shoes and I squeezed into my best C & A party frock with a sash and a lace collar.

There was no Will Tull urging us to be Music Men and join him in the conga, but there was a proper five-man band playing popular tunes in waltz and quickstep and foxtrot rhythms. There were little tables arranged around the edge of the dance floor so you could toy with a drink all evening. Alcohol! The holiday brochure hadn’t mentioned the hotel was licensed! But Hinton Firs was ultra-respectable and we
were
on holiday. Biddy tried her very first Babycham and Harry had half a pint of lemonade shandy. I had orange squash, but Biddy let me have the maraschino cherry from her Babycham. I sucked it eagerly, hoping the drop of perry might make me drunk. Biddy and Harry sat stiffly among all these strangers, maybe hoping to feel drunk too.

Biddy got talking to the family at the next table who’d just arrived too – Mr and Mrs Hilton and their children, Diana and John. I wasn’t remotely interested in John, a fair, fidgety boy of nine who pulled silly faces and strutted around with his hands in his pockets. I liked his sister Diana
though
. She was thirteen, a tall, curvy girl with a high forehead and blonde wavy hair. She wore pale pink lipstick, a blue dress cinched in at the waist, nylons and high heels. She looked years and years older than me. She already had the soft English rose looks that made men turn and stare at her. There weren’t any other teenage girls staying in the hotel – so Diana made friends with me.

We chatted, sucking squash through straws, while our parents shuffled round the dance floor and John capered with the other boys in a corner. She told me all about her school and her friends at home and the boy she sometimes spoke to at her church youth club. I told her about Latchmere and Christine and said proudly that I had a boyfriend called Alan.

Then the band took a break to have a quick pint and someone started playing rock ’n’ roll records – Tommy Steele and Bill Haley.

‘Come on, Jacky, let’s jive!’ said Diana.

‘I can’t! I don’t know how,’ I said, blushing. ‘I’ll look silly.’

‘No you won’t,’ said Diana. She nodded at John and the other boys, who were jerking around like crazy puppets. ‘You certainly won’t look as silly as
they
do.’

She took my hand and we got up to dance. She wasn’t really an expert herself, tottering a little
anxiously
in her high heels, but she whirled me about, and once my feet caught the rhythm of the music, I started bouncing around, keeping to the beat, even improvising a few steps. I felt as if I could dance right across the ballroom, out of the window and up into the night, whirling round and round the clouds.

I was flushed and excited when I got back to our table, almost spilling my orange squash.

‘Now, now, stop showing off,’ said Biddy. ‘Don’t get above yourself, madam.’

But I
was
above myself, dancing and dancing with Diana, my new friend.

She had her very own single bedroom in the hotel, which impressed me enormously. John had to sleep on a put-you-up in her parents’ room – and I still had to share with Biddy and Harry.

I tossed and turned that first night, too het up and excited to sleep properly. I was wide awake at six o’clock. I sat up stealthily in bed, reading
Wintle’s Wonders
by Noel Streatfeild in the dawn light. I turned each page slowly and cautiously – but Harry suddenly started, turned over and opened his eyes.

I wriggled right down under the covers, hiding my book.

‘Jac? What are you up to? Are you reading?’

I held my breath. For whatever crazy reason, I wasn’t allowed to read if I woke up early. I was just
supposed
to lie there and try to get back to sleep. I was scared Harry would get cross with me. It would be terrible if he started a ranting fit right at the beginning of this beautiful Bournemouth holiday. But he leaned up on one elbow, actually smiling at me.

‘It’s OK. I can’t sleep either. Shall we go for a walk before breakfast?’

‘Oooh, yes!’

We took it in turns tiptoeing out of the bedroom to the lavatory and the bathroom. Hinton Firs was ultra posh to us but it didn’t run to ensuite facilities. I pulled on my new blue jeans and checked shirt, hoping they might make me look like a real teenager, and hurried off with Harry.

We went along the quiet corridors, Harry shushing me, putting his finger to his lips. It was so strange thinking of all the sleeping guests the other side of each door, the men in their striped pyjamas, the women in artificial silk nighties, the children in white cotton patterned with teddies or tiny aeroplanes. We crept past Diana’s small single room and I imagined her in a pink rosebud nightie, maybe a few curls pinned into place with kirby grips.

I wondered if she’d just been friendly at the dance because she had no one else to talk to, or whether she’d want to be my friend for the whole holiday. I imagined us walking along the sands, paddling in the sea, sharing secrets. Maybe she’d
let
me try her pink lipstick, stagger in her high sandals. I practised walking with precise steps, swaying my hips as we went down the stairs.

‘Why are you walking in that daft way?’ Harry whispered. It was all right, he wasn’t cross, he seemed amused.

I shrugged. ‘How old do you think I look, Daddy?’ I asked.

‘Oooh, twenty-two?’

‘No,
really
.’

‘Eleven.’

‘Not maybe a bit older? I’ll be twelve in December, and then it’s only a year and then I’ll be thirteen.’

‘Your maths are improving,’ Harry said dryly.

‘I think I might almost look a teenager now,’ I said, glancing at Harry for confirmation, but he only laughed at me.

Then we were outside the silent hotel in the fresh early morning air, the sun already out, the sky blue. There were tall pine trees and bright red and yellow flowers in every green garden. The hotels were white and pink and pale peach, one with brilliant blue roof tiles. I felt like Dorothy stepping into Oz.

‘Oh glory, isn’t it
lovely
!’

‘Come on, let’s see the sea,’ said Harry, taking my hand. ‘We haven’t even caught a glimpse of it yet.’

We walked towards the front of East Cliff, swinging our clasped hands. Then I broke free and ran. The sea sparkled below me, intensely blue, incredibly beautiful. The sands shone smooth and golden for miles. There was a zigzag path cut into the side of the cliff, going right and left, right and left, all the way down to the esplanade below. I forgot all about wanting to act like a teenager. I ran full tilt down the zigzag path, arms high in the air, going, ‘Wheeeee!’

When I got to the bottom, I stood panting, waiting for Harry to catch me up, and then I declared, ‘I think Bournemouth is the most beautiful place in the whole world!’

It was certainly a beautiful holiday. For once my real life lived up to my imaginary one. I was usually slightly out of synch, like a children’s comic when the colour is misaligned and the yellows and reds and blues bleed past the black outlines. But now I was jolted into place, the real world as colourful as anything I could imagine.

Biddy was up and dressed in her best white top with the embroidered poppies when we got back to our bedroom. She smiled at us with matching poppy-red lips.

‘Have you had a nice walk, you two? Come on, I want my bacon and eggs for breakfast!’

The Hilton family were sitting at a big table
with
three free spaces. Diana waved to me.

‘Come and sit here, Jacky!’

We spent the whole holiday with them. Biddy and Harry and Mr and Mrs Hilton sat in deckchairs on the beach, while Diana and I went off together, John leaping around us boisterously, cracking daft jokes that made us sigh. We spent every day on the beach, swimming in the freezing sea and then jumping around, pale blue and shivering, until the sun dried us.

We made friends with a newly engaged couple, Bob and Shirley. Bob was a dark, good-looking rugby player in his twenties, ultra fit. Harry and Mr Hilton held in their soft stomachs when they were all in their bathing costumes. Diana and I developed a crush on this Bob and followed him around like puppy dogs. Shirley indulged us fondly, making a fuss of both of us. She lay back on his towel and smoothed suncream all over, turning golden brown, while Bob splashed in the sea with Diana and me and hurled John around like a human rugby ball.

I loved Diana, I loved Bob, I loved Shirley – I was so happy I even loved John. I loved Biddy and Harry, who even seemed to love each other this one magical holiday. They didn’t have a single row the entire fortnight.

I woke up early every morning. Once, when both
my
parents were still sleeping soundly, I pulled on my favourite jeans and shirt and slipped out of the room all by myself. I crept out of the hotel, through the garden, out of the gate, down the road, all the way to the clifftop. I stood gazing out at the turquoise sea, trying to find the right words in my head to describe it.

I wondered if I’d ever be a real writer. I’d finished
Wintle’s Wonders
and was now reading my Puffin paperback of E. Nesbit’s
Five Children and It
. I wondered what I would wish for if I encountered the irritable Psammead hiding in Bournemouth’s golden sands.

‘I wish, I wish, I wish,’ I whispered, not knowing what to wish for. It was no use wishing that Biddy and Harry would stay happy together. I knew them too well to wish for that. It was a waste wishing to be a teenager, because I
would
be one soon. I could wish for Diana and me to stay proper friends after the holiday – but we’d already exchanged addresses, promising to write to each other. So I wished my usual wish, the one I wished when I blew out my birthday candles, when I spotted the first star of the evening, when I hooked the Christmas turkey wishbone round my little finger.

‘I wish I get to be a real writer and have a book published one day.’

I wonder what I’d have thought if I could have
gazed
over that brilliant blue Bournemouth sea far into the future. I wouldn’t have believed it possible that one day I’d have
ninety
books published, not just one. I’d laugh at the idea that one amazing day children would queue up outside a bookshop in Bournemouth for eight whole hours simply so I could sign their books.
My
books!

I stared at the sea, the early sun already warm on my face.

‘Bournemouth,’ I said, tasting the word as if it was a boiled sweet.

Then I started running all the way down the zigzag path for the sheer joy of it, still wondering if wishes ever came true.