from the garage on Results day.
‘I don’t know if I want to or not,’ I whimpered, the tears starting.
‘For God’s sake, don’t lay this guilt on me now,’ he shouted, throwing up his hands in a way I’d seen Poll do.
With a tremendous effort of will, I stopped crying. ‘I’m all right. I’m fine. Shall I take out those loose threads for you?’ There was the ghost of a rectangle fringed with orange cotton across his kneecap.
He shrugged. I leaned across and began to pinch out the threads one by one.
‘Don’t get in a state, though,’ he said when he saw I’d got myself under control. I tried to smile. ‘Because we need to look after this baby.’
Notice he didn’t say anything about looking after me.
After Vince and I came back, that Tuesday, I fled upstairs to Roger’s room to have a good weep. But the door was locked, and I could hear Poll sobbing her little shrew heart out behind it.
*
So I took the money sharpish, and went off to Bolton to spend it on normal-girl clothes. Half at the back of my mind, and slimmer than a shadow on a cloudy day, was the idea that maybe, if I found the right outfit, I would go to Donna’s do.
I wasn’t allowed to go into town by myself till I was sixteen. Poll thought it was too risky and I wasn’t bothered enough to argue. If I wanted something from the shops, e.g. chocolate or books, I could walk up the hill into the village, or down into Harrop, which is the smallest town in the universe probably. Serious catch-a-bus shopping I associated with crashing boredom; trailing after Poll while she held packets, boxes, labels up to the light and demanded to know what was in the small print. Selecting the right coins for her out of her tatty old purse. Flashing looks of apology at the staff she was rude to.
‘Can’t you see I’m partially blind?’
‘Yes, madam, but you still can’t bring back soap if you’ve used it.’
‘It’s not on, this, it in’t. I’m nearly seventy, you know.’
But once I’d got my GCSEs it mysteriously became safe to get on the 214 alone, as long as I didn’t sit next to any men. This sudden change might have had something to do with the fact that Poll urgently needed me to go and see about a new gas cooker, but she was laid up with flu at the time and Dogman had gone to Barmouth for a week. ‘Stop mithering,’ she’d croaked through the big white hanky. ‘I’ve written it all down for you.’ Huge biro capitals dancing between the lines on my jotter. ‘What can possibly go wrong?’ And even though that afternoon there’d been a bomb scare and all round Boots was cordoned off, and then I’d got stuck in a crowd of Bolton Wanderers supporters singing swear-songs, I came home in one piece.
You can’t get much new for thirty quid, but there’s good pickings to be had in charity shops. I found another ankle-length stretchy skirt, black with grey flowers on it, and a long black blouse with white collar and cuffs. ‘That suits you,’ the woman behind the counter said unexpectedly when I stepped out of the cubicle to get a better view in the mirror. I went scarlet and dragged the curtain back across. Beneath the hem of the skirt my brown school shoes stuck out. It’s hard work, reinventing yourself.
Next I went to Debenhams to see what they had in their footwear department, just on the off-chance they were giving away the ultimate pair of solve-your-wardrobe shoes for twenty-one pounds.
I wandered past the make-up and perfume counters, and noticed how many cosmetics are named after things you eat. Grape, candy, toffee, vanilla, I counted off. Cherry, fudge, cinnamon. Clever marketing, that; your teenage girl’s so busy trying to avoid real food she’ll run a mile from a proper toffee, but she’s still greedy for the idea of one. I’ve seen these girls, thin as whippets, inhaling choc-mint lipgloss like it was cocaine.
Even the mascara was called Liquorice. I picked one up and read the blurb along the side.
‘I don’t know if I want to or not,’ I whimpered, the tears starting.
‘For God’s sake, don’t lay this guilt on me now,’ he shouted, throwing up his hands in a way I’d seen Poll do.
With a tremendous effort of will, I stopped crying. ‘I’m all right. I’m fine. Shall I take out those loose threads for you?’ There was the ghost of a rectangle fringed with orange cotton across his kneecap.
He shrugged. I leaned across and began to pinch out the threads one by one.
‘Don’t get in a state, though,’ he said when he saw I’d got myself under control. I tried to smile. ‘Because we need to look after this baby.’
Notice he didn’t say anything about looking after me.
After Vince and I came back, that Tuesday, I fled upstairs to Roger’s room to have a good weep. But the door was locked, and I could hear Poll sobbing her little shrew heart out behind it.
*
So I took the money sharpish, and went off to Bolton to spend it on normal-girl clothes. Half at the back of my mind, and slimmer than a shadow on a cloudy day, was the idea that maybe, if I found the right outfit, I would go to Donna’s do.
I wasn’t allowed to go into town by myself till I was sixteen. Poll thought it was too risky and I wasn’t bothered enough to argue. If I wanted something from the shops, e.g. chocolate or books, I could walk up the hill into the village, or down into Harrop, which is the smallest town in the universe probably. Serious catch-a-bus shopping I associated with crashing boredom; trailing after Poll while she held packets, boxes, labels up to the light and demanded to know what was in the small print. Selecting the right coins for her out of her tatty old purse. Flashing looks of apology at the staff she was rude to.
‘Can’t you see I’m partially blind?’
‘Yes, madam, but you still can’t bring back soap if you’ve used it.’
‘It’s not on, this, it in’t. I’m nearly seventy, you know.’
But once I’d got my GCSEs it mysteriously became safe to get on the 214 alone, as long as I didn’t sit next to any men. This sudden change might have had something to do with the fact that Poll urgently needed me to go and see about a new gas cooker, but she was laid up with flu at the time and Dogman had gone to Barmouth for a week. ‘Stop mithering,’ she’d croaked through the big white hanky. ‘I’ve written it all down for you.’ Huge biro capitals dancing between the lines on my jotter. ‘What can possibly go wrong?’ And even though that afternoon there’d been a bomb scare and all round Boots was cordoned off, and then I’d got stuck in a crowd of Bolton Wanderers supporters singing swear-songs, I came home in one piece.
You can’t get much new for thirty quid, but there’s good pickings to be had in charity shops. I found another ankle-length stretchy skirt, black with grey flowers on it, and a long black blouse with white collar and cuffs. ‘That suits you,’ the woman behind the counter said unexpectedly when I stepped out of the cubicle to get a better view in the mirror. I went scarlet and dragged the curtain back across. Beneath the hem of the skirt my brown school shoes stuck out. It’s hard work, reinventing yourself.
Next I went to Debenhams to see what they had in their footwear department, just on the off-chance they were giving away the ultimate pair of solve-your-wardrobe shoes for twenty-one pounds.
I wandered past the make-up and perfume counters, and noticed how many cosmetics are named after things you eat. Grape, candy, toffee, vanilla, I counted off. Cherry, fudge, cinnamon. Clever marketing, that; your teenage girl’s so busy trying to avoid real food she’ll run a mile from a proper toffee, but she’s still greedy for the idea of one. I’ve seen these girls, thin as whippets, inhaling choc-mint lipgloss like it was cocaine.
Even the mascara was called Liquorice. I picked one up and read the blurb along the side.
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