Alice in Time Page 2

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing your dress? What about the wedding?’ I realise I sound painfully like Rory with his interminable questions, but it can’t be helped.

  ‘You’ve missed the wedding. We couldn’t wait forever. We were lucky to get that slot in the first place. As it was we held on as long as possible and then the registrar had to hurry the ceremony because the next lot were waiting.’

  ‘But your lovely dress, why aren’t you wearing it?’ My voice comes out a bit squeaky.

  ‘I never had time to finish it.’ Trish’s voice is tight and I realise that she, too, is seriously stressed. What’s wrong with everyone? I thought weddings were supposed to be happy occasions. ‘Anyhow,’ she continues as we approach an extremely seedy-looking pub, ‘there didn’t seem much point when I realised that your dad wasn’t going to hire a smart suit.’

  I look at Dad who is indeed looking like he always does, in one of his sad work suits.

  Trish hasn’t finished yet. ‘I decided I’d look hopelessly overdressed, so I just put on my best conference suit.’

  ‘Great. Well, thanks for telling me!’ I desperately want to say, but I don’t trust myself to speak without blubbing.

  Chapter Two

  I can’t believe it. I spent all morning trying to get Rory into his suit, when frankly he’d have been better off in his Spider-Man outfit. At least then I wouldn’t be the only one at the party in fancy dress. Not only have I been totally humiliated in this poxy frock, I never even got to be a bridesmaid because we missed the bloody wedding. I know my face is bright red from all the pent-up fury, injustice, disappointment, embarrassment and about a hundred other emotions that seem to be coursing through my veins at this moment. No doubt it’s clashing horribly with the pink.

  Dad is at the bar ordering a round of drinks. I go and stand next to him and make the mistake of leaning on the counter. There’s about a century’s worth of old sticky beer, which I thought was varnish, and I have to peel my arm off in a hurry. There’s nothing to wipe it on. The man next to my dad is grinning at me in a slightly creepy manner and I’m just thinking it would be best to ignore him when he hands me a big white handkerchief. I smile with relief and wipe my arm clean.

  ‘Hello. I’m Terry.’

  I’m trying to surreptitiously sidle closer to Dad so that he can rescue me from this weirdo, but Dad’s eyes are fixed on the telly above the bar. The afternoon racing’s on and I can tell from the way he’s standing – sort of all tense – that he’s got a bet on. When the race finishes his shoulders slump, he thrusts his hands into his pockets and I know that he hasn’t won.

  Trish thinks that Dad has given up gambling and he even had me convinced for a while. But I know my dad. What other reason could there be for choosing such a dive to hold a wedding reception in, other than it’s next to a bookies and it shows the racing on the telly? Trish must have been born yesterday.

  I give Dad a quick hug to cheer him up. I hope he didn’t lose too much.

  ‘Enjoying yourself, Princess?’ he says, hugging me back.

  I know I’m too old for such names but I still love it when he calls me that. It gives me a warm feeling inside. I wish he’d made more of an effort and worn a smarter suit, though. Never mind, he’s so handsome he’d look good in a sack and wellies.

  Terry is still lurking and grinning at me. I can hardly say to Dad, ‘There’s some old perv trying to chat me up,’ when said perv is standing right next to me, so I just stand there blushing, as usual, and tug on Dad’s sleeve because he’s still glued to the racing. Eventually Dad turns round and sees the old man.

  ‘Alice, this is Terry.’ Great. Now he’s introducing me to the nutter. ‘This is Trisha’s father. Your new step-grandfather, I suppose,’ he says cheerfully.

  The thought that I might have grandparents, albeit step ones, is giving me a funny feeling. You see, I don’t have any grandparents. Dad’s mum and dad are both dead. I used to have a gran, my mum’s mum, but she died a few years ago.

  ‘We’ve already met,’ says Terry, tucking his now sticky hanky into his trouser pocket. ‘I shall escort the young lady into dinner,’ and he takes my arm and leads me over to the tables in the corner of the pub. They’ve been pushed together – a bit awkwardly as they’re round – and they’ve got handwritten Reserved signs on them.

  ‘Before we sit down and get acquainted, I’d better introduce you to Trisha’s mother – only whatever you do, don’t call her Granny,’ he says, laughing.

  When Terry finally manages to locate his wife, in a gaggle of women all crowded round Trish – her work mates, no doubt – I can see why he thought this was so funny. She’s even more glamorous than Trish and looks more like her sister than her mother.

  ‘Joan, this is Alice,’ says Terry, and I’m waiting for the bit about me being her new step-granddaughter and maybe her hugging me, but he doesn’t say it so I just smile weakly. Joan is staring at me and I’m suddenly aware of how damp and bedraggled I must look.

  ‘You know, Gary’s daughter,’ Terry points out. This information still doesn’t raise a smile from her so Terry adds, somewhat obviously, ‘She’s Trisha’s bridesmaid.’

  ‘Patricia didn’t have any bridesmaids.’ Trish’s mum says this accusingly, glaring at us both, and I want to say, ‘What – do you think I’d dress like this for fun?’ and then think it might be better to explain about the misdirected taxi and the mad dash across town, but I don’t get a chance because Joan has turned her attention towards her husband.

  ‘Honestly,Terry. I can’t take you anywhere. What’s happened to your handkerchief?’ She’s pointing at the breast pocket of his suit.

  ‘Oh, that,’ says Terry innocently. ‘I’m glad you put that there, it came in very handy just now,’ and he turns and winks at me.

  ‘That handkerchief was purely for decorative effect, Terence. It was not supposed to be used.’ Tutting loudly, she turns back to Trish.

  Come to think of it, Dad has cancelled our weekend with him on more than one occasion because they’ve had to go and see Trish’s parents. I used to feel resentful and wondered why we couldn’t go as well. Now I can see that Dad was sparing us, rather than excluding us.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says Terry as we go to sit down. ‘She’s upset. This isn’t really the kind of wedding she had in mind for her only daughter.’

  No, and I don’t suppose Dad was the sort of man she had in mind for a son-in-law. She probably thinks that Dad’s too old for her daughter, and he’s divorced and has two children already. Not exactly Catch of the Year. I think Terry knows what I’m thinking because he takes a swig of his beer and nods towards Dad, who’s standing at the bar telling a joke. Everyone around him is laughing and smacking him on the back.

  ‘Great bloke, your dad. Trisha’s a lucky girl.’ Terry grins.

  I’m so grateful, I could kiss him.

  Although I feel a bit awkward talking to Terry, I’m really glad that he’s sitting with me because there’s no one here that I know, and if it wasn’t for my new step-grandad I’d be sitting all alone. Dad’s showing Rory how to use the fruit machine, even though it’s got a huge sign on it saying You must be over 18 to play on this machine. Sometimes I suspect that my dad might be a bit irresponsible.

  I find myself telling Terry all about my disastrous day and he thinks it’s hilarious and is laughing at it all, but in a nice way, so I don’t mind and eventually even I start to see the funny side.

  ‘Well,’ he says when I’ve finished, ‘I think you look lovely in that dress.’ He’s pushing it a bit there, but I let him off. ‘And not at all like a piece of bubblegum. More like a yummy iced bun,’ he adds, winking at me, and I slap him on the arm.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he says, looking all serious, ‘I do think that you were very mature and sensible, managing to find the right place and looking after your little brother.’ This has me blushing bright red again, but thankfully everyone’s coming to sit down now for the meal.

  I
had expected there to be some special food laid on, but Dad is handing menus round that he’s picked up off the bar.

  ‘Have anything you want,’ he informs everyone cheerfully, ‘it’s all on me.’ Joan looks thunderous and I can see that Trish is close to tears. Even Terry looks a bit embarrassed and I suddenly feel like sticking up for my dad. I know he’s doing his best, and if it doesn’t come up to Trish’s standards, well, she should have organised it better. Even I could have organised a better wedding than this, for heaven’s sake. Why did it all have to be done in such a rush, anyway? They’ve been living together for about seven years, it’s not as if they even needed to get married.

  Of course the food takes ages to arrive, and it doesn’t all come at once so some people finish before some have even started. My scampi and chips is nearly the last to appear and now Terry is talking to Dad, so I daydream my number one daydream of the moment, which is all the more exciting because there’s a chance that this one might actually happen.

  It goes like this: when Dad and Trish move out of their tiny flat and into their new house, which has two bedrooms, they ask me if I would like to move in with them. Of course Rory can’t come, because he’s too young and ought to stay with Mum. They buy a lovely house which is near to my school so I can walk there in the morning and don’t have to go on the bus any more. The house has got a huge attic bedroom with its own en-suite bathroom, with a whirlpool bath and shower and a brilliant view of the park from the window. OK. This is stretching the truth a bit, because there’s no way Trish and Dad would let me have this room – I’d probably get the box room – and there’s no park near our school, but who cares, this is my daydream. Before I move in, Dad takes me to Ikea and says I can have anything I like, so I wander around all the lovely rooms that they have set up in there and choose something fun yet sophisticated. I choose the curtains and the duvet covers and the towels to match to go in the bathroom. While I’m doing this Dad goes off to buy me a computer to have on the desk that stretches right across one wall. When he comes back, he’s really pleased and says that the shop was doing this really good deal and he got a flat-screen TV and a PlayStation as well.

  After my room is finished, Trish comes in and opens the wardrobe and says, ‘Oh dear, I think we’d better go shopping for some new clothes.’

  And then, instead of taking me to all the boring shops in town, we go to the city and spend hours shopping and have to go back to the car three times with our bags because Trish has let me have anything I want. Then we have coffee in one of those coffee shops with the sofas instead of chairs.

  I’m really getting into this daydream and just wondering if perhaps my room has its own staircase that comes up from the garden on to its own balcony, when I’m brought back down to earth by Dad, who’s standing up and tapping his beer glass with his knife.

  ‘I want to thank you all for coming today,’ he says. ‘I won’t make a long speech.’ Thank God for that, I think, because I can tell that he’s slightly drunk. ‘I’d just like to say that today Trish has made me the happiest man alive.’ Trish manages a smile, just. ‘But before I sit down I must thank the bridesmaid and page boy,’ he’s grinning at me and Rory, ‘and I hope that my daughter isn’t as late for her own wedding as she was for mine.’

  Late! What is he talking about? I missed it! Everyone is sniggering politely and, of course, I’ve gone bright red again. ‘Anyway,’ Dad continues, ‘here is a small token to show my appreciation,’ and he’s getting two parcels from under the table: a huge one for Rory and a tiny one for me.

  Rory rips the paper off his parcel immediately. Inside is a remote control monster truck, which of course he wants to use straight away and can’t because it hasn’t got any batteries in it. Terry averts the inevitable tantrum by taking him out to the nearest shop to buy some and promising to let him play with it in the pub garden. I breathe a sigh of relief. That would usually be my job.

  I hate opening presents in front of people, especially when life has taught me not to get my hopes up. So I wait for everyone to start talking again before opening mine.

  I stroke the shiny paper that my parcel is wrapped in. I know it’s customary for the groom to give the bridesmaids some sort of jewellery at weddings, a locket or something, and I’m hoping Dad got Trish to choose it because he’s hopeless at that sort of thing.

  I glance over at her to see if she’s watching, so that I can smile at her when I open it. She’s staring at me across the room and I’m shocked at the look she gives me. It’s horrid – all mean and spiteful. Then she turns away to talk to her mother and I convince myself that I was imagining it. I open the box and lift the tissue paper and there, nestling underneath, is a mobile phone.

  I manage to ignore the fact that it’s pink. Why do people think that girls want everything to be pink? I hate pink, especially after today. But who cares what colour it is. The point is, I’ve got a mobile phone at last.

  Dad’s there beside me. ‘Thanks, Dad. It’s brilliant,’ I say, and I give him a big kiss.

  ‘Only the best for my girl.’ He’s nearly as pleased as I am.

  I can’t help worrying though about how much it cost him. And Rory’s monster truck can’t have been cheap either.

  ‘It’s got plenty of credit on it. You just let me know when it runs out and I’ll top it up for you.’

  I give him another hug. He really is the best dad in the world.

  Chapter Three

  Dad calls a taxi to take us home because he’s been drinking and can’t drive us back himself. The hall light is on, but when I open the door I know Mum’s not there because the house feels empty. There’s a note stuck on the fridge door.

  Dear Alice,

  Sorry, had to go back into work. I shouldn’t be too long but if I’m not back by 7.30 please make sure Rory gets to bed.

  Love Mum

  I look at the clock above the cooker and it’s eight-thirty. This happens all the time. She’s always ‘having to nip into work’.

  While I’ve been reading the note, Rory has turned all the lights on downstairs and the television and now he’s racing his truck up and down the hallway. He hasn’t quite got the hang of the controls yet and it keeps bumping into the skirting board, leaving great big dents. This doesn’t worry me particularly, because basically our house is a dump. The hall floor is wooden, but not the sort of wooden floor you see in magazines, which have been laid and are all flat and polished and smart. Ours is just the floorboards which are all dusty and spattered with paint. Mum pulled the lino up years ago and said, ‘Look at those lovely floorboards. They’ll come up a treat when they’ve been sanded and waxed.’ Only they never have been.

  We used to live in a lovely house. By ‘we’ I mean Mum and Dad and me. Then when Rory was born, Mum threw Dad out and we had to sell the house and me and Mum and Rory had to move. We couldn’t afford to buy another house so Mum rented this one – which is truly horrible. I don’t know what she was thinking when she chose to live here. It belongs to an old lady, Miss Maybrooke – a friend of Mum’s, who was moving into a nursing home down the road. Mum said we had to have it because the rent was so cheap. Well, of course it is – the place is a tip.

  Mum said we’d just have to make the best of it and when she’d done it up, it would be fine. The only problem is she never has done it up because, she says, she hasn’t got the time or the money. As a result, most of the things in the house are really old-fashioned and might look all right if you’re about ninety years old with very bad eyesight. The front room has got a gas fire in it which smells even when it’s not on. The walls are covered in really hideous wallpaper, all green and brown. Mum says it looks Victorian and might actually be original. She says this in a sort of awed voice, as if that should mean we can’t paint over it or something. So what if it’s Victorian. It doesn’t make it nice.

  Miss Maybrooke left some of her furniture behind and Mum says we have to keep it because it’s not ours to dispose of and there’s nowhere e
lse for it to go. It’s all big and heavy and made out of dark wood. When I was younger, it used to scare me, the way it sort of loomed over me. Now it just irritates me because it makes the rooms feel cramped and dark.

  The only room that isn’t completely hideous is the kitchen. Mum did get a bit of money when they sold the old house and she used it to fit a new kitchen. It can look nice when Mum bothers to clean it up. At the moment, all the breakfast things are piled in the sink and there’s a puddle of milk on the table (where Rory sits, of course).

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough money left over to do the bathroom as well. Mum says that Miss Maybrooke was very proud of the bathroom because she had had a new one fitted. But that was way back in the 1970s when, according to Mum, an ‘avocado’ suite was all the rage. So now we have to put up with a sludge-green bath, sink and loo.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a museum, but mostly I feel as though I’m living in someone else’s house, so I never really feel at home.

  I’m dying to be alone with my new phone, so I take it up to my bedroom. First of all I have to get out of this dress. The relief when I’ve got it off and put my pyjamas on is bliss. I get the phone out of the box and look at it. To be honest, I’m a bit scared of it. We don’t have a lot of high-tech things in this house. We haven’t even got a microwave, let alone a computer, or a PlayStation. We’ve got a television but it’s not a flat-screen one or anything fancy and we can’t get Sky on it.

  I decide to work out as much as I can about the phone by fiddling around with it, because the instruction book looks even scarier than the phone. I manage to get into the phone book and work out how to list people’s numbers. I start off with our home number, which I list under Mum, then I put in Dad’s number at the flat and wish that I’d asked him and Trish for their mobile numbers. If Imogen would get a phone then we could text each other all the time – it would be great. She says there’s no point in her having one because there’s absolutely no one she wants to talk to. Perhaps she’ll change her mind now I’ve got one.