Читать книгу The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls - Sarah May - Страница 7

Tom stayed in the car with the door open and lit another joint, sucking on it slowly while watching a black Labrador play in the sandpit just beyond the bonnet of the car. Through the windscreen he could see Burwood in the distance, but there was no resonance for him in the view. The Hendersons moved down from London two years ago and he’d only lived there a couple of months before leaving for university. He’d felt more at home in Bolivia than he ever had in Burwood.

An elderly couple—fruit picking veterans—returned to their car, a purple Nissan parked next to Tom’s. Their determined faces were sweating under matching white sun hats with ‘Crete’ embroidered above the visors, and as they lined up their baskets of fruit on the roof of the car, he saw that they were still wearing the surgical gloves they’d bought with them to pick fruit in, now stained purple.

He finished the joint then got out of the car and, without bothering to lock it, followed the others down the field.

There was a crowd of people round the weighing-in shed and a woman inside was barking at them to get into a queue, but people were too hot and laden with fruit to comply.

As the crowd shuffled forward, broke up then reformed, Tom caught sight, briefly, of his old black and silver racing bike leaning against the side of the shed; the one he told his mum he’d sold to Grace last summer—only he never sold it to her, he gave it to her.

He remembered clearly riding it round to Grace’s house and Grace answering the door in a dressing gown, holding one of her sister Dixie’s dolls. Up until then he’d never realised Burwood even had a council estate. He’d rung the doorbell and while he waited, staring at a patch of wall next to the drainpipe where a lump of pebble-dash had fallen off, he’d decided that he was going to give Grace the bike.

Grace, in her dressing gown, stared at him.

He prompted her. ‘The bike?’

She carried on staring at him before switching her gaze to the bike. ‘The bike—shit. Sorry. Just a minute.’ She disappeared back indoors.

Too late, Tom realised that she was getting the forty pounds they’d talked about on the phone the day before.

‘Wait—’ he called out, wanting to follow her, but just then there was the slap of wet feet on pavement and Grace’s nine-year-old sister, Dixie, appeared round the side of the house leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. She stood on the corner in a pink polka dot bikini with bows at the side, water glistening on her legs, watching him through a pair of goggles and wearing a smile that was missing two bottom teeth.

They took to each other immediately.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Tom.’ He held out his hand and Dixie shook it wetly in hers.

‘Yeah, but who are you?’

‘A friend of your sister’s.’

‘Like a boyfriend?’

‘No, just a friend.’

Dixie contemplated him. ‘I never saw you before.’ She paused. ‘I’m having a sleepover tonight.’

Before Tom had time to respond to this, Grace reappeared at the front door and Dixie ran off up the side passage and into the back garden again.

‘Forty pounds, right?’ Grace handed him an envelope.

‘Leave it,’ Tom said, embarrassed.

‘You said forty pounds—on the phone.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘What?’

Grace looked angry.

‘It doesn’t matter—about the money. I mean, just take the bike. I changed my mind about the money.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You said forty pounds. On the phone.’

‘Yeah, but—’

This had gone on and the sun had moved round the side of the house until it was filling the front garden.

Now Tom saw her, standing over by the ice cream van with her back to him. While he was watching, she stood up straight, laughing. She looked like she was having a good day. He should go before she saw him.

‘Hey, Tom.’ She’d seen him—was smiling straight at him.

‘Hey.’

She came across the grass in her flip-flops and a bottle-green T-shirt that said ‘Martha’s Crew’. Grace didn’t look like she belonged to anyone’s crew—let alone Martha’s. Tom watched the boy in the ice cream van watching Grace.

‘What brings you out here?’

He hadn’t seen her for a year, and this wasn’t the kind of thing—a year ago—she would have said.

‘I’m my sister’s chauffeur.’

‘She’s here?’

‘Somewhere.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Saskia—Ruth.’

‘I didn’t know they were back from France.’

Tom didn’t say anything.

She squinted across at the fields laid out below the weighing-in hut, trying to pick out her friends.

He saw that her fingertips were stained purple.

‘You’re not picking anything?’ she said.

‘No—’

For some reason this made her smile.

‘How’s the bike doing?’ he asked

‘The bike’s doing fine. Only one puncture so far.’

‘You should change the tyres to Kevlar—they won’t ever puncture.’

‘Okay—’

Was she laughing at him?

‘They sound expensive though—and I still owe you for the bike.’

‘Fuck that,’ he said, genuinely angry.

She was about to say something when a voice started yelling, ‘Grace—Grace,’ from inside the hut.

‘Shit—I better get back.’ She disappeared into the crowd round the weighing-in hut and didn’t look back.

Tom and the boy in the ice cream van were left staring at each other. The afternoon felt suddenly pointless—as though it had been going on for too long.