The Generation Game (11 page)

What if Cheryl passes and I fail? Cheryl is clever and comes from a family with educational aspirations. Cheryl’s mum and dad met at university. Cheryl’s mum has a part time job,
teaching French at evening classes. Bob wants me to do well because he did so badly at school but he doesn’t really know how to ensure I’ll pass. He just reminds me to do my homework
and pins up the times tables in the outside loo which has by now been done up so it is useable and no longer the forbidden place it was in Helena’s time.

Now it is becoming more and more clear that that was a different time entirely. A time when I had a mother who loved me.

The big morning comes and Bob makes me a Full English breakfast and sends me off with a packet of Dextrose so I am high on sugar and fat. Fortunately these dietary excesses get
me through the verbal and non-verbal reasoning and even the maths. So it is a huge relief and the proudest moment of my life when I discover sometime later, once Christmas has come and gone, that I
have passed. And so too has Cheryl.

The circle of friends will disintegrate by the end of the year which is no great surprise when you think of it. But there are two shocks to come out of all this: Mandy Denning, of the doll hands
and clicking eyelashes, has failed. And, more extraordinarily, Christopher Bennett is to be a Grammar School Boy. It seems that all that surplus energy he harboured was a result of being bored and
he has in actual fact a very high IQ. Who would have thought it of the Bogey Boy? He becomes more unbearable than ever, snatching all the credit for his academic achievement when really he has Miss
Mills to thank for discovering and nurturing his talents when all her predecessors wrote him off as a naughty boy (which he still is, deep down, as far as I am concerned.)

But I am Clever Philippa. Grammar School Philippa. I am going places. One day I will leave Torquay to seek my fortune. I will go to London. I will fly across the ocean and track down Helena and
release her from the clutches of Orville Tupper. I will enlist the help of the British High Commissioner if I have to. I will get her back. Because now I have power at my fingertips. I have
knowledge in my heart and in my brain. I have the whole wide world at my feet.

Power and Knowledge have both run off and deserted me. I have to trust those who are here. Fran and the doctor.

The doctor comes and checks you over, though she can’t possibly have years of medical training; she looks like a sixth former on a careers day out. But she has a proficient pair of hands
and you are a floppy doll in them. She looks at your eyes, listens to your heart, holds your little hand in hers as if she is reading your palm, telling your fortune.

It seems she is a little concerned. She would like to do a blood test. I can’t really concentrate on what she’s saying. I must be hearing things because there is nothing wrong with
you. Nothing serious. My initial instincts that all was not as it should be was a little premature in a way that you were not. That was a gut reaction. A mother’s worry. Looking at you now,
I’d know if there was a real problem. You’re just a slow feeder. A little pale. A sleepy baby. I probably should interrogate the doctor further (What are you doing this for? How? Why?
etc, etc) but how can I be expected to focus on all her words when I’m so tired. So consumed.

You are not happy about this turn of events. Neither am I for that matter. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I first saw that little blue line in that little plastic window. I
thought this was my chance to be what Helena wasn’t. I didn’t expect a nurse to be rubbing magic cream on your hand. I didn’t expect the waiting around wondering what the hell is
going on. Or the needle pricking your little vein. The drops of blood in a tube being sent down to the lab. I didn’t expect to be dealing with this on my own. I didn’t expect your
father to be in love with Someone Else.

I will find out who she is. I will find out and I will kill her.

Two years later and I’ve only got as far as the Third Year, where I am conscientiously working my way up through the streams to try and join Cheryl at the very top.
Unfortunately for me I’ve chosen a best friend who is cleverer than me (bringing back memories of my Lucas) and there are days, not so good days, when I wish I could shine above her –
and everyone else for that matter.

Bob, in his own 1970s-man blundering way, understands something of my self-esteem issues and tells me that I am the best shop assistant he’s ever had. But I can see through his weak
attempt and know he is just being nice in a way that makes me want to both kiss and hit him at the same time (I am virtually a teenager, after all). It is quite obvious to anyone who steps inside
our little shop that no-one comes close to Patty. Patty, who can weigh out sweets, do a stock take and make a cup of tea at the same time, whilst being able to sing the whole of the Top Twenty off
by heart.

Punk Rock elbowed its way into the Top Twenty quite some time ago but it has only recently made it down to Torquay. Lugsy now sports a half-hearted snot-green Mohican which, with his renowned
ears, makes him look like a gonk and riles Captain the parrot when Lugsy calls in with fish and chips for Wink. Captain thinks it is some kind of giant tropical bird come to take over his place at
the helm of Wink’s home. The Mohican doesn’t last long as it is too high maintenance for someone who has to get up at the crack of dawn and deliver milk. It also scares too many old
ladies and most of the neighbourhood dogs who, between them, cause a cacophony to rival the seagulls of a morning. The Dairy says he has to change his hairstyle or face the sack. So Lugsy gets a
number one and becomes a skinhead instead.

Despite this fickleness, he sticks by Patty (he knows which side his bread is buttered) and saves up for a nice engagement ring which he presents to her on her 21st birthday at (where else?) the
Berni Inn. Unfortunately for Lugsy, this doesn’t go down too well with Patty who murmurs a firm No. So he has to make do with yet more living in sin. And of course now I am virtually a
teenager, I know that Sin isn’t a place but rather an action.

I have discovered one or two other sins:

1. Smoking: which I’ve always known a lot about, having lived in a tobacconists for much of my life and also clinging memories of Helena who always had a cigarette in hand. I don’t
know what all the fuss is about.

2. Drinking: I’ve raided Bob’s drinks cabinet on a few occasions and found that Babycham is the best he has to offer. All the others make my eyes water and my throat burn.

3. Boys: I know what boys and girls do but there is no way I am ever going to do it. (Bob delegated the little chat about the birds and the bees and the Curse to Wink, who took on the task with
some relish – and far too much X-rated detail – thereby putting me off ever wanting to become a woman.)

Bob’s love life and therefore sinfulness has taken a turn for the better (or worse, depending on which way you look at it). For two months he’s been going out with a stationery rep
from Newton Abbot called Linda who is a divorcee and mother of a young lad in the navy. Bob is smitten with her Farrah Fawcett hair and smart trouser suits. And she seems to have fallen for the
Bob-smile that never quite worked on Helena.

If I were still a child I would already be thinking of bridesmaids dresses and resisting the urge to call Linda ‘Mummy’. But now I am virtually a teenager, I have become a cynic. If
even my own mother could fly thousands of miles to get away from me, why would someone with no blood ties want to take me on? So I keep Linda at arms’ length. Bob on the other hand, tries to
keep her as close as possible. I think he is quite possibly a sex maniac.

Despite my sometimes Ice Princess demeanour, Linda does make an effort. She even puts herself out to come and watch
The Generation Game
one Saturday. She convinces us to forgo our usual
fish and chip supper and opt for a Chinese takeaway meal. Wink is won over by the prawn balls. ‘Why have you never got this before, Bob?’ she asks, accusingly, oil glistening on her
lips so I wonder if she’s been at my cherry lip gloss.

But Linda’s finest achievement is about to dawn when she suggests something that – no matter how many times we’ve thought, fantasised and dreamt about it – no-one has
ever dared say out loud.

‘You should apply for
The Generation Game
, Wink,’ she says. Just like that.

It’s as if Linda has whipped off all her clothes and done a cartwheel across Wink’s filthy rug for all we can do is stare at her, open-mouthed at this shock-horror advice. But really
we are mortified at ourselves for never plucking up the courage to do what she has done.

Bob breaks the moment and says: ‘Brilliant!’

I take his lead and murmur words to that effect. Only Wink sits quietly in her chair. For a few moments it’s like all her Christmases have come at once and no-one loves Christmas as much
as Wink because she can drink as much sherry as she wants and therefore it is the only time of the year she can sleep painlessly. But it is precisely because of this pain, because of her Multiple
Sclerosis that she is sitting so quietly. For those few brief moments she is spinning plates, icing cakes and acting the buffoon in a farce while Bruce writes notes to himself in his little book.
But then reality hits at her like a wet towel across the face.

‘But I’m just a sick old woman. Why would they choose me?’ She takes a gulp of brown ale. ‘And I don’t even have a son to make up a team. All I’ve got is this
lousy old parrot.’

At this, Captain takes offence, his feathers visibly drooping.

But Linda strikes again: ‘What about Bob? Bob could do it. He could be your son.’

Wink looks at Bob, perched on the pouf, scooping up the remains of his radioactive sweet and sour with a prawn cracker.

‘Bob?’ she says, bewildered. But it isn’t clear if her bewilderment stems from her inability to imagine Bob as her son or her inability to imagine him on her telly.

Meanwhile Bob splutters on his cracker and Linda has to bash him on the back.

‘Well, I think it’s got to be worth a try.’

Wink snorts at this latest from Linda.

But Linda has really got me excited (and it isn’t just the effects of the heady monosodium glutamate). I can’t let Wink pass up this opportunity. I know exactly how to win her
round.

‘Think of the conveyor belt, Wink,’ I say. ‘Close your eyes and think of the electric blankets, the sets of knives, the Thermos flasks. Think of it, Wink. Think!’

And Wink does. She shuts her eyes and she thinks of all the wonderful electric goods and new-fangled household gadgets passing before her eyes. She thinks of Bruce urging her on. The audience
shouting out items. The pile of luxury goods that she’ll bring home to her stinky house in Torquay. The chance of a lifetime.

‘Go on then, Bob,’ she says. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s write to the BBC.’

A wave of near-euphoria passes round the room, drenching us in Wink’s sudden enthusiasm. But the tide soon goes out. ‘They’ll probably turn us down anyway,’ she says.

But nothing can dampen Bob’s ardour for the lady in his life. He smiles at Linda and she smiles back at him (a little smugly, it has to be said). Then he takes her hand lovingly in his own
before addressing the room.

‘They probably will turn us down, Wink,’ he says. ‘But nothing ventured… ’

Unfortunately a few Saturdays later, the unimaginable happens: it is Bruce’s last show and Wink is devastated. We all rally round and try to make the best of it. We are
back to our usual cod and chips, but Bob splashes out on some mushy peas and pickled eggs. Then, as the tears roll down Wink’s cheeks at the final conveyor belt, and spurred on by
Linda’s bolshiness (though of course these days it would be seen as assertiveness), Bob makes his own suggestion. All year the country has been building up to a certain day: June 7th, when
all of us British subjects are expected to celebrate our Majesty’s silver jubilee. She’s been Queen for twenty-five years and, according to Bob, she is doing a bloody good job –
despite a wave of general unrest gathering on the horizon.

Bob is a surprisingly keen monarchist. If he was smarter and more dashing he could been mistaken for Tim Brook-Taylor on
The Goodies
because he stands to attention whenever he hears the
National Anthem and even knows all five verses of it. There is a Union Jack in the outside toilet, a collection of coronation cups hanging from hooks on a high shelf in the kitchenette and,
somewhere in the depths of the sideboard, a jigsaw puzzle of Henry VIII and his six wives (definitely a sex maniac). One of the strangest things Bob once said to me, in the months following
Helena’s departure, was: ‘At least she chose Canada, part of the Empire, I mean, Commonwealth.’ I had no idea what he was going on about at the time, but in all the current royal
furore, I can see what he was trying to say, in his own Bob-way.

And right now, Bob is trying to take Wink’s mind off the end of an era and the crushing of her hopes to be on Bruce’s show. A party to end all parties might just do that.

Fortunately for Bob – and the rest of the street – Linda takes it upon herself to do the bulk of the organisation, enlisting Patty’s help. Bob and Lugsy lend
their (relative) muscle when required but it is quite clear that their respective girlfriends have it all under control.

They organise raffles, coffee mornings, bring and buy sales in order to scrape enough money together to make her Majesty proud and to give the residents of our street a day to remember. There is
party food to be made, trestle tables to be borrowed, bunting to be hung. There is a bonnet competition, a tug of war, a beautiful baby contest and a talent show to be organised. But most of all
what we need is sunshine and sunshine is what we get.

It is evident from the moment the seagulls wake us that it is going to be a scorcher. We have to be up bright and early to help cleanse the street of dog dirt and fag ends. I am part of the
cleaning brigade, led by Lugsy who is used to early starts.