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I try to imagine her face without the purple stain, and whether she would be pretty. She does have the shiniest dark hair and Mum says that the skin on the clear side of her face is beautiful. Josie’s blue eyes can be fierce while she waits for people to take in her birthmark, but sparkling and kind once they have.
‘I hope it works.’ I say.
‘Thanks. Mum thinks that saying prayers helps, the more the better.’
‘I see.’ No, I don’t.
Her head drops. ‘Will you say one for me Billy? For my new face?’
‘What, now?’
‘Oh no, whenever you …’
She looks at me full-on and I’m reminded of what is at stake. So, yes, I will say a prayer for her new face, as well as for the end of my asthma, for Arsenal to win the League and for a Charles Atlas physique.
‘OK Josie.’
‘Thanks Billy.’
She leans closer. As I look into her eyes her face blurs and I see no blemish. She sits back, wraps her arms around her knees and stares at the ground.
‘Josie Costello and Billy Driscoll, what are you two up to then?’
Sarah Richards has a neat accent that turns most of her ‘rs’ into ‘rrrs’. Rooksy once said that she sounded like the country yokels who sing the TV advert for cider: Oh Coates comes up from Somerset, where the cider apples grow.
She told him it was better than sounding like a Cockney. Then she sang the real song, as she called it, which ends with, ‘because we loves it so’. Fair enough. Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner ends with: ‘’Cos I love London so’.
Sarah’s question has pleased Josie and I think that she meant it to.
‘We were just chatting,’ says Josie. True but not what I’d have said; chatting is what girls do. Sarah sits down and gives Josie’s knee a little squeeze. Josie covers Sarah’s hand with her own. If she could have a new face, I think she’d choose one like Sarah’s.
Sarah Richards came to Pimlico two years ago when her dad, a chauffeur, followed his employers up from Somerset. His large black Humber looked strangely out of place, like it could be visiting Sarah’s house for a funeral or something. There were no more than half a dozen cars in her street and even fewer in ours. Mr Richards is forever washing and polishing the car outside his house and looks askance when the elderly cars and vans of his neighbours pass by.
At first, Sarah was the skinny new girl who sat in front of me in my last year at primary school. However, in the final term, things changed. Not that she had changed much – she was already pretty – but I was finding her more likeable. I observed her more closely, noticing things, like the way she wore ribbons in her hair when most girls thought them babyish, and how she never waited after school for friends to walk home with, but that others waited for her. Soon I was thinking about her a lot and even guessing, the night before, which of her dresses she’d wear the next day. My favourite had thin blue and white stripes with piping at the neck. I’d stare at her back, at the straight seam between her shoulders, and admire the way she held herself square to line up with it. And whenever she pushed up her hair to reveal the back of her neck, the hairs would stand up on the back of mine.
I even played a game in which seeing her face by getting her to turn around in class was worth twice seeing it elsewhere. One way was to answer the teacher’s questions. My hand was usually first up. Christine Cassidy and Shirley da Costa, my rivals for being top of the class, would scowl from their front-row desks. But Sarah would swivel round, head-on-hand, without taking her elbow off the desk and give me a smile that said, Go on then, clever clogs, tell ’em. And I did, although seeing her face sometimes made me forget the question and there would be jeering.
When there were no questions to answer, I’d stare at her back, willing her, like Svengali, to turn around. On the only occasion it seemed to work, she grinned as if to say, OK, just this once.
Then came the11-plus exam and the traumatic move to an all-boys grammar school. Sarah surprised Christine Cassidy and Shirley da Costa by passing the exam too and joining them at the local girls’ grammar school.
Even in my new uniform, I no longer felt special. At my new school, everyone was clever and almost everyone was bigger than me. In my form room I sat behind a fat kid with body odour. In my darker moments I’d superimpose Sarah’s slender blue and white dress on his black blazer, dreaming of her swivel and smile. Thankfully he never turned around when I put my hand up as he was too busy waving his own. He, too, had also been top of his class at primary school.
I saw little of Sarah during my first year and this was just as well. She was maturing fast, while I wasn’t. Even worse, she had grown taller than me and, in the company of her school friends in their grey school uniforms, she seemed reluctant to have much to do with me. I felt young, small and left behind. So while I continued to look for her, I avoided any meetings. Even in the holidays I saw little of her as she spent most of the time at her Nan’s in Somerset.
However, at the end of this year’s Easter holidays, I met her again. She was sitting on the Big Step with Josie. For the first time since primary school she seemed pleased to see me and said how tall I’d got. She asked me all sorts of questions about my school and what I was up to. I forgot to ask her any questions in return, something that often happens when talking with girls. Then, as I was leaving, she said ‘see you later then? At the same time, she turned her head and pushed her hair up. With that glimpse of her neck, everything and more that I had felt for her at primary school came flooding back. I’ve looked for her most weekends since but with school cricket matches on Saturdays and the agony of quiet family Sundays our meetings have been restricted to brief hellos, often in the company of our respective parents.
In the two years since primary school, her face has grown slender, and her cheekbones seem to have moved closer to the surface. I’m struck more powerfully than ever how pretty she is and dismayed to realise that this is what her woman’s face is going to look like. Panic rises in my chest about how much I need to grow up, to catch up, to get better looking. I’ve been checking my own face daily in the mirror. There has been some improvement, but one or two spots seem to have become as permanent as my nose.
She must have been on holiday in Somerset because she’s suntanned and blonde strands streak her light brown hair where it’s brushed past her ears. A pale green cotton frock snugs her slender body from her bony square shoulders down to her waist. Each time she smiles, tiny dimples appear either side of her mouth and I have to catch my breath. Even though she’s so pretty, the boys say they don’t fancy her because she’s flat chested. This has become such an important issue that even ugly girls are OK, if they have tits. I wouldn’t let on to my mates, but I think that if a girl has a face like Sarah’s, breasts are worth waiting for.
‘My dad’s cleaning his car. Would you both like to come and sit in?’
I’d love to get behind the wheel of a Humber, although it’s not one of my favourites. A vertical chrome grille and big headlamps give it a smug, snobby face and it has a fat-arse boot that can swallow not only cases but also the large trunks that wealthy people use. I’ve only ever ridden in cars like the Morris Minor belonging to my aunt in Cumberland, and I can’t wait to get inside a limousine similar to the one used by the Prime Minister, Mr Macmillan.
I’m thinking this as we get up from the Big Step when Josie’s bad leg gives way and she tumbles forward on the pavement. Instead of trying to get up, she rolls onto her back clutching the elbow that has taken the brunt of the fall.
‘Oh Josie,’ says Sarah.
Josie’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Blinking leg … goes to sleep on me.’
Sarah looks at me, expecting me to take action. This makes knowing what to do even harder. Josie doesn’t look as if she wants to be helped up, and touching a girl isn’t so straightforward any more.
Sarah kneels down. ‘Come on Josie, let’s get up.’ She strokes her hair.
Josie doesn’t move and covers her face with her hands. Sarah shrugs and looks to me again.
My cowboy hero, Audie Murphy, would simply lift her in his arms. I don’t know why I always think of Audie in difficult situations because it only highlights everything that I’m not up to doing: punch the baddie; dive into deep water; lift girls off the floor. Anyway, Josie is probably as heavy as I am. Faced with her tears and Sarah’s expectations, I look away to hide my confusion. Then it comes to me: I’ll give her my ‘Norman Wisdom’. This may not be the place for the elbows-out rolling walk or his famous trip, of which I’m especially proud, but I lie beside Josie and prop my head on one hand – a horizontal version of the way Norman leans on walls and other, less solid, objects. I give her the high-pitched voice. ‘Now Mrs, up we get, can’t lie here all day, got an appointment in that nice big car over there.’ Her fingers part and she peeps through to see Norman’s yawning grin and his eyes going up into his head. Her shoulders start shaking.
Sarah frowns before realizing that Josie is chuckling. I roll onto my back, exaggerating Norman’s laughter. Sarah joins in and I feel a little guilty at how much more her laughter means to me than Josie’s. With Sarah’s help, she gets up. From her frock’s short sleeve she pulls out a hanky to dab her eyes and wipe away some tear-snot.
Mr Richards calls over to say it’s OK to sit in the car but only in the back, and not to make a mess as he’s just ‘brushed out’. The girls get in and sit back on the deep bench seat. They pat the space between them for me to sit there too. Mr Richards closes the door and soon has the car rocking gently as he polishes the bonnet. In the carpeted hush, we talk in whispers and before long we fall silent, breathing in the heady mix of car wax and Windolene – and when I squeeze the seat’s soft leather, it releases a faint smell of cigars. Josie puts one hand through the looped strap and waves with the other like the Queen. Then she touches the gleaming ashtray in the door and snatches back her hand when she sees her fingerprints on the chrome.
‘Oops, sorry.’
Sarah smiles and gets up to wipe the ashtray with the hem of her frock.
Mr Richards has moved into the road on Sarah’s side. He squats lower to polish the door and we catch him making a cross-eyed face. We smile but he doesn’t smile back because he had done it only for Sarah. The vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens and he stands up.
‘Blimey, this is smashing,’ says Josie. ‘Fancy being driven in one of these wherever you want to go. He’s got a great job your dad. Will he give us ride?’
Sarah shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s only taken Mum out a few times, on his way to work.’
Christine and Shirley arrive. Josie’s proud tap on the window is too loud and Mr Richard’s face goes into full frown. The girls wave but don’t stop.
Josie clambers out. ‘Thanks Sarah, see ya.’ Christine and Shirley carry on, shoving each other playfully, unconcerned whether Josie follows or not. She limps after them but stops briefly to wave at us with little shakes of her upright hand that only we can see. Sarah waves back. Josie resumes her struggle to catch up. Then something about the girls’ cruel giggling, their turned backs and their sound legs gets me to my feet. I jump out of the car. ‘Wait a minute, can’t you!’
They stop, glaring, but they wait with eyebrows raised and cheeks sucked in. When Josie reaches them, they set off, arm-in-arm, and as quickly as they can. Once again, Josie struggles to keep up.
I get back in the car. Sarah reaches across me to pull the door shut and I catch what she feels for Josie in her fading smile. I’d give anything for her to feel like this about me.
‘I like Josie,’ she says.
‘Me too.’ This is true, although I wouldn’t normally say so.
‘It was nice what you did for her.’
‘Well, they could see she was trying to catch up.’
‘Yes, but I meant when you rolled on the ground to make her laugh.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was kind.’ She’s talking about me! Silence. My turn to speak, but I can’t. ‘She’s got lovely blue eyes, Josie, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Like yours.’
Bloody hell Billy, say something! There’s so much I’d like to tell her but my words stick, like too many people trying to get through a door at once. I eventually mumble something about Josie’s trip to the holy place for her face, and how it’s important to have faith.
‘Really?’
‘You know, praying a lot … Josie asked me if I’d say a prayer for her.’
‘And will you?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes, I will.’
‘That’s nice of you, Billy.’
I have never felt nicer.
Her father appears again, polishing the door on the nearside. This time his smile is for both of us, but he doesn’t mean it.
‘I’d love to have a car, to be a chauffeur, like your dad … to drive all the time.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Oh, all over, everywhere.’
She leans closer. ‘Would you take me with you?’
A weird fluttering fills my chest. Something has changed, like the moment in cowboy films when the hero and heroine first notice each other. I can see her face so clearly: the little mole beside her nose and the tiny bleached hairs above her lips. I’m not sure what to say but I know what I want to do: for the first time in my life, I want to kiss someone.
‘Well?’ she says.
‘Oh yes, yes, I’d take you.’
‘Where?’
‘Well, to Cumberland … maybe. It’s a long way. We’d have to take food and things for the journey.’
Her face comes closer. ‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s smashing. Near my Aunt’s, there’s a big river where we fish for trout, but we only ever catch eels. There are caves in the riverbank, where my cousin smokes a tuppenny loose. My aunt has a Morris Minor and drives us to the Lake District where there are huge mountains and er … lakes. In Carlisle Castle, one dungeon has a licking stone.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a curvy-shaped bit of wall made smooth by prisoners licking water that seeped through from the moat. And we go to the seaside at Silloth, where there are huge sand dunes to jump from, and the best ice cream: it’s Italian. And there’s a funfair with flick-ball machines; if you get three balls in the holes, you get one cigarette. And my aunt never stops baking, there are always cakes and different kinds of tart at teatime, and lemon curd, although they call it lemon cheese up there. Her kitchen table is as big as our kitchen.’
I’m out of breath. She’s looking at me and I want to tell her more to keep her looking.
‘Sounds wonderful.’ She puts a hand on mine. ‘Shall we go then, one day?’
I have to swallow to start breathing again. ‘Yes.’ Then, instead of telling her how I feel, all I manage is, ‘It does rain a lot though. And we never get brown like you do in Somerset.’
‘Would you take me to Somerset too?’
‘Oh I would, yes.’
‘Then I could show you our village, Lower Sinton. My Nan runs the post office but it’s not like the one here; it sells sweets and food and newspapers. There are haystacks in the fields where hares hide, but I’ve never seen them. The man next door has ponies and we get free rides. In a cottage on the edge of the village there’s an old woman called Miss Walthough. She looks a bit like a witch but she isn’t, although she does know about potions for curing sick animals, and she grows the best raspberries for miles around. We’ve also got a river; it runs across the fields behind Nan’s garden. There are all kinds of beautiful stones in it and you can wade across, except in winter when it’s too deep.’
Her face is so close. Talking has made her breathless too. Embarrassed, she shifts forward on the seat. I’m afraid that she’s getting up to go, but she’s pushing down with her feet to sit further back. Now the sunlight can reach her hair through the rear window and her face shines like it’s a Technicolor close-up of the heroine in a Western. I move closer. She looks away but slides her hand over mine. To the sound of our breathing, we stare ahead. Through the windscreen, the roads of Cumberland and Somerset stretch before us in a sunny world in which I will drive a sports car with Sarah beside me, and she’ll put her head on my shoulder. After several minutes I say, ‘I can’t wait to be able to drive.’
The door opens with a rich click. Mr Richards ducks his head inside. ‘All done, time to lock up.’ His eyes narrow and he sniffs. ‘What is that? It’s not fish is it?’
I haven’t noticed the smell until now. The whiting has soaked through its paper wrapping and there’s a damp patch on the beige carpet. The Bournvita will be OK but I fear for the flavour of Ada’s Weights.
I snatch up the string bag and stammer, ‘It’s for Mrs Holt.’
‘Well, whoever it’s for you can take it out of my car.’ He holds the door wide open and for a moment it feels as if he’s my chauffeur.
I step past him. ‘Thank you.’ I’m only being polite but Mr Richards doesn’t see it that way and he’s about to say so, when Sarah stops him. ‘Dad, please … it’s all right.’
I walk away.
Sarah calls out, ‘Bye.’
I wave and keep going. I turn the street corner and start running as if I could keep it up for ever.
Strength, Thrift and Gigli
Dad breaks clocks. Every now and again, a snap and a metallic uncoiling signal the end of another innocent Westclox. Death follows a brief whirring of detached innards failing to turn the luminous hands. This is when Mum starts shouting.
This evening she has caught Dad as his hand settles nonchalantly on the mantelpiece. She reaches around him to snatch the clock and hold it safely against her stomach. He throws up his hands and smiles.
‘I’ll wind it,’ she says.
He winks at John and me. ‘Fair enough, Maureen.’
She lifts the winder’s butterfly top and turns it with the tips of her fingers to demonstrate how it should be done: a gentle ratcheting that doesn’t go too far. Showing him, for the hundredth time, how every task in hand needs careful attention.
She sets it back on the mantelpiece. ‘Now leave it, I’ll bring it when I come to bed.’ During the day it’s a kitchen clock, at night it sits on the table by their bed.
Dad is nothing if not thorough, but he can’t resist the final turn that destroys the heads of already embedded screws, or the last twist of the tap that chews up washers. At Christmas, he literally blows up balloons. John and I have hidden the bicycle pump since the time he continued pumping a rock-hard tyre after a squeeze convinced him that it was well short of its right pressure. The bang from the exploding inner tube lifted Chris from his slumbers on Ada’s windowsill and dumped him spitting and wailing in our backyard.
Accuracy isn’t his strong point either but we love watching him miss at the coconut shy at Battersea Funfair just to see the vertical ripples that roll around the canvas marquee wall after each thump of a wayward wooden ball.
