Authors: Andrew Lovett
I recognised Melanie straight away, of course, even though she was only a little girl. Even then she was pretty enough to turn you into sand. I couldn’t miss the black-jack hair and her lips all strawberry-red like those hard boiled sweets on Mr Kirrin’s high shelf. And, of course, I recognised the little boy too, the Pinky-Perky puppet waving from his hand, even though I was too little to remember. I mean I recognised his face from the bathroom mirror and the silver tap in the school cloakroom, upside down in spoons and the reflection in my mother’s eyes. It was like seeing yourself for the first time but knowing, just knowing that it’s you and that that’s your mouth and your nose. And you know they’re your eyes even though you’ve only ever seen them from the wrong side before.
We were sat together, in the picture, Melanie and me, in that paddling pool. You know, the one that was hanging in Kat’s workshop like a big, blue rubber skin. And there behind us was the cottage, Kat’s cottage, my cottage and, over there, my willow tree. And there with us was Kat: smiling at us, smiling at the camera. And it was like I was in there with them, like I was inside the little silver frame, and I could laugh at all the splashing and feel the warm sun and hear the willow leaves ripple like the pages of a book.
But it was funny to see Kat in that picture: funny because she was almost as fat as Melanie’s mum. I mean her face wasn’t so fat but her big flowery frock, like that sheet in the workshop covering something secret, was draped all the way over and her big belly looked like it was about to pop. It was like one of those dresses ladies sometimes wear when they’re going to have a—
‘She was my best friend, you know.’
A big dark shadow had loomed up behind my reflection in the photo glass like the Loch Ness Monster. And I felt Mrs Finch’s hand on my shoulder, her meaty fingers slowly flexing. ‘Peas in a pod, we were,’ she said. ‘The Giggling Gerties they used to call us. You probably want to know what happened.’ I shook my head. Well, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to know or not. ‘One day,’ she went on, ‘I went down to the cottage to see her just as usual and she’d gone. It was her mum opened the door. I says, “People just don’t up and go,” and her mum says, “Well, then, how come that’s just what they’ve done?” ’ Mrs Finch’s fist turned me round to face her and she looked at me like a judge: ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ her eyes whispered. ‘How do you plead?’ like I was the guilty one. But it was as if I was swallowing this big slice of birthday cake in my throat.
‘Mel says you live with your aunt,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Was that
who I saw you with at school? She looks just like your mum, doesn’t she?’
I tried but I couldn’t say anything, could I? I only coughed and spluttered. I mean, what would you have said?
Melanie shared her mother’s pretty face and rosy lips but her skinny shape and dark skin she got from her father. He was sat at the over-laden kitchen table, a shotgun laid across his lap, fuelling and refuelling his pipe and sweeping a suspicious eye over the intruders. From his large feet, cooling in a bowl of water, to the sweat on his brow he was made of the un-ploughed earth, of the crops he raised, of the seasons that turn the world.
Mrs Finch began organising party games, strutting up and down like a German General and barking instructions but it wasn’t until Mr Finch rose from his place and stood there stiff like the village green War Memorial that the snorting and sniggering quietened down enough for games to begin.
We sat in a big circle flinging brightly wrapped parcels from lap to lap. And then we stood in a circle and, this time, when the music stopped, we had to stand as still as statues. I won, my arms and legs like stone, whilst the girls pulled faces and, if they thought they could get away with it, pinched their neighbours. And then another circle and we played a game of
Truth or Dare
which went well enough until Melanie twirled the bottle and it pointed at me like an angry teacher.
‘Peter?’ It was Charlotte Blackett, a girl with glasses and bunches from the second year. ‘Do you love Melanie?’
Mrs Finch performed a pantomime ‘Ooh’ of surprise and clutched a hand to her heavy bosoms as my cheeks bulged
with all the crimsons of the world and the room began to spin just like the bottle had.
And then Lizzie March said: ‘Or Anna-Marie?’
‘Ugh,’ groaned Cheryl Sawyer. ‘Anna-Marie smells like cabbage.’
‘That’s because she never washes,’ said Sarah Randall.
‘Now, now, girls,’ said Melanie’s mother, ‘it’s not like Anna-Marie can help being a bit … different,’ and everybody laughed. ‘Now, who’s hungry?’ and everybody cheered.
At the head of the table sat Mr Finch. Next to him sat Melanie and, at Melanie’s insistence, I sat next to her. We were surrounded by plate after plate of sandwiches: ham on one side, cheese on the other, egg and cress in the middle. Crisps and snacks were spread before us and pineapple chunks, cheese and sausages lost in forests of cocktail sticks. Glasses, cups and tumblers were filled to the brim from large jugs of squash. Mrs Finch drew a loud chair to the table and squeezed herself in so that she was facing me, her eyes bright and nosey. Mr Finch was watching me too, eyeing me like a crow, his mind turning over like dry earth.
‘Who’s the lad?’ he asked, speaking for the first time.
‘Why you daft old soak,’ said his wife, picking a ham sandwich from the pile and folding it between her shiny lips, ‘it’s Peter. From Mel’s class. Remember?’ And then again, ‘Re
mem
ber?’ like a sandwich with double filling.
Mr Finch’s hooded eyes blinked for a moment before: ‘Oh, aye,’ they were suddenly lit from within. He tapped his pipe on the tabletop. ‘This is the lad, is ’e? The one you saw? Peter, is it?’
‘Aye,’ said his wife, sandwich churning inside her cheek. ‘Mel’s sweet on him.’
I glanced at Melanie who broke from a delicate corner of cheese and tomato to smile, her sweet lips quivering by the warmth of the stove.
‘D’you know, girls,’ said Mrs Finch, addressing the whole table, ‘not so long ago I thought I saw an old friend of mine—Karen Goodwin, as was—not so long ago out of school but when I spoke to her … Well, she walked on as if she didn’t know me at all. Now why would she do that?’ Her big eyes were like keys unlocking all my secrets. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘I must’ve been mistaken, I’m sure.’
‘As I say,’ said Mr Finch with a gravelly groan, ‘best go see her ‘stead of sitting up here chundering on.’
‘No!’ declared Melanie’s mum. ‘No!’ dabbing the corners of her breadcrumb lips with a napkin. And then, huffing softly: ‘She knows where to find me.’
Mr Finch shook his head, a slow swaying movement like a cathedral bell. ‘Pride,’ he muttered, and a crooked smile slyly split the top of his face from the bottom. ‘Pride comes afore a—’
‘Pride, is it?’ cried his wife slapping the table. ‘Am I too proud now? Too proud to crawl? Aye, and suppose I am. Too proud to beg? What of it? Why, you …’ She turned her eyes from his slopey grin. ‘It’s like … It’s like … It’s like that Anna-Marie. That’s exactly what it’s like.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Her husband scanned the group. ‘Is she here? Annie, you here?’
‘Anna-Marie and Peter had to go and see Mrs Carpenter today,’ chirped Melanie. ‘Didn’t you, Peter? What did you do?’
‘Nothing,’ I squeaked.
‘No!’ cried Mrs Finch as if her husband were stupid; and loud enough to get the attention of everyone at the table. ‘Course she’s not here, you daft so-and-so. After what happened? You’ll be wanting that head of yours examined, m’love.
Turning up here at all hours as if she could make herself a new life just by talking about it. You know, rub it out and start over.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first to try, mind,’ said Mr Finch solemnly.
‘She took that funny turn, don’t you remember? Anna-Marie I mean.’
‘Course I remember,’ murmured Mr Finch.
‘Now, girls,’ Mrs Finch said, ‘this isn’t for your ears so …’ and she flapped her hands for them to look away before turning back to her husband. ‘It’s Anna-Marie I’m talking about,’ she hissed, slapping Mr Finch’s shoulder, her voice really no quieter than before. ‘You remember. Well, I
say
funny turn. It made
us
laugh.’
‘Made
you
laugh.’
‘Aye,’ said Mrs Finch. The party guests chewed in silence, ears twitching like radar. ‘At first. Scrawny little creature she was, sat at table, right here, stomping her feet, refusing to go, saying how she was Mel’s best friend. But after a while … Well,’ she turned to share her story with her daughter’s friends, ‘it was scary. She wants me to be her mummy, she says, and Ben here to be her daddy and she wants to—’
‘Hush now,’ muttered Mr Finch, striking a match, eyes glancing at Melanie’s guests.
‘Well, all I’m saying is maybe it’s not just her
dad
they should’ve locked—’
‘Hush now!’ His voice was firm. He pressed the lighted match to the barrel of his pipe. ‘No need for that.’
‘Well, all I’m saying is stay away when you’re not wanted.’ Mrs Finch curled another sandwich into her mouth although her lips were tight and wiry. ‘Peter!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Why, you haven’t touched a crumb.’
And then Mr Finch’s finger was waggling at me, his face cracking with his big, broken-toothed grin. ‘Look at him! Look at him!’ he cried. ‘He’s sat there staring like the Scarecrow
Man.’ Mrs Finch flinched and her frown curled into a question mark. ‘Aye,’ said her husband with a nod, ‘top field, up by Suicide Tree.’
‘Makes my skin crawl,’ muttered Melanie’s mother with a shudder. ‘Gives me the shimmies.’
Mr Finch picked up his shotgun and took aim, firing two imaginary shots—K’bm! K’bm!—in the direction of his wife’s fat bottom. He leant forward and pinched the flesh of her arm ’til it trembled. ‘Oh, he’s harmless enough.’
The table fell into a rowdy clutter of chattering and clattering as plate after plate was cleared and teeth chomped and chewed, and cheeks bulged with handful after handful of sweet and savoury. Hands, mouths and stomachs were all stuffed to bursting until completely satisfied.
‘Melanie,’ asked Michelle Carr, ‘did Anna-Marie really used to be your best friend?’ She asked it in a sing-songy kind of nasty way.
Melanie blushed and Mrs Finch asked sternly, ‘What of it, young lady?’ her spine straight and prickly. ‘Friends come and go, don’t they, Peter?’
‘They’ll be wanting their cake,’ growled Mr Finch, bitter smoke billowing from between his teeth.
With much scraping of chairs and, ‘Scuse me, m’loves,’ Mrs Finch left the table and made her way to the pantry door, returning a moment later carrying the cake to the table like it was a Persian prince with a crown of candles, ten candles, placed evenly around the edge. Mr Finch produced a taper, burning bright, and took it to them one by one. The individual flames flickered and, once all were lit, a golden glow bathed Melanie’s face.
Everybody sang.
Melanie blew and the flames went out one by one. Mrs Finch wielded a knife as long as her arm and sliced chunks
from the cake, leaving the mark of her meaty prints on each piece. Her red lips sucked the crumbs from her fingers as she wiped the blade clean on the corner of her apron. Mr Finch stood and bent low to his daughter and kissed her on the throat just below her jaw: a daddy’s kiss full of sweat, stubble, love and bad breath.
‘Speaking of friends,’ said Mrs Finch, smiling slyly, ‘I think Peter might know another old friend of yours, Mel.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, you was very young. You used to call him Pinky-Perky-Peter.’
Melanie frowned but then her eyes caught sparks and glowed like the tobacco in her father’s pipe. She smiled. ‘Pinky-Perky-Peter,’ she said as if repeating a dream. And then she turned those sparkling eyes to mine.
‘A little tyke he was,’ said Mrs Finch with a chuckle. ‘Always up to no good.’
‘Seems lad’s picking up bit of colour,’ remarked Mr Finch his expression unchanging.
‘Aye,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘It’ll be all that party food.’
‘Look at him,’ went on Melanie’s father with a dry laugh, his long fingers snapping in my face. ‘Look at him. He’s away with faeries. His mother’ll think you’ve not been feeding him.’
‘Lives with his aunt, they say. Isn’t that right, Peter?’ and then under her breath, ‘supposedly.’
‘Good Lord, woman!’ barked Mr Finch like an angry tractor. ‘Go and see her, I say!’ He rapped his pipe three times on the table. ‘Or ask her blasted mother what happened!’
The audience fell silent, their eyes startled wide reflecting the flickering candles.
Mrs Finch’s finger tucked a loose curl back behind her ears. Her eyes toyed with me. ‘She says she’ll never tell.’
‘Now,’ cried Mrs Finch, raising her voice and poking as big a chunk of cake as would fit into her fat face, ‘it’s time for
Hide and Seek
!’ She clapped like a performing seal and everybody leapt to their feet.
As Rebecca Blackett, Charlotte’s twin, counted from one to ten I slipped through the door and out into the farmyard whilst everybody else squealed and went in search of nooks and cubby-holes, wardrobes and shadows.
‘Here I come, ready or not.’
It was twilight and I breathed deep, the air wet and spicy with dung. I looked around for a secure hiding place: the best hiding place. You see, I didn’t want to be found. By which I mean I didn’t even want to be sought. I wanted to disappear altogether.
Beside a paddock in which Melanie’s pony, Goldilocks, grey in the sooty fading light, trotted back and forth with a pleasing clippertyclop, I found some bales of hay and drew myself into as tight a space as I could manage, my nose tickling. I held my breath.
‘Hello, Peter.’
It was Melanie. She squashed in beside me, so that together we filled just as small a space as I had on my own. She smelt
flowery, her hair in my face making my nose twitch even more, her soft hand slipping into mine. Her head turned slightly so that her velvety pink lips touched mine. To the side Goldilocks’ droppings were shovelled into a single wet pile. I could hear Melanie breathing through her nose, and taste sweet and savoury on her breath.
‘Pinky-Perky-Peter,’ she sighed.