Hurry Up and Wait Page 4

  Her face is challenging. There’s a pause between them, and for a tiny moment Kate’s eyes waver, flickering towards the floor and back.

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ Sarah says, trying to keep her voice even. ‘I’ve never been to yours either.’

  Kate shrugs. ‘I’ve been back to Teen’s place loads.’

  ‘But you only live round the corner from Tina.’

  ‘So?’ says Kate, standing abruptly and brushing off the back of her skirt as though it’s picked up dirt.

  Sarah takes a backward step towards the door. ‘And you only moved here last year, so I just haven’t got round to it, I suppose.’

  Kate surveys Sarah’s room with disdain. ‘Nice décor,’ she says, running her hand along Sarah’s faded floral curtains. ‘Nice. See you at school, then.’

  She breezes down the stairs and out of the front door without looking back. Sarah stands motionless on the landing, her head cocked to one side, listening as Kate crunches across the shingle driveway and clanks the gate shut behind her.

  On Dante’s birthday, Sarah tells her father she’ll be home later than usual. She’s joined the drama group, she tells him as she kisses him goodbye and swallows her deceit.

  Their place is the beach. A couple of weeks back, as the evenings drew in, they prised open the door of one of the beach huts, brushing out the dead sand flies, chasing the spiders out into the cold. Sarah brings something new for the hut each day: a cushion, a torch, a hessian sack for a doormat. Dante places an upturned orange crate in the corner, and Sarah’s paisley scarf makes a tablecloth. They talk about decorating the hut in the spring, and imagine balmy summers spent together, lying on the sand at the water’s edge.

  Tonight they have longer together, and she and Dante curl around each other, making covers from their jumpers and coats. The light from the torch throws a soft amber glow into the room, sending long, deep shadows up the salt-bleached wooden walls.

  ‘This is nice,’ Dante whispers into Sarah’s hair. ‘I love my presents.’ She’s given him a bottle of Aramis aftershave, bought with her discount at the chemist’s, and a new black and white Afghan scarf from the market in Tighborn. ‘Do I smell good?’ he asks, offering Sarah his cheek. His hand moves over the small bumps of her chest, and she lets him slip it under her shirt to unhook her bra. She stiffens briefly as she fears his disappointment at her tiny breasts, but he murmurs into her hair to convey his pleasure.

  Sarah pulls herself up sharp, startling Dante.

  He retracts his hand as if bitten. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll never believe what Kate’s been saying about me.’

  ‘God, Sar. I thought you’d heard someone coming in or something.’ He exhales, relieved.

  ‘Tina told me that Kate’s been going round telling everyone my dad’s a pensioner, and that he’s a snob. She doesn’t even know him. Just because he speaks well, it doesn’t mean he’s a snob. And she said my house is creepy, like the Munsters’ house. She told Tina that it’s definitely haunted, because she reckons she’s got “the gift” for that kind of thing. She said, most likely it’s the restless spirit of my mum, trapped between this world and the next. And that it’s no wonder I’m a complete freak, living like that – ’ Sarah’s voice cracks with emotion.

  Dante pulls her close again. ‘Why would Tina tell you all this stuff? For Christ’s sake, they’re just stupid little girls, Sar. Forget them.’

  ‘You don’t have to see them every day.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Dante says, gripping her wrist firmly. ‘So,’ he says, shadowing her small frame with his broad shoulders. ‘For–get–a–bout–it.’ He kisses Sarah, pressing her into the cushions beneath. He runs his fingers up her thighs, hovering lightly at the cotton edge of her knickers. An involuntary thrill trickles along the back of her knees.

  ‘I can’t,’ she tells him when he starts to unbuckle his jeans. She feels him pressed into her hipbone, hard and unmoving. ‘I can’t, Dante.’

  Dante nuzzles into her neck. ‘Sar.’

  ‘No.’

  She pushes her palms against his chest and he flops against her shoulder, defeated. ‘I just thought, you know, as it is my birthday.’ He snuffles her ear playfully.

  ‘Just not yet,’ she says quietly.

  Dante props himself up on one elbow and smiles down at her in their warm bed of cushions. ‘The “yet” gives me some hope. You’re gorgeous, Sarah Ribbons. Gorgeous and sweet and innocent.’

  Sarah sits up indignantly. ‘I am not “sweet and innocent”! I’m just – not a tart.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Sar.’ He sits up and rearranges his T-shirt, looking worried.

  Sarah pouts at him.

  ‘You’re gorgeous. That’s all I meant.’ He kisses her, and she smiles her forgiveness. ‘Come on, we’d better get you back home.’

  Outside her front gate, Sarah holds him tight. ‘Happy birthday.’

  He rubs his fingers into the small of her back. ‘You said, “not yet”. I’ll sleep well thinking about that.’ He closes his eyes blissfully.

  ‘“Yet” can mean “ever”, you know,’ she says, prodding him in the chest.

  Dante laughs, salutes her, and walks back along the street towards his own home, his new scarf floating over his shoulder in the lamplight.

  ‘I love you,’ Sarah whispers, and she watches him until he’s out of view.

  The night is humid, fractured with restless images which Sarah struggles to prise apart through the fog of sleep. Her father waves from the top of the beach, as she wades out into the still water of the sea. The sun is bright and hot overhead, and the beach is crowded with pale bodies and rolled-out towels. Gulls screech and soar in the clear blue sky, their chatter moving in and out of focus. Dad is gone now, and Sarah launches out into the water, balancing herself in the centre of the lilo, feeling the sun stroking her bare limbs. She lies back and closes her eyes against the light. The cool water in the grooves beneath her back warms and ripples around her, as the lilo rocks gently on the calm tide. She knows she’s sleeping, can feel the weight of the sheets on her body. But she can’t quite rise from the dream. The sounds of the beach become distant as the lapping water gently slaps at her arms and legs; morning gulls squawk and squabble outside her window. As she’s falling, lulled, into a heavy doze, a rogue wave seizes the lilo. It sucks her back, up, up, to a terrifying height, before it sends her crashing towards the stony shallow water and the noise of the shoreline. She wakes, her breathing momentarily paralysed, her body damp with sweat.

  On Saturday Sarah rises early for work at the chemist’s shop on the High Street. She creeps about the house, quietly making breakfast, rushing out into the cold, dull morning before her father wakes.

  Seafield Avenue is deserted but for the milk van she can see disappearing into a cul-de-sac at the far end of the road. The sea air is sharp, and she pulls her coat collar up, pinching it closed at the neck with a shiver. She’s glad she wore her thick tights because there’s always a cold blast coming in through the shop door at work, which is firmly wedged open throughout the year, whatever the weather. A trio of seagulls glides overhead, dipping down beyond the big house on the corner. Dante’s house. She hears the gulls’ cries travelling off into the distance, their piercing echoes bouncing through the empty streets and avenues. Sarah looks in through the gates to Dante’s home, and imagines him sleeping in his bed, his heavy fringe fallen back to reveal the smooth lines of his jaw and his laughing eyebrows. With a furtive lurch of pleasure, she recalls the sensation of the crew-cut plane just above his neck, its coarse resistance pricking the smooth of her timid fingertips as they kissed beneath their coats in the hut last night.

  Eventually she turns into the High Street, the sight of the chemist’s shop across the road breaking into her private thoughts. She can see Mrs Gilroy, the owner, through the shop window, preparing the tills and pulling up the blinds. She’s a trim little woman who wears her hair in a tight grey twist, working briskly in
the pharmacy at the back of the shop, casting wafts of powder and L’Air du Temps as she weighs and counts and checks off her prescriptions. Mrs Gilroy tends to stay in the pharmacy area, just popping out to hand over medicines to her customers. The old dears seem to appreciate her personal touch, her refined reserve. After Sarah had worked in the chemist’s through the summer holidays, Mrs Gilroy had offered her a regular Saturday job. ‘The customers like you,’ she said.

  Sarah walks along the alleyway at the side of the shop, and in through the fire-escape door at the back. She hangs her jacket on the coat stand beside a teetering pile of Imperial Leather soap cartons. ‘Morning,’ she calls into the tiny kitchen, where Barbara and Kerry are making tea.

  ‘Morning,’ replies Kerry.

  Barbara grunts without looking up. Sarah pretends not to notice, as she steps into her blue pinafore, popping the fastenings closed with sharp little clicks. The sounds from the kitchen are acute: the teaspoon against the side of a mug, the squeak of the fridge door, the whispers between Barbara and Kerry.

  From the kitchen, Barbara raises her voice a little, going over the same old topic. ‘I’ve worked here for fifteen years,’ she complains. ‘And Mrs Gilroy knew my Kim was after a job.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ says Kerry.

  ‘And she goes and gives her the job.’

  Sarah picks up a notebook and pen, and brushes her hands down her uniform to smooth out the creases. ‘I’m going out front to start stocking up,’ she calls into the kitchen.

  On the shop floor, Mrs Gilroy unlocks the front door and straightens the doormat. Barbara and Kerry arrive behind the tills, smiling self-consciously as Mrs Gilroy walks past them and into the pharmacy. Sarah fills a shelf halfway down the shop, while Barbara leans on the main counter, heaving into her ridiculous bosom, still moaning. Sarah will have to put up with this until the two part-timers arrive at eleven, to help cover the lunchtime rush. Barbara’s always more careful what she says when it’s not just her and Kerry.

  Her daughter Kim is in the same school year as Sarah, but Sarah hardly knows her at all. She wears her hair in a pineapple bunch, with her eyes thickly lined with bright blue pencil and mascara. On her fifteenth birthday she’d come into the shop to show her mum the brand new, genuine gold half-sovereign ring that her twenty-year-old boyfriend had bought her.

  Kerry flips open the cash register to replace the till roll, and it makes a loud cracking sound in the empty shop. Sarah looks up.

  ‘Thinks she’s something special,’ says Barbara.

  Sarah continues to fill her shelf, hoping that Mrs Gilroy can hear them in the pharmacy. A customer enters the shop, and hands Kerry a prescription, breaking up the gossip.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Brading. Just your repeat, is it?’ Kerry takes it into the pharmacy.

  Barbara polishes the counter and glares at Sarah every now and then.

  Sarah’s filling the sanitary towels section, lining them up neatly in order, from ‘Light’ to ‘Super Super Plus’. At first Barbara made Sarah look after Feminine Hygiene just to humiliate her, but now she keeps on top of it without being asked. And the contraceptives drawer. She figures that if she puts herself in charge of the most embarrassing sections, Barbara will run out of ways to torment her. After tampons, she’ll probably move on to the haemorrhoid shelf behind the till.

  She glances back over at Barbara, who is squeezed so tightly into her blue uniform that the poppers stretch and strain all the way down her fleshy chest.

  Sarah flattens a Dr Lillywhite’s carton and takes the rubbish into the stock room. Mrs Gilroy’s son, John, is up on the racking as she climbs the steps for a container of Tampax.

  ‘Alright, Sarah? How’s tricks?’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks,’ Sarah answers, pointing to the box she’s trying to reach.

  John tucks his long hair behind his ears. ‘The old banshees still giving you a hard time?’

  ‘Who?’ asks Sarah, brushing a cobweb aside.

  ‘You know. The old miseries. I see and hear a great deal from this lofty vantage point.’ He puts on a mock voice of wisdom. ‘The Scottish one’s the worst. Tongue of poison,’ he adds, aping Barbara’s accent flawlessly.

  Sarah smiles. ‘She really hates me. Have you heard her?’

  ‘Ignore them. They’re just jealous. Of your youth and beauty.’

  John clucks his tongue and passes down the bumper box of tampons. ‘How old are you, Sarah?’ He holds on to the box for a second.

  ‘You know how old I am. Fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says, letting go.

  ‘Thanks, John!’ Sarah calls up, and she returns to the front of the shop.

  As she’s putting the last few boxes in place, Tina and her mum come through the front door.

  ‘Sar! Forgot you were working here!’ Tina looks really pleased to see her. She’s wearing tight white leggings and her knees look wider than her thighs.

  Her mum hands a prescription to Barbara over the counter.

  ‘That’ll be ten minutes, Mrs Smythe,’ Barbara tells her.

  ‘It’s pronounced Smith,’ Tina corrects over her mother’s head.

  Barbara’s brow wrinkles.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ says Mrs Smythe. She smiles at Sarah, before turning to browse through the Yardley display.

  ‘You’ll never believe this,’ Tina whispers, tugging Sarah behind the sunglasses stand. ‘You know Jo Allen? You know she hasn’t been back at school since the holidays? Guess why?’

  Sarah shakes her head. ‘Why?’

  ‘It all started down the youth club, apparently – screaming in agony, she was. At first they thought it was food poisoning so they rushed her to hospital, but when they got there the doctor put a stethoscope against her and said, “There’s another heartbeat in there.” Then Jo had another screaming fit and knocked herself out on the bench. And gave birth!’

  Sarah stares at Tina. ‘You’re kidding me. It can’t be true.’

  Tina sucks in her gaunt cheeks. ‘God’s honest. My mum knows her mum. It’s a girl. Toyah they called it. Honest to God. Ask her!’

  ‘Wow,’ Sarah says, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘She should be more careful, what with AIDS and everything. My mum said it’s not just gays and drug addicts who can get it now. I mean, look at Rock Hudson.’

  Sarah can see Barbara creeping around the edges of the shop, staring at her for chatting.

  ‘I’ve got to get on, Teen. She’s giving me the evils.’

  Tina twists round conspicuously. ‘Fat cow,’ she mouths to Sarah.

  ‘Fat ugly cow,’ Sarah whispers back.

  At lunchtime, Sarah wanders along the High Street, window-shopping to kill time. She tries to imagine Jo Allen with a baby. Back in the summer term, she’d been asked to walk Jo down to Mrs McCabe’s office at registration, because she looked as if she was going to pass out. Mrs McCabe asked Jo to take a seat, then turned and rubbed Sarah’s shoulder, smiling gently. She thanked her for bringing Jo to the office; Jo had smirked, despite her fainting fit, and Sarah thought she must be putting it on. No one suspected she was pregnant, although everyone at school knew what she was like. Once, in the second year, Sarah had overheard Jo Allen telling Bev Greene about her boyfriend. When she was twelve. Jo and her friend were sitting in front of Sarah in Maths and Mr Nolan had popped out to fetch a new box of chalk.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Jo said loudly. ‘You should see Will’s dick. It looks like a saveloy! Tastes a bit like one, too.’

  The two girls had howled hysterically. At the time, Sarah had only just started wearing a training bra, and she was horrified. She’d seen a saveloy in the chip shop. It was a big, angry-looking sausage, unnaturally smooth and red. Jo looked over her shoulder and laughed.

  ‘What’s up Sarah? Never seen a knob before? Virgin.’

  But now, Jo has a baby girl. And concussion. Poor Jo. Poor baby.

  Art is the only subject in which Sarah, Kate and Tina are all together. They’re taught by Mrs M
inor, who’s been at the school for decades. Sarah is petite, but Mrs Minor only reaches her nose in height. In their first lesson after half-term, Mrs Minor reads the register slowly, looking over her half-moon glasses at each girl in turn, rolling her Rs and smacking her lips in scorn. Where she is able to, she passes a personal comment on the girls she’s taken a particular dislike to.

  ‘Have you been busy over the weekend, Marianne?’ she asks.

  Marianne looks up, holding her large frame self-consciously. ‘Erm. Yes, miss?’

  ‘Busy eating, by the look of you.’

  A gasp ripples around the classroom. Marianne flushes a deep red and stares at her hands.

  ‘Bitch,’ hisses Kate.

  Mrs Minor continues through the register. ‘Kate Robson. Well look at you. Nat-ur-al, is it?’ She points the end of her pen towards Kate’s newly dyed hair.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Kate replies with a challenging curl of her lip.

  ‘Mmm. Well, the sun shines funny where you live.’

  Tina keeps her head down when Mrs Minor reaches her, choosing to pass up the opportunity to correct her on her surname. The class are set a pastel still-life study. It’s a vase, filled with orange and yellow carnations. The girls sit around the table with their artist boards on their laps, concentrating on the terracotta vase. Kate still isn’t talking to Sarah, but Tina has been updating her on everything nasty that Kate has said. Marianne is also in their group, and Sarah can’t help looking over at her, wanting to say something. She appears crushed.

  ‘She’s such a bitch,’ Kate whispers to Tina, nudging her head in Mrs Minor’s direction. ‘Like she’s a right looker, or something. She’s about fifty – and look at the mad ginger bowl haircut!’

  ‘And she’s a dwarf,’ adds Sarah. ‘Or a midget. Which is smaller? Even I’m tall next to her.’

  Kate laughs, reluctantly. Mrs Minor turns and glares at their group.