The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (8 page)

Christmas comes. Reggie and Granddad go away somewhere. I've never known anybody round here ever go away. Except some of the older boys – to prison.

I've decided not to play games on the stairs any more. I'm letting my imagination get the better of me. My mum says that. ‘You mustn't let your imagination get the better of you, sweetheart.' Sounds like I'm in a fight with my own imagination. Alice Makin in the blue corner; her imagination in the red. Will it get the better of her in tonight's big fight? Ding, ding, round one. Come out boxing.

When we get back to school after the holidays Reggie's not there. I wonder if he's going to come back at all. But after a couple of weeks he turns up. Funny, it's as if he's never been away. Our friendship's a favourite old jumper.
You might not wear it for a while, but when you put it back on it's just as comfortable as when you last wore it. And you know you're still going to be wearing it when all the other jumpers, the ones you thought you'd wear for ever, you don't like any more.

I never did get a chance to ask Reggie about the fireworks. I suppose he must have found them. That's what he must have meant when he said they were ‘kind of just there'. Or maybe he did pinch them. You never know. But not being able to find any leftover cases was really strange. Most likely the wind blew them away.

Anyway, I've been too busy to think about that. We've got some good news. Mum is going to have a baby. And I'm really busy at school: Sister Bernadette has asked me to write a play. She wants our form to put it on at the end of the summer term, for the junior school down the road. It seemed a bit of a scary idea at first. I wasn't sure I could do it. But then I had this great idea: I'd try to write a play about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and how they get called in to investigate a mystery in Nursery Rhyme land.

I told some of the others and George Morgan asked if he could be Sherlock Holmes. I think he thinks Holmes is like one of the detectives in the comic books he reads and he'll get a gun. Then Veronica found out George was going to be in it and suddenly decided she just had to play Watson. Interesting. She's good, though. I told Mum. She said, ‘I'm not surprised, she's a proper little actress, that one,' in that funny kind of way she has when she's saying
one thing, but really means something different.

I've known Veronica Silk and George since we were in the Infants together at Saint Mary's. George used to sit behind me. One day while we were doing Art, I heard this snip and felt a tug at my hair. He'd cut a lump of it off. Veronica said he did it because he liked me. It made me wonder what he would do if he
didn't
like someone. But he's all right really. I wanted him and Reggie to be friends. George tried, but Reggie didn't. He wasn't rude or anything, just . . . well, distant, I suppose.

I sometimes feel Reggie's got something he really wants to say to me. To get off his chest. And everyone else is just getting in the way. I asked him about it once. He just shrugged.

And so the months go by. Winter snow melts. Time warms its hands by the light of the morning. In school we daydream through lessons, play street games in alleys, hide and seek times, sing songs without names, with words without end. Run in and out of days, make friends with a smile, enemies with a look.

‘Alice, you in there?'

I'm working on the play in the old air-raid shelter when I hear Reggie scrambling across the bomb site. We usually prop a bit of wood over the opening to the shelter, but it's such a nice day I didn't bother. It's nice and light in here, what with the big holes in the canvas roof.

At first I don't answer. Once I start on a story I can't get
the characters out of my head and I'm always thinking about what's going to happen to them.

‘Alice?'

‘Yeah, I'm here.'

Flash barks at the sound of my voice. They both appear at the opening. ‘What you d-doing?'

‘I'm writing the play for school.'

Flash pushes in like he owns the place. Sniffs around. Sees an old piece of paper on the floor. Pushes it with his nose. Looks for a minute like he's trying to read it. Then changes his mind and starts growling at it.

Reggie ducks in. Sits down. Looks over my shoulder, which I hate.

‘W-what's it about?'

‘Sherlock Holmes. He's this—'

‘I know. Famous d-detective. I like him too. I know all his adventures.'

‘Well, you don't know this one, 'cos I'm making it up.'

‘Want to go over the p-park?'

‘No, I think I'll stay and do my play. I'm getting into it now.'

‘Come on, it's n-nice out.'

‘No. I wanna get this done.'

‘Come on, you can tell m-me all about the play on the way. I've got some money. I'll buy you an ice lolly if you like.'

‘That's bribery.'

‘So?'

Oh well, we've all got our weaknesses. I put my stuff away in my biscuit tin. Touch the girl on the swing for good luck. I've made a little secret space where I hide it. You never know when the Spicers are going to come snooping around.

Outside the sun is showing off, splashing warm on the streets. I'm glad spring is here, it's my favourite time of the year. It's like everything is waking up again, getting ready for a new start. There are still puddles left over from yesterday's rain.

We stop to make mud balls. Throw them at the side of a building. Flash runs after them like he's some great retriever dog, leaps into the air barking. Some of the mud balls stick, some splatter into goo and slide slowly down the wall in disgustingly beautiful patterns. It's really babyish, but that's the kind of thing we do. Best thing is, we don't care.

I tell Reggie about my play as we leave Hawkins Street, turn right into Sidney Street, over Mile End Road, and head for Vicky Park. Reggie's got Flash on a piece of string because of the traffic. Flash likes string, but not when it's tied to his collar. Every now and then he stops and tries to pull it off.

The walk is long and warm. We cross Mile End Road to Mr Giovanni's sweet shop, stop for a rest and admire the view. In the window, alongside the sleeping tabby cat, colours clash and riot in sweet jars – row upon row of
them, marching into the distance – liquorice curls, aniseed twists, saucers fly, powered by sherbet. The smell of cough candy beckons us with a sly finger. Winter warmers wait to heat tongues.

We go in. Mr Giovanni is Italian, and sing-songs his words as if they were poetry. His face is a gob-stopper, multi-coloured. His chins are jellies. He makes the best ice cream in the world. And his own drinks and ice lollies. One bottle keeps you going all day. You can burp for ever on his raspberryade. It bubbles on your tongue and cascades into flavour down your throat.

Some time ago he came up with a new idea. When he makes a batch of ice lollies he writes a number on one of the sticks. You can't see it until you've eaten the lolly, because it's covered by the ice. If you get the stick with the number on it you can exchange it for a prize – anything you want in the whole shop!

‘If I ever w-win I'd have that jar of cough candy.'

‘Why? You ain't got a cough.'

‘Or a jar of those p-pineapple cubes.'

‘If I ever win, I'll have the box of chocolates in the window.'

The box has a yellow ribbon around it, tied in a big bow.

On the lid is a picture. I love this picture – it's an old thatched cottage in a country lane. It's summer, the windows of the cottage have beautiful little squared panes of glass in them, and the sun, bright as a newly minted
penny, winks back its light from the windows. The front garden is full of flowers. There's a washing line flying kites of clothes, and you can just see the back garden with its apple trees. A white horse is nuzzling the grass in the field behind. Outside the front door a woman in a bright summer dress sits in a rocking chair.

‘Come on, l-let's get a lolly. You never know your luck.'

‘I know mine – bad.'

‘You ever w-won anything?'

‘No, never. I wish just for once I could. It's my mum's birthday on Wednesday. I'd give anything to win that box of chocolates for her.'

‘Law of averages s-says you'll w-win something one day.'

‘Do the ice lollies know that, though?'

‘Maybe we'll buy two. Law of averages says two chances are better than one.'

The ice lollies are refreshing. Like your tongue's been dropped into a bath of freezing fruity water. I break a bit of mine off and give it to Flash. He wolfs it down, except for a little bit that gets stuck on his nose. He tries to lick it off. It melts into a red moustache.

Once we get outside, it's not far to go to the park. I'm looking forward to seeing the swans on the boating lake. They're so graceful – one long curve really, a gliding question mark. The sun sucks at my lolly, dribbles juice down my hand. Reggie bought a bottle of lemonade, too.

‘Want a s-swig?'

‘Please. Can you hold my lolly?'

We pass them backwards and forwards. It's a rule that you can't take a bite from someone else's lolly while you're holding it for them.

I take a gulp of the lemonade.

‘Oi, th-that's enough.'

‘Hold on. I only had a sip.'

He pulls it away too quickly and some of the drink goes up my nose. I burp.

‘Oi, d-don't do that.'

I get the giggles. I always do when I burp.

‘Alice, s-stop doing that.'

‘I can't!'

I get caught between coughing, burping and laughing. It starts Reggie off. When he sees me laughing, he always starts too.

I finish the lolly before the sun has a chance to do it for me. As we pass a bin he throws in the bottle and holds out his hand for my stick. I suck off the last bit of ice and give the stick to him. He goes to drop it in the bin.

I wish I'd won. I imagine it. In my head I see the numbers appearing on the stick. It's so real I can see it. We're waiting to cross the road.

‘Cor, l-look at that.'

I think he's seen something across the road.

‘What?'

‘Your lolly stick.' He holds it like a conjuror about to do a trick. I try to see it in his hand.

‘What about it?'

‘Can't you s-see?'

‘See what?'

‘Look at the t-top.'

‘I will if you take your hand out the way.'

‘You're never g-going to believe it.'

‘Believe what?'

Suddenly, he pulls his hand away. The conjuror pulling out the rabbit.

‘You've d-done it!'

‘Pack it in, Reggie. Done what?'

‘It's the l-lucky number.'

‘Don't muck around, Reggie. That's not funny.'

‘I'm not. See for yourself.'

He shoves the lolly stick at me. There, in bold black writing, is the number twenty-seven. I can't believe it. I must have bought hundreds of lollies in that shop, but never the lucky one.

‘Blimey . . . I've won. I've won something at last!'

I grab him and plant a kiss on his cheek. He goes red.

‘I didn't see the number. How did I miss that?'

Part of my brain dances with joy. I've got the lucky stick. I can get the chocolates for Mum. The other part is whirring, telling me that something funny is going on here. There was no number on that stick when I gave it to Reggie.

W
e carry on to the park. No sense in walking around with a box of chocolates. We'd probably eat them all. We can get them on the way back.

Just inside the park is a fenced-off area like a playground with a few play things in it. Really they're for little kids. They're mostly old and beat up. Three swings with shiny, worn wooden seats. A big wooden roundabout with chipped green metal holding-on bits. An umbrella that no matter how hard you push when you jump on it still limps around lopsidedly like a one-legged tortoise. And one of those long metal rocking things that have a horse's head at one end and something that's supposed to look like a tail at the other end. There are little metal seats which you're supposed to sit on, although when we were little kids we used to stand up on the running boards and work up really hard so that the whole thing jerked up and down like a rodeo horse. It's better if you sit at the horse's head and hold on to the neck. Then you get thrown all over the place.

As I look across I see a familiar figure. Norman comes
here a lot. Like I said, it's supposed to be for younger kids but he doesn't care. He's sitting on one of the swings. I wave. He waves back. He looks lonely. I turn to Reggie.

‘I'm just going over to see Norman for a minute.'

‘All right. I'll go and s-see if I can find Charlie. I'll be at the lake when you're ready.'

I cross the little road that runs through Vicky Park and go into the playground.