Swallowing Grandma (11 page)

I wasn’t allowed to go into town by myself till I was sixteen. Poll thought it was too risky and I wasn’t bothered enough to argue. If I wanted something from the shops, e.g. chocolate or books, I could walk up the hill into the village, or down into Harrop, which is the smallest town in the universe probably. Serious catch-a-bus shopping I associated with crashing boredom; trailing after Poll while she held packets, boxes, labels up to the light and demanded to know what was in the small print. Selecting the right coins for her out of her tatty old purse. Flashing looks of apology at the staff she was rude to.

‘Can’t you see I’m partially blind?’

‘Yes, madam, but you still can’t bring back soap if you’ve used it.’

‘It’s not on, this, it in’t. I’m nearly seventy, you know.’

But once I’d got my GCSEs it mysteriously became safe to get on the 214 alone, as long as I didn’t sit next to any men. This sudden change might have had something to do with the fact that Poll urgently needed me to go and see about a new gas cooker, but she was laid up with flu at the time and Dogman had gone to Barmouth for a week. ‘Stop mithering,’ she’d croaked through the big white hanky. ‘I’ve written it all down for you.’ Huge biro capitals dancing between the lines on my jotter. ‘What can possibly go wrong?’ And even though that afternoon there’d been a bomb scare and all round Boots was cordoned off, and then I’d got stuck in a crowd of Bolton Wanderers supporters singing swear-songs, I came home in one piece.

You can’t get much new for thirty quid, but there’s good pickings to be had in charity shops. I found another ankle-length stretchy skirt, black with grey flowers on it, and a long black blouse with white collar and cuffs. ‘That suits you,’ the woman behind the counter said unexpectedly when I stepped out of the cubicle to get a better view in the mirror. I went scarlet and dragged the curtain back across. Beneath the hem of the skirt my brown school shoes stuck out. It’s hard work, reinventing yourself.

Next I went to Debenhams to see what they had in their footwear department, just on the off-chance they were giving away the ultimate pair of solve-your-wardrobe shoes for twenty-one pounds.

I wandered past the make-up and perfume counters, and noticed how many cosmetics are named after things you eat. Grape, candy, toffee, vanilla, I counted off. Cherry, fudge, cinnamon. Clever marketing, that; your teenage girl’s so busy trying to avoid real food she’ll run a mile from a proper toffee, but she’s still greedy for the idea of one. I’ve seen these girls, thin as whippets, inhaling choc-mint lipgloss like it was cocaine.

Even the mascara was called Liquorice. I picked one up and read the blurb along the side.
2000 CALORIES
, it said. That was never right. How could a mascara have two thousand calories in it? That made it as fattening as an entire Black Forest gateau. Presuming you ate it. Surely to God you didn’t eat it?

‘Can I help you?’ said the assistant.

I had a quick look. Smooth oval face, neat arched brows, mouth in, I’d say, Frosted Ginger. Not much older than me.

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I was only . . . I don’t wear . . . ’

‘It’s pretty daunting, in’t it, all these colours, knowing what suits you. We see some women come in here, well, I shouldn’t say really, but some of ’em look like clowns. You’d think they’d used wax crayon instead of make-up, honest. The old ones are the worst.’ She giggled and leaned towards me. ‘I’ll not last two minutes here, will I? It’s only my first week. I bet I’m not here by Sat’day.’

I couldn’t think how to reply. I smiled back for politeness, but began to edge away.

‘Tell you what.’ She stepped out from behind the counter. ‘Shall I give you a mini-makeover? We’re really quiet. I could show you which colour spectrum suited you. You’re an Olive Tones, so you’d look fantastic in some of these eyeshadows over here, and we could even you out with this base, take out some of the redness in your cheeks, I know this stuff looks funny being green but I swear it really works, and you’ve lovely strong brows, we could bring those out with a dark pencil, give them more definition and balance your features . . . ’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I don’t wear make-up. My grandma says it’s bad for your skin.’

‘OK.’ Her face fell ever so slightly. ‘Do you want a free sample of foundation, though? You could try it at home, it’s dermatologically tested, it’s actually good for your skin ’cause it contains sunscreen, filters out harmful UVA and UVB rays, and then if you like it, you can come back some time and I can show you how to blend it with some of the cream blusher, which’d really bring your cheekbones out.’

I reached out for the sachet, thinking it might be worth a go with when I got home, just to see, and then I spotted her hand. It was odd somehow; very small and boiled red beneath the smart white cuff of her overall. I didn’t stare but it looked, in that split-second flash, as if at least two of the fingers were missing. Her other hand, fluttering over the display counter, was beautiful, with long white-tipped nails. A burn? A birth thing? Her eyes met mine but there wasn’t a flicker of anything, only eagerness.

‘Go on. You know you want to.’ She grinned. ‘And if I make you look like Liz Hurley, tell my supervisor, will you?’

‘All right,’ I said.

‘Come round, then, sit in the chair.’

I did as I was told, although my heart was thumping with shyness. ‘Bet you won’t find any cheekbones.’

‘Bet I will,’ she said.

After she’d finished and swivelled me round to see in the mirror, she smoothed my hair away from my brow.

‘I’m not a hairdresser,’ she said, ‘but I reckon if you used some straighteners on this, and had a wispy fringe cut in, it’d really, really suit you. The way your hair is now, no one can see your face.’

My strange reflection made me giggle with nerves. The assistant laughed too, only in a non-hysterical way.

‘I look like somebody else. It’s like, like turning from black and white to colour.’ I couldn’t take my eyes off myself. I knew I wasn’t beautiful, but I was, kind of, tidied up. Drawn-in. More
there
.

She was busy pulling out drawers and tipping up miniature cartons.

‘I’ve found you some extra samples.’ She handed me a smart little paper bag with string handles. ‘There’s more or less everything here that’s on your face, not the same lipstick but close, and we’ve no mini-eyeshadows at the moment, but your blusher crème’s there, I already put you in a foundation didn’t I, oh and we’ve a vial of scent going begging, I’ll stick that in an’ all.’

In my head I heard Poll say, She only did it ’cause she likes a challenge. I drowned her out by asking to buy a full-size mascara, then nearly had a fit when it was fourteen pounds.
Fourteen pounds
. I paid up, though.

‘It’s a lot, in’t it? But you get what you pay for, it’s really good quality, dun’t flake or anything, you buy these cheap ones and they’re halfway down your cheeks by the time you’ve got to t’ bus stop.’

She shut the till and gave me a huge smile. ‘Go an’ knock ’em dead. And don’t forget about the straighteners.’

What do you think you look like? said Poll’s voice as I walked out into the fresh air where everyone could see me. I wanted to touch my tacky lips, but I knew if I started mauling I’d ruin the effect.

On the way back to the bus station I spotted a pair of black ankle books with low spiked heels in a charity shop window. SHOE EVENT said a banner above. I went in, checked the soles and, call me Cinders, they were my size. Four pounds I paid for them, and I don’t think they’d been worn.

No perverts sat near me on the bus. I got a window seat so I could check out my reflection when we went past anything dark. There’d never be a day as good as this again.

As we got to my stop, I wondered whether to wipe some of the slap off in case Dogman made a song and dance about it and alerted Poll. Poll might even spot it all on her own if I was standing near a window. I knew the sort of thing she’d say. She’d go, Do you want to attract sexual deviants? Or; Is that what you spent my heating money on? Or; At the end of the day, you’re still like the side of a house, there’s no make-up’ll hide that.

I could feel my insides winding themselves up as I stepped down from the bus and my body stiffened as I walked away, imagining her face. Just as I was getting into a big mental argument with her, I became aware of someone staring.

He was my height, my age, about. Thick dark hair, slightly wavy; white shirt with a granddad collar, and a black waistcoat over the top, like a gypsy. You’d call him handsome, although his neck was on the thick side. He was leaning against the wall of the Feathers, smoking; drugs, I shouldn’t be surprised.

I put my head down and walked past him.

‘Hey,’ he called after me. ‘Hey, wait!’

I quickened my pace, exactly like they say not to on
Crimewatch
, and made to cross the road.

‘Wait,’ he shouted again. ‘Katherine.’

I stopped in my tracks.

‘Katherine Millar. Wait for me. I only want a word.’

It was daylight and we were near a busy road junction. If he dragged me into the bushes and slit my throat before perpetrating a dreadful sexual assault, there’d be loads of witnesses. I turned round and glowered.

‘Hi,’ he said, flicking his tab-end into the hedge and hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. ‘Do you mind if I walk you home?’

‘You what?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’ I gripped my keys in my fist so that the Yale was poking out through my fingers. This is a very effective weapon if you jab it in the eyes, and you can’t be prosecuted the way you can if you carry Mace around with you.

He took a step towards me. ‘I can’t tell you in one sentence. Let me walk with you, a little way. Up to the timber merchant’s.’ I couldn’t place his accent but it wasn’t local.

‘How do you know which way I’m going?’

‘Oh,’ he said calmly. ‘I know where you live.’

*

I’ll always associate Phil Collins with extreme pain. Every DJ who came on played ‘You Can’t Hurry Love’, it was number one. I’d rather have had silence, but Poll said the radio would take my mind off the contractions.

‘When is it time to go to the hospital?’ I kept asking. Phil went ching-ching-ching, ching-ching-a-ching.

‘You’ve ages to go yet, I was hours with Roger. They get nowty at th’ hospital if you turn up too early. Walk about a bit. Keep active.’

It didn’t matter whether I sat, lay or stood.

‘When’s Roger coming?’

‘We’ve left a message. It’s an hour and a half from Sheffield. He’ll come as soon as he can. He’s a good lad. I only hope he teks care, there’s some maniacs on t’ motorway.’

He rang at teatime. That’s it, I thought, time for action. When Poll put the phone down and turned round, I was waving her china beggar-girl high in the air. ‘I’ll smash this on the hearth NOW if you don’t run me to hospital,’ I shouted.

She rushed outside to where Vince was building an impromptu rockery. He’d started at lunchtime. A lot of it was broken bricks, I could see. Poll made a screwing motion with her finger against her temple, then saw me looking through the window and pretended she was scratching her head. I still had the beggar-girl in my hand. Vince came in at once and I handed him the car keys.

When we got to hospital they examined me straight away. ‘You’re well on,’ said the midwife. ‘Goodness, I should say this baby’s more or less ready to be born. You left it till the last minute, didn’t you? Try not to push till we get you to the delivery suite.’ I was wheeled off at top speed, Phil-in-my-head sang, ‘No, you’ll just have to wait.’ The best bit was leaving Poll standing, furious, in the corridor.

The best bit was when the pain was over and I could flop back and close my eyes.

The best bit was when they handed me the baby, wrapped in a white blanket.

The best bit was when Roger opened the door, even though he was followed immediately by Poll and Vince.

‘God,’ he said. ‘I’ve thrashed that car to death. I swear the engine nearly jumped out of the bonnet. They posted a note up in the hall foyer, but I was in the library and I didn’t see it till I got back in. I wish somebody would invent a phone you could carry about.’

‘It’s a girl,’ said Poll bleakly behind him. Then she went out again, pulling Vince by his sweater sleeve.

‘Still,’ said Roger, ‘it’s pretty cool. Hey, I’m a dad.’ He had a quick peer into the blanket, but the baby was just lying there with its eyes half shut. Its skin was red and flaky, like bad sunburn.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. I really wanted him to kiss me. ‘You look grim,’ he said. ‘Did you have a rough time? Why didn’t you let my mother in?’

I thought having the baby would make him forget about Sheffield. I thought once it was born, he’d stay with us.

I’ve never been too good at predicting the future.

If you’re a fatherless lesbian, chances are you don’t know a huge amount about penises. This was all the information I’d garnered so far:

–  they could be extremely dangerous

–  they looked quite like a plucked chicken

–  they featured on Greek vases a lot, pointing forwards like little signposts

–  they worked on a hydraulic principle

–  there were several components to the wobbly mass down there, although I still wasn’t totally sure how many. Obviously I’ve seen giant willies spray-painted on bus shelters, and side-on most of them look like sports whistles. In these diagrams, the geography of testicles and phallus seemed fairly straightforward. But on the occasions I’d been flashed at, the confusion of slack pink danglies was less clear. When I was seven and innocent, I thought men had one thing in their trousers, and one thing only. Then, what happened to me behind the chemist’s when I was eight showed me there were in fact two attachments hanging down between a man’s legs. Straight after, an unreliable boy at school tells me there are supposed to be three. Three? He used the phrase Meat and Two Veg. So then I thought, maybe I’d misheard and it was tentacles, and not testicles, and it was possible there was a whole clutch of wobbly bits, bunched together like a squid. Later, at secondary school, the diagrams in our biology textbook clarified the Two Veg part of the story, sort of. But even at eighteen, I wasn’t clear whether the balls were arranged in separate little sacs, or one squashy cushion.