Читать книгу Happily Ever After - Harriet Evans - Страница 6

A Happy Ending for Me by Eleanor Bee

They laugh at me, the girls in the canteen,

But one day I will laugh at them.

Black boots jack boots they are everywhere

But I won’t wear them just because they are trendy.

Oh, you treacherous night,

Why won’t you take flight?

For I am like a little red spot that

That …

ELEANOR BEE PUT down her pen and sighed. She stretched her arms above her head, with the weary movement of one who is wrestling with her own Ulysses. Unfortunately, this action inadvertently caught her hand in the gleaming yellow headphones of her new Sony Walkman. The plastic case was yanked abruptly into the air, dangling in front of her face for a brief second before falling to the ground, with a loud crack.

‘Oh, no,’ Eleanor cried, talking to the floor in a tangle of long limbs, simultaneously pulling off her headphones and thus further entangling herself. ‘No!’

The sound of Voice of the Beehive’s ‘Don’t Call Me Baby’ from Now That’s What I Call Music 12 in her ears was abruptly silenced. The Walkman lay on the floor, the lid of the cassette player snapped off and lying several feet from her amongst a nest of dust and hair in the corner of the room. Eleanor picked it up and stared at it in despair. The door of the bedroom was ajar, and through it she could hear the sound of glasses clinking, cutlery scraping on plates. And raised voices.

‘You said you’d take her tomorrow, John. You did.’

‘I did not. That’s utter rubbish.’

‘You did. You just weren’t bloody listening, as per usual. It’s fine. I’ll take her.’

‘Not if you’re still in that state you won’t. God, if you could see yourself, Mandana –’

‘You sanctimonious shit. Listen –’

Eleanor jammed the headphones on again. Pressing her hands against her ears, she crawled across to the dusty corner and snatched the plastic tinted cover, brushing herself off as she stood up. She stared out of the window at the pale lemon evening sun, sliding into the clear blue sea. On the beach, the last few swimmers were coming out of the water. An intrepid band was building a fire, getting a barbecue ready, for this far north in August, the sun didn’t set till well after ten.

But Eleanor did not see the view or the people. She stared blindly at the rickety wooden path down to the sea and wondered if she should burst into the kitchen, tell them she didn’t want to go to Karen’s in Glasgow any more. But she was also afraid of interrupting them; she didn’t want to hear what they were saying to each other.

Mum’s dad had died, two weeks before they’d come to Skye. At first it hadn’t seemed like that big a deal. Eleanor felt bad about it but it was true. He lived in Nottingham and they lived in Sussex, and they hardly ever saw him and Mum’s mum. Mum didn’t get on with him and Eleanor and Rhodes had been to the house in Nottingham only twice. The first time he’d smelt of whisky and roared at them when they played in the tiny back garden. The second time he’d had a go at Mum, shouted and told her she was a disgrace. He’d smelt of whisky that time, too. (Eleanor hadn’t known what it was, but Rhodes had told her. He loved knowing everything she didn’t.) Their granny visited them in Sussex instead or saw them for day trips to London, which Eleanor loved, even though nowadays it was annoying Granny didn’t understand she was fourteen and didn’t want to go to babyish things like Madame Tussauds; she wanted to hang out by herself at Hyper Hyper and Kensington Market.

But Mum had been much more upset about Grandpa dying than Eleanor would have expected. Everyone’s parents argue, she reminded herself. Karen had said that last week, when Eleanor had cried all over her and said she didn’t want to go on holiday with her parents and her brother. Not like this, they don’t, Eleanor had wanted to say. She was so used to worrying about things – whether she would break her arm falling off the horse at gym, just like Moira at school, whether her mum or dad would die of a terrible disease, whether she herself was dying of a secret disease because she was sure her periods were heavier than everyone else’s, and the letter in Mizz magazine had said if you were worried about it you should definitely go to the doctor – all these things kept her awake at night, till her heart pounded and then she worried that her heart rate was too fast and would explode and she had never noticed that all of a sudden her parents seemed to hate each other. Suddenly something was, she knew, wrong, terribly wrong, and it was only when she played her music really loud or curled up on her bed with a book that the tide of fear seemed to recede, for a little while.

They’d had an OK day today. A walk along towards Talisker Bay where the whisky was made; Dad had told Rhodes he could try some at the distillery, since he was nearly eighteen. The air was fresh and clear, the sky was a perfect powder blue, the last of the midges really had gone, and Eleanor was almost glad to be out of her room for once, outside with her parents and her brother. Just like a normal family on a normal holiday.

The trouble had started today when they got back and there was frozen pizza for lunch. Dad had had a go at Mum because it wasn’t properly defrosted, soggy in the middle, and she’d shouted at him. Eleanor and Rhodes were used to this at home, but Dad was a GP who worked late and often didn’t notice the burnt pasta, the half-cooked chicken Kievs.

‘It’s disgusting,’ he’d said eventually, pushing the plate away. ‘I can’t eat it, Mandana. You should have defrosted it before we went for the walk.’

Mum was on her second glass of wine. ‘Right. Of course, it’s beyond the realm of possibility that you’d make lunch, John, isn’t it? It’s a holiday for me, too, I’ve had a bloody hard time and you don’t even—’

Dad had stood up, pushing the table away, and stalked off into the sitting room; he’d stayed there with the door shut, watching the cricket till Mandana had gone in to remind him about driving Eleanor the next day.

A knocking sound made Eleanor jump. Her mother opened the door, slowly. ‘Ellie, love?’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Eleanor took her headphones off. ‘I just –’

Mandana came into the room. She wiped her face with one hand, tiredly. ‘I’m sorry for the yelling. Just a misunderstanding, your dad didn’t realise about driving you, you see… .’

Adolescent rage, made up of anger and fear, boiled inside Eleanor. ‘I know, you didn’t ask him. You drank too much and forgot. Again.’

‘Ellie!’ her mother said sharply. ‘Don’t be rude. Of course I didn’t. It’s not that. Your father and I just aren’t getting on very well at the moment, that’s all.’

‘Are you going to get a divorce?’ Eleanor heard herself asking the question, and held her breath.

‘Love, of course not! What makes you think that?’ Mandana patted her soft dark hair, rather helplessly, and said before Eleanor could answer, ‘Anyway, I just wanted to apologise for all that noise. Daddy’ll take you to the station tomorrow, it’s no problem.’

Mandana’s voice was trembling, and her cheeks were flushed. Eleanor rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. ‘Why are you being like this?’

‘Like what?’ Mandana said.

‘You’re different since Grandpa died. I don’t understand, you always said you hated him.’

‘I didn’t really hate him,’ Mandana said. ‘I just feel bad. I never saw him. He was a sad man, and it makes me sad, and it makes me think about things. It’s just a hard time at the moment, that’s all.’

‘Why was he a sad man?’

‘Look,’ Mandana said, in the brisk way she sometimes suddenly had. ‘Just be ready, get your things ready. It’s …’ She trailed off. Eleanor stared at her mother. ‘Oh. I lost my train of thought, Ellie. Just be ready, won’t you?’

‘Don’t call me Ellie.’

‘OK,’ Mandana said, one hand on the door. ‘Supper’s soon. On our knees, we thought we’d watch a video tonight. Won’t that be fun? I’m making lasagne.’

It was pointless trying to talk to her. It was just pointless. ‘Fine,’ Eleanor said. ‘Thanks, Mum. See you in a bit. I’ll pack.’

‘Good. And – please don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be fine! You’re just a worrier, that’s your trouble. I think we should talk to Dr Hargreaves when we’re back. Maybe some cranial massage would help you.’

The door shut softly behind her, and Eleanor was left looking out of the window once more.

It’d be better at Karen’s – well, Karen’s granny’s – that was for sure. Only one more night and then she’d be there. She put the useless Walkman on the bed and hummed as she reached for her bag. She didn’t hear the door open again.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Rhodes, her seventeen-year-old brother, stood in front of the bed. ‘Why are you wearing your headphones with nothing plugged into them, you freak?’

Eleanor hugged herself. ‘Shut up, you spazmo. I’m packing, to go to Karen’s, not that it’s any of your business.’

‘You look like a freak.’

‘Wow, Rhodes, you’re so eloquent.’ Eleanor made a face.

Rhodes laughed. Eleanor didn’t say anything. She just shut her eyes and conjured up the image she liked best, that of her brother being slowly lowered into a pit of fire, screaming hoarsely, his eyes popping out, flesh starting to melt away, and her standing over him, nodding at the guard who asked, ‘Lower, madame?’

She liked that image. She had called on it more and more over the last year. There was also the one where Rhodes, chained up and begging for mercy, got sliced into bits by a gang. But this one was the best. She was in control.

‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Get off, Rhodes, it’s private.’ Eleanor lunged, but too late. Rhodes snatched up her open notebook. His eyes lit up, he scratched the back of his fuzzy brown hair in excitement.

‘Poetry!’ He laughed. ‘You’re writing … ha ha!’ He clutched his sides. ‘Ha! You’re writing poems! “They laugh at me, the girls in the canteen” – you bet they do, sis!’

‘I HATE YOU!!’ Eleanor shouted. ‘I hate you, you … you bastard bitch!’ She looked around for something to throw at him, and grabbed Forever Amber, which she was halfway through.

‘What’s it called?’ Rhodes peered at the top of the page. ‘“A Happy Ending for Me.” Ha! Ha ha ha!’ He bent over, and slapped his knees.

‘It’s a good title. What would you know, you div? You can hardly spell your own name, let alone write poetry.’ Eleanor was shaking with rage.

‘God, you take yourself so seriously, don’t you?’ Rhodes said, his pleasure almost manifest in the room, like a dancing devil behind him. ‘You think you’re better than me, just because you read books all day and moon around writing stupid poems. You don’t know anything about real life. You’ve never even snogged anyone, no boy’d go near you, unless they were gay, you look like a boy!’

‘I’m not even listening, Rhodes. I feel sorry for you,’ Eleanor said haughtily. She aimed the book at him. ‘I just really do.’

‘What does “A Happy Ending” mean then?’ Rhodes said. His eyes were bright, his pupils dilated, his breath short. Like he’d just won a race. ‘Come on.’

‘It’s called “A Happy Ending for Me”, and actually it’s—’

‘No. I’m not asking that. Do you know what a Happy Ending is? Have you heard of it?’ He laughed again.

‘You’re so weird, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’ Eleanor put the book down and stuck one finger up at her brother, which was about the rudest thing she knew how to do. ‘You’re such an idiot. You’re only being like this ’cause you’re upset about Mum and Dad.’

His face clouded over and his eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know anything,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not, so fuck off.’

‘No. Go away. I hate you.’

‘What a weirdo.’ Rhodes smiled. ‘A Happy Ending is when you wank someone off. Give them a happy ending. Yeah? Wanking. Rubbing my dick till I spunk.’ He grabbed his crotch. ‘Like Lucy Haines did to me, last month. That’s a happy ending. Oh, yeah.’ He smiled, and rocked his hips back and forth. ‘Oh, oh, oh, yeah.’

Eleanor didn’t know what to say, or where to start. She was silent. ‘You are disgusting,’ she said after a pause. ‘You are vile. Go away.’

Rhodes was still smiling. ‘I’m going. Happy endings. Mmmmm.’

‘Piss off.’

Eleanor slammed the door after him, then opened it and slammed it again, as hard as she could, and then she pushed the chair from the desk up against the handle and put her hand up to her mouth, clamping her lips together. She sorted her books into a pile: the Sylvia Plath poems, the Sylvia Plath biography, Forever Amber and a couple of spare books just in case so she didn’t have to resort to those stupid magazines like Just 17, 19 and Mizz. They riveted her as well as terrifying her, full of silly girls going on about boys and rubbing almond oil into your cuticles – she didn’t even know where cuticles were. It was so stupid, trying to pretend that silly stuff was part of real life, when real life was ugly and horrible, like Rhodes, like this house, like … everything.

She looked down at the poem. ‘A Happy Ending for Me’. She ripped the page out of her notebook and tore it into tiny pieces, her bottom lip sticking out as the tears she had pushed down inside her came up; and as she sank to the floor, Eleanor Bee hugged her knees and told herself that one day, it’d be OK. She’d be a grown-up, and she would have a happy ending. The nice sort. Happily ever after, with a house full of books, a video recorder to tape Neighbours and all the clothes she wanted from Dash and Next.

But even as she sat there, rocking herself, tears dropping freely onto her scabby knees, her dark fringe falling into her eyes, she knew that sounded stupid.

‘London eats up pretty girls, you know.’

‘Not me!’ she assured him triumphantly. ‘I’m not afraid!’

Kathleen Winsor, Forever Amber