Authors: Natasha Mac a'Bháird
Ellen leaned around me. ‘Come on, let’s risk it now!’ she said. ‘I can’t see any parents or teachers – and none of those little first years would dare say anything to us!’
We walked briskly past the tennis club, not wanting to draw any attention by running – anyway Ellen’s heels didn’t look like they would stand too much running. Soon we were well out of sight of the hall. I began to relax a little. As Ellen liked to say, what’s the worst that could happen?
Dear Ellen,
This evening, Liam was waiting as I came out of school, standing at the gate with his hands in his pockets. Neither of us spoke. He reached out to take my art folder and I let him. We walked through the town and when we came to the place where the road forks in two we both turned towards the park in silent agreement. I didn’t kick the leaves. Everything was so still, so quiet, I didn’t want to disturb the peace. Liam seemed to feel the same way because he just walked quietly beside me, swinging my art folder as he went. We came to my
road and he turned down it with me, even though it’s out of his way. And still neither of us said a word.
As we got to my house Liam handed me the folder and said, ‘See you tomorrow then.’ And then he was gone.
Love,
Maggie.
The pub was packed. Ellen elbowed her way through and I followed, clinging on to her bag so I wouldn’t lose sight of her. She jostled someone’s arm, spilling her drink, and the woman snapped ‘Hey, look where you’re going!’
‘Sorry!’ I gasped, pushing Ellen on before she could snap back at her.
One of the barmen, a young man with very short hair and a single earring, was following our progress across the bar. I tried to keep my head down, thinking he was working out how old we were. Then I realised that what was attracting his interest was Ellen’s short skirt – or rather her long legs.
Finally Ellen found us some seats, a couple of low stools at the edge of someone else’s table. She shoved aside someone’s coat and sat down.
‘Great, we’ve got a pretty good view of the band from here,’ she said, waving her hand in the direction of the small platform where the band were beginning to set up. I noticed she seemed to be paying particular attention to one of them – a young guy of about nineteen or twenty dressed all in
black, with slightly greasy-looking long hair tied back in a ponytail. Not my type, which meant he probably was Ellen’s.
I couldn’t stop feeling self-conscious. Ellen’s purple top was a bit lower than I realised – I could see the edge of my white bra peeping out at the top. I tried to surreptitiously pull it down at the back.
I needed somewhere to put my hands. We weren’t close enough to the table to hide them under there, and I was
suddenly
very aware of them just sitting there in my lap.
‘I’ll get us some drinks, will I?’ I suggested. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of fighting my way to the bar, but at least we might blend in a bit better if we were sipping on drinks instead of just sitting there.
‘Make mine a vodka and Coke!’ Ellen responded.
I groaned inwardly. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we had snuck off to a pub while our mums thought we were at the teen disco, now she wanted us to get caught drinking alcohol? I mean, my parents don’t mind me having a glass of wine with dinner at home with them. Actually they sort of encourage it. They like to think they are being terribly cool and laidback. And they seem to think that if I can have it at home I won’t feel the need to go to pubs or hang around with my friends outside off-licences, pooling our money and hoping someone will buy us some beer. So any time they’re opening a bottle of wine for Sunday dinner or whatever, they’ll pour me a small glass, and then tease me that I’m
getting
merry when I’m nothing of the sort.
But vodka? And in a pub where we shouldn’t have been in the first place?
Ellen didn’t seem to notice my reaction so I made my way to the bar, wondering what to do. Should I buy her a vodka and just get a Coke for myself? Should I stop being such a wimp and just get us both vodkas? One each couldn’t hurt, could it? Would the barman even serve me?
A couple of girls of nineteen or twenty, looking very glamorous in glittering eye shadow and short dresses, let me squeeze in beside them at the bar. It was packed and stuffy and I was starting to be glad Ellen hadn’t let me bring my jacket. Eventually the barman noticed me – the same one who hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Ellen’s long brown legs as we made our way in.
My courage deserted me. ‘Two Cokes please,’ I muttered. He brought me my order without comment and I scuttled back to Ellen, glad the ordeal was over.
She wasn’t alone. The guy in black, who’d been setting up for the band, was sitting in my place. Ellen had edged closer to the table and was leaning her elbow on it, head resting on her hand as she giggled at something he was saying.
I cleared my throat.
‘Oh Pete, this is my friend Maggie,’ Ellen said. ‘Maggie, this is Pete. He’s with the band.’
The way she said it it might have been U2 he was with,
not some amateur pub band playing their fourth or fifth gig. I noticed his T-shirt had the name Flaming Moes printed on it, along with an ugly-looking skull and crossbones.
‘Hi,’ I said shyly.
Pete gave me a lazy smile. ‘Maggie, is it? Wait till you see the band, they’ve been working on some new material and it’s pretty damn good.’
He made no attempt to get out of my seat. I stood there awkwardly, still holding the Cokes. Ellen reached out to take one from me.
‘Sorry, it’s just Coke,’ I said. ‘The barman was asking for ID so I was afraid we’d get thrown out.’ I blushed as I spoke. I’ve never been any good at lying.
‘You can’t listen to the Flaming Moes when you’re
drinking
coke!’ Pete said. ‘I’ll get you some proper drinks. Vodka, is it? Or Bacardi?’
‘Vodka, please.’ Ellen gave him her most engaging smile, the one she uses to wrap her dad around her little finger.
My heart sank. I couldn’t make up another excuse now or I’d have to admit I lied about not getting served. Oh well, one vodka couldn’t do much harm.
Pete started battling his way to the bar just as the band began their first song. Actually I don’t think you could really call it a song, it was really just a lot of noise. Oh dear, I sound like my dad now, but I just can’t bear music where the drums are so loud you can’t even hear the words. The lyrics are the
most important part of the song to me.
‘This is brilliant!’ Ellen screeched, bouncing up and down on her stool. Pete arrived back with the vodkas and Ellen tipped the Cokes into them, handing one to me. I sipped it cautiously, feeling the warmth spreading to my stomach. It felt quite good actually and I could feel myself starting to relax a little.
Dear Ellen,
After it happened your photo was all over the papers. The one of you at the seaside last summer, leaning against the railing at the top of the steps that led down to the beach. I couldn’t believe it when I saw what photo your mum had given them, because I knew you hated that photo – you said your eyes looked small and weird. It was a blazing hot day and you were squinting in the sunlight as you looked into the camera. The sun was making your hair all glistening and coppery, and bits of it were blowing in your face – you had one hand up, about to brush them away, but the camera had caught you just a second before, so it looked like you might be waving. I thought it was an OK photo of you but there were so many nicer ones, I don’t know why your mum picked that one, when she must have known you hated it. Then again, maybe she didn’t. She wasn’t exactly clued in to what you were thinking.
I couldn’t have avoided seeing that photo, it was everywhere
in those first weeks – so much so that I just don’t understand how it was possible for you to remain lost.
Love,
Maggie.
Seven pieces of noise – sorry, songs – later, my ears were ringing, I was too hot, the flashing lights were getting to me and my head was starting to swim. Ellen was deep in
conversation
with Pete, though goodness knows how they were managing to understand each other. I’d given up trying to shout in Ellen’s ear above the noise, it just wasn’t worth the effort.
Liam would have given up on us by now. He might even have started talking to Siobhan Brady and her friends. Siobhan has always had a thing for Liam though she’d never admit it in front of Ellen. Ellen doesn’t want Liam for herself but she doesn’t want anyone else to have him either.
I glanced at my watch. It was five to twelve! The disco was finishing at midnight – Mum would probably be there waiting already.
I touched Ellen’s arm. ‘Ellen, we have to go!’
‘What?!’ she shouted.
I pointed to my watch. ‘WE – HAVE – TO – GO!’ I mouthed.
‘Oh, come on, let’s just stay for one more song! It won’t matter if we’re a few minutes late.’
‘Not leaving already, are you? The night’s just getting started. I was just starting to enjoy myself,’ Pete said,
sweeping
his hand out in a gesture that might have meant the band, the entire pub, or just himself and Ellen.
Ellen was wavering. I thought of the one argument that might persuade her. ‘If we get caught we’ll be grounded for weeks. There’s no way we’ll get to see the next gig,’ I said urgently.
‘What’s the matter, are you some kind of Cinderella? Afraid you’ll turn into a pumpkin at midnight?’ Pete laughed at his own pathetic joke.
I didn’t like his mocking tone or the horrible sneering look on his face. Actually I didn’t like much about Pete at all.
‘Actually it was the carriage that turned into a pumpkin, not Cinderella,’ I snapped – just as the band finished a song. My words seemed to echo in the sudden silence. There were a few sniggers and several heads turned to stare. I felt my face turn crimson. What the hell was I doing, nitpicking over the technicalities of a fairytale?
Pete guffawed loudly. ‘Well, I’m sure you know better than me. Off you go then, back to your fairy castle or wherever it is you princesses hang out these days.’
‘Come on then,’ Ellen said crossly, diving under the table to find her bag. I certainly wasn’t doing much for the cool sophisticated image she was trying to portray. But right then I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be out of that place.
I didn’t wait for her to make her goodbyes, just rushed for the door. Outside, I moved away from the small group
standing
smoking and waited for Ellen, willing her to hurry up.
She appeared at my side. ‘Suppose we’d better make a run for it!’ she giggled, taking off her silver sandals and hitching the bag over her shoulder. We dashed down the road, Ellen squealing as she tried to avoid puddles in her bare feet. I just hoped there wasn’t any shattered glass or anything else nasty lying around.
We made it back to the tennis club just in time. People were spilling out of the hall in small groups, talking and laughing. Ellen scrambled into her sandals as I looked around anxiously for Mum’s car.
‘Hey, where did you two get to?’ demanded a voice behind me. I whirled around to see Siobhan, arm in arm with one of her cronies, eying us suspiciously.
‘What’s it to you …’ I started to say, before Ellen
interrupted
me.
‘What are you talking about? We had a great time, didn’t we Ellen? Best disco in ages. Oh look, there’s your mum!’
We hastily made our way over to Mum’s car. She was
scanning
the crowd of teenagers, looking a little anxious. Her expression changed as she saw us approach, first relief, and then a little frown as her eyes travelled over Ellen’s outfit.
‘Oh no – you forgot to change back into your jeans,’ I muttered, nudging her.
I tugged open the back door and we piled in. We always sit in the back together when it’s just us. We’ve done it since we were kids, pretending to be princesses being driven around by our chauffeur.
‘Hello girls. Good night?’ Mum asked. She was still
looking
at Ellen’s skirt, though she didn’t say anything.
‘It was brilliant, wasn’t it Maggie?’ Ellen said, smiling. ‘Except that idiot Siobhan Brady spilled a glass of lemonade on my jeans and I had to get this skirt from the costume cupboard, can you believe it?’
As we drove away, the last thing I saw was Liam, standing at the side of the road looking after the car, a puzzled frown on his face.
Dear Ellen,
When I picture you now, you’re always somewhere hot. I see you lying on a beach in a white bikini, oversized sunglasses and a giant straw hat to protect your face from the sun,
paperback
novel at your side where you’ve dropped it after falling asleep on your beach towel. Or else you’re in the middle of a game of beach volleyball, leaping around the makeshift court, smashing the ball over the net and laughing with delight when your team scores. All the guys are enthralled by you, wanting to impress you, showing off. All of the girls want to be you.
Sometimes I see you walking through a city park, taking
shade from the sun under leafy green trees, swinging that same straw hat carelessly by your side. You stop to buy an ice cream from a stall, wander over to a bench to sit down and enjoy it, feed the remains of the cone to some ducks.
Sometimes you’re working – I suppose you have to fund this lifestyle somehow. Usually you’re a waitress,
something
sociable, where you can meet lots of people. You love the changing faces every day, people passing in and out of your life with their own stories, never around long enough to become stale or boring. You clear empty coffee cups from tables covered in red-checked table cloths, outside a café in a bustling square. You take your break, peeling off your apron and heading to a quiet spot by the river where you can chill out for a few minutes, watching the boats go by. Then it’s back to the busy square, a bit of window-shopping – you have your eye on a pair of red shoes with killer heels, all you need is your next pay cheque and they’ll be yours. Then it’s back to work, greeting customers with a friendly smile and joking with the other waiting staff.
I see you in train stations, choosing your next destination by sticking a pin in a map. You throw your giant rucksack over your shoulder, not caring how much it weighs (red shoes will never weigh you down). You eat a sandwich at the noisy counter, gulping down your coffee when you realise your train’s just been called. I see you making new friends, moving on, with promises to stay in touch which you know you won’t
keep. All those new experiences, new places, the freshness in every new day, the pace of life you’ve always craved.
It’s never night time in these images. I don’t see you crying, alone on a dark city street, scared, nowhere to stay for the night, thinking of calling home but your stubbornness
getting
in the way. I don’t see you swigging whiskey from a bottle in a brown paper bag, pulling a sleeping bag around you, curling up in a shop front, hoping you’ll be safe for the night. I don’t see you held prisoner somewhere, a dark confined space, your only contact a cruel captor who brings you food and water and threats. I don’t, because I don’t, won’t, can’t let these images in, and when they try to intrude, I put my hands over my eyes and focus with all my strength on that white bikini picture, the blue of the sea, the laughter and light, and I know that’s where you belong.
Love,
Maggie.