Christmas Wishes (19 page)

‘Yes, they’d fit, but they’re no good,’ Gillian had said rather scornfully. ‘I
told
you, they’ve got to be white.’ But Irene had sighed theatrically and picked up a small bottle full of some milky-looking liquid.

‘You paint ’em wi’ this,’ she had said briefly. ‘It’s really to cover dirty marks on proper white pumps, but I reckon if you buy two bottles – it’s quite cheap – then it’ll cover the brown all right.’

And so it had proved, Gillian thought. The brown pumps were now white plimsolls, and no one had so much as noticed that her footwear was scrupulously repainted after each game. She headed for the changing rooms, which were not really changing rooms exactly but a couple of small sheds left open for girls using the sports facilities and wanting to change back into their ordinary clothing. Gillian reclaimed her bag from Keith and joined her fellow pupils in the first shed. They changed with much chattering and laughter, pulling aside the lace curtain and peeping through the small window at the backs of the boys, all pupils of the Grosvenor Public School for Boys, which was no more than half a mile away from St Hilda’s. It was not only the Grosvenor boys who were interested in Gillian either, as she well knew. Several boys from the secondary school made a habit of hanging around the tram stop and then joining her for the walk home. It was nice to be popular, though sometimes Gillian was uneasily aware that being liked by the boys could mean being disliked by other girls. However, this did not worry her unduly; why should it? She was only fourteen and enjoyed having friends of both sexes. There could be no harm in a little gentle flirtation.

In her school uniform once more, Gillian brushed her hair vigorously and then turned to her partner. ‘Are you ready, Shirley? St Hilda’s is shut now, so we can’t get a drink from the cloakroom, but there’s a drinking fountain in that little garden where the council school kids go. Do you want to pop in there?’

Shirley shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m going to buy me an ice cream from that van which is always parked outside the gates.’

Gillian finished off her toilet, said cheerio to their opponents, who were still changing and chatting, and linked her arm in Shirley’s, leading her out of the changing shed before turning to her and speaking in hushed tones. ‘Oh, Shirley, you can’t. You know very well we’re not supposed to eat in the street. And ice cream is the very worst sort of eating; Miss McCullough would have a blue fit!’

‘She won’t know; she’ll have gone home hours ago,’ Shirley said gaily. She was a small blonde girl, snub-nosed and pretty, popular with staff and pupils alike. Even Miss Rutledge had a soft spot for Shirley, although she did not excel at any games and Miss Rutledge, as gym mistress, tended to favour sporting types.

Gillian was still protesting that Shirley was taking her life in her hands by eating an ice cream in the street when they re-joined the boys. Keith immediately took Gillian’s bag and slung it over his shoulder once more. ‘It’s heavier with your kit inside than it was with your school uniform,’ he observed. ‘What’s this about an ice cream?’ He brushed a hand across his glistening forehead. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cornet, or even an ice lolly.’ He grinned at Gillian. ‘Tell you what, we’ll dare each other; then if we get caught we can plead—’

‘Insanity,’ Gillian said wrathfully. She turned to Eleanor as their opponents, now clad in their summer frocks and blazers, with their panamas on the backs of their heads, joined them. ‘What do you think, Ellie? You’re a year ahead of us, so you can advise us. Keith wants to buy an ice cream – so does Shirley, for that matter – but I’m sure if we do we’ll get caught and probably expelled or something awful.’

‘Six of the best,’ little Twiggy murmured provocatively. ‘Only girls don’t get the cane, do they? Oh, to hell with it, fellers! I say we go into the ice cream parlour on Smiffy and eat the ices in there. Anyone short of a few coppers?’

Everyone had a few pennies, though Gillian’s had been destined to become her tram fare. She said as much, but Keith waved this aside. ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said at once. ‘Got any homework? If it’s maths, and you need a bit of help, we can do it as we go. You can read the questions out to me and I’ll jot down the answers on a bit of rough paper. Then, when we reach your house, you can jolly well take me in and introduce me to your twin sister. I’m dying to meet her and you’ve met Bain minor and minimus, so it’s only fair.’

Gillian giggled. She knew it was the custom at public schools to refer to three brothers as major, minor and minimus, since for some absurd reason Christian names were not used, and it was quite true that she had met Keith’s brothers, two little boys with the faces of angels and the dispositions of fiends. Bain minor had asked her when she and Bain major meant to name the day, causing poor Gillian to go red all over, and Bain minimus had advised her strongly to steer clear of his big brother. ‘He nicks all the chocolates out of the Quality Street tin and then blames us,’ he had said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Don’t you have nuffin’ to do with our big brother, Miss Lawrence.’

‘Well, young lady? Will you introduce me to your sister if I walk you home?’

‘If she’s in,’ Gillian said cautiously. She reflected that since it was a nice bright evening Irene and Joy might have had an early supper and then gone off to Prince’s Park, or some other pleasant spot. Joy was especially fond of the Garden for the Blind, about a mile away from their home, because the neat paths had been made with geometrical straightness and were lined with sweet-smelling blooms, not only roses but other perfumed plants such as mignonette and lavender.

‘Righty-ho,’ Keith said. ‘Off to the ice cream parlour, ladies and fellers, and damn the consequences.’

When Alex returned from work, he found three girls chattering animatedly, and Mrs Clarke withdrawing a tray of Cornish pasties from the oven. Alex’s mouth watered; these delicacies were one of many delicious things Mrs Clarke made regularly and was teaching both Irene and Joy to make as well. They had by now worked out a good routine for cooking. Joy had what Mrs Clarke described as light hands, so she was the one who rubbed the fat into the flour, then added water, or even egg yolk, judiciously, and formed the dough into a ball. She would then flour the table, working entirely by touch, and roll her pastry out, brushing a hand across it every few minutes to ensure that it was neither too thick nor too thin. Once all her pasties were ready, Mrs Clarke or Irene would pop them into the oven and withdraw them when they were cooked. Only someone who had watched Joy’s struggles over the past weeks could appreciate her pride in those pasties, Alex thought, smiling round the room.

‘Evening, Mrs Clarke, evening, girls; something smells good,’ he said easily. ‘Well, Mrs Clarke, how are your pupils coming along? Don’t tell me my little Joy is responsible for those beautiful golden brown pasties?’

Joy looked towards Alex’s voice, smiling seraphically. ‘Yes, Daddy, it was me. Gillian brought some boy round to meet me, but Irene and I had gone for a walk down by the Mersey and by the time we got back he’d gone. It doesn’t make much difference to me, of course, because I wouldn’t have been able to see him, and I’m quite glad he didn’t see me … I mean, I’m not like Gillian to look at any more and people expect identical twins to
be
identical.’

Gillian looked up. She had spread her homework out on the table and was busily writing, but now she wagged a reproving finger. ‘You’re daft, you are,’ she said affectionately, flicking back the long hair which hung to her shoulders. ‘We are still alike, only as we’ve got older we’ve changed, as folk do; experience changes everyone, I think. But I’m going to have my hair cut as soon as I’ve time, so if you want to be identical again you should jolly well have a haircut too.’

Alex expected Joy to exclaim that hair or no hair she knew very well she was now nothing like her pretty twin, because hard though they had all tried to convince Joy that the scars had faded to near invisibility and she was now as pretty as ever, they had had no success. ‘You would say that, of course, because you’re kind and you love me,’ Joy had said the last time Alex had tried to convince her. ‘But don’t think I care, Daddy; looks aren’t everything.’

But now, sitting round the kitchen table and discussing hairstyles, Alex was able to watch the girls closely without their being aware of his scrutiny. Joy of course could not possibly see him, but she was rapidly developing a sort of sixth sense and often knew when someone was staring at her. Gawping, she called it. ‘It’s not fair,’ she had explained to Alex when he had gently reprimanded her for speaking sharply to her grandmother, but though Joy had apologised to the old lady she had told Alex that before her accident she had known better than to gawp at someone who could not gawp back. ‘Besides, when I was a really little girl, three or four, Mummy told us staring was rude,’ she had reminded him. ‘Still, I won’t tick Grandma off again if it upsets you.’

Now, Alex considered the three bright young girls before him with very real pleasure. No one would guess from looking at her that Joy was blind; they would just think her a very pretty girl with bright brown hair, a straight little nose and a mouth that smiled often. Her eyes were usually half closed, but this was not immediately apparent because her expression was so lively. He thought that few people, meeting her for the first time, would realise that she could not see.

Irene, he decided, made an excellent foil for the twins. She was a brown-eyed blonde, with a pert little nose and a neat figure. Taller than either of the twins and a couple of years older, she had achieved her ambition of becoming almost a part of the family and Alex treated her as though she were indeed his daughter, making sure that she took home little treats for her younger brothers and sisters; two of the Cornish pasties, for instance, would go home in Irene’s basket, to be enjoyed as a late supper by any member of the Finnigan family around.

The conversation at the table was growing heated. ‘I don’t care what you say, Gillian; you can cut your perishin’ hair or leave it long, or dye it sky-blue pink if you want,’ Joy was exclaiming. ‘It’s different for me. You spend hours in front of the mirror every morning, prettifying yourself, but even if I could see I couldn’t be bothered.’ She gave a disdainful snort. ‘You always cared about your appearance much more than I did, and for me, hair is just a nuisance. When it starts tickling my collar then I know it’s too long, and it’s tickling my collar now. Besides, Daddy cuts mine; he’d do yours if you ask.’

‘I know what you mean, but it needs proper cutting, which costs a mint,’ Gillian said ruefully, tugging at her long locks. Her hair was a good deal longer than her twin’s, but Joy, of course, could not know that. ‘Look, have you heard of the hairdressing school at the technical college? The girls learning to be hairdressers need people to practise on, so they’ll do your hair for nothing. They work late on a Thursday evening … what say we book ourselves in for next week or the week after? Only I’m told most hairdressing establishments charge extra for long hair because it’s more difficult to cut – don’t ask me why.’ She turned to Irene. ‘Have you ever had your hair done at the tech? Yours could do with reshaping.’

‘Ooh, listen to who’s talking! Old gorse bush herself,’ Joy said, grinning. She turned to face Irene. ‘Come over here and let me run my magic hands over your lice-ridden bonce, so I can tell if my sister’s right.’

‘You cheeky young …’ Irene began, then glanced self-consciously at Alex, who guessed that she had been about to use a word of which he would not approve. He thought, not for the first time, that though Irene fitted well into the Lawrence household she was still a tiny bit in awe of him. But the conversation had moved on and now it was Gillian speaking.

‘Right then; are you on, Joy?’

‘If you two are, I suppose I might as well come along,’ Joy said with what her father saw was feigned indifference.

‘Right,’ Gillian said briskly. ‘Then I’ll go down to the tech on Saturday and make three appointments for a wash, trim and set.’

Irene objected, saying that she only wanted hers shaped, but Joy overruled her. ‘Susie, one of my friends at school, is going to be a hairdresser when she’s old enough. She says the girls are taught to cut your hair when it’s wet, though I’m not sure why,’ she informed the other two. ‘What does it matter, anyway? Since they don’t charge, we might as well have whatever’s on offer.’

The girls agreed and Mrs Clarke, who had put another tray of baking into the oven as soon as the pasties were out, opened the oven door and produced a batch of jam tarts. ‘Does the tech do older folks’ hair as well?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I could do with a nice trim and a set, or even a permanent wave. You might add me to your little group.’

‘I’m pretty sure they charge for perms, but we could ask,’ Gillian said, but Mrs Clarke laughed and shook her head. ‘No, no, I was teasing you. I cut my own hair, because my curls are what I was born with, so I don’t need a perm.’ She glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. ‘It’s time we were off, young Irene,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s still not dark out so I won’t offer to walk you home.’ She crossed the kitchen, took her coat off the peg and put it on. Irene stood up too, though reluctantly, and Alex was grateful when Mrs Clarke held open the back door and ushered Irene out. He hated having to send the girls up to bed so that Irene would leave, and realised Mrs Clarke understood his dilemma when she turned in the doorway and winked.

‘Thanks, Mrs C,’ Alex said, knowing that this remark could be taken two ways. ‘See you on Wednesday.’

Gillian was as good as her word and booked herself, her twin and Irene into the hairdressing department at the tech. They were all to be seen between half past five and seven in the evening and had decided amongst themselves that Joy should be first, Gillian next and Irene last. Joy demurred at being first because she would be waiting for quite a long time. ‘But you’ll be sitting in a comfy chair in the foyer,’ Gillian pointed out. ‘Don’t make difficulties, kid!’

The tech was on the opposite side of the city, only a stone’s throw from the Grosvenor School and even closer to a private school called St Mary’s. According to Gillian, pupils who failed the entrance exam to St Hilda’s would always be taken on by St Mary’s, so there was considerable ill feeling between the pupils of the two schools. As the three of them, arms linked, made their way past St Mary’s tall, wrought-iron gates, Gillian gave her opinion of the pupils in no uncertain terms. ‘Good thing they’re so near the tech, because when they fail to get their School Certificates they pop into the tech and sign on to be hairdressers, or cooks, or uncertified teachers,’ she said gaily. ‘See if I’m not right.’