Friends Forever! (3 page)

“Mmm,” I say. I've had enough flipping practice.

“Word of advice, though, Ronnie,” Mum says, blotting her lipstick on a beer invoice. “You need to watch him every single second these days. He's smarter than he looks. He found a staple gun at your aunty Susan's yesterday and tried to pierce her cat's ears.”

Seth smiles at us all and waves his hands. He's the epitome of cute.

“She's not wrong, Ron,” nods Dad sagely. “I like to think of him as the face of evil.”

“Uh-huh,” I sigh.

Mum peers at me awhile longer, eyeing me up and down.

“You're, erm . . . ,” she says, pointing at my baggy hoodie and jeans, “not going out dressed like that, are you?”

Oh God.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I tut. “I'm looking after your son.”

“Oooh, that time already? Must fly,” Dad announces. He's such a chicken. Last month, after one of me and Mum's screaming bust-ups, I found him two hours later, sitting in the beer cellar, wearing his Discman and reading the
Sporting Post.

“Loz! I need you—don't go anywhere,” Mum commands, turning again to me. “It's just those shapeless jeans, Ronnie. They do nothing for your figure! And that hooded top makes you look like a painter and decorator.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” I moan. “What do you know about what people my age wear?”

This is a foolish thing to say. My mother is an authority on absolutely everything.

“Well, I saw Nicole Jones, your aunty Susan's goddaughter, in Asda yesterday and she looked absolutely gorgeous!”

“Oh, for God's sake . . .”

“She was wearing a peach cardigan, and a fresh white tailored blouse and fitted black trousers. She looked immaculate! Her mother must be so proud of her.”

“Nicole Jones is a complete buttmunch, Mother,” I fume, glaring at my mother. “She competes with her brother in Scottish country dancing competitions! She eats school lunch with an imaginary friend! She collects thimbles!”

“Well, at least she makes the best of herself,” Mum drones, “not like you and your bunch.”

“Oh, here we go,” I say. I am not in the mood to discuss the LBD.

“There's you, off to paint the Forth Road Bridge, there's Claude, who looks like a little old granny most of the time in those old moth-eaten dresses . . . oooh, and as for that Fleur Swan, well, she had jeans on so tight the other day, I could see the outline of her . . . well, I won't say! Poor Paddy Swan, he must be absolutely driven to despair with her!”

“Whatever,” I sigh.

“C'mon, play nice now, ladies,” Dad says, trying to move past Mum. Mum frowns at us both, picking up her cardigan and throwing it around her shoulders. She walks across and stares out the living room window for a few seconds, letting out a long sigh. Then she turns to me again. She looks pretty anxious about something.

“What's up now?” I tut.

“Oh, nothing. It's just your nan,” Mum says. “She called last night. She's not sounding too good.”

“Really?” I say, feeling guilty because I've not visited for almost two months. “What's up with her?”

“Well, she just sounds confused, y'know?” Mum says quietly, sounding more angry at life now. “She was wittering on about police chases and drug raids near her house.” Mum rolls her eyes, biting her lip slightly. “She's getting herself worked up again.”

“Oh, dear,” I say. I think Nan's going a bit bonkers.

“I called the local police to double-check,” says Mum, “but they said that there hasn't been a disturbance in her post code for more than four months. They don't know what she's talking about.”

Mum's eyes go a little glassy.

“Maybe she's getting mixed up with something on TV,” I say. “You know she loves cop dramas.”

“Well, either way, it's not good, is it?” Mum says. “Everyone forgets she has a heart condition. She's eighty-two, you know?”

“Mmm,” I say.

“If you were any sort of granddaughter,” Mum says, switching on the moan again, “you'd go and see her. It's only an hour away on the train. She'd love to see you . . .”

As my mother drones on and on, I switch to “white noise” in my head and block her out. But now that I think about it, I'd love to see my nan. She never gives me a hard time. In fact, the dafter I dress, the more she likes it. And she bakes her own cakes too.

She might even know what to do about the LBD. She's pretty sussed for an old lady.

“Okay,” I interrupt. “I'll go this afternoon.”

“ ‘Where's Ronnie?' That's what she always asks,” Mum twitters, oblivious. “But oh no, you can't spare the time for an old woman, can you? Unless it's your birthday and she's got her hand in her purse—”

“Mother! I'll go this afternoon!” I yell. “I'll get the two-thirty train and I'll be in her kitchen eating scones and reminiscing about Princess Diana's lovely wedding dress by four. Is that okay?!”

Mum stares at me, slightly dumbfounded.

Dad gives me a “nice one” wink.

“Today?” she repeats.

“Today!” I say, flaring my nostrils. “Try and stop me.”

“Well . . . okay then!” Mum says, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “All I need is a bit of help!” she shouts as she stomps down the stairs. “I've only got one pair of hands to do everything! I'm not an octopus, y'know. I'm not a flipping octopus!”

In the living room, Dad and I are left staring at each other in utter bemusement.

“She's not an octopus, y'know?” says Dad mock seriously. “I'm glad we got that one cleared up.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“How long before school starts again?” asks Dad, wincing as Seth toddles over smelling distinctly like an explosion in a bum factory.

“Nine weeks,” I say, holding my nose.

Because pheasants are on the track just outside Chipping Tanbury, the 2:30 Mainline Clipper service to Little Chipping is delayed by approximately forty-eight minutes. Actually, this might have been “peasants on the track”—the Mainline Trains announcer had a dreadful mucus problem.

Whatever, the delay allots me a nice lengthy space of dead time to sit on a cold metallic bench beside a railway track and think about my future without the LBD. I've got a specific iPod play list of angry songs for when life is beginning to make me commit murder, so I cue up “Another Homicide” by Psycho Killa, a blistering 3:20 rap ditty involving plenty of bad language and mild glorification of violence, then sit staring at the tracks, brooding about my own personal misfortune.

I am utterly bereft.

The train pulls into the station and I jump off. I wander miserably down Little Chipping's sleepy main street, past the post office and the dressmaker's boutique, past the Village Hall where Nan has her Tuesday Club meetings, past the kids' swing park, turning right into Dewers Drive, where Nan lives at number eleven. The white paintwork on Nan's terraced house seems a touch tatty now that Granddad's not around to climb ladders with a paintbrush every other day, although Nan's rosebushes, dotted all over her small front garden, look typically fabulous. As the tiny gate snaps closed behind me, I ring Nan's bell.

I pause for a minute. Total silence.

Mum promised me Nan would be in.

Inside I hear the tapping of a walking stick. “Helloooo!” a little voice shouts. “Who is it?!”

“It's me, Nan!” I smile. “It's Ronnie!”

“I'm very content with my gas supplier!” Nan shouts. “None today, thanking you kindly!”

“It's Ronnie,” I repeat, giggling. “Your granddaughter!”

Total silence. Has she gone?

“Nan! It's Ronnie. Let me in!” I say, ringing the bell again.

More silence.

“Ronnie?! Oooh, Veronica! It's you!” Nan shouts eventually, chuckling wildly. “Hang on!”

A multitude of keys are jangled, locks turned and bolts undone before the door flies open, revealing Leticia Warton, aka Nan, in her full Nan glory. Mischievous smile, large brown reading spectacles that make her eyes ginormous, snow-white tightly permed hair, wearing her trademark blue-and-lavender floral shift dress with a gold brooch, slightly hidden by a pink house-coat, a brown walking stick firmly in one hand. Every time I see Nan, the fairies appear to have stolen a little more of her away. She's simply not the huge stout woman I think I'm going to visit.

“Good afternoon to you! Come inside!” Nan says excitedly as I kiss her powdery cheek. “They've almost got him! Come on!”

“What?” I say as Nan vanishes down the hallway, moving surprisingly speedily for a woman supposedly crippled with rheumatoid arthritis.

“The man they're chasing!” shouts Nan, beckoning me into the kitchen. “The man with the gun! He's a drug dealer, you know?”

Oh, no. Please God, not today,
I think. Trust her to choose the day I'm here alone to go totally crazy. What do I do now? What would Claude do?

“Nan,” I say, moving gingerly into the kitchen behind her, “there isn't a man with a gun. Let's just sit down, shall we? I'll put the kettle on.”

“Shh,” Nan says, walking over to a mysterious black radio on the kitchen table and fiddling with the dials. “I'm listening.”

“All points are on full alert, Sarge,” a voice says anxiously on the radio. “We have one IC1 male. Armed. Repeat, armed! Approaching Harpingdon. Do you read me?”

“Nan . . . what's that!?” I say, staring at the hissing contraption.

“One second,” Nan says, putting a finger to her lips.

“Nan, is that a police scanner?” I say in disbelief. “Are you listening to police broadcasts?”

“Go on! Get him!” Nan shouts at the scanner. “Block him off at Junction Fourteen. If he gets past the Harpingdon bypass, you've lost him!”

“Nan, where did you get that thing?” I shout over the racket.

“Tango Delta 435, are you receiving? He's out of the car and on foot! We've got him covered, Sarge,” says a voice on the box. “Unit 234 is closing on him . . . he's making the arrest.”

“Hurray!” shouts Nan, clapping her hands. “They're so much faster than those numskulls on
The Shield.
”

“Nan, where did you get that scanner?” I repeat firmly.

“What, this thing?” Nan says, turning off the machine. “Miriam from church's son Tony gave me it.”

“Tony Crossgate?” I moan. “Nan! He's totally shady.”

“Nonsense!” laughs Nan. “He's a lovely young man. He's just so madly keen on electronics—his bedroom's full of them. He keeps all his extra stuff in Miriam's garden shed.”

“Extra
stolen
stuff,” I mutter.

“You see,” Nan says, “I was at Miriam's last Tuesday having my hair set and Tony said that seeing as I was one of his favorite old ladies, I could have a police scanner or one of those DNA whatchamacallits.”

“DVD players,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“That's the fellows!” laughs Nan, putting two tea bags into the teapot. “Why, what's up? Am I in trouble again?”

“No,” I say, smiling. “Not really . . . I'm relieved. Mum thought you were going cra . . .”

I stop myself. Nan rolls her eyes.

“Yes, yes, I'm aware everyone thinks I'm losing my marbles,” she smirks. “Nobody listens to me properly! I told Magda about Tony's scanner. She just kept telling me to calm down. She's always been the same, that girl. Bossy. Never listens.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“Veronica,” Nan continues, pouring boiling water into the pot, “I'm not ready for the funny farm yet.”

“Sorry, Nan,” I mutter, blushing.

“Anyhow, petal, take a seat,” she says, pouring the tea. “I want to hear all your news. Exams . . . they're over?”

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“Well, that'll be a relief, then?” Nan twinkles. “A-levels next, eh? Then, off to university? How exciting!”

“Mmm, s'pose,” I say. I've never actually agreed that I'm going to university. Mum might have. I certainly haven't.

“So, what's the plan for the summer?” she says. “I bet you and those pals of yours, Claudette and Fleur, have got some high jinks in order to celebrate, haven't you?”

“Mmm, not really,” I mumble, feeling a little choked.

“Oh?” Nan says, looking surprised. “No summer adventure? You went off to that pop music festival last year, didn't you?”

“Astlebury,” I sigh.

Nan pushes some strong brown tea in front of me. “Well, then, what about that . . . Jimi Steele?” she asks. “That good-looking fellow of yours? How's he doing?”

“We split up,” I say firmly. “For good this time. It's all got a bit, er, messy. He's, erm, with someone else now.”

“Crikey!” says Nan. “Well . . . good riddance to him! Never liked him anyhow. Or his silly skateboard.”

I try to smile, but there's a lump in my throat.

Nan looks at me anxiously. “Dewdrop,” she says, passing me the sugar, “you're really far too young to be wearing a sad expression like that. Whatever is the matter?”

I really want to tell Nan, but it's complicated. “I don't know where to begin,” I mutter.

Nan looks concerned. She stands up and hobbles over to her pantry cupboard. “Well, I have an idea,” she says. “You start right at the beginning. I'm going to make some fruit scones. You talk, I'll bake. Then if I can't solve your problem, at least we'll have lovely scones to eat.”