The Generation Game (10 page)

‘Thank you, Miss Parry. I feel better now.’

She cracks open a smile and her war mask slips, revealing the woman beneath.

‘Do you have children, Miss Parry?’ I ask. She is almost as surprised as I am at this sudden question.

‘Well, no, Philippa, actually I don’t. You see, Mr Parry died soon after we were married so no, I don’t have children, I’m sorry to say.’ And in that sentence I
learn so much about Miss Parry. She was actually Mrs Parry. She was married. A whole other life. The love of her life lost. She wanted children but never met another man to match Mr Parry. She will
never be a mother now, not with all that grey hair and the look of war in her eye.

‘But I have my cats, Philippa. And my nieces and nephews. And all of you children.’ As she says this, the whistle blows in the playground and there is a surge for the heavy front
door which bashes open under the tide of storm-troopers. Quiet conversation is no longer possible and Miss Parry raises her eyes heavenward. I do the same. And she smiles.

‘And what about you, Philippa? Have you heard from your mother?’

My cheeks burn at the mention of my mother. Tears swarm into my eyes but I beat them back, biting my lip. Miss Parry might have the body of a weak and feeble woman but she has the heart and
stomach of a librarian and there is no way I am going to let the side down by crying.

‘She’s in Canada, Miss Parry. She’s going to send for me when she has a bigger place.’

‘I see,’ she says, like she can indeed see all the way over the Atlantic Ocean. ‘And are you happy living in that sweet shop of yours?’

No-one has actually asked this question of me before so I take a few deep breaths to consider the state of my happiness. And yes, I have to say, I am happy. Happy enough.

‘Yes, Miss Parry.’

She laughs then. A surprisingly girlish laugh and offers another Rich Tea. ‘Watch the crumbs or we’ll be in trouble.’ She winks at me.

Ten minutes later I am back in class squashed next to Christopher Bennett on the carpet as we learn about high and low sounds. I listen to the voices around me. You can tell a lot about someone
from the sound of their voice. A mother’s voice should be as sweet and comforting as raspberry jam. I can’t clearly remember my mother’s voice – only the occasional echo
that I catch on waking up in the early morning, the same way I hear the gulls call or the waves break on the red sand of my town: you have to really listen to hear it. Wink has a voice that sounds
like she must’ve been a sword swallower at some point in her long and varied career. Bob has a hesitant voice – a cough in the middle of a sentence, a subordinate clause, a get-out
clause. Mandy Denning has a high voice like a baby bird. Christopher Bennett has the low gritty voice of a northern comedian on
Opportunity Knocks
. But Miss Parry has the perfect voice,
quiet and forceful and full of knowledge and tragedy. I try to recall her parting words to me outside the classroom door, where I had to leave her behind in order to go and sit cross-legged on the
carpet and endure the tumult of a badly-orchestrated music lesson. Her words: ‘I only come into school a few hours a week, you know. To keep things in check or there’d be anarchy. Come
and see me in the town centre library. That’s where I do my proper job. It’s about time you joined up and got your own library tickets.’

And then I remember Mother taking me there before I started school. When she felt educationally inclined. I remember Susan and Peter and Pat the dog who entered my literary world long before
Thing One and Thing Two. But I can’t remember if I was ever a member or where my library tickets could possibly be. In a secret corner? In the bin? Over the ocean in a small condominium
(flat) in Toronto, tucked up all forgotten about in my mother’s never-quite-empty purse?

So that’s what I do after school, while all the other children queue up on the corner for Mr Whippy ice cream. Patty minds the shop while I drag Bob down town with me and we both join the
library. I am beside myself with excitement to see so many books in one place and now I have the key to reading them all. And if I turn it, I might be able to make sense of my life. I might be able
to work out how to get my mother back.

Fran is back, a sheepish look on her rosy face because she’s the one who phoned him. Is she really allowed to do that? For all she knows, he could be a violent man. Not
just an idiot.

“He came,” I tell her.

“Did he?” she says, surprised. “I didn’t think he would. I mean, it sounded like he wanted to give you some space.”

“The Pacific Ocean wouldn’t be enough space.”

“Oh?” Fran says. “What’s happened now? I thought the baby would bring a truce.”

“Nothing happened. I didn’t see him. We didn’t see him. I just told him to go. Well, the nurse told him to go. I wanted to spit in his face.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Maybe tomorrow then.” And she looks at you lying there asleep in your crib. “You
should
let him see the baby.”

“Why?”

“He’s the father.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“I mean, maybe I will. But not yet. Not till I’ve sorted this feeding out. I can’t face him right now. I just can’t.”

And for once she’s beaten and says no more. But not for long, knowing Fran.

I am ten-years-old and, seeing as Helena is still adrift on another continent, it is left to Bob to celebrate the survival of my first decade, which he does in Bob-style by
giving me the present I most crave (a pogo stick) and hosting a thrown-together party for me at the shop.

My circle of friends has remained pretty much the same and they are all invited. They arrive bearing gifts of talcum powder and Avon soap-on-a-rope, dressed head-to-toe like Agnetha and Frida.
Here we are dancing to the Bay City Rollers in the living room. Bob hands out limeade and Twiglets, while Wink hogs the armchair over in the corner, knitting a wonky jumper, waiting for
Jim’ll Fix It
to come on. (She’s taken to watching our telly on a Saturday evening as we have colour and it is worth the trek up our stairs to see her two-dimensional heroes in
their full glory.)

The closest I have to a best friend is Cheryl who moved down from Solihull the summer before. She brought me some cherry flavour lip gloss which we apply extravagantly in the bathroom every ten
minutes.

‘So how come your mum’s not here?’ she asks, during one such application. ‘Is she still away?’

For although Cheryl is the girl I feel closest to, I don’t feel close enough to tell her about Helena’s disappearing act. Or the fact that I’ve only had five letters in three
years. So I’ve told her that my mother had to go away to care for a sick relative in Canada. It’s easier that way.

‘Yes, I say. She’s still away.’

Cheryl is nice because she never pushes any further than I want her to and she smells of Parma Violets. And because she asks me round to her house once a week for tea where we have normal family
suppers of goulash around the dining room table with her younger brother Darryl and her mum and dad. Her dad is normal and tousles my hair in a non-annoying way and has an accent like
Bernie’s. Somehow this makes me warm to Bernie so he and Auntie Sheila have also been invited to my party.

Auntie Sheila has drunk one too many gin and oranges and when Cheryl and I make our way back into the fray, we witness her pulling Bob onto the makeshift dance floor (the slightly-tacky
Axminster carpet) for a smooch to David Essex. Bernie breathes heavily on the sofa, his face slowly turning the colour of Sheila’s smudged red lipstick. As his wife wraps her arms around
Bob’s girth a little too tightly, Bernie struggles to his feet and cuts in. Only Sheila won’t have it.

‘Leave me alone,’ she slurs.

Bob immediately lets go of his dancing partner, throwing his hands up in the air as if this were a stick-up.

‘You’ve had enough, Sheila,’ Bernie announces in an authoritative manner so that Wink looks up from her knitting and the circle of friends stop dancing to David.

‘Yes, Bernie, you’re right,’Auntie Sheila says, surprisingly. ‘I have had enough. Enough of this marriage. I’m in love with Bob and I want a divorce.’

I haven’t thought about divorce in a long time but suddenly I remember a short man in a smart suit, with dark eyes and long fingers that fluttered over the keys of Lucas’ piano.
Surely Auntie Sheila doesn’t mean it? And I have this longing for Toni to come back from London (where she’s finished with ballet and taken up tea-making in an estate agents in
Hampstead). I even think sympathetically towards Terry for one brief moment until I remember he’s never had a kind word or deed for me. Where are they now? They should be here, doing
something to save their parents’ marriage.

I am slightly mortified as my fragile circle is staring open-mouthed at the
Play for Today
unravelling in front of them. Will their parents ever let them come here again?

Meanwhile Bob has gone green and sickly-looking like the time we caught the Dartmouth ferry. He didn’t anticipate this turn of events when he heard David Essex crooning (appropriately)
Hold Me Close
only a few minutes before. Bernie looks like he might be about to embark on his second heart attack and I consider dialling 999 and asking for an ambulance quick smart.

Wink, on the other hand, is more concerned that
Jim’ll Fix It
is about to start.

‘Take it somewhere else,’ she barks, echoing earlier days of being a barmaid in Catford. And with that, someone switches off the record player and people scatter from the room to
different parts of the maisonette.

‘This is what I call a party,’ says Cheryl, downing the last of her limeade and instantly deepening our friendship. A friendship I hope will carry me through my teenage years. I am
going to need it.

That night, lying in bed, I have lots of scenes to replay in my head. Lots of possible repercussions to think about. I feel I am on the cusp of the next stage of my life. Maybe
Bob will marry Auntie Sheila thereby making Toni some kind of step-sister. Maybe Bernie’s heart will finally get the better of him. Or maybe he’ll give his heart a second chance and
lose some weight (weight that he’s piled on since giving up the fags and booze and women). Maybe Bernie and Sheila will make a concerted effort to reach their silver wedding anniversary.
Maybe Wink will learn some manners. Maybe I will become the most popular girl at school, renowned for throwing the best parties. Maybe I will find my own happy family, a normal family like
Cheryl’s (though I could do without the younger brother). Or maybe, just maybe, despite the smallness of her condominium (flat) or the unwillingness of Orville Tupper, Helena will reclaim me.
(I’ve given up hope that my father will ever learn to read a map.)

In fact this is the last we see of Auntie Sheila for quite some time. She no longer calls in at the shop. Bob seems quite relieved at this outcome – as does Patty
who’s never got used to having Sheila’s beady eye on her. I miss Auntie Sheila. But I have Bob and Wink and Patty.

Patty has a boyfriend called Lugsy. He is very handsome despite his big ears. Fortunately for him he’s grown his hair long, like every young man in Torquay and on
Top of the Pops
,
so that his legendary ears are almost hidden and only a gust of wind reminds people why he collected his nickname.

Lugsy is the type of boyfriend I would like but I am only ten and boyfriends are a long way off. All the boys I know my age are only interested in Kevin Keegan and Choppers. I much prefer my
pogo stick because I can stay in the backyard with it and keep away from the holiday-makers who are currently clogging up the Bay. Cheryl and I steer clear of the boys in our class, though this
isn’t always possible as Christopher Bennett occasionally comes into the shop to buy cigarettes for his mum. He’s lost the green crust from his nostrils but there is still something
distasteful about him. Possibly the ridiculous hairstyle he’s recently acquired thanks to his mum’s Carmen rollers.

Lugsy has a motorbike and he picks up Patty from work everyday. Wink says they are living in Sin. I have no idea where that is, somewhere in Paignton maybe, but she sounds disapproving when she
says this. Surely Paignton isn’t that bad? And why Wink should disapprove of anyone with her colourful past is beyond me.

Now it is the summer holidays, Bob and Patty are so busy that even Lugsy comes in to roll up his (cheesecloth) sleeves and lend a helping (nicotine-stained) hand. Lugsy is probably Bob’s
only male friend in the world and, when there is a lull in the quest for
Herald Expresses
, they go out the back to smoke roll-ups together even though Bob doesn’t officially smoke.

I usually hang around the shop doing word searches or practising my pogo-ing in the yard while I wait for Cheryl’s mum to drop her off. We spend every day of the holidays together. Neither
of us go away because when you live in a seaside resort you tend to stay put all year round. Especially if you have a shop that does its best business in the season.

So we go to the pool at the Rainbow Hotel or down to the shops to look for cheap clothes. Or we make our way over to Cheryl’s for a Soda Stream and a game of Swingball. Now I have Cheryl,
Lucas seems a long way off. A little boy from a fairy tale. A speck of stardust.

The long days of summer are finally over and Patty takes me to BHS to kit me out with new school uniform. I’ve had a growth spurt, mainly upwards. No sign of the old
puppy fat (hurrah!) or of a reason to buy a bra (boo!).

I am to be a fourth year junior, the oldest in our school. Bob fills my new Adidas bag with his finest stationery and waves me off on a warm September morning.

Our new teacher, Miss Mills, is the most on-the-ball we’ve ever had. She is actually a friend of Miss (Mrs) Parry and she might well have ruled Scotland in a former life, beating the
English at Bannockburn on her way. She tells us this is the most important year of our lives so far (oh dear). In a few weeks we will sit the Eleven plus (which is a bit unfair as I am still only
ten). Those who pass will go up to the Grammar. Those who fail… well, they will have to go down to the Secondary Modern which isn’t as modern as it sounds but is definitely secondary
to the Grammar. One short exam that will divide our class forever into winners and losers, high achievers and drop-outs.