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‘Maybe they read the labels.’
‘Well, they’re getting Own Brand. I’ve never heard of brand-conscious cats.’
‘That is so unfair; Dad. They don’t do Own Brand Salmon & Shrimp — and that’s their favourite.’
‘One tin, Natasha — for a treat. And that’s their lot.’
So all we had left to do now was detergents. We rounded the top of the Shampoo and Soaps aisle and as luck would have it, there they were. The alkie guy with the flat-top haircut was throwing his weight around, having some sort of argument with one of the shelf-stackers. He had him by the lapels.
Dad stopped in his tracks.
‘Just look at that,’ he said. ‘Disgusting.’
‘Mmmm,’ I said.
But Dad hadn’t homed in on the aggressive little scene in Wines and Spirits. His interest was closer to home. He’d picked up a box containing a hideous plastic crinoline lady full of strawberry-scented bubble bath.
‘It’s criminal! An outer pack — an inner pack — about ten grams of high grade coloured plastic — and all to package a teaspoonful of artificial strawberry-scented detergent. Do you know what stuff like this is doing to the ozone layer?’
‘Making a hole in it, Dad,’ I replied dutifully.
‘Too right it is,’ he said, passing the pack to me. He took charge of the trolley and steamed off towards the check-out. ‘Come on, we’re going to take a stand on this one.’ I was left to trail behind carrying the gross crinoline lady.
I’d had scenes like this before. Incredibly mortifying scenes with everyone staring at us as if we’d gone totally insane. Scenes with poor harrassed staff trying to keep their cool and churn out all that ‘the customer’s always right’ stuff they learn in supermarket school, while Dad ranted on making a total prat of himself.
Dad had rounded the bend at the end of Shampoos and Conditioners when we were caught in a knot of people. A traffic jam of trolleys and mums and kids had built up. That’s when we came face to face with them.
The guy with the dreadlocks took one look at what I was carrying, raised an eyebrow and made an ‘isn’t it cute’ face. The guy with the square-topped hairdo raised his can of lager like a salute and he just said ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ I said. And then they moved on.
Dad stood there staring after them. ‘Do you know those people?’
‘Yes, no … Umm, one of them lives in our street … I think.’
‘Not that squatter that’s moved into number twenty five?’
Dad didn’t need an answer, my face said it all.
‘Nice friends he’s got. Your mother’s right. You don’t want to have anything to do with them.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
Dad continued positively fuming. We joined a checkout queue and I dutifully started to load the conveyor.
‘And what about that?’ asked the girl, indicating the bubble bath I was holding. ‘Do you want it or don’t you?’
‘Want it? How could anyone want anything as repulsive as that?’ demanded Dad.
The check-out lady looked affronted. She obviously wasn’t used to having people criticising her merchandise. Well, if you don’t want it, just leave it on one side.’
‘I don’t want it. I want to take it through and complain about it.’
‘You’ll have to pay for it first then and get a refund.’
Dad looked as if he was about to explode.
‘You are asking me to pay for this … This … excrescence?’
‘If you want to take it through, yes.’
A little queue was building up behind us. A lady one back, wearing designer sunglasses with gilt bits on them, stopped devouring the ‘Mediterranean Recipe’ card she’d pinched from the rack and gave us a withering glance.
‘I say. Why don’t you just jolly well pay and be done with it?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed a guy three or so people back. We haven’t got all morning.’ He was wearing a tight T-shirt that read ‘Expansion Tank’ across his stomach and didn’t look like the kind of person you’d want to have an argument with. A baby strapped into a plastic seat set up a mournful howl in agreement.
‘I’d like to speak to the Manager.’ Dad was standing his ground.
The check-out lady put her on her little flashing light with a sigh and we all stood and waited.
‘Look mate, why don’t you just pay for what you’ve got and ‘op-it,’ said the bloke in the expandable T-shirt.
I don’t really want to go into the details. Let’s just say we came very close indeed to causing a riot and ended up at the Complaints Desk with an angry crowd gathered round Dad listening to his standard speech on the evils of packaging and the imminent destruction of rainforests and polar icecaps and the inundation of most of the Netherlands. I stood a few yards away, guarding our trolley, praying for an earthquake to cause a gaping hole to appear in Sainsbury’s floor and swallow me up.
And yes, the boys had reached the check-out. They weren’t going to be allowed to miss out on a scene like this. Oh no. They were finding the whole situation most fun. I could see the flat-top haircut guy practically peeing himself. Dreadlocks was doing a pretty good imitation of Dad by the look of it.
Naturally, they took forever going through — one of their crates of lager wasn’t bar-coded and they had to send an assistant back to check the shelves. I’d moved away, hoping to disassociate myself from Dad’s agonisingly embarrassing performance. But my eyes kept gliding back to check if the boys were still watching him.
That’s when our eyes actually met. You read all those corny things about ‘eyes meeting’. I mean, I’d always thought the whole eye-contact thing was a vast overclaim. But even from this distance, I could see that his were greeny-hazel and kind of — intense. They went right through me. To add the ultimate touch to my humiliation, I felt myself blushing. I had to turn round and study a poster for Spicy Thai Prawn Paella to get over it.
When I felt composed enough to turn back, I found they were making for the exit. They’d practically bought up the whole store’s supply of beers. By the look of it they were going to have some party.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_d7aa88ef-bb42-54a4-9474-05205d29be21)
Just so you get the picture of the full extent of my family’s madness, I’ve got to tell you about Dad’s pet project.
Dad’s pet project is up in the loft. He’s taken over the whole loft area and he’s pinned out all the pages of the A-Z road atlas side by side, each page butting to the next so that we’ve got an incredibly detailed plan of London, street by street. He’s working on his own alternative traffic plan. He seems to think that the future of the planet lies in pedal power. So he’s tracing all these little cycle-ways through the city. Most weekends you’ll see us setting out as reluctant researchers on one of his reccies. First Dad on his mountain bike. Then Mum on her old upright. Followed by Jamie and Gemma and lastly me on my cringe-making pink Raleigh. To complete the picture, we all have to wear these really nerdy cycle helmets and pollution masks. Give us ears and we’d look like a group outing of koala bears.
Anyway, the Saturday after Matt had moved in, I happened to be up in the loft with Dad spending an ecological evening. I was helping him by sticking on rows of little green sponge trees and creating parks and open spaces. I’ve got rather fond of Dad’s project over the years. We used to get into long arguments over traffic control. I’m all for a couple of east-west one way systems which take you past all the cool shopping streets, but Dad’s plan is to filter all the traffic south of the river and ban everything from central London apart from public transport, taxis and of course, bikes. On this particular evening we’d designed a ring over-pass right round London that was like a cycle superhighway.
‘What’s that din?’ asked Dad, looking up from the calculations he was feeding into his lap-top.
It was a deep throaty boom-boom-boom that was reverberating through the loft.
‘Umm … sounds like music.’
‘But where’s it coming from?’ He was already making his way down the loft ladder.
I followed, realising only too well what was up. By the time I reached my room he was leaning out of the window staring at number twenty-five.
People were milling round outside trying to get in through the crush round the front door.
‘It’s only a party,’ I said.
‘But listen to the noise!’
‘Oh well, I don’t expect it’ll go on for long.’
‘Hmm,’ said Dad.
It was about 2.00 am when he totally flipped. I hadn’t got much sleep. In fact, I hadn’t got any. I’d wrapped myself in my duvet and sat in the window with the lights off and the curtains closed behind me — watching. I wouldn’t have believed so many people could have crammed themselves into one house. In fact, they couldn’t. There was a constant overflow of people into the garden. They were the kind of people who were a bit of a novelty in Frensham Avenue. It looked like the whole of Camden Market and Portobello Road had decided to migrate south-west. Through number twenty-fives shadowy windows you could see the waving forms of people dancing. I strained into the gloom for a sighting of Matt but it was pretty well impossible to make out anyone in the flickering candlelight.
And then, just as I was giving up and deciding to crawl into bed, I saw her — the girl who had been with him at the cinema. She’d come into the garden and she was sitting on the low wall smoking a cigarette. A few minutes later, he came out. He was standing in front of her saying something. Then he waited for some minutes with his hands on his hips while she obviously said something back. It was impossible to hear any of the discussion against the music. They appeared to be having some sort of argument. He looked as if he was about to make off when she suddenly stood up and slipped her arms around his waist. For a moment he seemed to be pulling away. But then they went into a clinch. You couldn’t really see but I could tell by the way his back was hunched they were snogging. I came away from the window and slumped miserably down on the bed.
That was when I heard Mum and Dad’s door open. Mum was saying to Dad that she’d had enough and that they ought to call the police. Dad was answering back, saying he’d give them one more chance. I heard our front door slam. I was back at the window in a flash.
But someone had got there ahead of Dad. It was grouchy old Mr Levington from number twenty. Mr Levington was about the most miserable interfering old so-and-so you could ever hope not to live next door to. A real semi-detached Sunday morning car washer. The Levingtons were a kind of family joke — Mum claimed that Mrs Levington washed out the insides of their dustbins each week. They had this garden that looked like a municipal park — a square of grass with symmetrical beds all round and all the plants tied to stakes like torture victims. Mum and Dad had an ongoing battle against their putting out noxious weed-killer and poisonous slug pellets. They were the kind of people who thought — if it moves, it must be a pest, kill it.
Mr Levington was having a go at Matt and the girl by the look of it — waving his arms around and saying something I couldn’t decipher. And now Dad had joined him. He was standing in the middle of the road in his dressing gown and slippers — cringe. The worst thing about it was Dad and Mr Levington seem to have teamed up over this one.
Dad had gone right up to Matt and the girl. Matt still had his arms around her but they’d stopped snogging. She took one look at Dad as if he was the lamest thing or two legs and then made off into the house. Matt was gesticulating, talking back. But Dad and Mr Levington stood their ground. It looked like some row. When they left. Matt went back into the house and the music was turned down.
The music stayed turned down for all of ten minutes. And then there was a crash of shattering glass and a load of shouting. The house seemed about to erupt and a kind of people-explosion burst through the front door. It looked as if a fight had broken out.
I heard Dad’s bedroom door being flung open again, and this time he did go down to the phone. I heard him dial three times and wait.
The crowd flooded out on to the street. There were about six massive guys bearing down on someone who had his back to me. He tripped and fell backwards. And then I caught sight of him under a street light. It was Matt. He was getting to his feet again, shouting things, but none of the guys were taking any notice. Then something glinted in the light of a street lamp. One of them had a broken bottle in his hand.
I stood helplessly at the window. I wanted to scream or shout but I stood frozen to the spot, afraid that any sound from me would cause a fatal lunge or slip.
And then, just in the nick of time, two police cars came careering down the road with their blue lights flashing.
I’ve never been so relieved to see a police car in my whole life.
After the police had gone the party broke up. I lay there listening as people left. At last, the final stragglers made their way down the road, kicking cans and shouting to each other and eventually singing in a slurred sort of way as they rounded the corner. Gradually the street subsided into silence.
Number twenty-five was in darkness apart from a single candle flickering in that top room. I wondered whether that was Matt in there and whether he was alone. I wondered whether he was all right. I sat watching the light for a moment. And then it went out.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_2364e30a-2d31-55a5-ba48-7c0184c02441)
I didn’t sleep too well and I was the first up next day. I decided to walk down to the newsagent and get the Sunday paper — do Dad a favour — or maybe it was just an excuse to get a closer look at what the damage opposite had been.
The whole of the front garden of number twenty-five was trampled flat, and looked as if a herd of wild elephants had dropped by. The wreckage extended into the garden next door. The ground was littered with rubbish: cans and glass from broken bottles, a shoe, a load of flyers, a sweatshirt, and the crushed packaging and scraps from a take-away meal. Then I looked back at our side of the street. The Levingtons’ house had recently been decorated, stark black and white, same as it had been before — really imaginative. I’d heard Mr Levington grumbling across the wall to Dad about how much it had cost. And there — right along the length of their pristine white front wall — someone had spray-painted the word ‘Fascist’, followed by a swastika.
I bit my lip. I’d never liked Mr Levington, he was a miserable old fogey — he was going to go mental when he saw this. I continued on my way to the shops deep in thought. The whole street would be up in arms when they took stock of the mess.
I bought a Sunday Independent for Mum and Dad and had a half-hearted browse through the mags. I needed something to cheer myself up.
Mr Patel leaned over the counter. ‘I hear you had some trouble in your street last night.’
‘It was nothing much. Someone had a party that’s all.’
‘But the police came.’
‘And then everyone left.’
‘But they painted signs. I don’t like the look of it.’
The news had got around. Even Mr Patel had heard about it. The way things were going the whole district was going to gang up on Matt. As I walked back I realised dismally — he was bound to get evicted. He’d probably move to some other squat, miles away — then I’d never get to know him.
A few doors down from the Levingtons, I noticed the house-martins were making a dreadful din. It wasn’t their usual bright chirping and whistling. They were giving out harsh cries of alarm and making dives at the Levingtons’ house. As I drew level, I saw why. Mr Levington was leaning out of the second floor window with a long broom in his hand, trying to reach up to their nest. Luckily, the ledge over that window prevented him from seeing what he was doing, so he kept missing his aim.
‘Don’t! Please don’t!’ I yelled. You mustn’t … They’ve got got baby birds in there.’
Mr Levington paused and looked down at me. His face was red from the effort and he glared.
‘They’re filthy creatures. Messing all over my newly painted window-sills.’
He stretched up again and took another swipe at the nest. He was getting nearer the mark now.
‘Stop it!’ I screamed again. ‘I’ll report you. That’s cruel! You can’t.’
The birds were getting more and more agitated. It was agonising to hear their cries of distress. I was practically crying myself.
With each swipe Mr Levington’s broom inched closer to the mark.
‘You’re an evil wicked man …’ I shouted, my voice going shrill with emotion.
And then suddenly another voice joined mine, a male voice.
‘Stop it, you bastard. Can’t you see what you’re doing?’
Mr Levington looked down and nearly lost his balance.
‘You!’ he roared. ‘I’m amazed you dare show your face in this street. Don’t move from there. I’m coming down.’
He was standing beside me dressed in an old T-shirt and jogging shorts. His feet were bare. He looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed.
‘Thanks …’ I said, my voice all husky. I jerked back the tears. The last thing I wanted to do was to start blubbing like some baby.
‘Good thing you caught him.’
His hair was all scruffed up the wrong way where he’d been sleeping on it. He didn’t look like a drop-out or a junkie, or the kind of person who got into fights. How could everyone be so horrid about him?
‘Have you seen what’s happened to his wall?’ I asked.
He half-grinned. ‘Pretty accurate description if you ask me.’
