V for Violet (5 page)

She picks the cherry up with her fingers and pops it in her mouth. She smiles at me and then for the first time in my life I catch a glimpse of how she must have looked when she was a young girl. She’s pretty as a picture. She hums a tune to herself as she clears the dishes from the table. Dad shakes out his newspaper and leans back in his chair to read it.

I can’t believe they’re behaving so normally! As though nothing has happened. Dad must know what’s going on, surely? That’s why they were arguing yesterday. It was nothing to do with money or getting rid of the shop. He must have found out somehow that Mum’s got a bit on the side. He must have found the letter; a love letter perhaps? The one that Mum tried to hide from me yesterday. Maybe Mum promised Dad it was all over and he has no idea that she went out today to meet this man again.

I watch Dad licking his fingers as he turns the pages of his paper. What would he do if I told him what I’d seen today?

I clear my throat. ‘Dad?’ I say.

He peers over the top of his paper.

‘Dad …’ I begin again.

He lowers the newspaper onto the table. ‘Spit it out,’ he says.

But, before I can say anything, Mum sits down next to me and stirs some sugar into her tea. She smells of Lily of the Valley soap, cold cream and happiness. I watch as she lifts her cup to her mouth. She’s done her hair differently, I notice. It’s not as tightly set and stiff with lacquer like it usually is. It’s soft and shiny and she’s tucked a loose curl behind her ear. I’ve never seen her like this before. If someone asked her, this very minute, how she was, she’d reply ‘fine, thank you’ like she always does, but this time she’d be telling the truth.

Mum’s such a stickler for doing the right thing, it’s hard to believe she’d actually have an
actual extra-marital affair
. I remember all the fuss last year when our doctor had an affair with one of his patients, Mrs Johnson. When Mr Johnson found out, he stormed down to the surgery and punched Dr Harvey so hard in the face that he broke his nose. Dr Harvey and his family had to move away after that, because none of his patients would take their complaints to him any more. I sometimes see Mrs Johnson walking to the shops with a basket over her arm. She always looks like she’s about to cry. And she’s lost all her colour. She’s like an old pair of curtains, all washed out and faded. I feel sorry for her. It’s not her fault she married the wrong man before she fell in love with the right man. And now she has to be miserable for the rest of her life.

I glance sideways at Mum again. She’s got a faraway look in her eyes and she’s still stirring her tea like she’s forgotten what she’s doing. Everyone says it wrong for married people to have affairs, but it can’t be wrong for Mum to have some happiness for once in her life.

Dad’s staring at me. ‘Well?’ he barks. ‘Come on. What do you want? I haven’t got all day.’

I can’t give Mum away. Of course I can’t. So, instead I just ask, ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’

He frowns. ‘Give me a chance to bloody read it first,’ he snaps. He hides behind the pages again, like a grumpy old tortoise retreating into its shell.
Sod you
, I think. I jump up from the table.

‘I’ll do the dishes for you, Mum,’ I say.

‘Oh, bless you, Violet,’ she says. ‘I might go and put my feet up for a minute then.’

When I go into the front room later, she’s asleep in her chair. Her chin has dropped onto her chest and she’s whistling softly through her nose. Must be exhausting being in love at her age, I think. I look at her hands resting in her lap. I can’t believe they’ve touched another man’s face and held another man’s hands. It’s odd, but when I look at her now, I see two different people. There’s Mum, who’s always just been my mum, in her housecoat and slippers, with her arms in the sink or up to her elbows in flour. Mum, who still says ‘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.

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 corner at the end of the street. I hold back for another minute before I begin to follow her. It’s tricky, keeping her in sight and staying as far back as I can, all at the same time. But it’s exhilarating too; like riding on a roller coaster. My stomach lurches into my throat every time she slows her pace and I think she’s about to turn round.

She walks right down the High Street without even pretending that she thought the shops were open. Once, when she stops to cross the road, I dart into the doorway of Chester’s the grocer’s and stare through the window at the faded packets of Bird’s Custard powder.

The further away from home she gets, the faster Mum starts walking. The park’s right up ahead now. She starts to run, in little bursts, but then she checks herself, rolls her shoulders back and walks at a more dignified pace. She’s desperate to get to where she’s going, that’s for certain.

It’s easy to get closer to her, now we’re in the park. I slink into the trees and weave in and out of the shadows. I’m getting good at this private detective stuff. I even hear her panting a little as she hurries along the pathway towards the bench. I knew she was coming here. Stands to reason they have their own little meeting place, away from prying eyes. A secret tryst for secret lovers.

He’s already waiting for her. I flatten myself against a tree, then I take off my glasses and polish them on the sleeve of my anorak. I don’t want to miss a thing. The man stands up as Mum walks towards him and he holds out his arms to her. She walks right into them and he folds them around her. I forget for a moment to even look at him, I’m so stunned by the sight of Mum melting into the embrace of another man. But then they move apart, and as they turn to settle themselves on the bench, I see his face for the first time.

Bloody hell! I was expecting someone like Dad. Someone grey and battered around the edges. Someone old. This man’s not old. Not Dad old, anyway. He’s got a thick dark beard and dark hair that’s all messy and touching his shoulders. He’s got so much hair in fact, that there’s not a lot of face left to see. But I can tell he’s younger than Mum. Old people are blurry, smudged-out versions of their younger selves, but this man is solid and clear. He’s all shiny and bright like the front cover of a magazine. He’s not dressed like an old person either. He’s wearing a black donkey jacket and a pair of blue denim jeans.

They sit close together, like they did the last time, with their heads almost touching and their fingers entwined. I wish I had a listening device like a proper detective, so I could hear what they are saying to each other. Are they planning on running away together? Does he know about Dad? Does he know about me? And who is he anyway? Where the hell did Mum even meet him? She never goes anywhere.

Suddenly, I hear voices. I turn round, and there’s a couple with a pram walking along the path towards me. I step away from the tree. I don’t want to look like some weird Peeping Tom. I bend down quickly, pretending to look for something in the grass. The couple don’t even notice me. They’re too intent on babbling and cooing to the baby in the pram. I don’t recognise them. They’ve never been in the shop at least. Lucky for Mum, I think. How would she explain it if one of our customers saw her canoodling with another man in Battersea Park? I can’t understand why she meets him here. It’s not exactly hidden away.

I stand up again and peek around the tree. The couple with the pram are a way down the path now and Mum and the man are hugging each other again. At least, Mum has her face pressed against his shoulder and he has his arms around her. It looks like he’s comforting her or something. I’ve got that strange feeling again. I know it’s my mum over there, but this is the first time I’ve ever
really
seen her.

I shouldn’t be spying on her, I know that much. She’d die of shame and embarrassment if she knew I was here. I feel grubby. I want to go home and fill the sink with warm water and scrub myself all over with a flannel. And I want to get home before Dad wakes up. For some reason I don’t want him to be on his own when he finally stirs and grunts and opens his eyes. He deserves a cup of tea at least.

I steal a last glance at Mum. She’s dabbing her eyes with a hankie now. I’d love to know why she’s crying, but I can’t exactly ask her. Instead, I creep away, back towards the entrance to the park. There are more people milling around now. I nervously check their faces, hoping I don’t recognise any of them. Not for my sake, but for Mum’s. Luckily there’s no one familiar.

I can’t stop wondering why Mum’s crying though. I think about it logically. There can only be a certain number of reasons.

Whatever the reason, none of it looks too good for Mum.

I trudge the rest of the way home. I can’t believe that now, finally, when something so crazy, awful, exciting and terrible has happened, I’ve got no one to share it with. Now, when my life has been shaken up, stirred and turned completely upside down, there’s not one single person I can talk to about it all. A secret like this is a horrible thing to hold on to. It’s a life-changing secret; too big for one person to carry. I can already feel it filling me up to bursting point. I imagine myself growing bigger, my skin stretching as the secret inside me grows bigger. I imagine my head ballooning and my lips growing tighter and tighter as I struggle to keep the secret inside.

When I get home, Dad’s already awake. He’s sitting at the kitchen table sorting out his betting slips. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks. ‘And where’s your mother?’ He flicks his ash into a saucer and takes another drag on his fag.

‘I just went out for some fresh air,’ I say. ‘And I think Mum did too. ’Spect she’ll be back in a minute.’

Dad laughs. ‘Fresh air?’ he says. ‘What, in Battersea? You’ll be lucky.’ He pats his slips into a neat little pile and places them in the middle of the table then he grinds his fag out in the saucer. Mum’ll go mad. She hates it when he does that. It’s not like there isn’t a perfectly good ashtray on the windowsill. Dad yawns loudly and stretches his arms above his head.

‘Want a cuppa?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, go on then, love. Why not?’ he says.

As I fill the kettle, I picture Mum walking back up the road. I imagine she’s dried her eyes properly and taken a good few deep breaths. She’ll be dragging her feet, not wanting to come home but knowing that she has to. She’ll be preparing herself to tell Dad the terrible news. She might have her case packed and ready and hidden under the bed.

Or maybe not. Maybe she won’t say anything. Maybe she’s hoping that Dad’s still asleep, and she’s got a cover story ready just in case he’s not. I hope she doesn’t tell him she’s been to the shops. I hope she’s realised by now that was a stupid thing to say on a Wednesday.

I fill the teapot with boiling water and put it on the table to brew. Dad likes tea you can stand a spoon up in. I fetch his cup and the sugar bowl and put them in front of him. ‘Thanks, Vi,’ he says. He smiles and winks at me. He can be nice, Dad can, especially when it’s just the two of us. But I wish he wouldn’t be nice now. It makes this, waiting for Mum to come home bit, even harder. I feel like I’m waiting for a catastrophe to happen, for a bomb to explode in the middle of the house. I feel like all our lives are about to be blown to pieces and scattered all over Battersea.

But nothing happened. No explosion. No tears. No shouting, no screaming. Mum just walked through the door, took off her coat and scarf and poured herself a cup of tea. Dad didn’t even ask her where she’d been. For a moment I thought I’d imagined it all. Or that perhaps it was me that had been asleep in Dad’s armchair and I’d dreamed the whole thing. It didn’t seem possible, that after all I’d seen in the park, Mum could just stroll back into the house and pour herself a cup of tea as though the fact that she’d just met up with another man was the most ordinary thing in the world. She even yelled at Dad. ‘Frank! What have I told you about putting out these disgusting things in my saucers?’ She’d tut-tutted and stomped around the kitchen emptying Dad’s fag ends in the bin and rinsing the saucer under the tap.

And now, I’m standing behind the counter in the shop, slapping a piece of cod onto some newspaper and wondering what the bloody hell is wrong with my parents.

It’s busy for a Wednesday evening. Sometimes it goes like that. For no reason at all it’s like every other person in the neighbourhood suddenly fancies a fish supper. There’s a queue of customers snaking out of the door and as fast as Dad can fill the hot cupboard with freshly fried fish, I’m wrapping it up and handing it over the counter. Halfway through the evening, the demand starts to beat us and I have to apologise and tell everyone there’ll be a ten-minute wait. I rush out the back to grab another bucket of chips while Dad mixes up another batch of batter. Nobody seems to mind. A couple of customers wander outside for a smoke while the rest shuffle around chatting amongst themselves. I fill the chip fryer again and take off my glasses to polish the steam off with the bottom of my apron.

And that’s when I see him. At least I think it’s him. I quickly put my glasses back on and push the loose wisps of hair off my face. It’s definitely him. He’s standing outside, at the back of the queue, leaning casually against the window. My stomach does a small flip and begins to sizzle, like the pieces of cod that Dad’s just dropped in the fryer.

I knew he’d come back. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.

I begin to serve again and as the till rattles with shillings and sixpences, the queue begins to move. He’s in the shop now, and I serve people as fast as I can, until eventually he moves closer and closer to the front of the queue. ‘Hey. Violet,’ he says, at last. ‘Remember me?’

I nod, stupidly. How could I forget?

‘I wanted to settle up,’ he says. ‘And to say thanks again. You know. For the other night.’

I shrug. As though giving away free chips is something I do all the time.

‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Here’s what I owe. And another sixpence for tonight’s supper.’ He presses two coins into the centre of my palm. They’re still warm from where they’ve been in his pocket.

I clear my throat and begin to measure out his order. ‘Open or wrapped?’ I ask.

‘Open, I reckon,’ he says. ‘I’ll eat them while I’m waiting for you to finish, shall I?’

I’m not sure I’ve heard him right. But I feel my cheeks colouring anyway and I keep my head down as I douse his chips in salt and vinegar and fold the newspaper into a cone.

‘I’ll only wait if you want me to,’ he says.

I want to be all cool and nonchalant, as though boys asking to meet me after work happens all the time. Bloody cheek, I want to say. But instead, when I look up to give him his cone of chips, all I can manage is a croaky, ‘Yeah, okay.’

He grins at me and takes a bite from one of his chips. ‘Later, then,’ he says. His quiff flops into his eyes as he turns to walk out of the door and my heart flops around in my chest, like there’s nothing left to hold it in place any more. ‘Oh,’ says the boy, just before he disappears out the door. ‘My name’s Beau, by the way.’