Cross Your Heart, Connie Pickles (6 page)

Something about the presence of Jack seemed to make Uncle Bert particularly charming. He was looking at Mother in a funny way His eyes seemed to be focused on her hair. They got on to the French language. He’d always meant to learn. He’d love to live in Paris one day (sharp intake of breath from me). That lovely French food. He asked if she’d tried Chez Pierre in the high street. ‘Once,’ she said. ‘But it would be so, so, so nice to go again.’

Beyond them in the garden, I could see that the fork she had dug into the earth when she’d been gardening earlier had fallen backwards. Prongs up, it looked lethal, like a trap.

Julie and Uncle Bert had to get back. I did lots of apologizing at the door – to Julie and to Uncle Bert for putting him out – so we were still standing there when Mr Spence jogged up. God, that man gets everywhere. Mother smiled vaguely at him, her hand half raised as if to say ‘just a minute’. She seemed to beam all the more shinily at Uncle Bert, telling him he was ‘a ver’, ver’, ver’ kind man’. Uncle Bert got all brisk and just said, ‘Any time.’

As they drove off, Julie put her face to the passenger window and waved. There was some new ingredient in the smile she gave me. Oh, I know, pure wickedness.

Sunday 16 February

1 p.m.

Back from church
and the phone’s just rung. Mother’s taken it into the garden, which is suspicious. I can hear her giggling. Very Interesting.

1.10 p.m.

‘Who was that?’ I just asked her.

‘No one,’ she said. ‘No one important.’

1.45 p.m.

William’s been round. He still hasn’t found his hamster. He said his dad’s probably drunk it.

‘How was the pitch and putt?’ I asked. ‘I hear you stuffed your balls down the girls’ trousers?’ Apparently, I’d got it wrong. They’d been stuffing the girls’ balls down their own trousers. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘An altogether more sophisticated soirée.’

‘You,’ he said, tweaking up his hair in the mirror above my bed, ‘can bugger right off I could smell something floral, like he’s started using gel.

I’ve just rung Julie. She said Uncle Bert asked her questions about Mother all the way home.

2 p.m.

Mother has moved the chair into the middle of the sitting room, so she can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s trying on clothes.

She’s run herself a bath. It’s not even three o’clock in the afternoon.

6.30 p.m.

Jack’s come round to babysit. ‘I didn’t know Mother was going out?’ I said.

‘Nor did I,’ he answered.

The house smells of rose and geranium.

7 p.m

Mother has vacated the building. She says she’s meeting her friend Carol. I don’t believe her. I said, ‘Mother. I need to know where you are going. For security reasons.’

She laughed. ‘I won’t be late,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Where isn’t?’ I said.

‘Chez Pierre,’ she said. ‘In the high street.’

11.30 p.m.

I fell asleep. I meant to stay awake to see who dropped her home. The house is dark and silent. I’ll tiptoe down to see if I can find any evidence.

11.33 p.m.

I’m back. Mother’s asleep – alone – on the sofa bed. There are no coffee mugs, no long blond hairs. But her jacket’s on the banisters and you couldn’t miss it. The sweet, unmistakable smell of cKone.

Friday 21 February

The bathroom

Julie and I
, the cleverest fourteen-year-olds on the planet, have pulled off the matchmake of the century. In one week. Her uncle – the interestingly scented Bert – is going out with my mother. Sorted. Dealt with. Done.

They say it’s just French lessons. Yeah, right.

So why am I not happy? Why aren’t I cracking open the champagne bottles and dusting down my passport?

I can’t put my finger on it. It’s less than a week since Mother and Uncle Bert went to Chez Pierre, so it’s early days. It’s not like they’re getting married tomorrow or anything. I just feel guilty. This evening when she was getting ready Mother seemed so excited – she’d bought a new jumper specially – and I felt rather sheepish, as if I’d been cheating in an exam.

William doesn’t help. He was here when Uncle Bert picked her up, and after they’d gone he asked me how on earth they’d met. I told him about Bert’s phone and Julie’s purse and he said gnomishly, ‘It must be fate.’ I felt so grubby I had to go and wash my hands.

Also I keep remembering Sue punching Uncle Bert’s cKone-infused gym bag. I’m hoping she’s having a nice time in Australia. But she did say she met a lot of men in her work, didn’t she? So maybe she’ll meet another one soon.

I must try and forget all that. The good thing is it does seem to be going well.

On Monday at breakfast I asked Mother straight if it was Uncle Bert she’d been out with the night before. (Must stop calling him Uncle Bert. It makes him sound like some dodgy entertainer with a rabbit in his pocket.) She went a bit pink and said, ‘Yes, yes. He’s a bit lonely and his stomach was empty. I said I would give him some French lessons. It would be a big, big, big help with his merchandising.’

So he came round on Tuesday and she made him supper (crêpe à la fromage; a bit like cheese on toast only posher) and they sat at the kitchen counter, knee to knee, sipping wine and giggling over his schoolboy pronunciation. And then he came again on Wednesday (cheese soufflé: ditto). And tonight they’ve gone to see a French film in town, ‘to perfect his accent’.

It’s all ver’, ver’, ver’ – as Mother would say – exciting. Julie high-fives me at school every day. On Monday she said, ‘That’ll teach her,’ and I wasn’t quite sure what she meant until I realized she was referring to Sue. She really doesn’t like her. I told her we might be cousins soon, which she didn’t understand at first and then she laughed. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Yeah. I s’pose.’ There’s been lots of talk at school this week about the approaching war. People were handing out leaflets at the gates. The news is full of it. There’s going to be a march next week. I think Julie’s mind’s on that. As mine should be too.

Anyway, I must have an early night. That’s another thing to record. It’s my first day at the chemist’s tomorrow. I’m feeling calm and collected about it. Completely in control. Aghghghg.