Chapter 16
The funeral changes me. I will take it with me for life. I’ve never felt death so nearby. I’ve never trodden so close to the edge of my own mortality either, not even that time those girls called me an emo (I’m a GRUNGER – big difference) and tried to mug me and all they found on my person was an opened unused Super Plus tampon covered in leaky pen ink and crisp crumbs. Or even when I went to that blackhole waterslide in the depths of Penge that urban legends said they put blades inside to slash our arms.
And it changes things for Lowe and me too – and, I’m worried, not in a good way.
He’s gone back to being quiet. He hardly calls; he only texts back if I text him more than once and he’s never first to message. I’m not expecting anything but it’s strange. I replay the funeral in my mind, afterwards at his house. I’m left insecure about it. Was I too much? Was I not enough?
‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ I ask him at the end of an awkward call.
‘Think we’re going riding.’
‘Cool.’
Sometimes Lowe and these other rider boys he hangs out with go on day-trips to foresty places out of London with trails and pump tracks where they can ride their bikes and forget. These places to me seem as distant and fantastical as Narnia. We hover on the common, killing time until they return, like fisherman’s wives. They always come back eventually. Muddy, cold, wet into our arms.
But this time, they don’t.
‘Call them again!’ Bianca orders, but none of us have any phone credit or coins for the phone box. We go to The Twins’ house, set up base camp and ping off their mobiles from there. No answer. We eventually wave the white flag and squeeze into The Twins’ tiny baby-girl pyjamas, raid the snack cupboard and watch Cribs. We learn that they’ve been hanging out with a new gang – another boy and these two girls and they do drugs, which I’d never done and don’t want to either. Apparently, one of the girls has a giant house with a pool, an only child raised by her au pair – typical. Oh, so that’s where they’ve been; the plot thickens.
The BMX boys invite the new gang to the common one afternoon and we all look the two girls up and down, unable to see what they see. Looking for every micro detail, evidence of why they are clearly, obviously the devil, split in half and shoved into pedal pushers. For starters, why do they hang around in this little threesome with this stoned guy? Is he their pimp? It’s odd but – drugs?
The guy says, ‘Do you have any weed?’
‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ I answer politely.
‘Pills?’
‘I do have Smints somewhere.’ I pat my pockets.
The girl with the pool has a best friend called Megan; she’s a bit older than us, greasy and rude with a real actual weekday job at the front desk of a Holiday Inn, and she is a slimy serpent. She shakes a bag of little white pills and that’s all it takes – Lowe is off with her, getting fucked up in the big house. This is where he can escape to a dark place I don’t and can’t understand. A locked part of him that I will never find a key for. And I didn’t get an invite.
I can’t take it any more.
‘Have you kissed that druggy Megan?’ I ask him, in a tone only my mother would use.
‘No!’ But there’s a smile to his voice. Sickening.
‘So what, do you like love drugs now?’ I make sure to sound as judgmental as possible.
‘No, I don’t love drugs. I’ve tried drugs, that’s all.’
‘Well, I feel like because you think I’m – you know – anti-drugs’ – OK, I’m making myself sound like I camp outside the Houses of Parliament with anti-drug flags – ‘well, I’m not like anti-drugs but yeah, I do think they’re the worst thing on the planet. Anyway, I feel like you’re, like, leaving me out.’
‘I just know you don’t like them, Ella, so I’m trying to be respectful by not rubbing it in your face.’
‘Being respectful would be not doing them because they’re dangerous.’ And I have future life plans for us so could do without you depreciating your insides as I really don’t want to be a widow and die alone. ‘People like die and stuff.’
‘You think it’s worse than it is; it’s not like that baby scene in Trainspotting. Look, why don’t you come hang with us one time?’ No, not hang. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Megan’s friend’s got a heated pool, innit, so just bring your swimming costume or whatever?’
Innit, really?
‘Hm. I reckon I’ll be busy.’
This is mostly because I don’t want anybody to see me in a bikini.
‘I haven’t even said when yet?’
‘I already know I’ll be busy, ta.’
Dad has moved from Brian’s and has his own place – a one bed next to Brixton prison: ‘But at least I’m not inside it, am I right, kids?’ he jokes. ‘Safest place in the world here – gotta be pretty stupid to commit a crime outside a prison now, dontchu?’ He thumbs-up at his neighbours behind the barred windows; one thumbs-up back.
Violet thinks Dad’s seeing someone: ‘Cos, not being funny, unless Dad’s wearing knickers these days, there are lacies in the laundry basket.’ I feel sick. ‘Sexy ones.’
‘Violet!’
‘Dad, man, what a rascal.’ Violet shakes her head cheekily, teeth clattering on the lolly of her Strawberry Dip Dab.
Later, when we’re tucked up on the pull-out sofa in Dad’s bare sitting room, with nothing to do except sleep and David Attenborough is soothingly murmuring about whales in the background, I try to talk the situation through with my little sister (well, as much as you can with a thirteen-year-old who devotes their entire purpose on the planet to experimenting with how many different types of treat they can dip into a chocolate fountain with a skewer – that is her entire life). But I’ve got no other options. I can’t talk to any of my friends about Lowe being off with me because then the love rumour mill will once again grind.
‘Sounds to me like he’s got himself a girlfriend,’ Violet says, matter of fact.
‘A girlfriend? How did I miss this?’
I am HORRIFIED.
‘Take a hint, Ella. He invited you to his mum’s funeral to be his friend, not to be his wife. Stop making it about yourself and move on.’
What she’s asking of me is genuinely impossible. ‘How?’
‘Just go and get a boyfriend of your own, duh?’
Violet’s right. Why am I sitting around waiting for Lowe to fall in love with me? I need to get out there. I need to headhunt a side-lover project of my own.
One day, whilst eating untoasted Scotch pancakes by the fridge at Aoife’s, I spot the logo for Lowe’s school poking out of the recycling bin.
‘What is that?’ I say, pointing, my heart stopping.
‘Oh, it’s a prospectus, I think.’
WHAT?
‘You’re not moving schools, are you?’ I accuse in an mix of jealousy, sadness and fear. It’s hypocritical as I’ve been waiting to show Mum the prospectus for a Performing Arts School with a strand in stage and screen writing. But I know Mum will say no. And even then, it’s unlikely I’ll get in.
‘No! It’s for my brother Sean.’
‘Phew. Bring it out then – share the wealth.’
We fish out the glossy magazine; it smells like holiday brochures. We flick the pages, admiring the building and its grandeur, its expansive grounds and not-from-the-Eighties computers.
‘It looks far more epic than our old-fashioned cruddy school and way cooler,’ I say.
‘Well, there are boys for a start … ’
Aoife leans over my shoulder, admiring the goods, chewing her raw pancake in my ear.
‘Loads of boys.’ I’m impressed.
Why, this thing is like a catalogue for boyfriends! How do I subscribe? No photos of Lowe unfortunately, but there are secret fit people we haven’t yet been introduced to. Why is Lowe being so closeted about these potential suitors? There’s a photo in a science lab, a double page spread: two boys are measuring some liquid from a conical flask into a test tube over a Bunsen burner. And I just get this feeling. I prod the photo, like choosing a kitchen appliance in a magazine.
‘He’s hot!’ I point to the one on the left.
‘He’s wearing safety goggles. You can’t even see his face, Elbow!’
Seeing as I fancy the helmets of Daft Punk, this view is generous.
‘Yes, but look at his hands and his way. Trust me, Aoife – he’s fit.’
As a last resort I could ask Mia but we’ve not spoken in a while so Aoife makes us hot Ribena and I get busy. Within an hour I’ve done my research. The Twins knew the guy from primary school; his name is Christopher. He works at the garden centre near Shreya’s where their mum drags them. Good start – mature and reliable – meaning he might have enough money to buy me an H. Samuel heart locket one day. Shreya joins the three-way call to confirm that she doesn’t know a Christopher but her cousin used to date someone who used to work at the same garden centre. This is a risk because people will know pretty quickly that I was asking about Christopher but it’s a risk I’m willing to take right now. Twenty minutes later, we confirm that Christopher is indeed, ‘safe, sane and single’ and as tasty as a Gregg’s Yum Yum.
Eek,this is IT!
That evening, I can’t wait to speak to Lowe and ask him to set me up with this Christopher. This is the most exciting bit. Lowe is a bit taken aback.
‘I dunno … ’ His voice breaks down the receiver. ‘Well, he rollerblades for one.’
‘Lowe, you can’t not set me up with a guy because you hate rollerblading.’
‘I don’t really know him that well.’
‘Well, can’t you get to know him?’ I demand.
Lowe does do a good job of getting to know Christopher; they go for bike rides and play guitar together. But he also does a really good job of keeping us apart. It’s like he wants this Christopher guy for himself!
Enough is enough! Us lot are forced to take it upon ourselves to go on a little day-trip down to the garden centre near Shreya’s house to take a look (spy) at all the plants (boys). We all go, Aoife, The Twins, Shreya, Bianca and I (Ronks is at ballet), strolling into the outdoor, open air centre like it’s absolutely nothing, like it’s a no-big-deal normal day in our life to be shopping for bamboo screens, herb gardens, olive trees and trowels with about ￡1.50 between us. Trust Bianca to turn up disguised as a recent widow looking for a shovel to bury her late millionaire husband. Her eyes peer over huge sunglasses as she sashays past the bird baths and naked chubby cherub statues, hunting for Christopher.
‘Flippity Hell – there he is!’ Shreya screeches, SO LOUDLY, fingers digging into my shoulders.
‘Who?’ I ask, forgetting completely that I’m meant to be on a quest of fancying someone, secretly sad it’s not Lowe, who’s definitely off with oily Megan taking ecstasy.
‘Duh! Christopher!’
Oh, I’ll show you ecstasy alright, my friend.
‘My God, he’s so hot in real life,’ Bianca gasps. ‘He looks like Will Smith.’
Aoife sighs adoringly. ‘Fressssshhhhhh Prinnncccee …’
He’s wearing an oversized green sweater with the garden centre’s logo, baggy jeans, quite cool trainers and a beanie hat. FUCK he’s looking right at us. QUICK!
Shit. Shit. Shit. We all duck down behind some potted wheaty shrubs. Another guy, a little older but also FIT as HELL who looks ish-like Johnny Depp in the pony-tail days, in the same green top as Christopher but the polo shirt version, throws us a look and we hid – badly – again. They confer and then walk towards us.
‘Hey.’ Christopher smiles in that way you know means someone knows who you are, without saying it, like he was expecting this visit.
Shrey steps forward, does the small talk. ‘This is Ella,’ she says, shoving me forward, towards a cherry blossom and a stack of paving slabs.
‘I’m Christopher … ’ He sticks his hand out. Formal.
‘She knows exactly who you areeeee! Don’t you, Ella?’
Fuck off, Bianca.
‘Err … how’s your day?’ I say, not knowing what else to really ask.
‘Working?’ he offers. Lifting all that soil. Pricing up them pots. Scattering … woodchips? … How fit.
‘Awesome,’ I say like a doughnut.
‘Do you wrap up Christmas trees in those nets?’ Bianca asks drunkenly, even though she’s not drunk, like it’s an innuendo, but she’s not smart enough to think of one. This reminds me of the time she once tried to tell us that the plastic casing around a Peperami was a used condom.
‘Errr … sometimes,’ Christopher says suspiciously. ‘In the month of December?’
‘Maybe Christmas will come early this year?’ she giggles. OK, that was better.
‘OK.’ Christopher shrugs.
Bianca backs into a display of giant cacti, and Christopher warns, ‘Be careful, those are spiky.’
‘Would you like to get spiked Ella?’ Bianca blurts and then laughs in our faces in that annoying way she does, nudging me with ZERO subtlety.
And Christopher gives it away, makes it very clear he knows I’ve had my eye on him, that the little birdies have been talking. The others go off to distract the manager, ‘buying’ packets of seeds. And within minutes Christopher and I are behind a shed, next to the Bleeding Hearts, kissing. He could have picked a nicer spot – the rose garden or those lemon trees but I appreciate him not taking me inside the shed where I might feel intimidated. His hands on my hips. His kiss attentive. The sound of a water feature bubbling behind us. The occasional waft of fresh manure.
And I think about Lowe. I imagine him – held hostage – Megan straddling him confidently, gyrating aggressively, with a mortar and pestle grind and I wish I could get her horrible fanny juice essence out of my mind. Even though I know he’s probably loving it. Gag.
‘So … ’ Christopher says. ‘Do you want to like … see how this goes?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That would be cool.’
Cool.
K. Cool.
So it might not be Lowe but finally, it’s happened to me: I have a boyfriend. And he isn’t a weirdo. Or a pervert. Or a horse. Or imaginary. Or thirty-five.
And I wish I could just run away right then and tell everyone, but I have to hold it down because the girls are being ushered to the till-point by the manager, wheelbarrows loaded with hundreds of pounds worth of soil, plants and tools. When they see me – trusting the kiss has taken place – they say to the cashier, ‘actually we’re OK.’ Dumping the barrows and running out.
Christopher waves. His friend, hands in pockets, gazes at us in that stoner way.
‘Can’t believe his friend didn’t try it with me!’ shouts Bianca fuming, and shouts, ‘THANKS FOR NOTHING!’
EVERYONE is very happy and proud of me. It’s like I’ve won some kind of trophy. Getting a boyfriend (pending) is like a thing for us all! It’s like scoring a goal for your football team! Why everybody isn’t throwing me up on their shoulders or giving me the birthday bumps, I don’t know. I feel very grown-up, like I should be able to touch-type, ride the Underground, have an electric toothbrush. Oh, you know what adult life is like? Bills, bills, bills.
From then onwards I become so annoying. I like dropping Christopher’s name into conversation: ‘Let me check with Christopher’, I gloat, even though there’s absolutely nothing to check in with Christopher about. Having a boyfriend (pending) means I am on the radar with cool girls in school. They invite me to their coffee mornings at Starbucks. Isobel Chaser invites me to a Games Night at her house where all the boyfriends come and they get drunk and pretend they know how to play poker. I hear the last one got a bit wild, that they raided Isobel’s dad’s whiskey collection and refilled the empty bottles with cold tea. That they snuck into rooms and worked their way up the bases. It’s a hard balance to strike: you have to hope you don’t go too far and yet keep up with the pack. Ideally everyone in a friendship group gets fingered as the clock strikes the exact same hour but you can’t always plan these things – it really is a game of trust and good faith.
‘Oh, and bring Christopher,’ she orders, turning away, like it’s as simple as that.
Aoife looks at me as if I’m joining a suicide pact. ‘You’re not gonna go to that, are you?’
Course I’m not. I obviously don’t want to actually drink coffee or hard alcohol or get fingered in real life!
‘Maybe, but I’ll check with Christopher,’ I say.
How punchable am I?
Me getting a boyfriend (pending) is, I can only assume, the reason Lowe is off with me. He’s abrasive. Moody. Can’t he just be happy for me that I’ve pretty much settled down? He texts me one word answers, doesn’t call me back. Sometimes he phones just to show me he’s grumpy, in case I hadn’t noticed. When I ask, ‘Do you want to talk about your mum?’ he says, ‘No,’ in the same tone I would use to tell my parents to ‘piss off!’ I say, ‘I’m always here for you.’
And he says, ‘K.’
You started it, Lowe! You were the one that started hanging out with a girl who wasn’t me, do you think I WANT to be gathering emergency boyfriends like this?
Maybe I have to give him his space?
He says, suddenly, ‘There’s this girl, Saskia, in my art class who likes me apparently.’
I’m like, ‘COOL.’ WHATEVS.
‘When she’s eighteen, she’s gonna get her clit pierced,’ he says/threatens.
Idiot. Don’t act like you know where a clit is, Lowe. You can’t even pin a tail on the bloody donkey. Fool.
‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Good for Saskia.’
I haven’t quite located my own clit yet but I assure you that once I do, there is no way in hell I am messing around with that precious pearl of nerves.
What can I pierce that will be cool and isn’t going to hurt? A fingernail? Do people pierce their hair?
‘What about druggy Megan?’ I ask.
‘What? Who?’
‘I thought SHE was your girlfriend?’
‘Ha. No.’
Don’t HA me. I’ve gone out of my way to get a boyfriend here and he was single all along?
‘I might invite Christopher over at the weekend,’ I bait to make him jealous, to get him back for Saskia’s clit-piercing plans, but then I reverse that hard work by adding, ‘Come if you want?’, really hoping he says yes. The way I’m always hoping he says yes. What I’d really like is for Lowe to say yes to coming to my house and Christopher to just not show up. That would be ideal.
‘Christopher?’ He cracks up, laughing at me, not with me.
‘What? What’s so funny?
‘He prefers Chris.’
It has become that pedantic. So, they’re still hanging out, then. This is an uncomfortable cross of boundaries. We’re two children fighting over the ragdoll of poor, sweet Christopher, Chris, using him as a pawn. A third party has got involved in our duel and we can’t deal with it. Like, will Christopher pick a side? And what was Christopher saying about me to Lowe? Would he tell him if I was a good kisser?
‘Well, I call him Christopher,’ I defend defiantly.
‘Whatever. You guys aren’t serious anyway.’
I’m SORRY what?
This stings because it’s true. Christopher and I haven’t spoken on the phone once; we don’t even really text. We haven’t even kissed since that time at the garden centre and he was bored and possibly stoned. Now I think about it, I don’t even know his surname.
Still, Christopher and Lowe plan to come to my house, together. I organize a house clean-up faster than any sixty-minute makeover you’ve seen on TV. I use a whole can of air freshener. Hurtle bleach around like salt to ward off bad spirits. My cleaning style: rabid. Nonsensical. Stuffing, scrambling, shoving stuff into cupboards, under beds, high up. Hoping they’ll see 251 as shabby-chic, bohemian, Takeshi’s Castle instead of a gothic death-trap. Rusty nails that stick out like werewolf claws: fun! Exposed live wires and pipes to trip on: thrilling! All snares, obstacles, for newcomers to confront, to earn respect, before Mum will even consider taking them seriously.
I’m more excited that Lowe is here. And we all know it. It’s as obvious as the grass being green. Lowe, however, has come – it seems – purely to be a watchdog. Not that Christopher and I need watching.
‘Woah, your house is so sick – it looks like the house in Fight Club!’ People always gawp at our house like it’s a museum, forgetting we have to live here. Christopher buys me a graffiti pen as a no-reason gift, adorable. Then the BOYS come to my room. The walls and furniture will be gossiping about this for weeks, losing their minds that the guy they’ve seen me dream about or lose sleep over is now here. I watch Lowe admiring my magazine cut-outs and posters, my photos of friends pinned to my noticeboard and silly ornaments on the shelves. What does he think of me? Why isn’t he SAYING anything? We take turns to tag my wardrobe with the pen.
When Mum gets home she is excited by the arrival of ‘strapping young lads!’ And instantly, after taxing them for weed, sends them out to work on the garden with its upturned broken plastic chairs and metal barbed wire, broken glass and fox poo. Christopher is given the task of mowing the overgrown grass. I watch him, chugging away, working up a sweat, smiling, and for a second Lowe isn’t the only person in the entire world I focus on. He sort of moves into the background a little bit and – for once – I’m able to see someone who isn’t him. Perhaps it is possible that I could like boys who aren’t Lowe. It’s some sort of light at the end of a tunnel.
But my thoughts are broken as Christopher accidently catches a frog in the violent whirring jaw of the mower. ‘OH SHIT! I am SO sorry!’ he yelps. He shouldn’t be the one apologizing.
I feel so bad for him, dark frog’s blood spluttering down his light-blue jeans. The young boy in his face seems to jump out like a scare on a ghost train. It really isn’t his fault; our garden is just such a mess we didn’t even know we had frogs. ‘That’s not our frog,’ I say, trying to make him feel better, but Mum acts like a disappointed zookeeper, like he now owes her compensation for the murdered amphibian. That will be a new unwanted core memory for poor Christopher. I look at Lowe like oh, fuck off.
The next day I text to check in, to see if the frog’s blood came out of his jeans, and Christopher doesn’t reply for ages. When he finally does, he says:
Soz ran out of credit. Blood came out. Thx. x
Even in the short lived hundredish hours of our small relationship, I know something is up. I pluck up the courage to call him.
His older brother answers and says, ‘Chris’ – oh, shit, it is Chris – ‘it’s some girl for you.’
I’m not some girl. I’m his sweetheart.
I ask, ‘Is everything OK?’
He says, ‘ … Er.’
‘Is it about the frog?’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with the frog.’
‘So what’s up?’
‘I’m gonna step away if that’s cool.’
Silence.
‘OK,’ I say.
Annoyingly, this is only making him fitter. Damn.
‘I don’t think it’s working.’
Ouch. OK. I replay the day at my house in my head. All I see is Lowe. And the frog. I can’t even picture Christopher; it’s like he wasn’t even there.
‘No worries,’ I say.
I can’t work out if I just got dumped or not. I reckon I probably did. Which is annoying because now I just fancy him more.
Before I start work on my debut non-fiction on romantic relationships, The Rejection is the Connection, I should probably start sharing the news.
Lowe’s dad answers. I don’t even have to say it’s me.
‘LOWE!’ he bellows and I wait, going over the minor details of my publicity spin as to why Christopher and I broke up. Do it like Dawson’s Creek; they always know how to break up properly. Big words help. No words are better but I am not good at that.
‘Hey.’ He sounds breathless, like he ran for the phone. ‘How are you?’
‘Good … considering … ’ I add, referring to my recent break-up, but he doesn’t bite. ‘You?’
‘Cool,’ he replies.
‘So … ’ I begin. ‘Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances – I mean you’ve probably heard; I’m sure the rumours are already spreading, given we were couple of the year – but Christopher and I have sadly decided to call it a day and go our separate ways. We really gave it everything we could but ultimately … we decided we’re better off as friends.’
‘ … ’
‘Hello? Are you there?’
‘Yeah, Chris said,’ Lowe replies.
‘What did he say?’ Did he mention that you and I are obviously in love, Lowe? That we’d make such a cute couple? Did he? And are you going to do something about that or no?
‘That you’re just going to be friends.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean, you guys were never really going out in the first place were you, so … ’
‘He bought me a marker pen.’
Stone. Cold. Silence.
That night I’m crying like I’ve broken up – not with Christopher at all – but with Lowe. I find myself beating my wardrobe up with a coat hanger so I’m clearly a girl on the brink. Violet walks in like … O … K.
‘I know, I know I’m mad,’ I howl. ‘But I can’t help it; this is what love does to you!’ I push my finger at my temple like they do on TV and twist it like a screwdriver.
But there’s only so much sliding down a wall into a crying heap to Britney’s ‘I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ one can do. I’ve had enough of feeling so helpless.
I dig out the application form and apply for a place at the performing arts school, stapling some of my writing to the entry form just like Mum did. One of my poems is about an old couple in love and their letters have been found by their great-grandchildren. For authenticity, I’ve scrunched up the paper, stained it with teabags and burnt the sides with a lighter so it looks like it’s from the olden days. Then, using one of the stamps I had saved for a letter to Lowe, I post it. Deciding I’ll only tell Mum if I get an interview so she can’t say no.
Once home, I say to myself, you know what will really help ease my chaotic mind? Redesigning my bedroom! New Bedroom means New Me. I put on Incubus and use my rage and sadness to shove the bed with my whole body weight. CLANG. I drag the furniture. BASH. The tips of my fingers white, red face melting in crying grunts until everything has been reconfigured. It looks utterly sick. Not that functional given that the bed is in the centre of the room and I can’t quite open the door, but still, sick.
‘MUUUUMMMM! COME LOOK AT MY NEW ROOM!’
I mean this is all far more healthy than chopping myself an anxious fringe.
And then it twigs. Wait, what’s all this crying about?
So long as Saskia from art class is kept at bay, Lowe and I are single at the same time.
Beautiful, endless, rolling fields, open arms and flowing water, time stops and it’s all ours …