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Fried Scampi From Hell
Ciara MacLaverty | | | | | |
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Vicky visits me every Saturday lunch time at the shop cause she knows
my boss always goes to the Harbour Inn for a plate of fried scampi.
'Frankenstein's gone then?' she asks but it is more of a statement
than a question. It was Vicky who named him Frankenstein because
of his silent hovering and his funny eye. I thought it was a bit
cruel but then she told me he hides Playboy magazine inside the
Times when he collects it from the paper shop. It's a subscription,
she says. Now as soon as the bell tinkles behind him I start
to breathe easier. We sit with our bums on the radiator and
keep an eye on the customers. Usually if I'm lucky they don't
have to ask for my help and they know what size of jeans to buy.
I let them take a big pile into the changing room anyway. There's
no curtain in the window cause it looks straight out over the sea.
Me and Vicky laugh and imagine how stupid we would feel if we were
starkers and a fishing boat could see right in.
'God, imagine if it was his boat,' she says, 'mortification or what?'
I didn't bother asking her the exact meaning of 'mortification'
but I guessed it roughly means she'd take a beamer.
Like she took a major beamer last year when she won all those merit
certificates for every subject and her mum came to the school wearing
blue eye shadow. There was a special parents' section at the back
of the assembly hall but it was empty except for Mrs Worthington,
straining her neck and clapping her hands at chin level.
'Victoria Worthington - certificate of merit,' the headmaster had
to shout seven times and each time Vicky crossed the stage in a
funny speeded up walk with a face like mortification. At the end
of the ceremony her mum came up and gave her a poke in the ribs.
'Well done Vicky,' she says. 'Smartie pants all the way. Our very
own Wonder Woman.' Vicky's mum is English and she speaks like they
do on Coronation Street. Usually Vicky just gives a kind of grunt
under her breath and rolls her eyes.
''What if everyone in the front rows could see up my skirt?'
she says afterwards in the cloakrooms. 'What if he could see my
fat bum?'
'You haven't got a fat bum,' I say. 'Just so long as he didn't see
the meat mallet sticking out your knickers.' She gave me a look
of horror and then her head tilted back and the laugh came like a
sneeze when she remembered it too. In time to the beat of 'I love
Rock n Roll' she was hopping from one leg to another on top of her
bed spread, hitting her backside with one of those wooden meat mallet
things she found at the back of the cutlery drawer. Her bum cheeks
were taking a beamer at the sides of her Terri towelling knickers.
'Circulation,' she was shouting. 'It gets the circulation going.'
She must've figured that one out herself cause they didn't mention
it in Just Seventeen.
Mostly she just says 'He' or 'Him' but sometimes there are other
people around and we have to use the code name H.P. It stands for
Hunky Phil. One time Vicky's Mum shouted through the serving hatch,
'Do any of you ladies fancy a squirt of H.P. sauce on top of
those chips?' I had a mouth full of Coca Cola that almost burst
on to the checked table cloth. Vicky had to make up a story that
I was allergic to H.P. sauce.
'Whatever next?' said her mum, chewing her pork chop, 'It just
goes to show...' and then she turned to watch the weather on
Reporting Scotland.
'I love H.P. sauce though, don't I?' said Vicky, tilting the bottle
and looking at me in a kind of James Bond eyebrow way.
'Oh yeah, you love it Vicky. You just can't get enough of it.'
Now that Hunky Phil has left school to work on his Dad's fishing
boat, we hardly ever see him except from a distance. From the corner
of Shore Street Vicky was still able to detect his new earring.
'Check it out,' she says, with her hand over her mouth, 'he's got
his ear pierced.' She sounded like a football commentator announcing
a goal. I thought I could see a wee silver hoop but I wasn't sure.
To keep from getting bored at school, Vicky likes to imagine things
about him. She is good at helping me with my physics homework
and I am good at helping her imaginings.
'Imagine his bedroom,' she says, 'I bet he's got a Habitat duvet
that his mum brought back from Glasgow. I bet it's all soft and
clean and smells like Persil Automatic.' She was doodling on the
cover of her jotter. Miss McTaggart was still drawing chromosomes
on the blackboard so I say 'Imagine him lying in his bed listening
to AC/DC with his hands behind his head and underneath the Habitat
duvet he's only wearing a pair of white boxers.'
''God,' she says, 'Imagine,' and laughs with a shiver like she's
cold. The doodles turned into little love hearts.
*
Today when she comes into the shop I have some top class info for
her but it is Christmas Eve and we are dead busy. 'Merry Mayhem,'
Frankenstein calls it as he rubs his hands together. Mostly it
is people pouring in off the street with their eyes all screwed
up from the wind. I can only talk for a minute and I have to show
Vicky the revolving jewellery case at the same time. We lean over
the glass and she pretends to point to things that she likes.
'Go on then, spill the Heinz,' she says, not looking at me, not
daring to take her eyes of a pair of diamonte earrings. It is like
we are secret agents. I decide to get it all out in one go.
'I know what Hunky Phil is getting for Christmas because his mum was
in earlier and she bought him new Wranglers and a sexy new denim
jacket and she even bought posh wrapping paper and he's going to
the Chrissy Disco tonight at the Porthole. For certain.' She is
staring straight into my eyes and she looks happy, but it as if
she is scared to smile in case the smile might burst off her face.
I keep the jewellery rotating to avoid any suspicion.
*
'Chrissy Disco, Chrissy Disco,' we are singing in her bedroom like
it is a football supporters' song. We asked good and early this
year and our Mum's agreed.
'As long as you stick together,' mine said, 'You know the rumours
about that place.' We did but we had only been to the Porthole once
before. We were collecting money in the afternoon for our sponsored
cycle and we sneaked a look in the back hall. The famous back
hall where Willie McCallum punched the bar man and Pamela Forsyth
got caught 'at it' with two boys in men's toilets. And on Monday
mornings the older girls would huddle in the cloakrooms and squeal
'God, the Port Hole on Friday night - magic laugh or what?'
The senior boys would slag each other, 'Hey Davie, did you get
you're hole at the Hole?'
'Gonna check my make up?' says Vicky, shining the angle poise
on to her face, her eyes squinting in the glare. I scan her face
for any smudges of mascara or lipstick. Her skin tinted Clearasil
looks more like orangey dots.
'Fine,' I say.
'Maybe a bit more Cleary to cover this plook,' she says, leaning
in to the mirror and dabbing with her middle finger. I nudge my
face in beside hers and try some of her lipstick. It's called
'Fiery Temptress' and there is a slight taste of Fairy liquid.
She stops dabbing.
'Wooo,' she says, 'It looks good on you.' When I laugh it looks
even more weird. Giant cartoon lips out of control. Like it's
not me at all.
'I look like that old barmaid from the TV.' Vicky must know who
I mean cause she does an imitation of her mum:
'Ooh gals, it's time to put me feet up for The Street.' I start
to wipe it off with a tissue.
'Don't be daft,' she says, 'It's nice - honest.'
'Naa,' I say 'Canny be bared.' It's our short hand for 'I cannot
be bothered.'
Before we leave we sneak into her mum's bedroom and spray ourselves
with perfume from the dresser. I try Charlie and she pumps Liberty
behind both ears and then down her front. We are sniggering and
the flowery scent hits the back of my throat, making me cough.
'Bye Mum,' Vicky shouts from the kitchen, as she opens the back door.
'Aww, come on in and give us a fashion parade first,' her mum yells
back over the News at Ten music.
'Sorry, gotta rush,' shouts Vicky, pulling a face at me as we step
out into the blustery night. I feel relieved that I don't have to do
a twirl while Mr Worthington sucks on his pipe and Vicky's mum says
'Ooh, gals about town eh? Out in your glad rags tonight.' Then she
always says the other stuff. 'Just you watch those boys Vicky.
They're only after one thing and believe me chuck, it's not your
brains. You know what your gran always said. If you can't be good
be extra, extra careful.'
We can here the thump of the music as we round the street corner.
The windows are filled with condensation and from outside all the
Christmas lights seem to have wee halos.
'You go first,' says Vicky.
'No, you.' I say and then I give in, knowing we could spend ages
in the cold. I walk a shoulder in front of her but it hits us both
in the same moment. Music so loud it tingles all over, like we just
jumped into deep water. Warm air, heavy with the smell of smoke and
beer and polished wooden floors. I order the cider and the barmaid
says nothing. Vicky slips me 50p at thigh level to pay for hers.
I think she looks pretty in the low lights with her make up on.
'Seat, seat, seat,' she says through gritted teeth in a kind of
false grin and I know we will both feel better if we can find a
place to sit down.
'Over there,' I say and we get a corner bench in front of a round
table. It's one of those copper ones with the dimpled metal effect
and it reminds me of Vicky with the meat mallet, whacking her
derriere as she sometimes calls it.
On the dance floor a few of the girls from school are dancing in
huddled groups. They look really different here, away from double
maths and pack lunches. Sort of glamorous like they're on TV.
Gillian Stewart is wearing new stretch Wrangler's and her lips
are shiny with lip gloss. Only Jane McKinley looks out of place.
Her white bra is glowing luminous beneath a yellow T shirt under the
disco lights. It's one of those big corsety bras like someone's
Auntie would wear. Vicky and I smile at each other as if we have
just narrowly avoided disaster.
'Oh my God, don't look, don't look, he's here.' says Vicky, staring
hard into her lap. I look up and he is standing at the bar with
his top lip hovering over a full pint glass. He's wearing a checked
shirt with his new denim jacket and jeans and he looks like a cowboy
without the hat.
'It's okay,' I say, 'He's staring at the dance floor,' and she
allows herself another sneak glance.
'Ohhhh,' she sighs. Like a kind of baby-animal-is-injured sigh.
'He's gorgeous, he's completely and utterly gorgeous. Look at his
hair. I wish I could remember how to dance.'
'Course you can,' I say. 'Let's wait till the start of the next
record.'
I know what she means though. When we walk on the half empty
dance floor I feel as if everyone is looking and suddenly I feel
awkward and strange. Like we are astronauts who can't get used
to gravity again. She shouts something in my ear, still dancing,
her hand swaying like she is beating an invisible egg.
'Yeah,' I shout back, smiling, cause she is smiling and I don't hear
what she said. Another record comes on and suddenly I feel happy.
I am okay, I can do this stuff too. I like the feel of the music
and the feel of my skirt as I'm dancing. I risk a little twirl,
and then another. I want to close my eyes and sing the words but I
have to stop myself. It is as if I am singing them under my breath.
And I have to keep a look out. For us both.
When he asks me to dance, I don't see him coming. I feel a tap
on my shoulder and he nods at me, eyebrows raised. Vicky gives me
that big wit-tee-woo smile but it doesn't reach her eyes. She sits
down, sips her drink and looks into the middle distance as if she
is waiting on someone or some thing.
'How's it goin' up at Alcatraz ?' Hunky Phil shouts, leaning
in to my ear and I get a breath of after shave. A sort of fresh
pine smell.
'Oh, just the usual rubbish,' I say, although I don't mind
school. Sometimes in double English I even feel content. Like I want
to take my shoes off and get comfy while I watch the rain outside and
listen to Mr Dawson's deep voice as he reads Shakespeare. I don't
really care if I don't understand it all. I just feel like I'm where
I should be. Not like the shop. In the shop I'm scared. Scared of
Frankenstein and the customers and scared of getting the till wrong.
'Thank God I've left that dump,' he says. 'I'm saving up for a
motor now.' His hoop earring is glinting in the light like those
little minnows you see in the shallows.
'Cool,' I shout back, because I can't think of anything else to
say but somehow it does seem cool that Hunky Phil who ate the same
macaroni in our school canteen would soon be driving around like he
was a grown up man. I look across at Vicky and now she is staring
straight at me as if I am betraying her with every word. The song
is nearly over so I lean in towards his neck and I ask him. I try to
make my voice sound light as if it is just a casual inquiry, a light
hearted suggestion. Like Frankenstein over the jewellery counter.
'What about this one? Would you like to give it a try Madam?'
But he is shaking his head.
'Naaa,' he says. He does not have to explain and I don't want him
to either. If Hunky Phil does not want to dance with my friend
then that is that.
'Hope you get a car soon then,' I say and raise my hand in an
awkward wave as I walk back to Vicky.
'What was he saying?' She has downed all of her cider during
the record.
'Och, nothing much really,' I say. I know there is no point in
telling her about the car. This time Vicky goes up to the bar and
gets another drink for herself. We sit and sip and I can't think
of any thing to say. I think of how excited we were earlier and
now there is only the flatness of a bad Sunday afternoon. A slow
dance record comes on and we exchange 'what now ?' looks. A lot of
the couples hug in close. Big Alan Johnson is wrapped around Jane
McKinley covering up her luminous bra. His eyes are closed and
I look at Vicky for her reaction but she is not playing any more.
She is just gazing at the lights and the badly painted sign that
says Disco Blue.
I see his hands before I realise it is him. Just these hands
clasping the cheeks of a bum in stretch Wranglers and as they turn I
see it is Gillian Stewart's bum. It is her shiny hair falling down
her back as she tilts her face up to his. And when Hunky Phil kisses
her I see a flash of his tongue and it looks greedy and passionate
like it does in the movies. I am wondering about the wetness of it
all and how it must feel to kiss a boy on top of the lip gloss,
or to kiss a boy at all, when I realise that Vicky has left.
And then I see her, making her way through the swaying couples,
her shoulders drawn in, in case she should touch any of them.
Like a dodgem car going the wrong way.
The sign on the toilet door says 'Ladies' and there is a brass
propeller above the door frame. One of the sixth form girls staggers
out, clutching a drink, her other hand tucking her blouse into her
jeans. I push the swing door and inside Vicky is standing before
the mirror. The sink in front of her is clogged with wet toilet roll
and cigarette ash. Her tears are making her mascara run and her big
red lips are quivering and turned down at the corners. For a moment
I have a strange thought that if she had a bowler hat and a flower
she'd look like one of those cry clowns at the circus. The crap
ones that are never even funny. I glance across at the cubicles.
One of the doors is half closed but I don't see any feet underneath.
'I can't believe I'm so stupid,' she says, directly at her
reflection. Her voice is strangely flat as if she feels that,
by this stage, sobs would go to waste.
'You're not stupid,' I say but I don't know how to explain it to
her any more than that.
'You're really clever,' I rush in, and she gives a snort just as
I know I shouldn't have said it. I go into the open cubicle and
yank off an arm's length of pink bog roll. She uses it to wipe
the slevers from her nose.
'Why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous?' she asks, dabbing
her eyes.
I don't know how to answer her and I am hoping that no one comes
in and sees her like this. Through the wall the slow record has
ended and Slade are singing
'So here it is Merry Christmas, Everybody's having fun. Look to
the future now, It's only just begun.'
'Anyway,' I try, 'I bet he doesn't have a Habitat duvet, and if
he does I bet it smells of fish.' She gives a big sigh and then
a watery smile.
'Yeah,' she says, 'like that stink you get down the pier.'
'Yeah, rotten old fisherman smell,' I say. 'Mingin' old cod.'
she says.
'Bouffin battered haddock.'
'Fried Scampi from hell.' And I start to laugh. And she is laughing
too and then crying a bit more.
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