It was one of those lovely days that sometimes happen in March when the air is warm and people have left their coats at home, the daffodils are bobbing in the plastic buckets outside flower shops and you know that spring is just around the corner.
I decided to walk back to my flat after work, rather than catching the bus as usual. The North London streets were busy with commuters, and I wove in and out of them, smiling at everyone and feeling so happy to be part of the city, a single girl with a career, living my life just how I wanted. I stopped at the corner shop to buy bread, milk, cheese and tomatoes and treated myself to a magazine.
‘You’re looking cheerful,’ said Mrs Spatchcock, the owner, suspiciously. She was suspicious of everyone because everyone, she said, was a potential shoplifter – even regulars like me.
‘I am cheerful,’ I replied, adding a tube of peppermints.
‘Huh,’ said Mrs Spatchcock. ‘Well you want to be careful going around smiling like that. The day’s not over yet. There’s still plenty of time for things to go wrong.’
‘Good day to you too,’ I said. She wasn’t going to bring me down, not that day.
I cut through the park, smiling at the familiar characters that always seemed to be there: the man who hugged trees, the dog walker who must have had half the dogs in Islington running round her heels, young mothers with prams and the joggers who circled the park in a never-ending production line. If someone had told me four years ago that I could feel this happy I would have laughed at them, but I was happy. I had good friends, a great job on a music magazine and the nicest and kindest, not to mention sexiest, boyfriend in the whole world. I knew I was lucky, but now and again a niggling thought would nudge at my brain. I was happy, but did I deserve to be? Time for a Scarlett O’Hara moment: ‘I would think about that tomorrow.’ For now I was going to enjoy this beautiful day.
I almost skipped along Victoria Terrace, past the tall Victorian houses with their long windows and their steps. I avoided the children playing marbles on the pavement and listened to ‘Hey Jude’ coming out of an open window. The cherry trees were just coming into blossom, and the grey paving slabs were already dotted with pink petals, like confetti. I said ‘hello’ to a couple of neighbours, trotted up the steps to the front door of number 59 and opened it with my key. I was met with the familiar mixture of smells: Mr Sheen furniture polish, bleach, Rive Gauche – the perfume that my friend Polly wore all the time – and cats.
The two of us rented rooms in 59 Victoria Terrace. Our landlady, Evelyn Pierce, lived on the ground floor, and we had to go through her hall to reach the stairs. The telephone was mounted on the wall just outside her front room. This was a constant source of irritation, partly because it meant going up or down stairs every time we wanted to make a call or answer the phone, and partly because its location made it impossible to have a private conversation. Mrs P did not even bother trying to pretend she didn’t eavesdrop. It was her favourite pastime. She called it ‘taking an interest’, because she saw it as her duty to look after the moral well-being of Polly and me.
There was a long wooden table against the wall beneath the telephone where the phone directories were stacked. This was where our post was laid out in the morning and where we left messages for one another.
I stopped and picked up a letter addressed to me. There were also two yellow slips of paper, the kind reserved for telephone messages, with my name on: Dottie.
Without looking at them, I went up two flights of stairs and into my room. It was not a large room, but it wasn’t small either, and although I had no say in the decor, which was entirely to Mrs P’s pink and peachy floral taste, I had added my own touches: posters and a couple of nice lamps from Habitat and throws over the furniture to tone it down a bit. I switched on the kettle to make tea then went over to the window, slid open the sash to let in the fresh air and the traffic noises and sat down to read my messages.
The first made my stomach flutter with pleasure. It was written in Polly’s scrawled writing and said:
Message for: Dottie
Time: 5.15 p.m.
From: Polly, your attractive housemate
Message: Joe called (!!!) wants to meet you tonight he has a surprise for you am not supposed to say but it’s TICKETS TO SEE ‘THE WHO’ on April 23rd!!!!!!
Action required: Call him back ASAP or I will
Any other information: Knock on my door when you’re back I have BUNS!!!!
I leaned my head back, letting my hair fall over the back of the chair. The sunlight was warm on my face. Could the day get any better? I wondered. I could have tea and buns and a good gossip with Polly and then, if the bathroom was free and there was still some hot water left, I’d have a bath and wash my hair, put on the amazing new maxi dress I’d bought in C&A earlier that week and then I’d go out and meet Joe – probably the most perfect boyfriend in the world – and he could surprise me with tickets to see one of my favourite bands in the whole world EVER, although I still remained loyal to Paul McCartney and… Who knows after that?
I looked at the second message. This was in Mrs Pierce’s handwriting and was as curly and fussy as her wallpaper.
It said:
Message for: Miss D Perks, lodger
Time: 10 a.m.
From: Mrs E Pierce, landlady
Message: Your sister Rita called to let you know the baby’s christening will be at 3 p.m. on April 23rd followed by a reception at her house. As the chief godmother your presence is required all weekend.
Action required: None. Await official invitation
Any other information: Your sister sounds a dear. Why don’t you ever call her?
Joe and I were snuggled up together half watching Peyton Place. The little television took pride of place in the living room. Mrs P was always telling us how lucky we were to have access to a television, and we knew she was right. It was very small and you needed a reasonable amount of imagination to work out what the picture on the flickering screen was supposed to be. Right now Mia Farrow appeared to be walking through a white field at night, in the middle of a heavy snowstorm.
We were the only two people in the living room, because it was our night for the couch. Polly and I had a rota pinned to the wall in the kitchen with our names on and our allocated nights. Mrs P allowed gentlemen callers, as she liked to call them, as long as they were gone by 10.30 p.m. sharp and they didn’t go within a mile of a bedroom.
Joe nuzzled his face into my neck. ‘You smell nice,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Polly’s Rive Gauche,’ I said.
‘Strange name for a perfume.’
‘No, I mean the name of the perfume is Rive Gauche, but it belongs to Polly. She let me borrow a couple of squirts earlier.’
‘Well it’s nice, whoever it belongs to.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And you look nice tonight.’
‘C&A bargain rail.’
‘You’re funny, do you know that?’
‘Yes, I rather think I do.’ The credits for Peyton Place rolled down the screen. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I said.
‘Sounds good.’
I stood up and stretched then walked into the little kitchen and filled the kettle. The water did its usual spitting as it came out of the tap. It used to make me jump in the beginning, but now I was so used to it that I thought something was wrong if it didn’t spit. Darkness was falling beyond the window; London was quietening down, settling in for the night. I lit the only gas ring on the cooker and waited for the kettle to boil. There was a film of grease halfway up the washing-up bowl, and the kitchen window needed a clean. Stockings hung over the drying rack overhead. Neither of us were very good at cleaning up – we were too busy being young and having fun to worry about that. Now and then Mrs P would come upstairs and have a grumble, and then we’d have a frantic clean up for fear she would chuck us out, but apart from those occasions, we were a bit lazy about the domestic arrangements.
I thought about the nice things that Joe had just said about me. Now I was able to accept a compliment without making some smart-alec comment. If someone told me I looked nice, I believed them, which hadn’t always been the case. Polly said I still thought of myself as the fat girl, and she was probably right. I always made sure I laughed at myself before anyone else had a chance to. I wasn’t fat any more – I wasn’t exactly thin either – but I had accepted that the fat girl would always be a part of me. Life had taught me that there were more important things than how I looked.
The kettle began to jump about and whistle. I sniffed the contents of the bottle of milk we kept in the cupboard under the sink, which was the coolest place in the flat.
‘Black all right?’ I shouted to Joe.
‘Milk gone off again?’ he said as I brought the two cups in and put them on the coffee table.
‘ ’Fraid so.’
‘It’s okay, I’m getting a taste for black coffee, definitely more sophisticated.’
‘Oh definitely.’
Joe put his arm around me. ‘I wish you weren’t going away this weekend.’
‘I have to. I’m the godmother. I would never be forgiven if I didn’t go.’
‘I can’t believe I’m going to see The Who with my brother and not you.’
‘Don’t talk about it. I’m beginning to think my darling sister practises witchcraft on the side and deliberately picked the day of the concert for the christening.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I said, snuggling into him, and I would. We saw each other practically every evening, and it had been like that almost from the start.
We had met a year ago at a promotional night for the magazine Trend I worked for. Joe had come along with a friend, and I had been passing round plates of food. He’d stared suspiciously at the canapés and said, ‘Is that fish or meat?’
I’d looked down at the food. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ I’d said, laughing. ‘But it smells okay.’ Then he’d taken the tray from me and put it down on a nearby table. ‘Fancy a dance?’ he’d asked, and before I’d had a chance to respond, he’d led me onto the small dance floor and taken me into his arms. I remember thinking how well our bodies fitted, the gentle pressure of his hand on my back, and how smooth his face felt against mine. After the dance I’d gone back to passing out food and drinks and making sure that all our guests were happy. Every now and then I would catch his eye, and we would smile at each other. At the end of the evening I wasn’t surprised to find him waiting for me. We’d walked hand in hand through the dark streets of North London to his flat in Holloway Road. I wasn’t in the habit of going home with strange men but Joe hadn’t felt strange. There’d been something about him that I liked. I’d felt safe with this boy.
We’d lain on his bed listening to his Revolver LP, he’d lit a candle that was wedged into the top of a rosé wine bottle and then he’d turned off the light. We hadn’t spoken at first – we’d just lain there listening to the Beatles singing ‘Doctor Robert’. I’d closed my eyes as he’d run his hand gently up and down my arm. Then we’d spoken about our pasts. I’d told him about my funny, bonkers family. He’d told me about his rather normal one. I’d told him about my friend Mary Pickles. I hadn’t realised I was crying till I felt Joe gently wiping away the tears that were running down my face. It was in that moment that I knew this was something special. I’d turned my body into his and we’d made love, gently at first and then with a passion I hadn’t known existed, and then I’d cried again and felt stupid for crying, but it was okay – Joe had let me cry until I fell asleep in his arms.
‘Penny for them,’ he whispered into my hair now.
‘Oh they’re worth more than a penny,’ I said. ‘I was remembering the first time we made love.’
Joe stood up. ‘Fancy a rerun?’ he said, smiling down at me and holding out his hand.
‘Not unless you want to get me chucked out of the flat.’
Joe sat down again and put his arm around me. ‘You could always move in with me.’
‘Now there’s a thought,’ I said smiling at him.
As soon as I walked out of Brighton station I could smell the sea, that particular smell that goes with seaside towns, a mixture of seaweed and orange peel and fish and chips. The air was filled with the taste of salt, a sharp tang that stuck to my tongue and coated my lips. The wind blowing up West Street from the promenade carried memories that settled on my shoulders like an old overcoat. I walked down towards the seafront. So much had changed since I was a girl but not the sea or the beach. This place was the keeper of all my dearest memories. They were there amongst the pebbles and the rock pools. They ran along the beach, splashing and laughing as they plunged into the icy cold water. No one else saw what I saw when they leaned on these old green railings. Only I could see those moments caught in time – those precious memories with my best friend Mary Pickles. Wherever I went in my life I knew that this was where I would always find her.
I caught a bus back to the estate and walked the last few hundred yards from the bus stop to the house where I’d spent my childhood. During the course of the journey I had somehow gone from being a young, free, fashionable young woman into an awkward ugly duckling. As soon as Mum opened the front door to the house wearing the same pinny she always wore and drying her hands on the same dishcloth she always used to dry up, I felt the transformation was complete.
‘Look at you! You’re a sight for sore eyes!’ Mum said, hugging me close. Her wiry hair was rough against my cheek. She let me go and stepped back, holding onto the tops of my arms with her hands. ‘I swear you get more sophisticated every time we see you! I hate to say it but London seems to suit you.’
‘It’s good to see you, Mum,’ I said, kissing her cheek.
‘Why don’t you go up and unpack and freshen up, and I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mum. ‘I made you some jam tarts specially.’
I put my head round the living-room door. My sister Rita was sitting on the sofa next to her husband Nigel, baby Miranda was sitting on the floor and Dad was in his usual chair by the fire. He winked at me and grinned. I said hello to everyone then hauled my case up the narrow stairs and into my old bedroom, the one I used to share with Rita. All the old furniture was still there: the two single beds, the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. It was all crammed together, nothing matched anything else, and it all seemed a bit dowdy and old-fashioned. But it was home.
I took everything out of my case, hung the dress and coat I’d bought specially for the christening in the wardrobe, and laid my cosmetics and washing stuff on the top of the drawers. Then I sat down on the bed. The room looked just the same as it always did; it was as if I had never gone away. I remembered counting the days until Rita got married and I would have the room to myself. I had imagined Mary and I spending hours in this room trying out new make-up, fiddling with our hair and listening to our favourite records. I picked up the framed photo of us that stood on the cabinet next to my bed and even though it had been taken eight years ago, I remembered the moment as if it was yesterday. Mary had been given a brownie camera for her fifteenth birthday and we had gone down to Brighton seafront. We’d asked an elderly couple who were walking along the prom to take our picture. We’d sat on the railings, and I had my arm around Mary’s shoulder. It was windy that day and the breeze was ruffling our skirts and Mary’s hair had blown across her face. We were both laughing into the camera.
I dusted the glass with the sleeve of my cardigan, then I traced the outline of Mary’s face with my finger. I still missed her.
I could hear the baby crying downstairs and Rita’s voice rising above everyone else’s. I knew they were all waiting for me, but I didn’t want to move. I knew Mum was worried about me. For all she said about me being sophisticated, I could see the way she looked at me sometimes, as if she were trying to read my mind. I had to try and look happy all the time, which was wearing. In London I could be myself, but here I felt suffocated. I loved my family but there were too many memories in this house, in this town.
‘What are you doing up there, Dottie?’ Mum shouted.
‘I’m coming,’ I shouted back and headed downstairs.
It was very warm in the living room. Everyone except Dad was staring at the baby, who had stopped crying and was on Mum’s lap, holding onto her fingers with her fat little hands and trying to stand up on two stiff little legs. Her eyes were red and her nose was running. The last time I’d seen her she’d still been a little baby, but she was growing up, she was changing, and I hadn’t been here to see it. I told myself it was because of work and Joe, but it was more than that. I loved my family, but being back in Brighton unsettled me. It was easier in London. I had my work, and I had Joe and Polly. In London I could convince myself that the past was behind me, but that was just geography wasn’t it? Every time I returned home, the past was there to meet me as soon as I stepped off the train.
‘Her nose is running,’ I said, gesturing in the general direction of the baby.
‘What do you mean… her? She has got a name, you know. It’s Miranda Louise, which is a very pretty name, and I’d be obliged if you used it,’ said Rita. She had gone all red in the face.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Miranda’s nose is running.’
‘That’s because she’s off colour, Aunty Dottie,’ said Mum. She smiled in a slightly scary way, put her face close to the baby’s and said in a silly voice: ‘Aren’t you, my little precious? You’re off colour, your little tummy wummy’s poorly, isn’t it?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t speak to her like a baby, Mother,’ said Rita.
My dad, who had been sitting reading the paper, looked up and said: ‘She is a baby. How’s your mum supposed to speak to her? Like she’s an old-age pensioner?’
‘Now, Nelson,’ said Mum. ‘Our Rita’s got a perfect right to say what she wants and what she doesn’t want where her baby is concerned.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Rita.
Dad looked up from his paper. ‘And when did you start calling your mum ‘Mother’? What’s wrong with ‘Mum’ all of a sudden?’
‘I think Mother’s more polite. It’s what I shall teach Miranda Louise to call me.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Dad. ‘What does Nigel think about all this?’
Rita’s husband, who had been sitting quietly, nearly jumped out of his skin. His ears went all red, and he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
‘Well,’ said Dad, ‘haven’t you got an opinion, Nigel? Or are you under our Rita’s thumb already?’
Nigel seemed to have completely lost the ability to form a sentence, and a red rash was beginning to creep up his neck. He started pulling at his collar as if he was choking.
‘Take no notice of him, Nigel,’ said Mum. ‘He had a port at lunchtime to wet the baby’s head and port always makes him gobby.’
I thought I had better help Dad out and show some interest in my beloved sister and her offspring. I mean, I was glad Nigel and Rita had eventually managed to have a baby – they had waited a long time to get her – but, according to Rita, no one had had a labour like she had and no baby was as perfect as hers. I looked over at Miranda, who was trying to pull Mum’s glasses off her nose. She was rather sweet, but I was pretty sure she had inherited Nigel’s sticky-out ears. We stared at each other suspiciously then she sneezed and a load of snot shot out of her nose, which she then proceeded to rub all over her face with a tight little fist.
‘Nelson get me some toilet paper quick,’ said Mum, holding Miranda at arm’s length.
Dad looked up from behind the paper. ‘What do you want toilet paper for?’
‘Are you blind as well as daft?’ said Mum, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Miranda needs her face wiping.’
‘Why can’t Rita go?’ said Dad.
‘Because she’s resting.’
‘I’m resting.’
‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ said Rita in a martyred kind of way. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘You will not, our Rita, your father will. Nelson, get up out of that chair or I won’t be responsible.’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on, Maureen, I’m going.’
‘Well don’t make such a meal of it.’
Dad got up from his chair, folded his paper very precisely and went to get the toilet paper, winking at me on his way out the door.
‘You look tired, love,’ said Mum to Rita. ‘Did Miranda have trouble sleeping again last night?’
‘She doesn’t need much sleep,’ said Rita. ‘Does she, Nigel?’
Nigel, who looked as if he was about to nod off, nearly slid off the couch. ‘Sorry, Rita, what?’
‘I was just saying, Miranda doesn’t need much sleep.’
‘Erm no.’
‘Well don’t just sit there, tell them why?’ said Rita, settling herself back in the chair and folding her arms, as if she was preparing to bask in whatever wonderful revelation Nigel was about to bestow on us about why Miranda Louise didn’t need much sleep.
‘Rita read in a book…’ started Nigel.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I didn’t read it in a book, I saw it on the television – we’ve got a coloured one now, Dottie.’ As if we didn’t know! ‘Anyway this doctor said that bright children don’t need much sleep. It’s all to do with their brains being so active.’
‘Dottie didn’t need much sleep,’ said Mum.
Rita chose to ignore that. ‘So we don’t mind, do we, Nigel?’
‘No, no, we don’t mind,’ said Nigel, looking as if he’d willingly donate a kidney for a good kip.
Dad came back in with the toilet paper.
‘Took long enough, didn’t you?’ said Mum, taking it from him and starting to wipe Miranda’s face.
‘I took the opportunity while I was in there.’
‘You should have given me the paper first and took the opportunity afterwards. Look at the state of Miranda’s face!’
‘I need a fag,’ said Dad.
‘Well, make sure you go outside,’ said Rita. ‘I’m not having smoke in the house with Miranda Louise here.’
‘I smoked in the house when you were young,’ said Dad.
‘Yes,’ said Rita, ‘and we went to school smelling like three packets of Woodbines.’
Rita came out with these really funny comments and what made them even funnier was that she was being deadly serious. Dad wasn’t amused though.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘It comes to something when I’m told what to do in my own house. Fine. I’ll go outside.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said and followed Dad through the kitchen and out the back door. We sat on the steps leading down to the garden.
‘It’ll get better, Dad,’ I said, linking my arm through his.
‘Will it?’ he said gloomily.
‘I bet all new mums are fussy in the beginning.’
‘It’s nice to have you home, love,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘We don’t see nearly enough of you these days.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, it’s work.’
‘Is it, Dottie?’
I leaned over and kissed his stubbly cheek. ‘It's other things as well, Dad.’
‘I know it is, love’
‘But I’m fine, really I am, and it’s getting easier.’
‘Your mum and I worry about you.’
‘I know you do.’
We sat quietly together for a bit and I slipped my arm through his. ‘I promise I will try to get home more often.’
‘We'd all like that, love. You’re missed.’
Dad took a last drag on his fag, tossed the end into the flowerbed and we went inside. As we went into the front room I heard Mary’s name mentioned.
‘What were you saying about Mary?’ I asked.
Rita looked up. ‘I was just telling Mother that Mary Pickles’ husband Ralph is getting married to Nigel’s cousin Fiona and we’ve invited them to the christening tomorrow.’
I felt in that moment that any moving on I’d done had been completely wiped out. It was as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Rita must have noticed.
‘What?’ she said.
I didn’t know what to say, but Mum saved me from answering.
‘Dottie finds it hard, Rita,’ she said.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Rita. ‘Mary has been dead for four years and you’re all still talking about her in whispers. I’m surprised you haven’t applied to Rome to have her canonized.’
‘That’s unkind, Rita,’ said Mum. ‘Mary was very important to Dottie. It takes a long time to get over a loss like that.’
‘Well at least this time Ralph Bennett is marrying someone because he wants to, not because he has to. And I’d be obliged if you’d bear in mind that tomorrow is all about me and Nigel and Miranda Louise and not about Dottie and Mary Pickles.’
Dad winked at me. ‘Don’t worry, Rita. I don’t think that’s something we’re likely to forget,’ he said.
I didn’t sleep well that night. It might have been the lumpy old mattress on my bed, or the fact that the green and cream striped winceyette sheets were worn and slightly damp, or maybe it was the quiet of the estate after London. Perhaps I was mi. . .
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