Read The Art of Being Normal Online
Authors: Lisa Williamson
The Art of Being Normal (20 page)
Leo outlines the plan for the rest of the day. As he speaks his eye-line hovers somewhere above my eyebrows, as if he can’t quite bring himself to look straight at me. I guess I didn’t give him much warning about coming dressed in girl’s clothes, but I still can’t help but feel a little disappointed by his reaction. He proposes we head to the bed-and-breakfast we booked on the internet first, to drop off our things, before grabbing something to eat and heading to Jimmy’s house for what Leo refers to as a recce. We’ll return tomorrow morning, which is when Leo will introduce himself. Once I’m satisfied he isn’t about to get chopped up into little pieces and buried in the back garden, I will go
back to the B&B alone before heading home on Sunday.
‘What if he’s in when we go by later?’ I ask. ‘Won’t you be tempted to knock on the door rather than wait until morning?’
‘No,’ Leo says firmly. ‘I’m sticking to the plan.’
For the rest of the journey I try to get Leo to play games but he refuses to bite, closing his eyes and angling his body away from me. I can tell he’s not properly sleeping though and I’m annoyed. Ever since we made the decision to come here, I’ve been envisioning a cinematic adventure full of self-discovery, bonding and life-defining moments, but so far Leo is failing to cooperate. Half an hour later a disembodied voice crackles over the tannoy.
‘Next stop – Tripton-on-Sea.’
Tripton-on-Sea is a small station with only two platforms, and Leo and I are the only people to leave the train. Even though it’s not yet two-thirty, the light already seems like it’s dimming into dusk.
Leo digs a printed map out of his pocket, turning it round a few times to get his bearings.
‘I think the B&B is this way,’ he says, pointing down a steep cobbled street. We follow it to the seafront, where we stand for a few moments; the beach spread out in front of us, grey and empty, the first proper sight of the sea still giving me a hint of the thrill it used to when I was a kid. To our right stands a pier. It’s not like the pier at Brighton, with its funfair and arcades and flashing lights. The Tripton-on-Sea pier is bleak in its emptiness and lack of decoration,
stretching out into the water for what seems like miles.
‘Sixth longest pier in Britain,’ Leo says.
I look at him quizzically.
‘Wikipedia.’
‘Get you, Mr Trivia,’ I say.
In front of the beach there’s a small amusement park, closed up for the winter. It’s dominated by a modest roller coaster, its twisting metal form painted ice-cream colours, exaggeratedly bright against the grey sky. The smaller rides are covered up with plastic tarpaulin.
We take a left and walk along the front. Quite a few of the places, the ice-cream stalls and rock shops, have their barriers pulled down.
‘I hate seeing places shut up like that,’ I say. ‘I know they’re only buildings, but it always makes me feel a bit sad. Do you know what I mean?’
Leo doesn’t answer; he continues to study the map, looking up every so often to check the street signs. I shuffle along beside him, my Ugg boots dragging on the pavement. The toes are getting damp, forming dark half-moons on the fabric.
‘My sister’s got some of those,’ Leo says after a moment, nodding at my feet. ‘Fake ones, though.’
‘They’re the only things I could get that fit,’ I admit.
‘What size are you?’ Leo asks.
‘Nine,’ I sigh, ‘and growing. You?’
‘Six,’ Leo replies in a low voice.
‘Swap?’
He manages a brief smile.
We take a left and head up another steep road. Sea View is a tall, narrow house in the centre of a terrace. We ring the bell and are greeted by a middle-aged woman with silvery grey hair, wearing a striped apron and a weary expression, the sort adults seem to reserve exclusively for teenagers – a mixture of suspicion and impatience. She introduces herself as Mrs Higgins.
‘I have a reservation,’ Leo says. ‘A twin room under the names of Leo and Amber Denton?’
Mrs Higgins looks at us both briefly before going behind the reception desk to check in her book. We shuffle into the narrow hallway. The wallpaper is pink and chintzy and peeling slightly at the edges.
‘Twin, you say?’ Mrs Higgins says. ‘You didn’t specify you wanted a twin when you booked.’
‘I’m pretty sure I did,’ Leo says.
Mrs Higgins takes off her glasses.
‘Let me assure you, if you specified a twin room, I would have given you a twin room,’ she replies snootily.
For a second I think Leo’s going to lose it and start yelling at her. I can tell by the way his body stiffens, his fingers splaying out like a cat stretching its paws, preparing to pounce. But he keeps his cool and if Mrs Higgins notices his simmering anger, she does a pretty good job of hiding it.
‘Well, do you have any twin rooms available then?’ he asks, his eyes flashing.
‘No. The family room is available, that has three beds, but that’ll cost you an extra thirty-five pounds for the night.’
‘You’re joking?’ Leo says. ‘But you’re the one who messed up, why should we pay for it?’
Mrs Higgins gives him a long look.
‘I’m afraid that’s the only alternative, young man. Apart from that I’m fully booked tonight.’
Leo swears under his breath.
‘It’s OK, bro,’ I whisper, tugging on his sleeve. ‘We’ve shared a room for enough years to figure something out.’
Leo gives me a sharp look, clearly not appreciating my sisterly role-play.
‘Payment in advance,’ Mrs Higgins says, holding out her hand.
As I take out my wallet and peel out the notes, I can feel her eyes on me, possibly searching and failing to find the non-existent family resemblance between Leo and me. When I hand over the money she makes a big show of counting it.
‘Room nine. Top of the stairs, turn left. No noise after ten, no smelly food in the rooms. Breakfast is served seven until nine in the dining room.’
She hands us a key on an oversized plastic key-ring before disappearing into the back office.
‘Have a nice stay!’ I call after her in an American accent. I turn to Leo to share the joke, but he’s already halfway up the stairs.
Room nine is small and square and furnished with a tiny wardrobe, chest of drawers and double bed covered in a flowery bedspread. It smells of pot pourri and disinfectant. We stand there for a moment, both of us just staring at the bed.
‘Sorry,’ Leo mutters, dumping his bag on the floor. ‘I’m certain I booked a twin.’
‘And I’m sure you did,’ I say. ‘That silly cow downstairs clearly had it in for us the moment we walked in the door. Don’t worry, we can put pillows down the middle or something.’
I head over to the window and yank it open to lean out. The room looks out onto the dustbins.
‘Sea View, my foot!’ I laugh. ‘Come see.’
But Leo stays where he is.
‘Let’s just get out of here,’ he says.
We have a late lunch of fish and chips. It’s cheaper to take away so we sit on a bench overlooking the amusement park, flimsy polystyrene containers balanced on our laps as we stab at our food with tiny wooden forks. The whole time Leo doesn’t say a word, just stares out to sea.
Beside me David is swinging his legs and wolfing down his fish and chips, every so often commenting on the cold to fill in the silences.
I can’t help but get a shock every time I look at him. Not that he looks bad, because he doesn’t, but it’s hard to get my head round him being here, dressed like, well, like that. But the weirdest thing is that it’s not actually that weird, because the clothes he’s wearing suit him, way better than anything else I’ve seen him wear. He seems less awkward in them, less self-conscious about what his body is doing. I even start to feel a bit guilty about continuing to think of him as a ‘he’ at all.
I shiver and pull my beanie hat over my ears. I look down at the pavement slabs beneath my feet and wonder if Dad has stepped on this exact same spot. Or even sat where I’m sitting now. The thought that he’s close by makes my stomach flip-flop a little. I put aside my fish and chips. I’ve barely touched them.
‘You don’t want them?’ David says, looking at me in surprise.
‘Nah, not that hungry. Finish them if you want.’
David eagerly takes my tray, polishing off the lot in less than five minutes. As soon as he’s swallowed his last mouthful, I stand up.
‘We should keep moving, check out Dad’s before it gets dark.’
We dump our empty containers and drinks cans in the bin and continue along the front. Towards Dad’s house.
When we turn into Marine Avenue, the last of the afternoon light is fading behind the houses. Dad lives at number eighteen. We count up from number two, my heart speeding up with every step. And for the first time that day I feel glad David is with me. Not that I’m not grateful he lent me the money, because I am, but his presence clouds my vision and messes with my focus. But now, only metres away from Dad’s house, I’m relieved he’s with me. Which, when you’ve spent most of your life longing to be alone, is a pretty weird feeling to experience.
‘Eighteen,’ David and I murmur in unison, coming to a slow stop on the pavement.
The house, big and painted white, stands in darkness and I can’t help but feel relieved there isn’t the temptation to forget my plan of coming back tomorrow and march up to the door right now, waving my birth certificate above my head like a lunatic. No, I’ve got a plan and I’m going to stick to it. I’m going to be calm and grown-up; keep the volcano dormant.
I tear my eyes away from Dad’s front door.
‘C’mon,’ I say to David, ‘let’s go.’
We head back down the street. After another ten minutes of walking we turn on to what must be the high street. It’s littered with chain shops and fast-food restaurants and the odd gift shop selling faded postcards and heart-shaped lollipops with ‘I love Tripton’ on them.
‘Oooooh, look, a bingo hall!’ David cries, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’ve always wanted to play bingo.’
I look where he is pointing. The bingo hall is housed in what must have once been an old cinema or theatre.
‘Mam plays bingo,’ I say flatly.
‘Have you ever gone with her?’ David asks.
‘No.’
As if.
‘Then it’ll be a first for both of us!’ he says, grabbing my arm and steering me towards the entrance.
I shake him off.
‘David, I don’t want to play bingo. Look, let’s head back to the seafront or something.’
‘But we’ve already seen the seafront. C’mon, it’ll be fun.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to. Anyway, I don’t have any money.’
‘My treat.’
‘No, you’re paying for everything as it is.’
‘But I don’t mind, honestly.’
Just then a drop of rain lands on my nose. I look up. The sky has turned a deep grey. There’s a moment of quiet before the heavens open and the rain comes thrashing down in sheets. David pulls his coat up over his head to shield his hair and dashes into the foyer of the bingo hall. Reluctantly I jog after him.
‘We’re too young,’ I hiss. ‘It’s over-eighteens only, look.’
I point to the sign over David’s shoulder. He just shrugs, and it strikes me then that the female version of David is much bolder than the boy version I already know. It’s like the wig, dress and Ugg boots contain magical powers.
‘I didn’t have you down as such a goodie-goodie,’ he says.
‘Look, if they kick us out, they kick us out, so what? Got any better ideas?’
Behind us the rain is pelting down, the high street instantly emptying as pedestrians duck into shops for shelter.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, shoving my hands into the pouch of my hoodie.
David heads to the kiosk. The guy behind the desk barely looks up from the newspaper he is reading, yawning openly as he takes David’s money.
David dances back over with a set of bingo cards each and two pens.
‘Look, they’re proper professional bingo pens!’ he says, taking off the lids and peering at the flat, fat tips with fascination.
‘I know what they are,’ I reply. Tia has more than a few of them in her felt-tip-pen collection; castoffs from Mam.
Beyond a pair of double doors, the bingo hall itself is cavernous, the bored voice of the unseen bingo caller echoing off the walls. The place is mostly empty. Just a cluster of elderly women sitting near the front, and a handful of solo players dotted about, their heads bent over their bingo cards.
David and I slide into a plastic booth, David clapping his hands together like a kid at a birthday party as he looks around the place.
A bored looking girl in her early twenties (boredom is clearly the theme around here) with a name badge that reveals her name is Kayleigh ambles over, holding a notebook and pen.
‘Can I get you any drinks?’ she asks.
‘A Coke, please,’ David says.
My eyes dart down the sticky drinks menu, quickly identifying the cheapest pint of beer.
‘Pint of Foster’s, please,’ I say, figuring it’s worth a chance.
Kayleigh scribbles it down without blinking.
David looks up in surprise.
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind, I’ll have a Foster’s too,’ he says.
Kayleigh nods and wanders off. She returns a few minutes later with our pints, liquid slopping over the edge of the glasses as she sets them down on the scuffed plastic tabletop.
‘Want to set up a tab?’ she asks.
‘Ooooh, yes please,’ David says. Kayleigh hands us a plastic token with a number seventeen on it.
‘This is so fun,’ David says as soon as Kayleigh is out of earshot, his eyes sparkling.
I shake my head and watch as he leans forward and sips the foam off his pint. Immediately he makes a face.
‘Urgh, it’s rank!’ he cries.
‘What? You never had a beer before?’
‘No,’ he says, wiping his mouth on a napkin.
‘It’s an acquired taste I suppose,’ I admit, taking a long gulp. The last time I drank beer was at Becky’s party. With Alicia.
According to David it was Becky who found out and told everyone, not Alicia. Not that it makes a whole lot of difference. She still hates my guts.
Opposite me, David wrinkles his nose and takes another, more cautious sip.
The bingo caller announces the next game is about to start. Rolling my eyes, I pick up my pen. David is already poised, his pen hovering expectantly over his card, his ‘eyes down’, as instructed by the caller.
The game begins. David revels in everything; marking off each
number with his special pen; giggling at the traditional bingo calls – ‘legs eleven; two fat ladies, eighty-eight; unlucky for some, thirteen’ – every sip of warm watery beer.
The first game is won by one of the solo players. He raises his hand calmly and looks completely unenthused by his win. The second game is won by one of the old ladies down the front, who yells, ‘here!’ and waves her hanky over her head. The third time we’re going for the house; the big one, the jackpot. The game seems to go on for ever. My eyes begin to blur. At one point another one of the old ladies calls ‘house’ but it turns out to be a false alarm, provoking lots of tutting from the other players. We keep playing, the numbers coming faster and faster.
‘C’mon thirty-six, thirty-six,’ David chants. ‘How many do you need?’ he whispers across the table.
‘Er, just one. Fifty-two,’ I reply, rubbing my eyes.
More numbers. Another false alarm.
Then, ‘Danny La Rue, fifty-two.’
‘Fifty-two,’ David says. ‘They just called fifty-two, Leo! House!’ he yells, waving his arms in the air. ‘House! Over here!’
My winnings amount to one hundred pounds. It’s the most money I’ve ever had. I return from the kiosk in the foyer, the notes crisp and beautiful in my hand, unable to quite believe they are legitimately mine.
I indicate our empty pint glasses.
‘Another?’
We play more rounds of bingo. David gets a line and wins a tenner. The old ladies at the front throw us dirty looks, which make David start giggling so hard he can’t stop. And I don’t know if it’s the beer, or what, because suddenly I’m giggling too. It’s not even that
funny, not really, but somehow that makes us laugh even harder. They’re the sort of giggles I haven’t had since I was a little kid, the sort that make you clutch your stomach and gasp for breath. Eventually we’re laughing so loudly we have to abandon our bingo cards and stumble out into the street where it’s finally stopped raining.
We’re at the end of the high street and turning onto the seafront when David clasps his hand to his mouth and lets out a gasp.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t pay our tab!’
We lose it then. We have to hold on to each other we’re laughing so hard.
I know then I’m officially drunk.
Considering it’s a Friday night, the streets of Tripton are pretty quiet. In the distance we can hear music. We head towards it. At some point, David’s arm links through mine and by the time I realise, it feels too late to shake him off. As we get closer, it’s obvious the music is coming from a pub called the Mermaid Inn.
I push open the doors. The music we heard originates from the corner of the pub where a large woman is standing on a tiny stage belting out ‘Beautiful’ by Christina Aguilera, a glittery silver curtain twinkling behind her. As we make our way towards the bar, I can feel the punters’ eyes on us. For the first time since arriving in Tripton, I can sense David’s nerves as he grips my arm, his fingernails pressing into my skin, even through my multiple layers.
I guide him over to an empty table by the window.
‘Are people looking?’ he whispers, his eyes wide and fearful.
‘Course not.’
‘Do I look OK?’
‘You look fine.’
I peel a twenty-pound note out of my wallet.
‘No, my round,’ David says. ‘I insist.’
I open my mouth to protest, but then snap it shut again. I need this money, pure and simple. If I’m going to come here to live with Dad, I can’t just turn up empty-handed, I need to contribute, earn my keep.
‘Thank you. I’ll have a pint.’
‘Here,’ David says, pressing the note into my hand. ‘You go up.’
‘No, you,’ I say, passing it back. ‘You’ve got a better chance of getting served.’
‘How come?’
‘Everyone knows it’s easier to get served if you’re a girl.’
A massive beaming grin spreads across David’s face.
‘What? Why are you smiling?’
‘You just called me a girl,’ he says, his cheeks all pink and pleased.
And I suppose I had, in a way.
‘You called me a girl,’ David repeats, his eyes turning all misty, and I start to worry he might cry.
‘Go on then, get the drinks, I’m thirsty,’ I say quickly, prodding him on the shin with my foot. He bites his lip and nods, before taking a deep breath and heading up to the bar.
My eyes wander around the pub. It’s one of those old-fashioned sort of places, with lots of dark wood panelling and brass everywhere. Even though it’s only November, it’s already decorated for Christmas with a wonky plastic tree on the bar and fake snow sprayed unevenly all over the windows. Over on the stage an old bloke, clearly wearing a toupée, is also getting into the festive
spirit, ready to belt out ‘The Fairytale of New York’, if the intro is anything to go by.
David returns with a pint in each hand and at least five bags of crisps shoved under one arm, a huge smile plastered across his face.
‘He didn’t even ask me for ID!’ he says. ‘And he called me darling!’
I laugh. ‘Told you so,’ I say, relieving him of my pint. David perches on his stool and rips open the bags of crisps.
‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass.
David looks up and smiles.
‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Here’s to … what?’
‘I dunno. Does it have to be to something?’
‘Of course it does!’ he cries.
He thinks for a moment. ‘Here’s to us! To Leo and David!’
I roll my eyes but clink glasses with him anyway.
The old bloke on the stage reaches the chorus and as most of the pub joins in, I find myself murmuring along with them. David looks at me in surprise.
‘It’s my favourite Christmas song,’ I say with a shrug, fiddling with a beer mat.
‘Really? Don’t you find it a bit depressing?’
‘Nah, I like it,’ I say. ‘Besides, life is depressing, isn’t it? It’s a well known fact murder rates rise on Christmas Day.’
‘But that’s horrible! Christmas is meant to be a time for magic.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re well cheesy sometimes, you know that? You’re gonna tell me you still believe in Santa next.’
David sticks his tongue out at me and sips his beer. His mouth leaves behind a lipstick mark on the glass. He holds it up to the light and admires it for a second.
‘What’s your favourite Christmas song then?’ I ask.
‘Guess.’
I think for a moment before snapping my fingers.
‘Mariah Carey, “All I Want for Christmas is You”,’ I say.
David smiles a slow smile.
‘Wrong. It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, the Nat King Cole version.’
‘Who?’
‘Exactly. Don’t think you know everything about me, Leo Denton,’ David says, wagging his finger at me.
David using my full name like that, just like Alicia used to, reminds me of her all over again and I feel myself slipping away for a moment, back to her bedroom on Bonfire Night. It was only just over a week ago but it feels like longer.
