Vintage Page 12

  “And you believe her?”

  “Why don’t you come downstairs and have some breakfast? It’ll be time for church soon.”

  I’m beginning to like this man more. Marilyn’s mum loosens her hold on me. Wipes her nose with her hand. He gives her a big white handkerchief. She blows her nose. Hard. Gross.

  “I’ll have to do my makeup again now.”

  “Do it after breakfast, it’s all ready. Andrew’s waiting.”

  She gets up slowly. Smooths down her skirt. Doesn’t look at me.

  I’m looking at Marilyn’s dad.

  “Come on, now.” He opens the door. Moves to let her through. She goes out. I hear her going down the stairs.

  “And you, young lady…”

  “I did go to the park. Honest.”

  And he winks.

  He winks at me and smiles. A fraction of a smile. Then he coughs. Turns round. Leaves the room. Shuts the door after himself. Whistling under his breath.

  So much for parental solidarity.

  I don’t believe this family.

  Marilyn realised she was hungry. She helped herself to eggs, tomatoes, toast and a big mug of tea in the coffee shop kitchen. She followed Mrs L upstairs. She was curious to see the room where Sheila used to hold court. The pink flouncy curtains and bedspread and the kidney-shaped dressing table wouldn’t be there. That was years ago. But maybe there would be a trace of how it was.

  Mrs L led her past the closed door of Sheila’s bedroom and into the living room. It was a strange muddle of things Marilyn recognised from her own house and things she’d never seen before. Some of it looked old-fashioned to her, a picture her Gran had, a sideboard like one her parents had thrown out. Then there was a set of plastic boxes on the table, like Holly had in her bedroom.

  Marilyn began to focus. Something was strange here. She couldn’t work out what it was.

  “Come on, let’s put our feet up. You look done in this morning, were you out late?”

  It wouldn’t help to be honest, Marilyn was sure of that.

  “A bit, I couldn’t sleep. Then I lay in. Sorry.”

  “When I was your age, we weren’t allowed out after ten. My dad was so strict, no boy was good enough for me. There was somebody I liked…”

  “What happened?” Marilyn tried not to sound too interested. But she wanted to know. She needed to know more about Mrs L.

  “Like I said, no boy was good enough for my dad. Alan tried, but he gave up in the end. He married somebody from the Co-op, Margaret, her name is. They still live round here – I see them every now and again, with their kids. All grown up now, with children of their own.”

  Mrs L’s face looked strained, like she was trying hard not to cry.

  “Alan?”

  “Alan Brown. Worked in the Co-op. Lived on Coleman Road.”

  Marilyn was thinking, hard. She looked at the woman in the chair opposite her. Greying hair straggled across her forehead. Lines crossing her face, deep frown lines between her eyebrows.

  Sheila. It was Sheila. Her best friend, still here in the house where she grew up. Running the same business. It was incredible, unbelievable. Questions flooded her mind, things she must know, must ask. She didn’t know where to start.

  “What was Alan like?”

  “He was lovely, polite, funny. He had lots of friends too. Especially Tony…”

  “Tony?” Marilyn was holding her breath.

  “Yes, I remember him. He was awkward, not like Alan, but he grew out of it. Always after my friend Marilyn, but she never wanted to be with him. She went a bit wild, saw something of Dave Richards.”

  “Dave Richards?” Marilyn couldn’t stop herself from showing the shock in her voice. She knew Dave Richards of course, but she’d never spoken to him. She wouldn’t dream of speaking to him. But he was attractive. He’d never look at her.

  “He’s always been a strange one. Got the girls though. Marilyn was off out of here as soon as she could escape. Funny, her parents seemed happy to see her go, not like mine.”

  “She’ll go – I mean, she went to university?”

  Marilyn’s mind was running at great speed. This woman knew her life – the life Marilyn hadn’t lived yet. She could find out the whole of her future, know what was ahead of her. It could help her decide – to stay here or to go back. If she could. If she had a choice.

  “In Birmingham. Science of some kind. She wasmy best friend – or sort of. Then we lost touch. I wasso jealous of her – my dad wouldn’t let me go, said itwasn’t for us. I had to stay and look after them andwork in the cafe. Marilyn didn’t come back much, but when she did, she’d changed. Those were the times to grow up, weren’t they? The Beatles, all those hippies and summers of love. She was part of it. I missed it all. I sat here looking out of the window, worked downstairs. My dad died when I was eighteen, and Mum needed me.”

  “And what about Marilyn?”

  “She came round to see me a few times. She was so confident, so different. ‘You can do it, Sheila’, she said. ‘You can’t let your whole life go. Follow your dream. Take some risks.’ She did, you see, take risks. She changed. No idea where she is now, but I’m sure she’s had an interesting life. I’ve just stayed where I’ve always been.”

  Marilyn’s mouth was wide open. Somewhere, underneath the lines and the grey hair, she could see Sheila, her friend, her only real friend. Good Sheila, caring Sheila, Sheila with the pink bedroom.

  “I’ve got some photos, I didn’t know you’d be interested.”

  Marilyn noticed her breakfast congealing on the plate.

  “I’ll eat this in a while, show me the photos.”

  She was desperate to see them, but she tried to sound casual.

  “Come in the bedroom, they’re all in there. I haven’t looked at them for ages.”

  Marilyn held her breath as Mrs L opened the door. She could hear the buzz of the coffee shop. She saw the pink carpet as the door opened, then the pink dressing table, the curtains and the bedspread – just the same, but faded and shabby now. There was an old woman smell.

  Mrs L – Sheila – took in the room as if she hadn’t seen it for years.

  “I’ve always meant to have it redone. But somehow I haven’t got round to it. No point really, nobody to see it but me. And it reminds me of them – my mum made all the curtains herself. And my dad did the heavy work. No need for spending all that money on flat-packs and tat.”

  There was a collection of photo frames and a pile of albums on a chest of drawers. Most of the older photos were black and white, faded, slightly rumpled. There was one Marilyn recognised: Sheila and Marilyn with their arms round each other, smiling at the camera, wearing shorts and tee-shirts. The photo was cut off at the legs. It must have been school sports day, the year before all this happened, when Sheila’s dad had brought the camera and taken the picture. Marilyn still had her hair with a centre parting and two bunches tied in ribbons oneither side. Sheila’s was curly and short. They both looked very childish.

  “Have you got any later ones – of you and Marilyn?”

  “What’s so interesting about her?”

  “Nothing really, I just like to know how people grow up.”

  It didn’t sound like a good reason, but Sheila seemed happy to carry on showing the photos. She picked out a red album from the pile.

  “Let’s take it in the living room, and you can have your breakfast.”

  They sat next to each other on the sofa. Marilyn looked at Sheila’s hands, wrinkled with brown spots across them. The worn ring on her wedding finger.

  “It’s Mum’s ring. She wanted me to have it before she died. Thought it would keep me safe. And I suppose it has.”

  She twisted the ring on her finger, and Marilyn guessed she was imagining what it might have been like not to be safe, how her life might have been if she’d taken some risks.

  I don’t go down to breakfast. Can’t face the silence. Four people not looking at each other round the table. The cr
umply cloth.

  We never have breakfast together at home. I have it when I want. Which is almost never. Mum fusses about whether I’m eating because breakfast is the most important meal and anyway I need protein for brain power and so on. Yawn yawn.

  I lie down again. Pull the blankets over my head. Drift back into sleep.

  It’s after eleven when I wake up. The house is silent. They must have gone to church without me. I’m so happy about that. Not that I mind people who go to church. Fine by me, just don’t ask me to say things I don’t mean and can’t believe in. We studied all kinds of beliefs at school. There’s loads of Muslims at college, and Hindus, and most of them are not much different except what they wear and stuff.

  I’ve not seen many here. Only just realised. Maybe there aren’t any. Maybe they come later. Wonder what Marilyn’s making of that.

  Dave keeps slipping into my mind. The kiss. The bike. He won’t come round here. Hope not anyway. Marilyn’s mum would pee in her pants if she saw him at the door asking for me. I’ll have to go for a walk. See if I can find him. Must be somewhere around.

  I head into the kitchen. Find some cornflakes. A weird glass bottle of milk in the fridge. How do they recycle them? I stand at the sink eating, thinking about our kitchen and the new cupboards. Wondering if Marilyn found the note. Or got the text. If not, I’m here forever. I’ll have to start learning some science if I’m going to have to go to Marilyn’s uni – not my thing. But I’ll get by if I have to.

  Don’t even think that way. I have to get back.

  Then I’m off out. Down the hill again. So much exercise. Dave’s on my mind. But Sheila’s coming up on the other side. She crosses over.

  “Hello. Thought I’d come and see you after last night.”

  “Oh. Right.” That’s how they do it, go to each other’s houses all the time, drop in. No mobiles. Right.

  “You okay?” She’s looking at me a bit strange. Like she’s thinking something else. Not coming out with it.

  “Fine. Just out – you know.”

  I’m not telling her I’m looking for Dave.

  “You seemed a bit – different last night. Everyone noticed. Just because you’re going to university…”

  “I suppose I am a bit different. Maybe I’m – growing up. Could be hormones and all that stuff like Mum says.”

  “Your mum talks about – hormones? Thought you only did that in science, on rabbits and such. Can’t imagine my mum even knowing what they are. She’d never talk about it. Or anything.” She looks down at her feet.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I’m sick of being so careful round here.

  “Don’t think I’ve got any. I don’t like kissing much, do you? Not when they put their tongue in and that. I wouldn’t let Alan do that last night. I mean, when did he brush his teeth?” She blurts this out like it’s dead risky.

  I shrug. Don’t think Sheila could take on what I like and don’t like with sex. Kissing’s nothing when you’ve done the rest. And I’ve got some responsibility for Marilyn’s life.

  I hope she remembers that about mine.

  “Where are you going then?”

  We’re stopped halfway down the hill.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Off to the shops.”

  “It’s Sunday. No shops open today.”

  “Forgot. Do you want to come up to mine?”

  “Why don’t you come down to me – Mum and Dad are out visiting my nan.”

  “Right.” We head off to the café, and Sheila lets us in through the side entry, along the alleyway and through the back yard. She pulls the key out from under the mat.

  “Come on, we’ll go in my bedroom. Want some ice cream?”

  “Okay.” We head into the café kitchen. There’s a big cooker and two sinks. Chest freezer humming like crazy. A jug with two metal scoops standing in water, on a shelf. Glass dishes and tea spoons. Box of wafers.

  “What flavour?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Same as usual, strawberry, chocolate, vanilla.”

  “Can I have some of each?”

  “Course. That’s what you always have.”

  Sheila scoops out the ice cream from the tubs. Tops it with two wafers. We go up to her bedroom. It’s like a Barbie room. All frilly pink nylon and flowery wallpaper. Totally over the top. She’s even got one of those dressing sets. Mirror with a handle. Hairbrush with a flowery back. All laid out ready. So different from Marilyn’s room. And mine.

  We sit on the bed. Eat ice cream. It’s surprisingly good. The strawberry even has bits of real fruit in it. Time’s getting on. I’m feeling more nervous. Like my heart’s thudding away in here. All this seems unimportant. Next to getting back home.

  “Let’s practice that dance, from last night.”

  My eyes go wide. I can’t help it. I haven’t practiced a dance at home since I was about eight. Dad watching, laughing. Clapping.

  Sheila doesn’t see my face.

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to do.

  She’s over at a table by the door where there’s a player like the one in the church hall. She puts a vinyl disc on. The music comes out. Tinny. Soft.

  “Come on then.”

  Could be a laugh I suppose. And it is, in a way.

  We practice doing the same moves, and some choreography between us, like doing the same thing at the same time. Waving your hands about and all that.

  We flop back down on the bed, laughing.

  “I’ll miss you – when you go.”

  I’m surprised at this. She doesn’t know I’m going today. Or hoping to.

  “Miss you too,” I say. Suddenly I realise it could be hard to go. I throw my arms round her. Land a kiss on her cheek. Like I would with Kyle at a moment like this.

  She moves away on the bed. Frowns.

  “You’ll come back – when you’ve got your degree and all that?”

  I realise what she’s talking about now. Not later today. Not going back to my time.

  “Yes, I suppose so – not sure. I’ll come and visit, in the holidays.”

  “Do you know what you want to do – in the end I mean? Besides getting married and that.”

  It doesn’t seem fair not to be honest with her.

  “Not sure I’ll get married – weddings are so expensive. And everyone gets divorced. I’d like kids sometime – and a good dad for them if I can find one. But most of all, I’d like to travel – make something of my life, a good job, holidays.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. Noisy quiet. Like I think she’s going to explode.

  “Do you know – I can see you doing it – making something of yourself I mean.”

  “The environment, I think. I’d like to do something to help the world. Something green. Whatever.”

  “What do you mean?” She’s looking at me, curiously.

  Maybe they don’t know about the environment. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.

  But she lets it go. “Keep in touch, won’t you?”

  I know somehow Marilyn won’t keep in touch. When she goes. She’ll need to leave all this behind. But it’s kinder to say it. So I do.

  “Course. And you can come and visit me at uni – whenever you like. You should think about going yourself.”

  “Too late now. I’ve promised.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.”

  I don’t think so. I give her a hug. She gives me that surprised look again. But she doesn’t back off this time.

  “You did so well, staying with them, building up this business.” Marilyn wanted to lift the sense of greyness in this flat. She wanted to rescue Sheila from her disappointment, dragging her dull life through her mind, her loneliness. What was the point of it all?

  “Here, look at the photos.”

  Sheila opened the album. It was like looking at yesterday. There were other pictures of sports day – Sheila running, the headmistress giving Sheila a medal for winning, Sheila
linking arms with her dad, then her mum, then both of them. Marilyn was hovering in the background – she remembered taking the photo of them all, envying their obvious pride in each other, their closeness. Sheila’s dad had shown her how to point the camera, how to see them in the blurry window, how to press the button.

  “Are there any later ones?”

  “Not many. Let’s have a look.”

  Sheila flipped through the pages. Most of the photos were of her family. Then there was a group photo.

  “Our leaving party. Look, there’s all of us.”

  “But where’s Marilyn?”

  Sheila looked at her.

  “Why do you care so much about her?”

  “I don’t know – perhaps I’ve heard of her somewhere,” Marilyn lied. “And I like the name – like Marilyn Monroe.”

  “She’s at the front – there.”

  Marilyn saw a slightly older version of herself. She wouldn’t have expected to be at the front – she always hid at the back of groups.

  Marilyn’s hair was longer, drifting over her face, parted at the side with a long fringe. She looked different from the others. She was wearing uniform, but the knot of her tie was pulled down so the top buttons of her shirt showed. The top button was open. And her skirt showed halfway between her knees and the top of her thighs, shorter than anyone else’s. She was thinner too. And no glasses.

  “She was a leader by then, got into all sorts of scrapes, said some strange things. Ended up with Dave Richards for a while, like I said. He wasn’t as bad as everyone made out. He went to university himself, later – got to be a teacher with kids who’d got problems. Don’t know where he is now. Funny how people change.”

  “And Marilyn?”

  Sheila flipped through the pages again, and came across a yellowing newspaper cutting with a photo at the top. Marilyn recognised herself, long hair, frizzed out this time.

  But suddenly she realised she didn’t want toknow. She didn’t want to see her life ahead of her, without any choice about what would happen. She might never get back to it – but if she did, she wanted to discover it for herself, fresh, new, all hers.

  She picked up the plate and began eating. The food was congealed and greasy, but she didn’t care.