V for Violet (9 page)

I promise her. And I get the old feeling back for a minute. The old, ‘it’s Jackie and me for ever’ feeling.

‘He asked me to do it, Violet,’ she whispers. Then she puts her hand over her mouth like she shouldn’t have said what she said, and looks at me with wide eyes. ‘I’ve let him touch me,’ she says between her fingers. ‘You know. Down there.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Are you shocked?’ she asks.

I know what she’s telling me, of course I do. And I am shocked. I’m completely shocked, and I feel sick too – with jealousy. It’s another thing she’s done without me. ‘What was it like?’ I ask, before I can stop myself. ‘What will you do, you know, if he gets you pregnant?’

Jackie smiles a secret smile. ‘It was lovely,’ she says. ‘Better than I thought it would be. And I won’t get pregnant, cos if I decide to go the whole way, he’s got some of those French letters.’

Now I don’t know what she’s talking about. What the hell’s a French letter? But I don’t want to look stupid, so I just say, ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’

There’s a bit of an awkward silence. Then she asks me if I’m seeing anyone yet and I’ve half a mind to tell her about Beau. But I don’t even know his last name and he only held my hand. He didn’t even kiss me. And besides, he’s still too shadowy. I can’t let myself believe that he’s real yet and I’m scared that If I talk about him it’ll turn out that he’s just a figment of my imagination. So I tell Jackie that no, I’m not seeing anyone and she says that in that case I’ve got to go with her to the next Friday-night dance. ‘You can meet the girls from Garton’s properly this time. And …’ She winks. ‘I’ll introduce you to Colin.’

She gets up from the bed and begins to dance around the bedroom. She jerks her arms up and down and moves her hips from side to side like she’s trying to shake a tail. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Dance with me.’

I wish I could. But I feel too stiff and self-conscious. I can’t let go of myself like Jackie can. I think I’ve always been like that, but I’ve only really noticed since Jackie went off into the world and left me behind.

‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘It’s getting late.’

Brenda hugs me before I leave. ‘You know where we are,’ she says.

‘Let me know when I can come and meet Joseph,’ Jackie says. ‘And don’t forget the dance next Friday. No excuses!’ She winks at me, wriggles her hips and starts singing Helen Shapiro at me …
Walking back to happiness, woopah, oh, yeah, yeah …

As Jackie’s wriggling around, I see a glint of silver around her neck. I put my hand to my own throat and feel the silver V nestling there; our matching necklaces, the symbol of our friendship. And if Jackie hasn’t taken hers off, that must mean something.

I walk back home with Helen Shapiro singing in my head, but I don’t walk back to happiness. Just to Mum sitting on her own in the kitchen cradling a cup of tea. ‘Good of you to leave like that,’ she says in her best sarcastic voice. ‘You never even spoke two words to him.’

‘What did you expect?’ I say. ‘Happy families?’

‘Actually, yes,’ she snaps back. ‘That’s exactly what I expect.’ She digs around in her housecoat pocket, pulls out the piece of paper she’s been hiding there and shakes it in my face. ‘When I got this letter from Joseph, it was the happiest day of my life.’ Her voice cracks. ‘My boy’s back, Violet. My boy’s come home.’

I wish she wouldn’t cry. Not for him anyway. She might be a pain sometimes, but I don’t like to see her upset. I put my arm across her shoulder and try to comfort her. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I say. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘We should all be so happy,’ she sobs. ‘But your dad cares more about what people will think when they find out that Joseph deserted the army than the fact he’s alive! And you don’t seem to care at all.’

‘Mum …’ I say. I think about when I first saw her sitting on the bench in the park in her kingfisher-blue headscarf and her red lipstick. I remember how I felt when I saw her holding hands with a strange man. ‘You’ve got to give us more time to get used to it all,’ I say. ‘When I saw you in the park with Joseph, I thought he was your lover. I thought you were going to leave Dad and run away with another man!’

Instead of her laughing at the idea and telling me not to be so daft, she whips her head around to glare at me. ‘That’s disgusting, Violet,’ she spits. ‘How could you have thought such a thing? He’s your brother!’

She might as well have slapped me in the face. ‘He’s not my brother,’ I shout back at her. ‘He’s a stranger. And he lied to you for seventeen years.’ Mum’s face flushes. ‘You can’t make me love him,’ I say, before I slam out the room. ‘You can’t make me love a stranger.’

It’s Saturday. I’ve got a pocket full of pound notes and I’m sitting on the top deck of the number 49 on my way to Shepherd’s Bush. Mum decided to talk to me again this morning, after ignoring me all day yesterday. She told me that Joseph is staying in lodgings until things settle down a bit. Which means, until Dad can bear to look him in the face. I’m not sure he ever will though. I saw the photograph, still in its shattered frame, at the bottom of the bin. The telegram and the tortoiseshell frame have disappeared too. What’s the point in displaying a lie on the mantelpiece?

Mum also told me not to speak to strangers and to be home no later than three o’clock. They found that girl, you see. Joanne Thomas. They found her body yesterday. She hadn’t run off with her boyfriend and she wasn’t pregnant. It was much worse than that. She’d been raped and strangled. They found her in the old pump house in Battersea Park. Apparently someone had managed to break the lock on the door and drag her inside. When they’d finished with her they covered her body in dusty leaves and pieces of old brick that had fallen from the pump house walls. They hadn’t locked the door behind themselves though, and a dog (a spaniel they said) had pushed his way through the door and when his owner found him he was already chewing on one of Joanne’s shoes.

Now everyone’s freaking out. At the bus stop, the air was thick with snatches of gossip. Someone knew her mother and from all accounts she was a good girl; quiet and sensible. Someone else had another opinion. Her skirts were too short. And why was she out on her own at the funfair anyway? A girl of fifteen shouldn’t be out on her own in the evening. Have the police got any leads? Could the murderer be someone local? It couldn’t be, could it? No one around here would do such a thing. People seemed to be talking about it like they thought it was her fault. On and on they went.

I was glad when the bus arrived to shut them up. But I still can’t stop thinking about it. This sort of thing only happens to other people in other places. It doesn’t happen around the corner from where you live. But it has, and now everyone’s looking at everyone else in a different way and the funfair’s been closed and the only people out walking in the park now are the police.

I remember being at the pump house last Saturday. I remember feeling that something was wrong. And it was. Joanne’s body was already in there. There was a real ghost inside those walls. A Sleeping Beauty, asleep for ever. There’ll be no prince coming to wake Joanne up. I shudder. I think about how she must have looked; her blonde hair all tangled with leaves and twigs and her white skirt all muddied and ruined. I imagine what it was like in there. Did the rain find its way through the gaps in the bricks and spatter down on her cold skin? Was it quiet in there and dark? Or did the sun filter through the ivy-covered windows to warm her body and did the faraway voices of children in the playground and the screams of riders from the funfair keep her company while she was waiting patiently to be found?

A horrible thought crosses my mind. I can’t help it, but I’m thinking that at least Joanne will be remembered for ever now. Everybody knows her name and her photograph will be displayed pride of place on her parents’ mantelpiece.

I wonder if I saw the killer that day without knowing it. Was he wandering around, bold as brass, all pleased with himself and with what he had done? I think about Mr Harper, the park keeper, and how he gives everyone the creeps with his droopy skin and yellow teeth and the way he looks up girls’ skirts and always gets a funny look on his face if anyone kicks a ball where they shouldn’t. Did he murder Joanne? Did he do those awful things to her before he put his hands around her neck and squeezed until she had no breath left? Or was it someone else? Someone who works on the funfair? Someone whose face is so familiar that I wouldn’t even notice him?

I look around the top deck of the bus. He could be here now. He could be that man over there. The thin one sitting looking out of the window; the one with his hair cut so short you can see the pale skin of his scalp. Or he could be that one there with the bag of shopping on his lap or the one sitting opposite me chewing his fingernails. But it’s Mr Harper’s face I keep seeing. I’ve always known there was something not right about him. And I’m not usually wrong.

The bus pulls in and the cheery conductor announces we’ve arrived at Shepherd’s Bush. I push poor Joanne and Mr Harper from my mind as I jump off the bus on to the pavement. The market’s buzzing. I push through the crowds, past stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and others hung with colourful shirts and denim jeans, and more stacked with cheap jewellery and second-hand books. The air is vibrating with the shouts of market traders and the chatter of shoppers. There’s people spilling out of cafés and music blaring from open doorways. The air smells of fried bacon and new possibilities.

I wander up and down the market aisles with my hand in my pocket holding tight to the wad of pound notes. I spot the jackets on a stall way down the end. There are rows of them, black and gleaming like liquorice. The stall holder, a pale, stringy man with a neatly trimmed beard, looks me up and down as I finger the warm leather of the jacket nearest to me. ‘Don’t touch the goods unless you’re thinking of buying,’ he says sharply before turning his back. He clearly thinks I’m a fake and a time waster.

‘How much?’ I ask. That gets his attention and suddenly he can’t do enough for me. He stands in front of me and cocks his head to one side, sizing me up.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Try this one first.’ He slips a jacket from its hanger and hands it over to me. I take off my anorak and let it drop to the floor. I think of a snake shedding its skin. I look down at my old anorak, all shrivelled and washed out, and I kick it to one side. I slide my arms into the sleeves of the leather jacket. It’s heavier than I expected; I imagine it’s what a suit of armour must feel like.

‘No. Too big on your shoulders,’ the stallholder says. ‘Try this one.’

The next one is perfect. I know it as soon as it folds around me. It’s like it’s mine already. I smell the soapy warmth of the leather and listen to how it creaks when I bend my arms. ‘I’ll take this one,’ I say. It’s £9 8s, but I don’t even blink as I pull the notes from my pocket.

As I walk away, the stallholder calls after me. ‘Hey! You forgot your coat!’ He’s waving my anorak at me.

‘Keep it!’ I yell back. ‘It’s all yours!’

I love it. I love this new jacket. I feel different already. I don’t have to be a shrinking Violet any more; I can be whoever I want to be. I find a Boots the Chemist and spend ages choosing an eyeliner and a cake of mascara. After I’ve paid for them, I go to the underground public toilets on the Green. It stinks of bleach and stale pee down here and the big mirror over the sinks is cracked and stained. I polish a section with my sleeve until I can see my face staring back at me.

The eyeliner is in a small bottle with a tiny paintbrush. I take off my glasses and I carefully draw a thick line across each of my eyelids and add a little flick at the outer edges. I have to push my face really close to the mirror to be able to see properly. The lines are a bit wobbly, but not bad for a first attempt. Next, I spit on to the cake of mascara and mix it to a paste, then I brush the paste onto my lashes, top and bottom. I try not to blink until I’m sure it’s all dry.

I look like someone else now. Older, like a ‘don’t mess with me’ Rocker girl. Like the girls from Chelsea Bridge. But that might just be because I haven’t got my oh-so attractive, blue-rimmed National Health specs on. I shove them away in my pocket, because although everything’s a bit of a blur without them, at least my new look won’t be ruined.

Back out on the street I realise that as people walk past me, they actually notice me. Some of them even turn around for a second look. I don’t hurry along like I usually do. I don’t stare down at the pavement. I walk slowly, enjoying myself. It feels like I’ve got all the time in the world. I can go wherever I want, when I want, and I can hold my head up high. Nobody can touch me.

I saunter to the bus stop. I imagine being back on Chelsea Bridge. I imagine Beau standing next to me, being proud of how I fit in with everyone else. I imagine how the other girls there might talk to me again and tell me their names. I want to see Beau again so much now, that I’m scared I might never see him again.

A girl with pointy boobs and a tight skirt bumps into me as she wiggles past. I’m about to say sorry, when I realise I don’t have to any more. Instead I say, ‘Hey, watch where you’re going!’ She opens her mouth to protest, but when she sees my leather jacket she mumbles sorry to
me
instead.

All the bright, mad colours of Shepherd’s Bush whirl around me as I feel myself grow taller and stronger. I join the queue at the bus stop and tap my foot impatiently. I zip up my leather jacket, then unzip it again, enjoying the chunky sound of the metal teeth. Eventually the bus appears at the end of the road and everyone picks up their bags of shopping and shuffles forward. I find a window seat and pull some coins from my pocket to pay for the ticket. The conductor is joking with some passengers up front, so I gaze out of the window while I’m waiting for him and that’s why I don’t see the last passengers to board; the ones who were late and had to jump on the bus as it moved away from the stop.

That’s why it jolts me when, just as the conductor has torn a ticket off for me, someone from behind coughs and taps my shoulder. I turn around and my heart jumps into my throat when I see Joseph sitting there looking all smiley and pleased with himself.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was you. You look different.’

I turn around to face the front again, too shocked to reply. What the hell is he doing here? The bus judders, it’s slowing down, and for a moment I wonder if I should get off at the next stop. He taps me on the shoulder again. ‘Violet?’

I freeze.

He leans forward to whisper into my ear. ‘Violet. Please? Why won’t you talk to me?’ His breath is hot and smells of onions.

The bus stops. I could get off right now. There’s no reason why I can’t. I could jump off at the last minute and run for it. He wouldn’t chase me, would he? It would look bad if he did that, and someone would stop him.

But I don’t jump off. The old Violet would have done. But the new Violet is better than that. The new Violet is ready for anything. Passengers get off and others get on. There’s an empty seat next to me now. I hold my breath. Then, as the bus starts rolling again, he does what I knew he would and he slides into the empty seat. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he says.

I shrug.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. I … I was hoping we could talk. Go somewhere maybe? We could get a coffee or something?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to be back by three.’

He flips his wrist to look at his watch. ‘It’s only half one,’ he says. ‘Come on.’ He nudges me gently. ‘Let me buy you a coffee and I can get to know my little sister.’

‘Bit late, don’t you think?’ I snap back. ‘I’m hardly little any more.’

‘Look,’ he says. ‘I know this has all been a huge shock … and with Dad being how he is … it’s not easy. But it hasn’t exactly been easy for me either, you know. Please, Violet. At least give me a chance to explain.’

He’s wringing his hands in his lap. His skin is brown and dusty and there’s a couple of scars, like white scratches, on the backs of his hands. There’s dirt under his nails and a thick gold band on his finger. ‘Are you married?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says.

I point to his finger. ‘What’s the ring for then?’

He twists the ring round and round, but doesn’t say anything.

‘You’re not divorced, are you?’ I ask, adding it to the growing list of dirty words about him in my head. Deserter, liar, coward, divorcee …

He laughs, like it was a stupid question. ‘No. I’m not divorced. It’s just complicated, that’s all.’ The bus judders and pulls over to the next stop. ‘Come on,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘A quick coffee?’

I follow him off the bus and we walk in silence along Old Brompton Road. He swings his arms like he’s marching. We come to a buzzy little café with tables on the pavement covered in red and white check cloths. ‘This okay?’ he asks. We sit at a table and I fiddle with a plastic rose that’s been stuck into a green glass bottle as a table decoration. A waitress comes and Joseph orders two coffees. He chews his fingernails and taps his feet as we wait. When the coffee arrives he offers me the sugar first and then we stir our drinks like stirring is going out of fashion. After a while, when the silence between us is so tight it’s painful, he clears his throat.

‘Okay, Violet,’ he says. ‘Ask away. Ask me anything you want.’

There’s only one thing I really want to know. I look at him and he looks back at me. There’s no twinkling stars in his eyes any more and the skin around them is crepey and grey. He doesn’t look like he’s slept since 1944. I think of the photograph that was on the mantelpiece my whole life, the photograph of the shiny young boy, that’s now in the bin, probably covered in eggshells and tea leaves. The photograph of the boy I could never be better than, no matter how hard I tried. The photograph that was, as it turns out, just a big, fat lie.

‘Were you ever a hero?’ I ask him. ‘Even for just a second?’

He looks at me for a long time, then shakes his head. ‘I never wanted to be a hero, Violet. I just wanted to live.’ He digs a cigarette from out of his pocket and I watch as it takes him three matches to light it. ‘I was a welder before the war,’ he says, as smoke trickles from his nostrils. ‘Did Mum and Dad ever tell you that? I used to work in the chippie, but Mum wanted something better for me. Dad wasn’t too happy at first, but in the end even he agreed that he wanted his son to do more with his life than he had. I was glad about that. I had plans, you see. I was going to get my own garage one day, earn a good living, save some money. Then I was going to get out of London. Go to Kent or somewhere and see if I could rent a piece of land. I wanted to grow my own crops, keep some cows. Be a farmer of sorts. Does that surprise you? But then the war came and planted a black full-stop right in the middle of it all.