Читать книгу By the Time You Read This - Lola Jaye - Страница 7

Did you know…? While England won the World Cup, Kevin scored (kissed) a girl for the very first time.

The morning of the Saturday before my thirteenth birthday, I peered out of the window to see the Bingo Caller helping Mum into the back seat of his car, her hand on her tummy. I went back to sleep and awoke to the sound of the front door being banged almost off its hinges. I smiled.

‘Get up, you lazy thing!’ shouted Carla as I opened the door. She was dressed in a pretty little baby-doll dress I could never wear, (not with my bandy looking legs) and huge trendy boots. ‘Change of plan. Your birthday party’s gonna be at our house!’

Apparently, Mum had called from wherever it was she and the Bingo Caller had gone and requested my thirteenth birthday party be shifted next door to Carla’s.

‘Charming!’ I remarked.

‘Is your mum all right? My mum wouldn’t tell me what was going on.’

‘Probably had something better to do,’ I said, feeling a little put out, but hoping she had a good reason for her missing my thirteenth birthday.

Looking around next door’s tiny kitchen – which was almost identical to ours, but filled with pictures of the family and with Corey’s huge smelly trainers by the entrance – it was clear a lot of effort had been made. Tiny cupcakes (soon to be decorated with hundreds and thousands) were baking in the oven; a wonky stool with dusty footprints was evidence of someone having placed colourful streamers on to the wall. A few friends from my school were invited (with Carla’s help), along with Corey’s mates, assuring a good turnout (even though I still doubted whether anyone would actually show up). Carla’s mum forced a red bow onto my head, even though I’d insisted on wearing jeans and not a dress. But for once I decided not to mind because it was my thirteenth birthday. The biggy.

Mum rang just before the first lot of party guests arrived.

‘I’m really sorry I can’t be there, darlin’.’

‘So, why can’t you come?’

‘You know what it’s like with flu. Thought I’d stay away so I didn’t spread it around.’

‘The flu? I never heard you coughing last night?’

‘It must have started during the, erm, night.’

I shrugged off Mum’s explanation. Besides, I had Dad now, who’d cared enough to write to me every birthday. ‘That’s okay, Mum. You get over the flu.’

‘Really sorry, Lois.’

‘Don’t worry. I have everything I need here,’ I whispered to myself.

‘Never mind, though, your actual birthday isn’t until Monday. I’ll make sure I’m there for that. Okay, darlin’?’

‘Mum, I have to go now. People are arriving.’

She started to mumble something as I replaced the receiver.

People began to trickle in quite slowly. And quietly. No one saying a blimmin’ word. There was the odd sound of a leg tapping against a chair as guests basically gazed at each other, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to utter anything mildly witty. The silence was deafening and my life flashed before me – grand confirmation of my big fat L of a Loser status at school. But just as I thought the party was more than over, Carla’s mum turned up the record player and began to move expertly to the fast melodies of ‘Motownphilly’ by Boyz II Men, complete with tube dress and a group of lustful eyes belonging to Corey’s mates. Soon, others followed. My initial fear of mass yawns and exits evaporated and I was free to find the loo to let out nothing but a sigh of relief.

I shut the loo door behind me just as Carla’s mum, still on the ‘dance floor’, proclaimed it was indeed Hammertime!

‘Lo Bag, where have you been?’ asked Corey, sounding like an old man. Voice all deep, as I shut the loo door behind me.

‘In the bog of course!’ I shook my head to this silly question, itching to return to my guests and new friends.

‘I…erm…wanted to give you your present.’

‘Your mum’s already done that!’ I replied. A roar of laughter escaped from the living room and I longed to be among the joviality and not stuck with Corey the Moron outside the toilet.

‘When?’ he asked with a puzzled look.

‘What do you think all this is about?’ I said, gesticulating wildly towards my new pair of stone-washed jeans. ‘And the party!’ The kid had been hanging around with his mates too long it seemed.

‘Oh! So what did your mum get you?’

‘A puffa jacket! I told you she gave it to me weeks ago! Look, this isn’t the time to annoy me, Corey!’

‘I’m not…I don’t want to annoy you. I wanted to give you this.’ He produced a square package hastily wrapped in what looked like Christmas paper. ‘Sorry, we didn’t have any birthday wrapping left.’ He thrust the tiny item into my palm. ‘From me.’

Before I could say thanks, he’d walked off. So I opened the present to reveal LL Cool J’s ‘Mama Said Knock You Out’ album on tape. Wow! My feet were already tapping to the beat of my favourite track. The one album I’d been after for months but Mum wouldn’t let me buy (because it was rap music) and Corey had just handed it to me! Carla must have told him, I reasoned, along with wondering why Corey would save up his pocket money to buy me a present. The same Corey who up until about a month ago pulled my hair, farted in my face and called me all sorts of silly names. I thought nothing more as I rejoined the others on the ‘dance floor’ and launched into Lois’s very own awkward and stiff dance routine.

For the next week, I was on a high. I stood in the dinner queue, constantly greeted with invisible high-fives from girls who’d never even burped in my direction before. It would seem my party remained on the lips of almost everyone in my year, which unfortunately included Sharlene Rockingham, who cornered me behind the science block as I raced to Maths.

‘Why didn’t I get an invite to your poxy little party, then?’ she asked gruffly.

‘Why should I have invited you?’ I replied. It seemed to slip out before I’d a chance to really think about it as Dad’s advice pounded against the wall of my head, desperate to get in.

‘You think you’re better than me, don’t you, Lois?’

‘No,’ I moaned, a little cheesed off that my week of glory was about to be soured. I inched away, trying hard not to look like a ‘wimp’ but without being too ‘smart’ about things.

‘I’m gonna be late, so I’ll, er, see you…’ I said pathetically.

Sharlene’s eyes narrowed with evil. ‘Yep. You will.’

On the morning of my actual thirteenth birthday, I opened up The Manual.

Happy Birthday baby!

You’re now officially a teenager. From now on, every time there’s a Y in the day of the week you’ll be thinking ‘I’m not a child any more, damn it! I’m a grown-up!’ while at the same time being scared to death (sorry) of becoming one.

I suppose you are a grown-up – almost. And let’s just say, the lads will also be noticing how grown up you’ve become. They’ll start staring at your chest whenever they speak to you for a start (I’ll give you a few seconds to pick your jaw up from the floor in total embarrassment)…

Yes, I did feel a little flushed with embarrassment, but read on.

Actually, I’ll come back to the boy bit later. (This is hard for me too, you know.)

Right now, let’s go back to another subject.

Friends.

They’re becoming more important to you now and you probably hate your mother.

Give her a break, though. Please. It couldn’t have been easy picking up the pieces when I left. She’d never much liked being alone. It wouldn’t surprise me if by now she’s found another bloke to spend time with. I expect that. Please don’t give her a hard time for it, though, cut her some slack, Lowey. She’s a good woman.

I slapped the manual shut, remembering Mum’s sudden bout of flu during my birthday party. I was still angry with her and no amount of words from Dad could change that. Part of me was pleased to know he forgave her for hooking up with the Bingo Caller, though, and perhaps I could try to like him… even if I did think the man was a Tosser.

During the next few weeks, I attempted to be civil towards the Bingo Caller.

‘Thanks for trying with him,’ said Mum, who’d obviously noticed the change in me. General politeness, helping to wash his car; I became the model stepchild.

‘Thanks, Lois,’ he said one Saturday afternoon, right after I’d helped clear the shed – a job I’d been putting off for weeks.

‘For what? It’s only a shed.’

‘The effort you’ve made. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed, because it hasn’t.’

I wasn’t about to move in for a hug but did manage a quiet ‘Thanks’.

But, of course, in true Mum fashion she had to go and spoil things one Sunday, right after I’d just reread some of Dad’s entries.

Strike one: She entered my room without knocking.

‘I’m really, really pleased you’re both getting on!’ she squealed as I discreetly slid The Manual under my bed.

Strike two: She sat on my bed – again, uninvited, and almost squashing the one-eyed teddy.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said.

She had a strange, overly smiling face that reminded me of those loonies outside the mental hospital two streets away from the dentist.

‘Okay…’ I urged.

‘Things are a lot better between us all…you know…?’

‘They’re all right,’ I replied, as my mind shifted to more important things, like whether Carla and Corey wanted to go down to the rec.

‘That’s what I thought. So I wondered if…’

‘What?’

‘If you should think about calling him Dad?’

Strike three.

‘Lois?’

Silence.

‘Lois?’

‘I heard, Mum.’

‘How about it, then?’

Tempted to pour a whole tub of washing-up liquid into my ear just to check I’d heard right, I replied with a calmness that contradicted the rage fizzing up inside of me. ‘I already have a dad.’

‘I know.’

‘Well then…’ I jumped off my bed, not wanting to be involved in any segment of this pointless discussion.

‘I know, but…and nothing would change that, I just think it would be nice.’

My mother was obviously sick in the head. ‘Nice for who?’

‘For you!’

‘No, Mum!’

‘But why?’

‘I told you, I already have a dad!’ I didn’t want to shout at her, but she kept pushing. My stomach felt like a kettle just about to whistle. I needed her out of my room.

‘Lois, no one’s taking that away from you.’ Mum dropped her gaze. ‘But you were only little when your father…’

‘Died. And I was five. So?’ I stared at Dad’s picture on my side table.

‘So, I think it’s important you have a father figure in your life like –’

‘NO!’ I roared, unable to take this rubbish any more. I soooo wanted to tell her about The Manual’s existence in my life. How I was able to talk to my dad whenever I wanted. Have him beside me, just before I drifted to sleep, and under my pillow as I slept. He spoke to me through those pages, told me he loved me over and over again. I JUST WANTED TO TELL HER I STILL HAD MY DAD!

‘Lois…’

‘You think I don’t know my dad, but I do.’

‘Lois, look –’

‘I know him more than you think. We speak every day…’

As I trailed off, her eyes widened in disbelief.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied, my body language willing her to get out of my room, my sanctuary, and away from any proximity to my dad’s special manual.

‘We’ll talk about this another time,’ she said, calmly shutting the door behind her. I located The Manual, opened it, and swore as a stray tear plopped onto a page, blotting and smudging two precious letters of a word my dad would never, ever be able to write again.

I tried to ignore Mum and the Bingo Caller as much as possible while the weeks dragged by, only communicating by the absolute essential of words. So, for once, it was an unusual but welcome relief when the annual trip to see Granny Bates came around.

I used to enjoy spending time with my mum’s mum, but that had been impossible since she’d moved into sheltered housing. Granny Bates, however, lived in Sussex and insisted I spent a week of my summer holidays with her at a bleak seaside house, with furniture more at home in a museum and surrounded by pictures of my dad, his school reports, football medals and any scribbles he’d presented her with as a child. What struck me was the absence of anything belonging to his sisters, my aunties Philomena and Ina. I never asked Granny Bates about this, though. In fact she hardly spoke to me at all, and I found the whole experience a bit like having a filling put in. I also missed Carla and Corey so much, especially as Granny’s surrounding area was surrounded by sheep and old people! Luckily I had my Walkman and Corey’s tape, which kept me sane while I sat opposite Granny Bates as she munched on the ginger snaps Mum always insisted I brought for her.

When I was younger, as long as I took my dolls or some books I could get through the experience without screaming, but since hitting my teens I was finding it increasingly harder to be around Granny Bates. I just wanted to spend time hanging around the rec with Carla and a few of my new friends from school. Sussex and Granny Bates now signified a total waste of my life, and I hated it.

‘Gran, can we watch something else?’ I asked. A tiny bit bored with the news programme. Carla’s mum had just got cable installed and I longed to flick onto something worthwhile, like Yo! MTV Raps.

‘Your dad always loved watching the news.’

Here we go again, I thought. That was another thing. Constantly comparing me to my dad. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t feel she was having a go at me. Perhaps seeing me as not living up to what he was. I don’t know. She was ‘pleasant’ enough. I just felt that sometimes there was so much I didn’t know or understand about the Bates family.

I stood up.

‘Where are you going, young lady?’

‘To my room, I might listen to my Walkman.’

‘You’d rather listen to that radio thing than stay down here with your Gran?’

‘No, it isn’t that…’

‘You go off then. And keep the room tidy. It’s Kevin’s room.’

She was almost raising her voice. I rolled my eyes again and headed for the room my dad hadn’t even slept in before – Granny Bates had only moved to Sussex AFTER his death. Mad cow.

I spent the remainder of the evening staring at the ceiling, wishing my dad could rescue me. I opened up The Manual and picked up where I had left off.

So, instead of listening to your mum, you probably prefer to get advice from your mates. My best mate (as hopefully you still know) is Charlie.

Nope. Had never met him (at least I didn’t remember ever meeting him). Seen a few pictures of him and Dad together though, but that was it.

When we were your age it was always about me and him. He once told me to stick my head down the toilet and let him flush – so I did. No, not really, but when we were thirteen I would have – if he’d asked. All I’m trying to say is, not ALL advice from mates is the right advice. Really think before you do stuff, consider who it may hurt (and yes, this includes your mum), then make a decision.

I’m not asking you to listen to every drop of advice given to you by an adult, no. Because, as you will soon find out, people (including myself) can at times talk a load of codswallop. But if you can, take note of older people. And when I say old I mean really old. The elderly. They know stuff. You can almost picture the years of experience in their faces – and this can include the reality that life doesn’t always go according to plan, no matter how efficiently you think you’ve planned it. Remember, they’ve seen it, done it, tasted it, felt it, experienced most of what you haven’t yet. So try to cut them some slack when they have a go at you about things you may want to do. Their lack of support may just be a result of their own bad experiences while attempting to achieve something similar, and in their own special way they are merely trying to warn you against making the same mistakes. Make sense? You see, it’s not always just another way to spoil your fun, however much you may think so.

But for some reason or other, people won’t be listening to them as much any more – so do the complete opposite to these ‘other people’. Listen, absorb and plant at the side of your brain stuff you can use later on. It’s so invaluable. Things my granddad used to tell me, I still use to this day. Of course your granddad is gone, but you’ll hopefully have my mum and your other granny and granddad around to be getting on with.

One morning on the way to the supermarket, I decided to take in Dad’s words and make an effort with my father’s mother, by helping to carry the bags without being asked (I even carried more than was comfortable), and, back at the house, by packing away the groceries as she droned on and on about noisy neighbours and how she missed ‘back home’ and wished she’d enough money to go back forever. I brought up the subject of Dad, hoping it would bring us closer together, I suppose. Instead, she remained silent, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball.

‘What was he like?’

Her face softened and I thought I saw a tear. ‘Your father…was the best son a mother could ever have.’

She walked over to a picture of Dad and held it, running her index finger over his chin, up to his full lips and then to his mole. She stared at it for what seemed like ages.

I broke the trance. ‘You must miss him so much…like I do…’ I know it was such an obvious statement, but I suppose I just wanted her to speak to me. For us to have some type of conversation. About Dad.

But my plan was – sort of – beginning to backfire.

‘Of course I miss him. Very much. He was my son, my little boy. I miss him every waking moment of every day. My life seems to have stood still since that day…the day he went…’

She moved over to the old-fashioned glass cabinet. Among the porcelain figurines and a cloth map of Grenada was a picture of my dad. She picked it up.

‘Me and his father always knew we wanted a good life for our children. That’s why we came to England in 1948. I always made sure my little boy was safe. I could never rest when his father took him out. Never knew what they’d be getting up to. Climbing trees, running about. If he came home with a scrape, I’d immediately put the antiseptic on it. Make it clean. Then when he was a teenager, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until I was sure he was safely tucked up in bed. I never stopped worrying about him. The girls, Philomena and Ina, never understood. Never.’ She looked at me blankly again, then turned to pick up Dad’s picture. ‘Then he left home and moved in with…’ she placed the picture back down again ‘…your mother. And that was it. Never saw him much after that. My son.’

I wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. So I said the first thing to enter my head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry,’ she repeated blankly, placing the picture back into the glass cabinet.

Granny Bates seemed to shut down after that conversation. She’d say little words here and there, perhaps to answer a question to do with the whereabouts of the ketchup. It was as if an already dim bulb had blown – with no chance of a replacement any time soon. And I was quickly able to envisage the remainder of my ‘holiday’ as something I’d rather not endure.

I rang Mum when Granny Bates was in the loo, telling her I was ready to hitch a lift home if she didn’t get me out of here a few days early. She arranged for Carla’s dad to drive over, while a silent Granny Bates sat in her rocking chair clutching a picture of my dad.

As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d be in no hurry to see her again. Maybe I’d change my mind. Maybe I wouldn’t. I couldn’t have cared less. Okay, I did care. A little. For all her faults, she was still Dad’s mum and I suppose I would drop her a line in a few months (groan). But I’d survived this long on my own and now, I had my dad constantly keeping an eye on me and really didn’t need anyone else.

I was thrilled to be back in London with my friends, sleeping in my own bed and not having to be back at school just yet. My brief time away had seen a change in Carla. Her hair was a bit longer and she’d started to wear lipstick! Worst of all, she now had a boyfriend.

‘He’s over there!’ she whispered, as we passed Lanes Fish Bar, our old spot now occupied by a gang of spotty girls. Outside the alleyway stood a bunch of boys in back-to-front baggy dungaree jeans and identical orange trainers with huge white tongues sticking out. They did look cool, I had to admit.

‘His name’s Darren!’ she said.

The lovebirds caught each other’s gaze and Carla ran over.

‘Hi Daz,’ she said, all teeth and sloppy voice. I had never seen my best friend act like this before and it felt disturbing. The others were totally ignoring me as the couple lip-locked and Darren, or Daz, or whatever, stuck a huge furry-looking tongue into her mouth. It was utterly sickening.

Over the next few days it was ‘Daz this’ and Daz that’ and, frankly, I was relieved when he dumped her for the school slag, exactly a week before the beginning of term.

*

My fourteenth birthday, which took place at the ice-skating rink, was a totally contrasting experience to my thirteenth – especially when Mum brought out this huge babyish cake complete with dodgy pink candles as my guests sniggered in the corner. I vowed never to have another birthday party again in my whole entire life, while almost bursting into tears on the spot and displaying my Mega Wimp side in the process.

Mum reckons I’m at a difficult age – I overheard this during a gassing session with Carla’s mum over the garden fence as she put up the washing. Carla’s mum lay on the sunlounger dressed in a teeny little bikini and looking quite gorgeous. Glancing at her and then at Mum sticking pegs into the Bingo Caller’s revolting odd socks, I knew which mum was the trendiest. My mum knew zilch about being a teenager – how to dress, or who Kriss Kross were – and actually liked Take That! A difficult age? Me?

I did start to notice changes with my body. I had a shape that was catching up to Carla’s but which I suspected would always be behind. And as for the other stuff, let’s just say if it weren’t for the awkward sex education classes at school, and Carla, I’d know nothing about THAT subject.

One morning I even woke to find that my tiny little ant hills had decided to grow into breasts. No longer a slave to the training bra, Carla and I got measured at Marks right away, only to discover we were in need of a 34B! And Dad was right, boys did start to change (not least when word got around that Carla was no longer with Daz). They began to sniff around Carla like dogs around a slab of ham. Plus they all sounded like freaks as every boy (except for Billy Turner) seemed to have picked up a new deeper voice that sounded like a cross between Corey’s and Sharlene Rockingham’s (she’d always sounded like a boy).

Miscellaneous: Hormones

Oh boy, I was dreading this bit, so let’s just skip it until later, right, Lowey?

Oh all right, we’ll do it now then…

I can safely say I’ve never been a woman so am unable to speak with any authority on the subject. Therefore, we’ll just have to stick with the hormones of a teenage boy.

Have you read what I wrote about boys talk ing to your breasts? Well, hormones are the logical explanation. If a boy at school asks if he can carry your satchel, what he’s really saying is, ‘I want to have sex with you.’ When he asks ‘How are you?’, he’s really saying, ‘I want to have sex with you.’ When he looks at you, he’s more than likely thinking about… yes, you guessed it… sex. So my point here is… teenage boys are like teabags bursting with hormones. Once you dip a teabag into hot water what happens? It literally bursts (you’ll get this analogy when you’re older. Much older. For now, please beware, especially as by now you are drop-dead gorgeous in the making, even if YOU think you look like a giraffe in need of urgent dentistry). Just bending down to pick up a pencil will induce a craning neck in a boy. Or the way you purse your lips when you talk. Even a certain way of laughing will bring on something in these hungry little boys, so… I’m just asking you to be aware of it and remember, you’re still only thirteen or fourteen.

Oh, and you’re beautiful. Love you, with stars on. Dad.

Dad was so wrong about the boy bit (they only ever looked at me when Carla was within spitting distance) but right about the giraffe thing (although I’m inclined to go with anteater). The only boy who ever really spoke to me was Corey. But as I’d known him since forever, he didn’t matter. Anyway, I’d come to terms with the fact that no boy would ever consider me girlfriend material and was content to live my love life through Carla anyway. As well as Darren she’d already been to the pictures with an older boy called Jake Saunders and snogged Colin Meek behind Lanes. With her long legs and elegant haircut, it wasn’t surprising guys found her irresistible.

Miscellaneous: Can’t get a date?

Great!

No, not really, I know this is hard, especially if it seems like everyone around you has a boyfriend, is out at the pictures, holding hands, and buying sloppy-looking cards shaped like love hearts. But don’t be in a rush. One day, someone will see how special you are, how great it is to be with you and vice versa. I never thought anyone would ever look at plain old me, but she did. Your mum did and what a stunner she is – proving the theory that there is indeed someone for everyone in this world.

When I looked at Gary Jones, Jake’s best friend, I felt things. Like I wanted him to kiss me. But Gary, along with a host of other guys from Lewisham to Deptford, seemed to enjoy me invading their company as long as it was to discuss tapes and football. Nothing else. And I was okay with that. Especially when Gary and Jake once said they liked me because I was just like one of the lads, a comment which proved that one day I’d get a boyfriend.

Didn’t it?

Miscellanous: Male friends 1

I bet you have a load of male friends. If not, then at least one. Someone you can hang out with, talk to? You make each other laugh? Discuss everything from school dinners to the state of the nation? This is all well and good, but don’t expect anything else from this if you start to fancy him.

Boys want a girlfriend. Maybe not a pink-ribbon-wearing, frilly, soft, rose-scented little package, but a girl all the same (sorry!). Forget all this talk about them wanting to be with a girl who understands the offside rule, burps and leaves her hand down her trousers ‘because it’s comfortable’. Rubbish. It’s only natural for a bloke to be attracted to someone who acts like… well… a girl (sorry again!), who flutters her eyelashes, flicks her hair when she’s embarrassed by a compliment and who’d never even dream of a burp or a fart.

So if you want one of your friends to ever see you as girlfriend material (and when I say girlfriend, I mean the holding hands, going to the park type) then try to be girly as well as (most importantly) yourself.

I decided to stop being mates with Gary and the others. No post-match analysis, no help with their homework and certainly no ‘women’ advice. This alienation lasted a whole week, right up until Gary Jones commented on what a bitch I’d turned into, which stung like a fresh bee sting and I quickly changed my mind back to being me.

* * *