Forever Is Over (29 page)

Kelly was looking at me in a way I had never seen her look at me
before. Suspiciously.

“
You snuggled up to him, you kissed him, you even started having
sex with him for a bit. Do you want me to keep away from Richie
Billingham because you want him for yourself ?
”

“
Kelly, if he was the last man on earth and I was the last woman, I
would let the human race die out before I
’
d go anywhere near him.
”

It was raining. Where Kelly lived on Wigan Road was a fairly
busy main road, but thankfully not all that busy at 6am on a Saturday
morning. It was almost three miles from my house to Kelly
’
s so I had set
my alarm for five, stripped out of my pyjamas and into the designated
speedos, but then added a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a long
winter
’
s coat (despite it being summer it was a cold morning) before
heading off.

There are two pubs within half a mile of Kelly
’
s house,
“
The Ropers
Arms
”
and
“
The Windmill Inn
”
, I reached
“
The Windmill
”
first, so
when I got there, I nipped round the side, t
ook off all additional layers,
put them into a plastic bag and from the plastic bag, I withdrew a lacy,
white bra that I had stolen from the drawer next to my Mum
’
s bed.
Worryingly, I had mistakenly gone to my Dad
’
s side first and there were
condoms in his top drawer! Surely my Mum was too old to get pregnant
and surely she was too old to be having sex with my Dad! The Speedos
were
an old pair of
Jim
’
s. They were a bit small, but I took comfort in knowing this
would make my sleeping anaconda underneath look bigger. I left the
plastic bag at the side of the pub and headed up to Kelly
’
s, tying the bra
around my left thigh as I went, at no point had Kelly stated it was to be
worn on my chest.

Within two minutes, I was there. I knew exactly where they lived
and exactly which room was Kelly
’
s. I had spent many weekends in the
last two years, walking past, hoping to co-incidentally bump into her,
but had met with no success. The Watkinson
’
s house sloped down to
the road, so I went up the stairs on her front path and then stood below
the window of her bedroom, it was at the front of the house, which was
good, if it had been around the back I may have had a dog or the police
to contend with. Her curtains remained drawn, not a major shock given
the time. I picked up a couple of small stones from the pathway and
threw them at her window.

I waited a minute but the curtains did not twitch. Second time
around, I picked up a couple of bigger sto
nes, but they were still small
enough not to threaten the glass. I tossed them up gently but they still
made a hefty sound when they rapped against the pane. This time,
within twenty seconds, the curtains were pulled apart, the window
was opened and Kelly looked out with ruffled hair and a fluffy pink
dressing gown.

“
Good morning!
”
she croaked.

I wished I was up there, in her bedroom, rather than stood on the
wet grass, barefooted, making a fool of myself in the rain. I cleared my
throat and began to sing. I sang
“
A Small Fruit Song
”
by Al Stewart,
the song is probably about two minutes long, but the acoustic guitar
covers about the first ninety seconds,
which meant I only had to sing
for thirty seconds. Good job for all concerned as I can
’
t sing.
It was a
cringeful rendition, but sometimes it
’
s the destination that counts, not
the journey. Once I finished, Kelly shouted down,

“
Nice speedos, Richie! I haven
’
t a
clue what the song was but I like
the words! The singing wasn
’
t great but that doesn
’
t matter! Tomorrow,
wear the bra where it should be worn, not around your leg, the sight of
your nipples is too much for me at this time of the morning!
”

Did she mean
she was disgusted or turned on?
I wasn
’
t sure. I
started to head back down her path thinking I would like to see Kelly
Watkinson
’
s nipples any time of the day! I would like to see her nipples, her full breasts, her little tuft of blonde pubic hair (I visualised it as
being blonde and well groomed!), her smooth, silky bottom, her vagina,
I ached to see every inch of Kelly Watkinson
’
s body! I wasn
’
t standing
there, making an idiot of myself just for a laugh!
Just as I reached the bottom of the path, I noticed a taxi had pulled
up and a fierce looking woman stepped out. My first thought was that
she had missed her vocation in life, she should have been in Hollywood
as she could definitely have stolen the lead for
“
Throw Momma From The Train
”
.
She probably said her first thought which was directed at me with
vengeful eyes,

“
Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing on my
front path?
”

I could hear in the background Kelly
’
s window shutting and her
curtains being drawn.

“
I came to see Jemma, but I couldn
’
t wake her!
”

Jemma had caused me no end of trouble over the previous two years,
revenge was going to be sweet. I was more than happy to drop her in
the shit!

“
Have you been here all night, shagging my daughter?
”

Why did everyone always t
hink I had been shagging Jemma?
Even
Jemma!

“
No, I
’
ve just arrived.
”

“
Look at my face,
”
said the ugly woman who was obviously Mrs.
Watkinson,
“
does it look to you like I was born yesterday?
”

             
She didn
’
t. She looked like she was born around the same time as
Queen Victoria. Her breath smelt disgusting. I kept expecting some
green gas to ooze out when she spoke.

“
No, but I have just arrived!
”

“
I don
’
t believe you!
”
she then smiled which probably damaged her
looks still further as she had chipped, gold and black teeth mixed in
with normal ones. I guess she had run out of money for the dentists half
way through the job.

“
I hope you have been shagging her,
”
she continued,
“
about time
something put a smile on that miserable bitches face! That ugly boyfriend
doesn
’
t!
”

She looked at the bra around my thigh.

“
Is that her bra, is it? I bet she
’
s a kinky little minx, isn
’
t she? It runs
in the family!
”
If a captured soldier had to have a kinky sex session with this
woman during a time of conflict, I am sure the United Nations would go
after Britain for committing war crimes. I decided not to continue
the
conversation, I just ran off towards
“
The Windmill
”
like a scolded cat.
As I arrived back t
here, there was a stray mongrel
sniffing around my
clothes. It would have cocked its leg on them if I had arrived a second
later. One down, thirteen to go. I spent the walk home wondering how
that monster of a woman had managed to create perfection. Kelly was
like a pre-Raphaelite model which w
as a miracle as her Mum looked
like a Picasso. Life was strange, I tho
ught, as I walked back with my
Mum
’
s bra now being tested around my chest. Life was very strange
indeed!

Kelly never did re-arrange the date with Richie Billingham for the
following month. She told me she had a right go at him and despite his
protestations of innocence, she refused to take pity. I was relieved and
life moved on.

My
“
O
”
levels were largely unsurprisingly, convincingly failed and in
June 1987, I left Ormskirk Grammar School with a
“
B
”
in
“
O
”
Level Art,
a
“
C
”
in English Language, (Kelly said Vomit Breath would have got
an
“
A
”
in
“
Foul Language
”
!) and a CSE Grade One in Biology. Despite
the results, I somehow managed to fluke my way into a cashier
’
s job in
the Middlelands Bank in Ormskirk, on the proviso that I re-took my
Maths
“
O
”
level. I started in July and actually enjoyed the job, enjoyed
the interaction with adults and even managed to put some proper effort
in, when it came to studying for my Maths re-take. In November 1987,
I passed my Maths
“
O
”
level with a
“
B
”
. It was an unusual feeling,
feeling proud of myself and even stranger having other people, other
than Kelly, feeling proud of me too. Everyone at work was delighted for
me, in particular, Ray Walker, my
“
Branch Manager
”
, who had stayed
back after work to tutor me on any areas of the Maths syllabus I did
not understand. Ray even drove me to Hugh Baird College in Bootle
the day I sat the exam.

Ray was a kindhearted, gentle, educated man. He had started
working at the Middlelands as a Graduate Management Trainee, two
years earlier, having taken an Accountancy degree at Exeter University
and prior to that he had been privately educated at Merchant Taylors 
school in Crosby. Two months before I started, Ray had been made
“
Branch Manager
”
, he was only twenty three at the time and became
one of the youngest branch managers in the country. I was sure he would
go on to bigger and better things, so his interest in me was flattering.
Ray was almost seven years my senior, so initially I thought his interest
in me must be purely work related, but as the months passed it became
evident there was a romantic interest
too. Ray spent more time with
me than any of the other girls at work, called me into his office more,
complimented me more on my work performance and smiled at me in
a way that indicated there was a place in his heart for me.

One Friday night, just after my seventeenth birthday, everyone went
for a drink into Ormskirk after work. We used to go to the
“
Bowlers
”
which suited our mixed age group more than some of the other pubs I
typically frequented. I was also safe from
“
Vomit Breath
”
in there, as she
called it a
“
Yuppie
’
s Wine Bar
”
and refused to go in. Ray and I ended up
as the last two there as everyone else had partners and after a quick drink
or two, had headed home to their husbands, wives and partners. Ray
offered to walk me home, but we only made it fifty metres along before
he wrestled me into the layby next to
“
A Passage To India
”
, cornered me
against the wall, bumping my head slightly in the process and we had
our first kiss. It was a Billy McGregor type kiss rather than a
“
Phantom
Fucker
”
kiss, awkward and sloppy and hinting at a lack of experience on
Ray
’
s part. I wasn
’
t concerned by this though, I was just delighted that
someone of Ray
’
s intelligence, confidence and maturity was interested in
me. I was sure with practice his kissing would get better.