The Wicked Girls

Chapter Eighteen

Blessed loves Whitmouth in the hours around dawn; partly because it’s cool and the air is clean, but mostly because dawn means that the long night’s work is approaching its end and the moment when she can lay her tired bones in her warm soft bed for a few hours is approaching. Tonight she’s scrubbed and polished every seat on the roller coaster trains, swept down what she still thinks of as its station-stop and given every touchable surface a going-over with a spray-bottle of antibacterial cleanser and half a dozen J Cloths. She’s cleaned the perspex windows that allow queuers to see what’s going on in the rest of the park as they inch their way up the stairs. She’s wiped off the hair gel and Sta-Sof-Fro that greases every pillar at head height.

Now she’s in the roped-off area under the tracks, sweeping up the wrappers and coins and condoms and other small treasures that have fallen from unsuspecting pockets as the train looped the loop. It’s sticky down here, as surprising numbers of people still take drinks containers on the ride despite the warnings not to. You can always tell them later, in the park, because they are the ones with a sugar-dressing on their hair and a faint look of sheepishness about them. By season’s end the area below the tracks will need to be washed down with a power hose, but there’s little point in doing so before then, as generally only the cleaners come here. Blessed always saves this chore for last of all, so that she can see what’s there by pale grey daylight. It’s a popular job, this – goes to the senior cleaner and was passed down to her when Amber moved up to management – because it’s amazing what people fail to notice they’ve lost until after they’ve left the park. There’s usually a tenner in change down here; and sunglasses and prescription glasses and small items of jewellery; tubes of sweets and bunches of keys (which always go to Lost Property); and, sometimes, a wallet. Their owners probably think they’ve been pickpocketed, which is why they never return to claim them. As a Christian, Blessed used to have qualms about removing the cash before she handed the wallets in, but she knows that if she doesn’t take the opportunity, Jason Murphy or one of the other guards will, and then it’ll go on drink or drugs or some other form of frittering if it’s them. The proceeds of her own dishonesty go straight into Benedick’s med-school fund. She thinks of her ‘victims’ as benefactors.

Tonight has produced relatively thin pickings. Yesterday was overcast, so sunglasses (which she can sell for fifty pence a pair to the second-hand shop on Fore Street) have stayed firmly in bags, and jackets have covered the loosest pockets. But she’s found £3.60 in change (almost half an hour at minimum wage, after all) and three packs of chewing-gum, which Ben will like. And a hairpiece: a foot-long clip-on ponytail in golden synthetic blond. She’s about to drop it in the bin liner, marvelling at its owner’s obliviousness, when she thinks, No, it’s in good condition. I’ll see if Jackie wants it before I throw it away. We waste far too much in this world.

She stretches her back and checks her watch. Five-twenty: nearly clocking-off time. She’ll stay till her contracted five-thirty before she punches her card. No one gets any prizes for doing their job efficiently at Funnland; they’re paid by the hour and that’s that. And besides, she likes to get a lift from Amber if she can, and Amber is always the last to leave. She decides to go and look for Jackie. Picks up her bin liner and ambles in the direction of the dumpsters.

Jackie’s on the phone. Five-thirty in the morning, and she’s still found someone to talk to. She’s finishing up in the coconut shy, not that there’s ever much to do other than check that the coconuts haven’t cracked open to reveal their concrete interiors, and to dust the prizes so it’s not too obvious how rarely they get won. She stands in her novelty rubber gloves with the frilled lace cuffs, back to the park, and doesn’t see Blessed approach.

‘That’s right, babe,’ she says. ‘Till it’s sore.’

Blessed hesitates. This sounds as though it might be a personal conversation. Not that Jackie keeps many of her thoughts personal. ‘And then when you think you’re all wrung out, I’ll suck my finger and-’

Blessed hurriedly coughs. Jackie jumps, and looks guiltily over her shoulder. Breaks into a grin when she sees Blessed and holds up the rubber-clad finger that’s just been the subject of her conversation. ‘Gotta go, babe. Yeah, later. I’ll be waiting.’

She hangs up. ‘Hey.’

‘Hello,’ says Blessed. ‘How are you today?’

‘Better now it’s home-time,’ says Jackie. ‘Is Amber ready yet?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure she’ll come and find us. I brought you this.’ She fishes the ponytail out of her plastic bag. ‘Someone lost it. I thought it might suit you.’

Jackie lets herself out through the hatch, comes and looks, a frown on her face. ‘Second-hand hair?’

Blessed feels herself blush. Knows she’s done another of those cultural misreadings that have tripped up many budding friendships since she got here. Not that she has any burning desire for intimacy with Jackie. Rather, she feels she might start keeping Benedick away from her, now he’s reached adolescence. ‘It doesn’t look as though it’s been used,’ she stammers. ‘I think whoever owned it must have put it on new yesterday.’

Jackie seems reluctant even to touch it. Under her critical gaze, Blessed sees that it is a poor thing; that to someone used to the cheap and plentiful luxuries of a wealthy country, second-hand hair is barely less disgusting than a second-hand toothbrush. ‘Yeah, you’re all right, Blessed,’ she says. ‘Thanks anyway.’

Blessed shoves the ponytail into the bin liner, tries not to show her embarrassment. If she’d been in Jackie’s position, she would have accepted the gift with a show of pleasure, even if she had every intention of putting it in the next bin she passed. She feels a twinge of nostalgia for the manners she was raised with.

‘So are you ready to go?’ she asks.

Jackie nods. ‘I should coco. I’m knackered.’

‘Me too. It’s a long night.’ They start to walk towards the dumpsters, bin liners bouncing off their calves. ‘So what plans do you have for the rest of the day?’

‘Sleep as long as I can,’ says Jackie, ‘then Morrisons, I guess. I’ve got nothing in the house.’

‘You’re back home, then?’

Jackie nods. ‘Yes. Went back today.’

‘Oh good,’ says Blessed. ‘I am glad to hear that.’

‘It was getting awkward.’

‘I can imagine. No one likes to outstay their welcome.’

‘I don’t like living by other people’s rules,’ says Jackie. ‘People all over my business, you know?’

Blessed raises an eyebrow. A part of her is glad to remember that Jackie has a hard time being grateful for anything. That it’s not just her own gifts that come up lacking. ‘So you think your… problem has passed?’ she asks, with gentle irony. Amber told her last night about her conversation with Martin Bagshawe and she’s interested to know who will get the credit.

‘Yeah,’ says Jackie. ‘I think he’s got the message. In the end you’ve got to be firm, ain’t you? Stand up for yourself.’

Blessed allows herself a small grin; turns her head away to hide it.

Amber is already waiting in the changing rooms, whirling her keys round her index finger like a child’s toy. She looks tired and grey, her eyes red at the edges, but no one looks their best at this time of day. ‘Ready?’ she asks. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance. Blessed is always intrigued by the way voices sound so different in the early morning, as though their owner’s attachment to life has faded with the smallness of the hour. It’s not long past peak death time in hospitals, she reflects. We’re probably all half out of our bodies, around dawn. The room is full of silent wraiths who were the life and soul of the cafeteria four hours ago. The three women gather their belongings from their lockers and swipe themselves out on to the seafront.

It’s going to be a beautiful day. Jackie looks up at the clear blue sky as they walk past the front of the park, and grins. ‘That’s me down at the beach, then,’ she says. ‘Might as well not go home, really. All I’m going to do is sleep in the sun, anyway.’

‘Seriously?’ asks Amber.

‘Naah,’ says Jackie. ‘Just joking.’

Amber shakes her head. ‘You should know better than to make jokes at this time of day, Jackie.’

Jackie shakes a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and lights it. ‘Yeah,’ she says.

‘How can you smoke?’ asks Blessed. ‘Doesn’t it make you sick?’

‘Well, it might do if I’d just got up,’ replies Jackie, and releases a stream of smoke into the sparkling air. ‘But I suppose, given I’m coming out of work, that this is the equivalent of five in the afternoon for me. What glamours have you got lined up for the day, Blessed?’

‘The usual,’ she replies. She will get Benedick up, check that he’s done his homework, feed him and send him to school. It’s only a year or so since she stopped walking him there, a ritual that caused increasing discord between them as he plunged into adolescence. Then she’ll sleep for a few hours, get up, shower and go to work her afternoon shift at Londis. It’s only a four-hour shift, which allows her to spend the evening with her son before Amber picks her up at quarter-to ten.

Jackie takes another suck on her smoke. ‘I don’t know how you can work all them hours. Don’t you ever have any fun?’

‘The trouble with this country,’ says Blessed, ‘is that no one has any idea of work.’

‘Trouble with the Third World,’ replies Jackie, ‘is that you’re all suckers.’

‘Thank you, Jackie,’ says Blessed. ‘I will try to remember. But there are two of us, and only one is allowed to work. It won’t be so many years until Benedick is a doctor, and then he can support me.’

Amber stops short on the pavement and slaps her forehead. ‘Shit,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, Blessed. I forgot. I meant to give it to you at tea break. It’s in my office. I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on.’

‘You’re going to have to slow down,’ says Blessed. ‘I’m a few feet behind.’

‘The computer. I managed to get hold of a computer for Ben. Maria Murphy, believe it or not. They’ve bought Jared a Wii and he doesn’t need his old laptop any more.’

Blessed feels herself light up. ‘Really? You did that for me?’

‘I told you I was going to try.’ Amber smiles proudly. She really does look tired, thinks Blessed. Like she hasn’t slept. But praise Jesus, I prayed for a miracle and Amber Gordon has brought it to us.

‘You are an angel,’ she says. Life has rendered her dry-eyed and patient, but she feels the welling of tears in her throat. ‘I swear to God. He will be grateful. I know he will. But no more grateful than I am.’

Amber shakes her head. ‘It’s OK. It’s nothing. Just a couple of phone calls. Look. I’ll go and get it now, and you can give it to him when he gets up.’

She pulls her keys from her pocket, throws them to Jackie. ‘Let yourselves into the car,’ she says. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

They walk on in silence, Blessed rich with her blessings, Jackie full of her deprivation. Amber’s managerial position doesn’t extend to a space in the staff car park, so she always leaves the car at the Koh-Z-Nook, the Anglo-Thai tea rooms on the far side of the pier. They’re only open from breakfast through to six, so there’s always room in there, and it’s safer than leaving it out all night on the club strip. It’s a boring little walk, all concrete and shutters, but once they get past the high locked gates of the pier there’s a lovely view of the sea.

‘That’s nice,’ says Jackie.

‘So nice,’ says Blessed.

‘Why doesn’t anyone ever do anything like that for me?’ Jackie complains. ‘I haven’t got a computer neither.’

Because you wouldn’t know how to use it? thinks Blessed. ‘You could try giving it up to Jesus,’ she suggests.

Jackie snorts like a horse. ‘I’ve been asking Jesus to let me win the lottery for years,’ she says. ‘Maybe I’m just not the sort who gets their prayers answered.’

‘It doesn’t really work like that. You need to ask him for a solution. To help you help yourself. I asked every day, and he has sent me Amber. You never know what form your solution will take, but it is unlikely to come in the form of winning the lottery.’

Jackie shoots her an evil look. Blessed bounces it off. She’s used to the resentment of the unsaved, and nothing can puncture her happiness this morning. The question of the computer has weighed heavily on her shoulders. To be relieved of it is a miracle indeed.

She breathes deep of the morning air and smiles at the sky. This far down, the street is peaceful, the wash of the sea placid on the stones beyond the pier. There’s a nightingale in the botanical gardens; the town is so quiet that its song rings out, clear and true, caressing the back of her neck and stroking her cheeks. She pauses to listen. Jackie takes a couple of paces, then stops impatiently to look at her.

‘What?’

‘Listen,’ says Blessed.

Jackie frowns and cranes. Blessed sees her hear nothing, decide that it’s the quiet she’s meant to be listening for. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Very nice,’ and stomps on.

Blessed hangs back and listens for a moment longer, glad of the chance to do so without interruption. The bird sings with all the joy of summer. Thank you, God, for bringing me to Whitmouth. It wasn’t what I imagined when I started my journey, but I am glad it was here that I came.

She sees Jackie turn the corner into the Koh-Z-Nook’s car park, hears the sound of a scuffle and a bellowed swearword. Gives up on her reverie and shuffles forward as fast as her flipflops will take her.

Jackie sits on the ground, rubbing her knee and glaring at a shoe lying on the tarmac. It’s a peep-toe wedge, lime-green, the ankle strap snapped clean through. ‘Fucking fuck,’ she says.

‘Are you OK? What happened?’

She looks at the palm of her hand, brushes pieces of grit from her mount of Luna. ‘Fucking fell over that fucking shoe.’

‘Oh dear. Are you hurt?’

‘Yes,’ she snaps, then: ‘Not much. No fucking thanks to the fucking moron who just dumped that there. Fuck sake. Why can’t they just bloody pick up after theirselves?’

Blessed offers her a hand. Jackie stands and rubs her elbow, muttering. ‘Bloody accident waiting to happen. I’ll fucking brain them if I ever find out who it was.’

‘Come on,’ says Blessed. ‘Let’s get you to the car.’

She offers an arm to her colleague, who limps dramatically as they cross the car park. The Panda is tucked neatly into the far corner, in the shade of a scrappy hedge. It’s not until they get round the back of the car that they see that the owner of the shoe has been tucked as neatly away behind it, bare feet poking under the driver’s door, her battered face peering sightlessly out from a halo of gorse and sea-spurge.