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By the Time You Read This
Lola Jaye
The smash hit debut novel for this summerThis is my (Kevin Bates) manual for my daughter Lois. The love of my life.Rules of the manual:1.You must only read each new entry on your birthday2.This is a private manual between you and me.3.No peeping at the next entry unless it's your birthday!When Lois Bates is handed the manual, she can barely bring herself to read it as the pain of her dad’s death is still so raw.Yet soon Kevin’s advice is guiding her through every stage of her life – from jobs to first loves and relationships.The manual can never be a substitute for having her dad back, but through his words Lois learns to start living again, and finds that happiness is waiting round the corner …
LOLA JAYE
By the Time You Read This
For Heaven’s Girl
Contents
Title Page (#u39a3d1dd-1b97-5ac5-9fc2-e5d1f1e3c674)Dedication (#u4b3a42bd-0291-5cb9-b4e5-f64b832d1322)Prologue (#ub26c0a32-d538-54a8-9c94-55b1d5c5e204)With Stars On (#u985e56c1-ca31-5664-b7d5-014a70fcf608)Try Not To Be A Wimp (#ua240d6b2-6194-54d3-83a8-24291945af15)Teabags Bursting With Hormones (#u84b18b35-7051-5488-82ac-4ee71a94d742)Fact: Humiliations Will Only Get Worse With Age (#u399163a0-82fe-58d4-8748-3381c9413395)There’S A Good Way And A Bad Way To Do It (#u15311039-fb31-540b-ba42-b7f15362f180)Do As I Say, Not As I Did (#u7e8c040c-2622-5005-9a6f-53b38da8c68d)Have Life Will Travel (#u479510fa-f6ca-5829-a218-4268a69b836b)Believe In Yourself (#u4633bbe9-c6af-5953-9b4f-a40e777fed89)Keep Moving (#ud9aaaf54-089c-51c6-bf73-45e7aefec22b)Take A Risk (#uf55adad0-a640-57c8-a5d4-ae50c47131e9)Do We Ever Really Grow Up? (#ue0cf6f15-b144-57b8-b592-11338d045b6c)Our Song (#u0a9cc48f-6eeb-5e89-aa4c-de9f6a0d90ab)The Best (#ua1bf884b-43c6-5914-8699-278acf38de09)You Never Get Used To Being The Lamppost (#u311f8070-6dd0-54a6-a070-dc172746ea1c)Mistakes Are Okay (#ua8bbfb56-87ed-5f68-9e55-1c0f5ea6f46d)Do Something Silly (#uaa8795c2-3831-5446-8fd9-8668a4f6c2c0)Your Longest Chapter My Shortest (#uccb6de90-0f85-5b2b-9f2b-63090175c79b)Epilogue (#u1859810f-8702-56ac-8d0e-5c6712478f58)Acknowledgements (#u3018edb4-30ac-5c37-ba1b-97fbb2d304db)About the Author (#ud1130b13-be63-540d-a09f-514028a0f88f)Copyright (#u990553d3-c699-55fc-99ea-af3db284d0ec)About the Publisher (#uefe48442-3352-58a9-9e4f-24e78a304b68)
Prologue (#u762aad71-2263-5b3a-bf65-5843fc46753b)
Mum’s marrying some prick she met down the bingo.
Apparently they fell in love as he called out ‘Legs eleven’ in a smoke-filled hall in Lewisham, packed with bored housewives ticking off paper boxes. Eyes down, cross off a number and another, until some wailing overweight woman shouts ‘House!’ to anyone who gives a damn. I hate them. I hate bingo. And sometimes I hate Mum. But most of all, I hate him. For ordering me about, telling me to call him Dad, for pretending to be my dad and, most of all, for not being my dad.
You see, my dad’s dead.
Some illness I couldn’t even pronounce finished him off about seven years ago in 1983 when I was five and he was thirty.
But we don’t talk about that.
We hardly even talk about him any more, really…
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Doc Martens feet swinging in time to my croaky hum of the Brookside theme tune, I shook my ridiculously ringleted hair that had taken ages to style and stunk of Dax hair grease and let out an exaggerated puff of air. I was fed-up. Almost a teenager, yet there I was clad in a frilly yellow dress that allowed me to resemble a pavlova. I wished I could just disappear. Maybe travel down the rec with Carla – my best friend – or change the habit of a lifetime and happily start some homework, complete with the seven dwarfs’ whistle. In fact, I’d do almost anything to avoid this poxy, stupid, pathetic ‘wedding of the year’.
‘Lois!’ Mum called in a squeaky voice.
‘What?’ I replied with a sigh, my eyes darting to heaven.
‘Excuse me, young lady?’
‘I mean, yes, Mummy?’ I replied in the cutest little voice I could pull off.
The door to my PRIVATE (couldn’t she read the sign on the door?) sanctuary swung open. ‘Are you ready yet, Lois? We’ve got to be at the registry for eleven and it’s already nine forty-five!’
I checked out my mother in her wedding gear, glad she looked almost as tragic as I did. Thick blue eye-shadow in a tug of war with an off-white, two-piece mess with puffed sleeves. Puffed sleeves! It was 1990! Who did that any more? The silver shoes didn’t help matters either, along with the backcombed hairstyle, perhaps more at home on a schizo Crufts poodle!
‘I’m nearly ready,’ I replied sweetly, but with a spot of annoyance lurking round the corner. I swung off my bed, quickly locating the pink dolly shoes she’d bought just to humiliate me that little bit more. I didn’t care about most people, but Carla and her brother Corey would be at the wedding to witness my shame and that just wasn’t fair.
‘You look so adorable!’ gushed Mum, and for one ridiculous second I convinced myself she was going to blub.
‘Er, thanks?’ I mumbled, pulling off my well-’ard DMs to slip into the dolly shoes, my little right toe recoiling in instant pain as it connected with the hard plastic. Only last week, I found out my right foot was longer than the left. I’m bloody deformed!
‘Come on then, let’s go, Lois.’ I ignored the invite of Mum’s hand as it came at me like a weapon. ‘I don’t want to be late for my big day, now, do I?’
This summer was one of the hottest on record, which I could believe if my dress, currently sticking to me like flies to dog poo, was anything to go by. The heat rash that ensued meant that I scratched and tugged the dress all the way through the vows and exchanging of rings. Mercifully, the service was short. Unfortunately, the reception (held in a restaurant that stank of disinfectant) lasted a lot longer than necessary. Boring stories floating around the room like confetti. And what with the kisses, hugs, dull speeches and hard squeezes from sweaty relatives I’d never even set eyes on before, things grew shoddier by the millisecond. Worse still, Carla remained cocooned between her dad and brother on a table miles from mine. It was a total nightmare of a day, growing extra tragic the minute Granny Morris drew what little strength she had to shove me onto the dance floor for a slow dance! Egheee! The experience of dancing with Granny Morris, reminded me of one of those horror films Mum wouldn’t let me watch, but I’d catch next door with Carla and Corey – only much, much worse.
I had finally managed to escape another ‘I remember when you were a little girl’ tale, about to join Carla and Corey in sneaking outside, when out of the shadows of balloons, streamers and ‘The Birdie Song’, a new guest appeared.
She was beautiful, with thick black braids cascading down her slimline back like a glossy rug. Unlike Mum’s attempt at fashion, this lady wore a simple flowery shift dress and plain rounded hat that looked a bit like a full moon on her obviously gorgeous head. She smiled at me and, instantly, my mood lifted.
She walked towards me and I realised it was my Auntie Philomena – my real dad’s sister. Her showing up was a massive surprise, especially as I hadn’t seen her in ages. So instead of running outside to, I dunno, argue this week’s top forty with my mates, I stood before this glamorous aunt of mine, waiting for something intelligent to pop into my head.
‘Hello, Lois.’
‘Hello,’ I replied, sounding like a right geek.
‘You look lovely.’
I stared at her full lips, which looked pilfered from some unsuspecting model in a glossy magazine, and I began to wonder, did she act like him? Laugh like him? Think like him? I could only remember a handful of things about my dad. Stupid stuff, like the tiny mole just under his right eyelid.
‘Auntie Philomena?’
‘You remember me, then? I really wasn’t sure if you would. I’m glad, though. Really pleased.’
‘No, well, I don’t remember you THAT much…’ I said, annoyed. Of course I remembered her. Unlike Dad’s younger sister Ina, Auntie Philomena called me up a few times a year – mostly birthdays and Christmas. She even sent the odd hideous blouse, pictures or a lump of spice cake wrapped securely in tin foil through the post, when I’m sure a visit would have been more hygienic? But, apart from Mum making me travel up to Granny Bates once a year, I didn’t really have that much full on contact with my dad’s side of the family. And I was okay with that. Really, I was…I am.
I crunched a knuckle.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’ I shrugged.
‘For not being around much. I live pretty far away. And the kids…’
I stifled a yawn, the frilly fabric of my ridiculous dress beginning to irritate the tops of my knees. She beckoned me outside away from the crowds – and, thankfully, away from the sight of Great Auntie Elizabeth swinging larger-than-average hips to ‘Let’s Twist Again’.
The only bench we could find was soiled with bird crap, though it didn’t concern me, as it would probably improve the look of the dress anyway. My mind did begin to wonder what Corey and Carla were up to, though.
‘I need to talk to you,’ said Auntie Philomena, who on closer inspection had yellowing teeth.
‘Talk to me? Me? About what?’ I raised my voice in that high-pitched manner that made me sound as if Ireally wanted to know. And I didn’t. Not really. Okay, maybe a little bit, then. Especially as the only time a grown-up ever wanted to talk to me was to ask about my homework (teachers) or nag the fun out of me (Mum, teachers).
‘I have something for you, Lois… And it’s really, really important.’
‘Right…’ I sat on my hands, believing it could stop me from exploding. I wasn’t good at this patience thing that grown-ups always spoke about.
A wave of fear washed over me, especially as she began to look at me weirdly, before her manicured fingers began squeezing my hand so tightly I thought she’d break the left metacarpus (I’d learned that one in biology a week earlier).
She continued, ‘It’s something we should have told you about a long, long time ago…’
We? Okay, the woman was freaking me out now. My mind glossed over a number of likely scenarios: genetic disease; Public Enemy splitting up? The possibilities were endless and I’d had enough of this guessing game. I JUST WANTED TO KNOW.
‘Is it about my dad?’ I asked quietly, hopefully. A shot in the dark.
‘Yes, it is.’ Auntie Philomena’s mouth formed into an unusual smile. One tinged with sadness.
My mind started to wonder as suppressed joy threatened to leap from the pit of my stomach and out of my mouth like a mound of vomit. This was all too much. Something I’d dreamed of ever since I was a little girl. You know, finding out he wasn’t dead after all. It had all been some silly mistake after he’d contracted amnesia in the early hours of that morning, seven years ago. Of course, it would be difficult to piece together what occurred in the interim years, but after recently regaining his memory, Dad had set out to find us – his loving family – and finally succeeded today, the night of his wife’swedding! But seeing how happy she now was made him all confused, as he stood alone outside the number twenty-one bus stop located just around the corner from where Philomena and I now sat. He was too scared to talk to me – just in case I too had betrayed him. Poor Dad!
‘Lois?’
‘Yes, sorry Auntie Philomena, you were saying…? About my dad?’
My heart was ready to leap out of my mouth.
‘I have something for you…a message…from your dad.’
* * *
With Stars On (#u762aad71-2263-5b3a-bf65-5843fc46753b)
I remember my dad lifting me up by his large hands and twirling me around in the air. Me, giggling with wonderful anticipation of the giddy feeling that would grip me, right before the remnants of my breakfast would start to rise in my throat.
‘She’s going to be sick, put her down!’ Mum would shout. Spoiling the moment. Our moment. And that’s basically all I could clearly remember about him. Oh, and the mole under his eye. The picture on my dressing table, and others banished to a small box in the loft, was all I had to help piece together the size of his nose, curve of his large lips, cute little button ears encased in what I could only imagine to be the smoothest skin I could ever wish to touch. I often imagined jumping into that photo, if only for sixty seconds – each one spent running my finger across the surface of his skin, the contours of his face, implanting an image in my brain that would live there for ever and ever.
But I didn’t have the power to jump into a photo.
And Dad wasn’t alive again.
In fact, when Auntie Philomena left the reception I ran into the reeking toilets of that restaurant and cried. I continued to sob for the rest of the night, away from the noisy crowds and uncool music. And then again in my bed, still dressed in that awful frilly dress, dolly shoes banished to the ether. As usual, Mum didn’t notice, she was too loved-up with the Bingo Caller to care. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying because, as Auntie Philomena had put it, this was a good thing. Right? Like hearing a message from the grave. But I suppose that’s what really bothered me the most: he was still dead. Lifeless. His ashes scattered in a foreign sea thousands of miles away along with old tyres and rotting bicycles. He hadn’t come to rescue me from my life of endless days at school, Mum’s moaning and now a stepdad thinking he’d acquired the right to tell me what to do just because he was knobbing my mother.
Dad was still gone.
Philomena had handed me a crumpled old Tesco bag like it was a pot of glistening gold; a perfect, divine specimen needing special handling. It was heavy, with something book-shaped inside. Great, I thought. Yet another book to read. So all I could do was chuck it on the floor among my Doc Martens, twelve-inch singles and one of the pink dolly shoes, staring at it from time to time with a cocktail of confusion, fear, excitement and sadness floating in the background.
Luckily, that weekend was spent with Carla while Mum and the Bingo Caller honeymooned in Cornwall. Although my best mate and her family lived only next door, same south London, same Charlton, it felt like a trillion miles away. And it might as well have been. Carla and her brother Corey were allowed to stay up late AND were allowed to eat ice cream AFTER nine o’clock. So, staying there was perhaps a great way of forgetting about Dad’s ‘message’ for a while and get my head right. But my head remained jumbled and I couldn’t get it out of my mind, counting the days till Mum returned. And the minute the sickly newlyweds arrived back home, complete with their first all-shrieking, super-duper, mirror-cracking argument over what to watch on telly, I raced to my room, desperate to peer inside that Tesco bag.
‘Don’t I get a kiss, young lady?’ shouted Mum as I reached the top of the stairs – just outside my room and that Tesco bag. My heart raced as Mum slowly climbed the stairs, moved towards me and smiled wildly to reveal her front gapped teeth.
‘Sorry, Mum. Welcome back,’ I said, one eye on the door to my bedroom as she planted a wet kiss onto my cheek.
‘Is there one for me as well?’ said the Bingo Caller, opening the door to their bedroom. They couldn’t have heard my silent toot as I replied, ‘Yes.’
At last on my bed, I carefully removed the plastic and instantly clocked the ugly green notebook with the words TheManual written on the front in thick black ink.
Mum shrilled my name. ‘Lois!’
I quickly replaced the plastic bag over TheManual, stuffing it under my bed.
‘What??!!’ I replied, totally exasperated.
‘Carla wants to know if you want to go to the sweetshop.’
I clocked the piece of plastic poking out from under the bed. ‘Erm…yes, tell her I’ll be right down…’
‘What is she doing up there?’ said Carla.
‘Nothing! I’ll be right down!’ The Manual could wait another half-hour, right?
*
I waited impatiently as Mr Tally, the bald man behind the counter, looked on as Carla picked out her ten penny sweets. Mr Tally had this annoying habit of watching us and ignoring the grown-ups who were probably busy out back, nicking a pint of milk (I’d never even stolen before, although Corey swiped a sherbet dip once).
‘I think you’ve gone over,’ said Mr Tally, and I wasn’t sure why, considering he’d always tip the tiny paper bag out onto the counter and recount the contents anyway.
‘How have I?’ challenged Carla, today dressed in a pair of very ripped jeans. The door pinged as another young customer ignored the ‘only two schoolchildren at a time’ notice slapped onto the glass door. ‘I’ve got a Flying Saucer, a Mojo, Refresher, whistle, pink shrimp and a Fruit Salad. How’s that up to ten pence?’
I sighed and glanced at my watch. We’d been at this for ten whole minutes and I was bored. I had to get back to my bedroom and that plastic bag.
‘The Jamie whistle counts for two pence,’ he said.
‘So I’ve still got three pence then! Div!’
To save on time and aggravation, I picked out a ready-made bag, hoping it contained my favourites, and we headed towards home.
‘Why don’t we go down the rec?’ asked Carla.
I opened my bag, relieved to find a white chocolate mouse. ‘I don’t feel like it today. Let’s just go home.’
‘You got stuff to do?’ she asked with a look of utter disbelief. As if Lois Bates would ever have anything exciting to do. She had a point.
‘So what’s it like with the new pops?’ she asked, her mouth stuffed with at least three items.
The white mouse and Black Jack currently being demolished in my own mouth nearly flew out as I shrieked, ‘He’s not my dad, Carla!’
‘Sooooreeee!’ she shrugged, curling her lip like they did on telly. Actually, Carla could very well be mistaken for one of those actresses or models, anything she wanted to be. She was easily the prettiest girl in Charlton – no, make that south London – and even with short hair. Tall, slim, always wore the latest fashion, fun, but an absolute whinger if she didn’t get her own way. I was relieved when she sucked on a gob-stopper, leaving me to gossip about Sharlene Rockingham and whether Mrs Codrington – our science teacher – used to be a man or not.
The hot sun shone above us, warming my insides like an electric blanket, and I could swear I felt Dad’s presence. Like he was willing me to do it; just go home and open up that Tesco bag, start acting my age and not my shoe size. I was a big girl now, after all – and, I repeat, almost a teenager.
I finally left Carla in front of her telly and came face-to-face with the plastic bag in my bedroom. I discarded the plastic and the relief was instant – followed by a stab of fear. Puke tents were suddenly pitching themselves in my tummy as the plastic fell to the ground, mercifully covering the pink dolly shoe I now used as a pencil holder.
And there it was again.
The ‘something’ my dad had left me.
The ugly green book, staring back at me.
The Manual
I opened the hard cover and immediately smiled at the first caption.
This is my (Kevin Bates’s) manual to my daughter Lois. The love of my life.
I sighed heavily, dropping the book straight onto my toes, wincing as the pain shot upwards. My body flopped backwards onto my untidy bed, shoulders colliding with the one-eyed teddy, and a single tear poured from my eye like a waning waterfall. My chest heaved up and down with the force of a silent sob, not because it hurt (and it did) but because, after all these years, I’d finally heard from my dad.
