Goggle-eyes Page 6

  Ignoring me, Prosecuting Counsel turned to Mum, his Star Witness.

  ‘And you buy all the seeds.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And the gardening tools.’

  ‘Everything,’ said Mum. ‘Trowels, beanpoles, fertilizers, netting, manure…’

  ‘And Kitty charges you for the potatoes!’

  I stared.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  I was astonished, simply astonished. You’d think I was a bag-snatcher or something, the way he was looking at me, all shocked and disapproving.

  ‘I think it’s simply appalling,’ he replied.

  For heaven’s sake.

  ‘Why?’ I argued. ‘I don’t like gardening. Neither does Mum. It’s a big chore. So now Dad’s gone, Mum pays me for the vegetables, to keep me going.’

  ‘What about you?’ he demanded. ‘Have you paid her yet for the lunch she cooked, the rugs she vacuumed and the bath she cleaned?’

  Mum tried to stick up for me then.

  ‘But, Gerald. I’m her mother.’

  ‘You are her family,’ Goggle-eyes corrected. ‘And she is yours. You shouldn’t be paying for her cooperation. No one should have to bribe their close relations to pull their weight. It is disgusting.’

  Mum made a face. I thought, at first, it was a mind-your-own-beeswax-Gerald sort of face at him. But then I realized, to my horror, it was a just-a-minute-while-I-think-about-this sort of face.

  ‘It certainly works, though,’ she told him after a moment. ‘Look how promptly Kitty brought in the potatoes.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Mum screwed up her face again. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking. It might have been That’s-what-you-think; but, there again, it might have been Maybe-you’re-right.

  It was Maybe-you’re-right.

  ‘Maybe you’re right. I must say, I’ve never felt quite easy about it. I used to help my parents in the house, and they would never have dreamed of giving me money.’

  ‘I should think not. The whole idea is repellent.’

  The very certainty with which he pontificated made Mum pitch in again on my side.

  ‘But, Gerald. It does seem fairer to pay Kitty something, now Judith’s big enough to do her share, yet never does.’

  Goggle-eyes spread his hands.

  ‘Rosalind,’ he said, as if he were talking to a small child or an idiot. ‘If anything, you should be fining Judith till she does fair shares, not handing out great bribes to Kitty.’

  ‘Great bribes!’ I muttered. ‘Ten miserable pence a pound!’

  He turned on me.

  ‘Oh, ho!’ he crowed. ‘Be warned, all mothers everywhere! Already she’s angling for a rise, our little potato entrepreneur!’

  Mum laughed.

  ‘Oh, dear, Kitty. Looks like, if Gerald gets his way, you’ve had your chips!’

  I suppose, looking back, she only intended it as some harmless little potato joke. But I must say I didn’t find it funny. I felt humiliated, standing there with muddy hands, while those two stood arm in arm beside the sink, grinning.

  On any other day, I would have lost my temper. I would have forgotten my promise, and yelled at him to push off with his Goggle-eyes, stop sticking his nose into other people’s business, clear out, go home!

  But, that day, I’d been feeling so happy. All the way to the library, and all the way home, the world had suddenly seemed so huge and colourful, the wind so puffy and fresh, the skies so high. To come home in such tremendous spirits and pull Dad’s heavy spade out of the shed to dig up spuds for Mum because I love her and she was happy today, too – and then to come through the door and, within seconds, find that the carping had begun again…

  Well, it was all too much. I burst out crying. To be quite honest, I didn’t even burst. I just began to cry, like a baby. Tears pricked behind my eyes, and before I could stop them – before I could even spin round and rush out of the room – they’d welled up and over, spilled down my cheeks, and splashed like ink blots on my muddy shoes.

  ‘Kitty! Oh, Kitty! Dearest!’

  Pulling herself free, Mum was across the kitchen in a flash, and had her arms round me.

  ‘Kitty, my love.’

  I’ll say this much for him, he had the grace to disappear without a word. And as soon as the door shut behind him, Mum asked:

  ‘What’s up, Kits? Kitty-kat, tell me.’

  I scraped huge tears away with muddy palms.

  ‘I’m just fed up with him,’ I told her. ‘He’s always here now, practically every day. You’re not the same. I know you try to be, but you’re just different when he’s around. And he keeps saying what he thinks all the time, and what he thinks is never what we think, and I’m just sick of him.’

  The tears were making me hiccup. Mum sat down on the nearest chair, and pulled me on her knee. Tugging the bottom of my shirt out of my jeans, she used the flap of it to wipe the mudstains off my cheeks. I must have looked a total wally – I’m practically as tall as Mum – but I didn’t care.

  ‘I think I’ve just had enough of him for a while. I feel squashed.’

  Mum patted my damp knees.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said, just like she used to when I was little and lost something precious, or had a bad fight, or couldn’t go to two birthday parties at once. ‘I’ll tell you what. We’ll make a deal. You hang on through the weekend, then I won’t invite Gerald all next week. We’ll phone your dad, and maybe you can go to Berwick upon Tweed next Friday, to make a change. Then we’ll have one more quiet week at home. After, Gerald can come for lunch at the weekend, and maybe by then you won’t be feeling so squashed.’

  ‘Why can’t we start now?’ I snivelled. ‘Why do I have to hang on through the weekend? Why can’t we have tomorrow to ourselves?’

  ‘But Kitty,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. It’s the trip to the submarine base.’

  I’d clean forgotten about that. I shouldn’t have, either. I’m one of the members of the committee that arranged it. Some other local group had booked a bus, and now they couldn’t fill it. Our lot had offered to pitch in and help.

  But that would be all right. The three of us have always gone on these things as a family.

  ‘Well, we’ll be by ourselves.’

  Mum shook her head.

  ‘No, we won’t. Gerald’s coming.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ I couldn’t help it. I just started howling all over again. ‘Why is he coming? He doesn’t even believe in what we’re doing.’

  Mum looked embarrassed, but she answered firmly enough:

  ‘Kitty, he asked if he could come along, and I said yes.’

  ‘Tell him you’ve changed your mind!’

  Mum looked distressed too, now.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘I’m sorry. I would if I could, but I can’t. I don’t mind telling him the truth that you’d prefer it if he didn’t come; but I can’t tell him that I’ve changed my mind.’

  I sat slumped on her knee with my arms round her neck. Half of me would have given anything in the world to have the three of us – Mum, Jude and me – on our own for one day. The other half was absolutely determined that Goggle-eyes should never know he could upset me so much.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ I said fiercely. ‘Promise me. He can come with us tomorrow. But only if you don’t tell him that I mind.’

  ‘I promise. I won’t say a word.’

  I slid off her knee before her blood supply was cut off for so long she ended up with gangrene.

  ‘I’ll go and wash my face.’

  I crept as silently as I could through the hall. I needn’t have worried about being overheard. The living room door was only open a crack. Jude and Gerald were sitting together on the sofa. She had her arm around his neck the same way that she used to cling to Dad, and he was reading her the Stock Market report.

  ‘The FTSE share index finished a volatile session nursing a 44.9 po
ints fall at 1,658.4 yesterday,’ he droned. ‘At one time it had been down 105.3 points.’

  Jude’s thumb slid in her mouth, and her eyes closed. ‘The FT 30 share index closed 33.5 points down at 1,288.5. Government stocks were firm…’

  I carried on upstairs. I felt terrible. Being outnumbered is horrid at the best of times. But when you know that everyone you care about will feel dead rotten if you get your way, getting your way goes sour. Whose feelings count for most? And why? I’ll tell you one thing I’m quite sure about: things are much simpler when it’s your real dad.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  Whoops! Wrapped up entirely in my own brilliant story-telling, I’d clean forgotten this was her problem, too. But Helen didn’t get a chance to start telling me about it because, just at that very moment, there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door.

  I thought it must be Liz, nosing about again in break-time. I was about to shout ‘Go away!’ when the quite unmistakable timbre of Mrs Lupey’s voice came effortlessly through the thick wooden panels of the door.

  ‘Mission Control calling Lost Property Capsule. How are things going in there?’

  I couldn’t think what to answer, so I shouted back:

  ‘Fine!’

  ‘Helen?’

  Helen took a deep breath. I think she was testing herself with some private psychic dipstick. Then she called:

  ‘I’m feeling ever so much better, Mrs Lupey.’

  ‘What?’

  (Helen’s voice just doesn’t have the same wood-penetrating qualities as mine and Mrs Lupey’s.)

  ‘She says she’s feeling ever so much better!’ I yelled.

  ‘But is she coming out?’ bellowed Mrs Lupey. ‘Intergalactic time passes. Whole lessons are being missed. What are the chances of a dual return to base?’

  I peered at Helen, who shook her head like a small child who thinks it’s being a right daredevil.

  ‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘I want to hear what happened to you first.’

  ‘Delicate mission under way,’ I yelled. ‘Briefing not yet fully accomplished. This capsule needs more time before it’s ordered to return to base.’

  (I reckon if you play along with them, you can get anything you want.)

  ‘Right-ho, Number Twenty-two,’ she said. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  And off she went.

  5

  I can’t say Goggle-eyes made the world’s greatest effort to fit in well on our trip to the submarine base. For one thing he turned up at the rendezvous wearing his best suit, a club tie and freshly polished shoes.

  ‘You’re going to get filthy!’ said Mum.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Goggle-eyes was already eyeing our grubby anoraks and kicker boots with some disfavour. ‘Holding the demo in a pig-sty, are we?’

  Mum thought it better to take this as a joke.

  ‘There’s a bit of a walk over some Ministry of Defence land when we get there,’ she explained. ‘We’re planning to reclaim the hills.’

  ‘Are we, indeed?’ From the expression on his face it was perfectly clear that, to Gerald Faulkner, reclaiming hills meant, at the very least, cutting holes in expensive razor-wire fences, overwhelming the military police in an act of mass trespass, and rushing, shrieking and whooping, down on unguarded stockpiles of nuclear warheads. I caught Mum’s eye. Mistake! Mistake! I flashed at her in family semaphore. Quick. Send him home before the bus comes and it’s all too late.

  Mum got the message.

  ‘Gerald,’ she said gently. ‘Are you sure that you want to bother to come with us today? You wouldn’t be just as happy at home with your feet up, reading the papers?’

  ‘I’d be happier,’ he said, looking round meaningfully at our straggling group of early morning yawners. ‘Much happier.’

  ‘Well, then –’

  ‘No,’ he insisted, shaking his head firmly and dashing all my hopes of a nice day. ‘I’ve said I’m coming with you, and I’m coming.’

  I couldn’t help asking him the question.

  ‘But why?’

  He stared.

  ‘Well, for the pleasure of your company, of course.’

  I was mystified.

  ‘But you have the pleasure of our company practically every day,’ I reminded him. ‘It’s mad to want an extra day of it.’

  ‘I don’t see that,’ he said equably, taking my arm. ‘Surely wanting an extra day of your company is no madder than wanting your company at all.’

  When someone’s in that mood, there’s no point arguing. So I didn’t, even when the huge bus that had been hired finally showed up, and he climbed on and plonked himself down in the seat beside Mum without even asking Jude or me whether we minded. Jude didn’t, as it happened. She was quite happy to slip in the seat behind without arguing. I didn’t argue either. But I did mind.

  I took the window seat – Jude wasn’t bothered. I could see the reflection of the side of Mum’s face in the glass, and if I leaned sideways I could watch Goggle-eyes through the gap between the seats. After a while the bus driver insisted that, even if we had been expecting more people, we really ought to go or we’d never get there. The smokers ground out their last fags and climbed aboard, wheezing and coughing. And I saw Goggle-eyes looking pointedly at his watch. Personally I thought the fact that we were only twenty minutes late leaving robbed his snide little gesture of a lot of its punch; but he wasn’t to know that we’re usually later.

  The bus rolled through the fields and villages, and gradually everybody stopped yawning and flicking through their Sunday newspapers, and started to chat. Somehow you didn’t get the feeling that Goggle-eyes was putting himself out to make friends. I overheard him telling the shy agrarian economist who used to work for Oxfam: ‘Personally, I’m all in favour of food mountains’; and when Beth Roberts’s small son tugged at his newspaper to see the cartoon, he said quite unnecessarily loudly and clearly: ‘Do you mind if I finish reading it before you recycle it?’ He sneered visibly through the sing-song Josie organized, not even joining in the easy choruses like ‘Take the Toys from the Boys’, and ‘What Shall We Do with the Nuclear Waste?’ All in all he was a total pain, and I could tell that practically everybody who took the time to be friendly when they were passing up or down the bus finished up by assuming that he must be some police nark.

  It seemed a very long ride. He spent a lot of it tormenting Mum.

  ‘How come so few people ended up coming today, Rosalind?’

  It was true that the bus was half empty. I heard the caution in Mum’s voice as she replied: ‘Sometimes the phone tree doesn’t work too well.’

  ‘Phone tree?’

  Oh, you could hear glee gathering in his voice. He knew that he was on a winner here. And so did Mum.

  ‘It’s how we send last-minute messages,’ she admitted. ‘Each of us knows the numbers of two others, and each of them phones two more, on and on. When it works well, the message branches out quickly.’ Her voice trailed off. It hadn’t worked too well this time, that was obvious. More like a blasted phone stump than a phone tree.

  ‘I see,’ said Goggle-eyes. There was one of those dangerous little pauses of his before he added provocatively: ‘A sort of urban bush telegraph?’

  Mum turned her head away and gazed out of the window. Her reflection was so blurred that I couldn’t make out her expression. Was she trying not to lose her temper? Or was she trying not to laugh? I couldn’t tell. But I know how I felt. I felt like reaching over the back of his seat and pulling hanks of his thin silvery hair out of his boiled baby pink skull, and yelling at him that he could sneer all he liked at our warm anoraks and buses that leave late, and makeshift ways of passing messages; but unlike the Ministry of Defence we didn’t have eighteen billion pounds a year of taxpayers’ money to keep our organization running like clockwork.

  What was the point, though? You never get anywhere trying to explain things to someone like Gerald Faulkner. Mum says, ‘Just save your breath to cool your porridge.
’ When people sneer at what we think and what we do, she only smiles.

  ‘Don’t let them bother you,’ she used to tell me whenever I got mad. ‘That’s the way History goes. All change takes time. Everyone who ever tried to change anything important got sneered at by those who wanted things left the same. Look at the people who fought for the end of slavery! “Meddlers! Ignoramuses! Troublemakers!” Look at the women who fought for their right to the vote! “Pushy hoydens! Vandals! Disgraces to their sex!” All it proves is that we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Where?’

  (I was feeling really grumpy and dispirited that day, I remember.)

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘The problem is when the people in power don’t even notice you. It’s only when you get strong that they start sneering and calling you foolish and misguided. That’s the first step. Then more and more people come round to your way of thinking, and you get stronger and stronger. They get more worried. You can always tell. That’s when they start to call you dangerous as well as foolish, and try to encourage everyone who isn’t on your side yet to come out of the woodwork and sneer at you too.’

  ‘Well, it’s not very pleasant!’

  ‘No. It’s not pleasant. But it has always happened that way, and it always will.’

  ‘Then what?’ (I mean, nobody likes to think that they’re in for a lifetime of sneering.)

  ‘Then you win, of course,’ she said. ‘Why would they bother to make fun of your woolly hats and muddy boots if they could polish off your arguments?’ She grinned. She was terribly cheerful about it. ‘I’ll tell you one thing I learned from studying History, Kitty. As soon as you see your opponents are reduced to insulting you personally, you know you’re on the way to victory.’

  That’s what my mother said. That’s what she told me, and I trust her. That’s why I managed to keep my bum fair and square on the seat, and not jump up and down shrieking at Goggle-eyes, and pulling the hair out of his head in handfuls. I’m well brought up, I am. I’ve got self-control.

  Which is a lot more than you can say for him. Let me tell you what happened when Beth Roberts started wandering down the bus gangway, offering her box of home-made wholemeal crackers left and right, to everyone.