Another Life Altogether (8 page)

IT WAS A FIVE-MINUTE
drive into the village, along a road bordered by thick hedgerows and grass verges speckled with the color of dandelions, daisies, and a variety of pink and purple flowers. The sky was massive, a billowing tent of gray. As my father drove, his silence punctuated every now and then with a weighty sigh, I peered through the rain-spattered windscreen at the shifting shapes of the dark clouds, the way the changing light transformed their boundaries, so that they pushed and merged into one another like waves. I imagined myself falling upward into all that gloom and radiance, flying like the swallows that had their nest in the eaves of our house, soaring, arms pushed behind me in a V-shaped arrow, to somewhere else.

“I think we should do a bit of shopping while we’re here, don’t you, love?” my father said as he parked. He pointed toward a little Co-op supermarket across the street. “We could do with a bit of food in the house.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. For the past several days we’d been
subsisting on baked beans, sardines, cheese, or tinned spaghetti on toast. Although I’d never been particularly fond of vegetables, even I was beginning to think at least having something green on my plate might not be such a bad idea.

I helped my father carry the clothes into the tiny launderette, the Midham Wash-It-All, push them into the machines, and place our coins in the slots. Then we dashed through the rain over to the Co-op and launched ourselves into the luster of tightly packed grocery shelves under flickering fluorescent lights.

I was quite excited to discover that Midham had a Co-op. The Coop gave out stamps for everything you bought. These you pasted into books and could redeem for a wonderful array of items—everything from tea cozies (two books) to toasters (fifty books) and portable televisions (three hundred books). Just over a year ago, my mother had started collecting Co-op stamps. In her initial frenzy, she’d filled twenty books in a matter of weeks. She’d decided to aim for the toaster, though I’d tried to persuade her to hold out for the television.

“You could give it to me for a birthday present,” I’d suggested. “Then I can watch the telly in my bedroom and I won’t be a bother to you and Dad.”

The way she’d refused even to acknowledge this proposal, however, implied that she had other things in mind. Indeed, she’d maintained a resolute commitment to the toaster and might well have made it were it not for my father finding out that she had taken to shopping at the Co-op almost every day, buying far more than we needed and stashing the excess under their bed. The discovery had come when he stubbed his toe on a tin of Heinz mulligatawny soup and bent down to discover that the entire floor there was occupied by an assortment of tins, packages, and boxes.

Following this, my father had decided that it was best if my mother took a break from doing the shopping. Soon he and I got into a routine of going together on Friday evenings when the Co-op in Hull had late-night closing and he could go after work. And, having inherited the
twenty-seven and a half books my mother had managed to fill, I was able to begin avidly saving for a portable television. Unfortunately, at the rate my father preferred to shop, I calculated that it would take me another five years. So I was constantly trying to buy more items, or at least more expensive ones, and each of our shopping trips became a battle between the two of us, with me surreptitiously trying to place things in the basket and my father taking them out.

During our trip to the Midham Co-op that evening, I spent much of my time trying to get my father to agree to buy a package of Mr. Kipling cream cakes. “We can’t afford them,” he answered wearily.

Both my mother and I loved the adverts for Mr. Kipling. They were set in pretty English cottages or on wide green lawns, the kind where people played croquet following afternoon tea. And they were narrated by a man with a voice that was warm and crumbly, and made you think of a fat Victoria Sponge Cake with jam oozing from its middle. “After all,” he’d say at the conclusion of every advertisement, “Mr. Kipling does make exceedingly good cakes.”

“Ooh, I could do with one of those and a nice cup of tea,” my mother would say, gazing longingly at the television screen. And, indeed, when she was in charge of the shopping we’d have Mr. Kipling cakes at least once a week. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it,” she’d say, unwrapping them from the cellophane and arranging them carefully on a plate. I’d gobble mine down in a matter of seconds, but my mother would relish hers, taking small slow bites, closing her eyes and rolling her mouth around their taste. I sometimes thought she looked at her happiest when she was smacking her lips and finishing off a Mr. Kipling custard tart.

“Please, Dad,” I begged, following him around the aisles as he stared glassy-eyed at rows of tinned button mushrooms and processed peas. “Just this once, can we have them? Please.”

“Stop whining, Jesse, and make yourself useful,” he said. “Go and get us some toilet paper, can you? We’re running out.” I returned carrying
a packet of Andrex Supersoft toilet tissue. “Not that,” my father said. “Costs a bloody arm and a leg. Get the Co-op brand.”

When my father and I approached the checkout counter, and I had failed to add one single item beyond those on my father’s list, I was feeling decidedly frustrated. Then I noticed a pyramid display of Mr. Kipling chocolate fingers, sited strategically at the end of the aisle, where all the shoppers queued to have their items rung up. They were even on special offer, at five pence off. “Dad,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“I bet those chocolate fingers are really tasty, don’t you?” I spoke cautiously, pointing at the towering triangular display. He sighed as he turned toward me, and I felt my heart sink, sure that he would deny me this one pleasure, and the extra Co-op stamps. But, to my surprise, when his eyes rested on the stack of cakes he seemed to consider them.

“You know, they’d be nice with a cup of tea, they would. I bet your mam would like them as well. Tell you what, get us a packet, Jesse, love.”

“Really?” I asked, a little incredulous.

“Yeah, why not?”

I could scarcely contain my excitement. An entire packet of Mr. Kipling cakes. I could imagine the delicious smell of the chocolate as I tore them from their wrappers, the spongy softness against my fingers as I put them on a plate, my mother’s delight when I set them out in front of her. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, and pulled at the packet nearest to me in the display.

Unfortunately, at that moment I was far too preoccupied with visualizing my parents and me sitting around the table devouring the cakes to consider the obvious consequences of my actions. I soon found out, however, when, having removed one of the packets close to the base of the Co-op’s nicely arranged pyramidal display, the whole thing came tumbling down, boxes of Mr. Kipling chocolate fingers hurling themselves onto my father and me and scattering over the floor in a wide and unruly mess.

“What on earth is going on?” Once the debris had settled, the woman at the checkout stood up. With massive shoulders, a broad face, and a short, fat neck, she reminded me of the female Russian shot-putters I’d seen while watching the Olympics on television.

“It was her,” a woman queuing in front of us said, pointing at me. “She knocked it down.”

“Did she, now?” the checkout woman said, peering over at me.

“It was an accident,” I said weakly, sheltering behind my father, who, much to my consternation, had so far failed to speak up for me. “I just wanted a packet of—”

“Is that child your responsibility?” the checkout woman asked as if she were referring to a troublesome pet.

“Yes, she’s my daughter,” my father answered sheepishly. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to—”

“Well,” she interrupted, “we’ve had plenty of trouble with teenagers. Juvenile delinquents, the lot of them. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll understand our policy, sir. Any trouble and we have to ban them from the shop.”

I looked beseechingly at my father. “Yes, well, I understand,” he said. “Seems like a reasonable policy.” And then he turned to me. “Go on, Jesse, why don’t you wait outside? I’ll not be long.”

“But it was an accident,” I protested, my face burning. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Outside,” he said, this time more firmly. “Do as the lady says.”

I hated him in that moment, for his unwillingness to stand up for me or for himself, for his desperation to not cause a scene. I turned, kicking a path through the scattered boxes and stomping across the tiled floor, until I reached the door and flung it open.

I stood in the middle of the street, waiting for him, not even bothering to seek shelter from the pouring rain. It seeped through my hair to my scalp, drizzled down my face, and worked over the collar of my raincoat to run down my neck. But I didn’t care as I stood staring into
the brightness of the Co-op window, willing my father to look over at me and witness my utter misery. “Are you all right?”

I wiped my eyes against my sleeve before turning around to face the girl standing a few feet away from me. She was dressed in knee-high black platform boots, a black leather bomber jacket, and a pencil skirt, the kind that had a slit in the back so you could walk in it without falling over. Standing under a wide red umbrella, she wore her blond hair flicked into two wings that sat at the sides of her face like pulledback curtains, shiny with hairspray. Her eyes, outlined in deep black eyeliner, were an unusual and stunning shade of green. Her eyelashes were dark and exceptionally long. Her lips were broad and full, and moist with pale pink gloss. She was beautiful.

“Waiting for someone?” Her voice was soft. As she spoke, she pressed her lips into a sympathetic smile.

“For my dad. He’s inside.” I pointed toward the Co-op. My father was standing next to the checkout lady, smiling as she rang up the groceries.

“You’re getting wet. Why don’t you come under here with me?” She gestured toward the shelter of her umbrella. “You’ll be a lot better off. You look like a drowned rat right now.” She let out a laugh, and I felt myself blush as I became aware of what a sight I must look. My face was probably red from crying, and my wet hair was plastered across my forehead and draped over my shoulders in sodden strands. I tried to push it back. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll dry out when you get home. But, really, you should come under here before you get worse. Come on, don’t be shy.”

I moved toward the girl and slipped under her umbrella.

“There, that’s better. Nice and cozy.” She sidled up close to me, and I found myself engulfed in the smell of damp leather and a musky perfume.

“Can you hold this for a sec?” she asked, handing me her umbrella.

I took it and watched as she rummaged around in one of her pockets, then brought out a packet of Benson & Hedges, shook out a cigarette, placed it in her mouth, and struck a match. The bristling smell of sulfur filled my nostrils, and as she held the flame to her cigarette she drew in a breath until it glowed orange, and dropped the match to the ground. She looked at me, smiling as she blew out the smoke in a sigh. For once, I found myself not minding cigarette smoke. Instead, I breathed it in avidly until I let out a harsh, spluttering cough. “You don’t smoke, do you?” she said, laughing.

“No,” I said, still coughing as I handed her umbrella back.

“Good thing,” she said, taking another drag. She held the cigarette between her index and middle fingers, and when she pulled it from her lips I noticed that the filter bore a pink imprint from her lip gloss. I looked at the spidery lines and wondered if the print of someone’s lips was as unique as a fingerprint. “How old are you, anyway?” she asked.

“Thirteen,” I said.

“I’m nearly sixteen. But people always tell me I look older.” She inhaled again and turned away, so that I could watch the stark silhouette of her profile as she pouted little puffy smoke rings into the air. “You think I look older than fifteen?” she asked, eyeing me sideways.

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “You look … You look just like a film star.” I knew I sounded stupid, but she made me think of all those old films I had watched on cold and rainy Sunday afternoons. My mother always sighed as she looked longingly at the men: Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Kirk Douglas, Victor Mature. But they always seemed stiff-jawed and graceless to me. I much preferred the women: Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Ingrid Bergman—their long, tilted necks, loose languid movements, thrown-out chests, their fierce and watery eyes. And the way they smoked, the plumes curling away from them, making their hot breaths visible, filling a room with their fire.

“You’re funny,” she said, slapping my arm gently. “Very funny.” She laughed, a big, delighted laugh that danced through the rainy evening
and bounced across the empty street. Just hearing it made a smile tug at the edges of my mouth. “So, what do they call you?” she asked. “Jesse,” I said. “Jesse Bennett.”

“Right,” she said, pausing to take another drag of her cigarette. “I’m Amanda.” She exhaled her name in a cloud of blue smoke. “Amanda,” I repeated. “That’s a nice name.”

“It’ll do.”

“Do you live here in Midham?”

“Afraid so. Up there, on the Primrose Housing Estate.” She nodded toward the end of the street. “Marigold Court.”

“I just moved here,” I said.

“Did you, now?”

“Yes, with my mum and dad. My dad wanted us to move out to the countryside. To … get away from things.”

“Well, he certainly did a good job of that. Not exactly the center of the universe round here, is it?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“But you know what, it could be worse,” she added, grinning and nudging me gently.

“Yes, that’s what I said to my mum. She’s not very happy here. But I told her—” I found myself wanting to confide in Amanda, to tell her something about my mother and about my family, about all the reasons I had found myself here.

“Oh, look, there he is.” She interrupted me to point across the street to where a blue Ford Cortina was pulling up. “That’s my boyfriend, Stan,” she said, dropping her cigarette to the wet pavement, where the shimmering orange end fizzed and died. “Normally he drives a motorbike, a dead-nice one. But, with the weather the way it is, he borrowed a mate’s car. He’s taking me to the pictures. Going to see some horror film.
Jaws.”
She made her eyes wide and gave a little shiver. “It’s supposed to be dead scary. Sorry I’ve got to go. And I’ve got to take my brolly.”