Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1972 Aged 10 #3
Her dad walked into the kitchen, whistling, as was his way.
He looked smart in his white shirt and company tie, which was red with a small gold logo on it.
Her dad sold concrete. People always made the same jokes when they found this out: ‘How does he carry his samples around?’ Or, ‘Now there’s a job you can really get stuck in to .
. .’ He had explained to her in great, great detail that he sold concrete to companies who built things and it was probably the most important part of any project, getting the concrete right.
Without it, the whole shebang could tumble down, literally.
Her dad took concrete very seriously. And as he liked to remind them, his smile gone, eyes blinking, ‘There’s a million people unemployed in this country.
One million. I can’t even picture that many of anything, fellas who can’t put food on the table or shoes on their kids’ feet.
There’ll always be a need for concrete, and for that I am thankful.
’ His tone and manner hinted that he was not only thankful but fearful too, the slow rise and fall of his Adam’s apple suggesting that he was only one wrong move or one pay cheque away from being a fella like that.
She didn’t like to think of kids with no shoes.
‘How are we all doing?’ He always said this, as if he were addressing a crowd. She suspected it was because there were moments when he couldn’t tell them apart and was happier with this catch-all, often addressing them directly as ‘sweetie’ or ‘love’.
‘Mum’s getting us a special pudding.’ This, the thing that stuck in her thoughts from their earlier conversation. Remy had a very sweet tooth and was unashamedly motivated by the prospect of sugar.
‘Not Arctic Roll, is it? What are we, made of money?’
‘Don’t be an old grump, Dennis, this is a big day for our little doves, and they deserve a treat!’
‘Well, I’m going to work all day, so can I have some?’ He winked at her, her lovely dad; she knew he’d never take their ice cream, spoil their treat.
‘It’s a home-made pud, actually, but I’m not going to say more than that!’ Her mum beamed and gave a little wiggle. Excited, it seemed, at no more than the promise of her family around the table, all sampling her special pud.
‘How are we all feeling about the exam?’ Her dad got straight to it as he slathered marmalade over his toast.
‘Well, Mum’s excited.’ Ashleigh spoke quietly, eyes fixed on Remy. It made them both laugh; there she was, beneath the frosty exterior, her smart sister.
‘You’ll do great.’ Whether he hadn’t heard, wasn’t paying attention or simply chose to ignore Ashleigh, it was impossible to tell.
‘I’ll tell you something’ – he paused, using his marmalade knife as a pointer as he aimed it at them in turn, verbally ladling on the expectation she knew would do nothing to help ease Ashleigh’s nerves – ‘when I drive past St. Jude’s, do you know what I see? ’
She shook her head, knowing he didn’t really want her to guess the answer. Ashleigh rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘I see fancy cars, and fancy people. Drove past the other week and one bloke was in one of them new Ford Granadas. Cor, I’d give my left nut for one of them.’
‘Dennis!’ her mum shouted. Her dad was not allowed to say ‘nut’ in front of them. Unless it was of the pea, wal, or hazel variety.
‘And the thought that my daughters will be right there among it.’ He shook his head, his voice quavering with emotion. ‘It’s something I could never have dreamed of. I can’t imagine what my old mum would say if she were still alive. She’d not believe it.’
Her mum came up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. It occurred to her then how she, certainly, might be taking the exam in her stride, but for her parents, and Ashleigh too, it was kind of a big deal.
‘If we don’t pass, don’t get the scholarships . . .’ She spoke as thoughts formed.
‘It doesn’t matter!’
‘Doesn’t matter a jot!’
Her parents replied simultaneously before she had finished the question.
They shook their heads, held up their palms and spoke with gusto and false grins, as if they might be able to convince her this was the case.
She, however, caught the way they shared a brief but meaningful, wide-eyed glance, as if it did matter. As if it mattered a lot.
The colour, she noticed, had drained from Ashleigh’s face. Her sister placed her buttered toast on her plate, seemingly unable to take another bite.
‘Five eights?’ her mum yelled, obviously trying to change the atmosphere as she headed towards the sink.
‘Forty-four!’ Remy shouted.
‘Forty-four?’ Her dad pulled a face.
‘Goodness me, Remy! Do we need to go over our eight times table in the car?’ her mum asked nervously.
Remy smiled at Ashleigh, hoping to make her laugh, knowing her sister was well aware that she could recite all of the times tables perfectly in her sleep.
‘I don’t know, Ruthie, do we?’
This did the trick, and Ashleigh laughed loudly; the glass of orange squash shook in her hand, spilling over the wipe-clean tablecloth, and Remy’s tummy felt warmed.
It was all going to be okay.
Ashleigh
‘Here we are then, girls! We need to get a wiggle on as your dad needs the car back pronto. He’s heading up to Bristol and won’t thank me if he’s late. But I wanted to drive you in – no bus for my little smarty-pants, not today.’
Ashleigh gave a brief nod of understanding, although why all the fuss she wasn’t sure.
She liked getting the bus, liked sitting with Tony, their friend, swapping their news, not that they had much news, and more often than not spoke about what they’d had for their tea.
She looked out of the window on her side of the car, the right.
She always sat on the right. Remy did likewise on the left.
‘Now’ – her mum adjusted the rear-view mirror, and spoke into it – ‘don’t forget, you are to have an early lunch – your form teacher is aware – then Miss Delaney will meet you by the minibus at the front of the school and she will wait in the minibus while you take the exam.’
That word, again . . .
It did little to help her nerves, hearing the plan, the schedule.
Her mum pulled out the choke, turned the key, and the car juddered as the engine sputtered into life.
Ashleigh wondered how badly she would be injured if she jumped out of the moving car.
This wasn’t a suicide mission, nothing like that!
What she was after was the kind of injury that could mean a few hours in the casualty department, long enough to miss the trip to St. Jude’s, and maybe a cast on her arm, to show authenticity and commitment to the cause.
Yes, a broken arm would do it. Her writing arm!
That would be perfect, but would it hurt?
She wasn’t very good with pain, and how awful if she sustained something horribly damaging or permanent.
It felt risky, too risky. Maybe a faint might be better when they arrived?
A graceful fall on to the playground floor, or, or .
. . vomiting! That would be easy! She again felt nausea rise in her throat.
A quick but meaningful vomit, all over her skirt and T-bar shoes, thus guaranteeing a trip home to get changed, suggesting enough of a bug that might mean isolation from all of her classmates and peers. This felt like the only option.
‘Then she’ll drive you all back,’ her mum continued, ‘and I will collect you from school as normal, only it won’t be as normal, as I’ll be driving you home, and it will all be done and you, my clever babies, will have taken the first step on the wonderful path that means so many great things!’
Four spare bedrooms! her sister mouthed at her, and rolled her eyes, before returning her gaze to the window.
Ashleigh felt her legs tense.
‘I’ve checked your bags, and you’ve got pencil cases, an apple, and a little note each, not to be read until you are in the minibus. A kind of good luck and go-get-’em note!’
It felt like there was little point in reading it, now her mother had revealed the contents.
‘You are both very quiet in the back there, little doves!’
‘Why do you call us doves?’ she had asked once.
Her mum had explained with her hand at her throat and tears in her eyes.
‘On the day you were born, I remember sitting on the side of the bed in the ward, I was tired, so tired, but I couldn’t sleep.
I wanted to stare at those two perfect little babies who slept holding hands, always within reach of each other.
I thought my heart might explode! I’d never felt love like it, not before, not since.
You were both so beautiful – miracles! Two babies from one egg, rare and special.
I was overwhelmed and just to think of it now makes me cry.
’ She had wiped her eyes as if to prove the point.
‘And then, I heard a sound on the windowsill and when I looked there were two white doves, pretty things with keen eyes and beautiful feathers, and they were looking right at me, looking right at you two! And so I called you my own little doves, and that was that.’
Ashleigh thought of it now and wished she were a little dove, an actual bird, who could, just for today, simply fly away.
Remy
Remy discovered Tony Newman sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cloakroom.
It didn’t seem to bother him that people had to navigate around him as they tried to stash their bags and coats for the day, clambering over him to pop things on to their pegs.
His head was propped on his hand, elbow on his bony knee, and he stared at the floor.
‘What’s the matter, Tony?’
She dropped to the floor and sat in front of him. He was her and Ashleigh’s best friend, and the kindest boy she knew.
‘Nothing.’ His reply was unconvincing, but his voice sounded a lot like there was something wrong and so she took his hand and held it briefly inside hers.
‘Where’s Ashleigh?’ He looked over her shoulder.
‘She’s gone for a wee.’