Losing Nicola (7 page)

‘Sasha?' I could feel a blush surging up from my neck. My hands were sweaty. We weren't accustomed to calling grown-ups by their Christian names.

‘My real name is Alexander. Sasha is my pet name.' He rubbed his fingers down my arm and moved back from me.

Should I be calling my piano teacher by his pet name? It seemed wrong.

As I was leaving, he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘When shall you escort me to the public library, Miss Alice?'

Pulses jumped under my blouse. I felt sick and apprehensive, but at the same time, exhilarated. ‘Um . . . soon.' I was evasive. ‘I have to ask my mother.'

‘Very good.'

‘I'll tell you next lesson.'

‘I shall be waiting.'

When I woke each morning, it was no longer Orlando that I contemplated. All my life he had been my safe harbour, but now my guilty, undefined thoughts fluttered like coloured butterflies, the scarlet of strawberries, the pinky-yellow of honeysuckle, around the lonely shape of Sasha Elias.

O
rlando's attitude to Nicola was disconcerting. I could see that he not only disliked her, he feared her as well. It was the first time I had seen a breech in his armour of precocious self-confidence; to a certain extent, despite my own infatuation with her, I could understand his unease.

Fiona didn't like her, either.

‘I'd rather you didn't spend so much time with her,' she said one morning.

‘Why not?'

‘She's not a good influence.'

I didn't argue because I was reluctantly beginning to see that she was right, that my idol had feet of clay. Two days ago, Nicola had taken me into Woolworths and, under her tutelage, I had unwillingly shoplifted a lipstick, two biro pens and some sweets. These were hidden in the back of a drawer, weighing on my conscience more heavily than cannon balls. I didn't want them, couldn't possibly have brought myself to use them. I'd felt none of the elation that I could see in Nicola's face when we finally emerged into the High Street without attracting the attention of the store detectives who, Ava had told us many times, lurked in the aisles, masquerading as ordinary people with shopping bags, keeping an eye out for thieves, ready to clap them on the shoulder as they tried to get out of the store and drag them off to the police station. Even more terrifying was the thought of what Fiona would say if she ever found out.

‘And since we're on the subject,' she said, ‘I don't want to see you behaving the vulgar way she does, in front of your brothers, or anyone else.'

Again I was silent, well aware of what she meant. Nicola had an apparently careless way of standing or sitting which much later I would recognize in the provocative poses of the Balthus nymphets. More than once, I'd seen Bertram Yelland and even Gordon Parker, staring at the shadows visible under her short skirts. When we swam on the beach, she changed into her bathing costume with only the merest hint of modesty. Sometimes her towel fell down to show her top half; sometimes she would bend over to pull on her skirt, apparently without realizing that we could, if we cared to, see her naked buttocks. Julian, in particular, seemed to be transfixed by her lack of shame. Where the rest of us turned away in embarrassment, he stared openly, his hands folded at the top of his thighs, or with his knees drawn up.

None of these perceptions dimmed my admiration. ‘Can I have my hair cut like Nicola?' I asked one morning.

‘You're still a bit young.'

‘I'm almost twelve.'

‘Twelve?' Fiona said vaguely. ‘Goodness, yes, I suppose you are.'

‘And plaits are so babyish.'

‘Some of your other friends have plaits.'

‘Not Nicola.'

‘Hmmm . . .' she said drily. She didn't seem to see this as a recommendation.

Orlando, who'd been lounging in an armchair, moved in on my behalf. ‘If you think about it, though, Alice's plaits are such a bother to do,' he said, smooth as dripping. ‘You'd save a lot of time if you don't have to do them every morning.'

‘That's very true.'

‘So I
can
have them cut off?'

‘Let me think about it. I don't want you growing up too fast.'

When a couple of days later, Fiona agreed that I could go to Bette's Salon and have my hair cut short, I was ecstatic, although I felt a brief pang at the loss of my moments alone with my mother. The desire to enter what I perceived as Nicola's far more sophisticated world was too strong. I believed I would end up looking something like Nicola, that I would become a different shape, a different size, a better, prettier, more fascinating person at the snip of a pair of scissors. With my plaits gone, I too would emerge from my dumpy chrysalis and fly like a butterfly in little denim skirts and skimpy tops, charming everyone.

Enchanted as I was by Nicola, I had to admit that there was a more sinister side to her. Once, as we sat on the beach, idly throwing stones into the sea, she asked us what we were most afraid of. ‘I'm absolutely terrified of spiders, for instance,' she confided, gazing at us with wide eyes.

‘That's called arachnophobia,' said Orlando.

‘Oh, you're
so
clever, Orlando. I wish I was clever like you.'

‘Do you really?' He stared at her, one eyebrow raised.

‘Of course I do. I'd get top marks at school, and I wouldn't be afraid of anything, just like you.'

‘Who says I'm not afraid of things?'

‘Like what, then?'

‘Clowns,' I said, thoughtlessly. ‘You hate clowns.'

‘Clowns?' Nicola laughed. ‘You're afraid of
clowns
?'

‘Not afraid. I just think they're stupid.'

‘Isn't that the whole point of them?' said Charles.

‘What's there to hate about a clown?' Nicola persisted. ‘I mean, is it their big feet you don't like? Or those stupid bobbles they wear? Or is it their faces, all painted up, and those big slobbery lips?' There was a curious light in her eyes, a small smile on her face.

‘Nothing particular,' Orlando said. ‘I just don't like them.'

‘It's their faces, isn't it? Those awful white masks. Terrifying, I suppose, if you're frightened of that kind of thing.'

Orlando got up. His upper lip was sweaty as he stood looking down at her. ‘There's a money spider on the collar of your blouse,' he remarked.

She screamed, batting at her neck, twisting around in panic as though trying to shake the thing off.

‘Here, let me . . .' Julian bent close, pretending to examine her blouse. ‘I can't see anything. He's having you on.'

Orlando grinned brutally. The pebbles shifted under his feet as he turned to climb the shifting slopes of the beach. ‘I'm going to the library,' he said. ‘You want to come, Alice?'

‘Yes, go on, Alice,' said Nicola, her eyes vicious. ‘Go and be a little swot like him.'

I was torn. I could see how badly Orlando needed me to be on his side in the unspoken war between the two, but I wanted to stay with Nicola, be part of whatever hidden spell she exerted. ‘I'll stay here,' I muttered, not meeting his eye, knowing I was making the wrong decision, that by letting him down, I was letting down myself.

Although the rest of us were away at school, during term-time Nicola took the train every day to the grammar school, the school where Prunella Vane taught domestic science and Bella had recently started.

‘That girl's really awful.' Bella told us, half-admiringly, when we came home for the holidays. ‘She cheeks the teachers, and skips classes and all sorts of things.'

‘What do they say to her?'

‘Trouble is, she gets good marks in everything so there's not much they
can
say.'

‘Does she have lots of friends?' I asked jealously.

‘Sort of friends. There's a group she goes round with. But I don't know if they really like her.
I
don't,' said little Bella. ‘I saw her pinching money out of someone's blazer pocket one day. And another time, she was making fun of Sandra Holden in the meanest way, just because she's got sticky-out teeth. Your mother would be furious if she heard I'd done something like that.'

‘So would yours.'

‘Gosh, yes.'

I saw Nicola in action not long after that. ‘Ghastly lumpy old thing, isn't she?' she said to us one afternoon, as we sprawled on the green.

‘Who?'

‘Her. Look, over there. Old Fatty Vane.'

I looked down the road and there was Prunella, eating an ice cream and staring at the sea. Although I had no particular liking for her, I felt a need to protect her. ‘She's not so bad.'

‘If I was as fat as that, I'd kill myself,' Nicola said.

‘Why?' asked Orlando.

‘Because no one would look at her twice.'

‘You're looking at her. And you've looked at her before.'

‘No
man
, I mean.' said Nicola.

‘Do you want men to look at you?'

‘Of course I do.'

‘Aha . . . that explains it.'

The mockery in Orlando's voice seemed to sting her. ‘Explains what?'

‘Everything.'

Flushing, she turned to me. ‘Don't you want men to look at you, Alice?'

‘Not really.' I knew from Ava the perils of having men looking at you; that they were only after One Thing, though I was hazy about what that singular Thing might be. ‘Not at all, actually.'

‘Well,
I
do.'

‘As we've noticed.' Orlando's smile was white in his sunburned face. ‘We've seen it often enough.'

‘Seen what?'

‘How you get them to look at you.'

Currents were swirling here which I was suddenly aware might sweep us into waters too deep for us. Down the road, I saw Fiona emerge from our garden gate and wave in our direction. I jumped up, relieved. ‘Lunch time,' I said. ‘Come on, Orlando.'

A couple of days later, Nicola showed up with something wrapped in newspaper. As we settled ourselves into the shingle, she opened it. ‘Look,' she said, giggling.

‘What's that?' asked Charles. He and the other boys started sniggering as she held up a vast yellowing undergarment with suspenders dangling from it.

‘They're corsets.'

‘What're corsets?'

‘My grandmother wears them,' said David.

‘They're things that really really fat people wear to try and make themselves look thinner,' Nicola said.

‘Where on earth did you get them?' I asked.

‘Mum took me to a jumble sale and I saw them on a stall.' Nicola looked at us. ‘I thought I'd give them to Fatty Vane. Or you could do it, Alice.'

‘She's already got some,' I said.

‘Maybe she could use another pair. Make her look nice for her girlfriend.'

‘
Girl
friend?' said Julian.

‘Yeah. Surely you realized she's a lesbian.'

‘What's a lesbian?' asked Jeremy.

‘Someone who like girls.'

‘
I
like girls,' Charles said, leering.

‘Another woman, I mean.'

This was territory I didn't want to explore. I flicked a finger at the corsets. ‘Anyway, these are much too big,' I said. ‘Miss Vane's not
that
fat.'

‘It'd only be a joke.'

‘Not a very nice joke,' I said. ‘If you want to give them to her, do it yourself.' I felt hot and frightened. I wasn't used to challenging authority. Nor, despite the benign negligence with which we were brought up, were we accustomed to spite or nastiness. I could easily imagine Fiona's reaction if she knew what Nicola was proposing and how embarrassed and hurt Miss Vane would be.

‘Okey doke,' she said. ‘I will.' She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘Anybody want to come with me?'

Even the boys in her thrall were uneasy about administering such a direct insult to an adult. They kicked at the loose stones of the beach, coughed, stared about them. They were thinking of what their mothers would say if they were caught in such a piece of discourtesy.

‘God,' said Nicola, eventually. ‘You're all such wankers. I'll do it myself.'

And she did, because I watched her do it, go up to Miss Vane, put her head engagingly on one side, offer her the package. I saw, too, Miss Vane's shy smile of pleasure and wanted to run up, snatch it from her hands, throw the horrible corsets into the sea. But of course I didn't, and was punished later by seeing Miss Vane's face turn pale, her eyes water, the way she dropped the package into a litterbin. At that moment, I hated Nicola.

One afternoon, things took a different turn. After my music lesson, I came out of the gate of Number Seventeen to find them swinging on the bars across the road.

‘How's the Groper?' Nicola asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Hands everywhere,' said Nicola. ‘Or is it just with me?' She widened her eyes at me. ‘Maybe he likes them a bit more mature than you, Alice.'

‘How exactly are you defining mature?' asked Orlando, giving the word an ugly sneer. ‘Do you mean like
you
, Nicola?'

‘He's a pervert,' said Julian, glancing up at Mr Elias's open window. He feinted an elaborate shot with the golf putter he'd taken to carrying around, since he had started golf lessons earlier in the holidays.

‘What's perverted about him?' Blushing with embarrassment, I hoped he couldn't hear them. Was that him lurking up there, watching us from behind the dusty folds of crimson velvet?

‘He's a beastly Hun.' said Charles

‘A bloody Kraut,' Julian said daringly.

I'd never heard either of them use such words or express such sentiments. ‘You shouldn't say things like that,' I said. Thunderheads were building up in the distance, and the air danced and crackled with electricity. An equally powerful surge of energy arced dangerously between the seven of us. ‘He's a refugee.'