Baygirl Page 5
“Well, whoopdi-bloody-doo!” Dad exclaimed.
Mom ignored him. “So I went up to the butcher shop today and got some nice steak.”
“Waste of bloody money,” muttered Dad.
Mom flipped out. “I have a job now and will spend my money how I like. So until you get off your fat arse and get a job, you can keep your big trap shut about how I spend my earnings!”
I held my breath and looked at Dad. He was about to say something, but Mom cut him off.
“Kit, I’m making raisin buns for dessert and I need half a cup of butter. Run next door and see if whatsisname has any.”
“Mom, I am NOT going over there! This isn’t Parsons Bay, you know. This isn’t like running down to Nan’s. Mr. Adams is weird. He threw a Yorkshire pudding at me.”
“I’m sure he’s a lovely man. Now hurry up.”
I went to the front door and hesitated.
“For the love of God, Kit, I’m sure he’s not an axe murderer. Now get going!”
I walked up the path to Mr. Adams’s front step. There was a sign posted in his flower bed: Welcome to Yorkshire Cottage. It was a lovely sign, with beautiful gold lettering and green stenciled ivy. I guess Mr. Adams didn’t think it was sufficient, though, because he had tacked on a paper sign underneath, written in what looked like felt pen. It read:
Hereby named God’s Own County:
Yorkshire,
The best place on earth,
Home of the world’s second smallest mammal: the pygmy shrew
This guy was a freak. Imagine being proud that your homeland was also home to a tiny shrew. I dreaded having to ask Mr. Adams for butter. What if he threw it at me like he had the Yorkshire pudding? I thought about running down to the store and buying the butter myself. But there was no time to escape. The front door opened. Before I could say anything, Mr. Adams spoke. “Come,” he commanded. He said it so forcefully, I obeyed.
Mr. Adams’s house was surprisingly bright and cheery, compared to Uncle Iggy’s drab, dark dungeon. The living room was pretty, with a floral sofa and matching loveseat and duck-egg-blue walls that peeked out from a sea of framed photographs.
We walked through to the kitchen, which was sunshine yellow with matching yellow placemats on the table.
“Now then, how ’bout a nice cup o’ tea, eh?”
“Well, actually…”
“I don’t often ’ave visitors.”
“I, uh…”
“I’ve got some lovely bickies here somewhere,” he said, raking through a cupboard.
“Actually—” I said again, but I was cut off when Mr. Adams, hearing a lawn mower suddenly start up across the street, jumped to the window, shook his head in disgust and said, “Ee by gum! There’s nought as queer as folk.”
“What?”
“I said, Ee by gum! There’s nought as queer as folk.”
“I heard you, I just didn’t understand you.”
Mr. Adams rolled his eyes and spoke slowly. “Oh my God. There is nothing as strange as people.”
I joined him at the window and watched one of his neighbors mowing his lawn.
“He’s just mowing his lawn,” I said.
“Aye, but on a day like today?” he said, his face distorted as if he were an actor being terrorized in a horror movie.
I looked into the sky. “It’s a nice, sunny day.”
“Exactly! And that daft bugger is ruining it with that horrible noise. He’s gormless, I say, gormless!”
Mr. Adams seemed to think everyone around him was crazy and he was perfectly sane. Maybe he was right. I was sick of normal people anyway. Maybe they’re the crazy ones after all.
“What’s gormless?” I asked.
Mr. Adams frowned at me. “You must be gormless to ’ave to ask what’s gormless.”
I thought for a moment. “Does it mean stupid?”
Mr. Adams stuck his pointer finger in the air. “Ding, ding, ding. We ’ave a winner!”
“Do you really need to be so sarcastic?” I grumbled.
He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “Aye, aye, I do.”
Unbelievable.
He started rooting through the cupboard again. “Now where are my Jammy Dodgers?” ”
“Your what?” I asked.
He whipped his head around so fast, he hit his head on the cupboard door. “Bloody hell, me poor head!” he yelled. “Don’t you know owt?”
“Owt?”
He sighed. “Owt means anything and a Jammy Dodger is a bloody bickie. You know what a bickie is, don’t you?”
“A biscuit. Although, personally, I’d call it a cookie.”
Mr. Adams snorted. “Cookie. What a daft word.”
“Daft?”
“’Ave I got to explain everything to you? Daft! Barmy! Stupid!”
I shrugged. “I don’t understand your language.”
“My language is bloody English!”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered.
Mr. Adams looked angry and amused at the same time. “You’re a right cheeky little bugger, aren’t you?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
He kind of smiled, then turned away. “Now then, how ’bout that tea?”
I had to tell him I needed to borrow butter, but I really wanted to stay and have tea. There was something about the kitchen that was comforting. Something familiar. But I had to get back home. Mom would have a fit if she couldn’t finish her buns in time for supper.
“Well, actually, I just came to borrow some butter. A half cup…my mother needs it for some raisin buns.”
His face fell. “Oh, aye. Butter.” He pulled a block of butter out of the fridge and handed it to me.
Before I left, I turned to him. “Did you save my uncle?”
“Eh? Save? What are you on about, lass?”
“The fire. Uncle Iggy said a neighbor woke him up.”
“Oh, aye. At first I thought it were a giant weenie roast or something. But then I heard the alarm going off. He’s a heavy sleeper, your uncle.”
A heavy drinker, I thought.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “For that, and for the butter.”
He nodded. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Kit. Kit Ryan.”
“Kit-Kit Ryan?”
“No, just Kit.”
“I’m Reginald Adams.”
“Bye, Mr. Adams.”
“Ta-ra, love.”
“Where on earth have you been?” Mom asked when I got home.
“I got stuck talking to Mr. Adams next door,” I said. “I couldn’t get away from him. That old geezer’s a nutcase.” I felt a pang of guilt the moment I said it.
“Well, I hope you used your manners and said thank you,” said Mom.
I couldn’t shake the look of disappointment on Mr. Adams’s face when I told him I’d just come for butter.
“Kit, are you listening to me?”
“What?”
My mother shook her head and sighed. “Make yourself useful and go tell Iggy supper will be ready in about twenty minutes.”
I went upstairs and knocked on his bedroom door. I took the grunt I heard as a “come in.” When I entered, I could barely see Iggy through the haze of cigarette smoke. He was sitting on an old wooden chair, staring out the window. As soon as I saw him, I felt another pang of guilt. I should have said yes to family time the other night. Poor Iggy had made an effort, and all I’d done was shoot him down. I’d pushed him back into his shell.
I looked around. His bed was unmade, and on every surface there was a full ashtray. I went downstairs and returned with a plastic bag. Then I threw open the window and dumped all the cigarette butts into the bag.
“Someone has to,” I said. “This place is a mess. And you’re a mess too. Just look at you. What happened to all your nice clothes?”
Uncle Iggy stubbed out his cigarette. “Nice clothes, nice house…none of that matters anymore.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “You make me sad, Uncle Iggy.”
He turned around, startled. “Oh, Kit. Just ignore me, please. I’ll be okay. It’s just hard to feel happy all the time.”
“Mom’s made a special dinner. Because you haven’t had a drink in six months. That’s something to be happy about, isn’t it?”
He gave a little laugh. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
I stood up. “So come on. Let’s go eat.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” he said, “after I change into something decent.”
I smiled. “Good. Because I’m sick of looking at those old sweatpants.”
He laughed. “Me too.”
I was almost out the door when he said, “One day at a time, hey, Kit?”
I turned around. “Yep. One day at a time.”
three
Slacks
Bartlett’s was the fanciest department store in St. John’s. But it wasn’t cool. It was where old people shopped. And now, armed with her evil staff discount, Mom claimed it was the best place to buy new school clothes.
“I don’t want to go shopping,” I groaned.
“Oh, go on,” Uncle Iggy said. “It’ll be fun.” He looked at Mom. “You two should make the day of it. Go out for lunch.”
“Oh, I don’t have time for that,” Mom said. “I have a few groceries to get today and supper won’t make itself, you know.”
“Why don’t you just give me the money?” I suggested. “I can pick out new clothes by myself, like I always do.”
“Because I need to be there,” she said. “To get the discount.”
We took the bus downtown in silence.
“Look at all the back-to-school shoppers,” said Mom as we weaved our way through the crowds in Bartlett’s.
I looked around. Everyone I saw was middle-aged or older.
“These are lovely,” she said, picking up a pair of puke-green polyester pants with an elasticized waist.
“They’re wonderful.”
“Come on now, Kit. Don’t be sarcastic. These are a fine pair of slacks.”
“Slacks. Enough said.”
“And look,” she said, picking up a yellow and green cardigan, “this will match perfectly.”
“I’ll look like a giant booger.”
“Kit, don’t be disgusting. At least try them on.”
“Mom,” I moaned, “they’re for old ladies. I don’t need an elastic waist!”
She sighed. “Okay, let’s keep looking.”
The Junior Fashions department at Bartlett’s was horrible. I don’t even know how they got away with the word fashion…there was nothing fashionable in sight.
I suggested the Denim Den at the mall, but Mom said, “There’s just not enough selection in those small stores,” which was her way of saying we couldn’t afford it. “Besides,” she added, “it’d be a shame to waste my staff discount.”
I knew I would never win the clothes war with Mom, especially with her new secret weapon, so I eventually settled on a plain red sweater, a striped shirt, a blue hoodie, some brown cords and a pair of boring blue jeans that sat too high on my waist. Far from cool.
Uncle Iggy looked apologetic when we got home. Dad was plastered.
“I tried talking sense into him,” he said. “But the more I told him he’d had enough, the more he drank.”
“Kitty! Kitster! The Kit-en-ator!” Dad boomed from his chair. “Give us a fashion parade!”
“A fashion parade?” I said. “With what I got today? It’ll be the fastest parade in history.”
“Oh, c’mon, Itty-Bitty-Kitty,” said Dad. “Lemme see your new duds.”
I scowled at him. “Duds?”
“I don’t think she wants to try anything on right now,” said Uncle Iggy.
But my father wouldn’t drop it. “C’mon now, Kitty. Let’s see how beautiful you’ll look.”
I stormed over to where my father sat, stood over him and yelled, “Beautiful? I have one pair of ugly jeans, three boring tops and a pair of shit-brown cords. That’s it! I wasn’t out buying a bloody prom dress or anything!”
Uncle Iggy gave me a warning look. “Kit, why don’t you take your stuff upstairs?”
My father caught Iggy’s look and said, “She’s not going anywhere. I paid for the clothes, so I should bloody well be able to see them.”
“Actually,” I said, “Mom paid for them. You don’t have a job, remember? But you want to see them? Sure! Here! Have a look!”
I raised the Bartlett’s bag over my head and threw it, hard, right into my dad’s gut.
“Kit!” my mother yelled.
Uncle Iggy quickly moved in front of me, blocking me from Dad. But Dad just sat there quietly and when he spoke, his voice was careful and calm.
“You know what, Emily?” he said. “We should have said yes. We should have left the ungrateful little brat back in Parsons Bay.”
The room fell silent.
“Mom? What’s he talking about?”
She looked away.
Iggy spoke to my dad through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever talk to her like that again.”
Dad ignored him. He said, “Did you hear me, Emily? Did you hear what I said? We should have said yes to that hippie-dippie freak show while we had the chance.”
“What’s going on, Emily?” Uncle Iggy said. “What’s he talking about?”
“Go ahead. Tell ’em, Emily,” said Dad, his voice tinged with spite.
Mom’s voice was low. “Ms. Bartlett offered to take you in, Kit. While me and your father came to St. John’s to find work.”
My head was spinning.
“She did?”
My mother nodded.
“And you said no?”
She nodded again.
“Why? Why did you say no?” I yelled. “You knew I didn’t want to leave!”
“Because you’re our responsibility, Kit, not Ms. Bartlett’s. You belong here. With us.”
“I don’t belong here. I hate it here. I hate being away from Nan and I hate having to go to a new school and I’d give anything not to have to live with my asshole father!”
“What the hell did you call me?” Dad roared. He jumped up from his chair and lunged forward. Uncle Iggy grabbed his shoulders and held him back.
I screamed at my mother, “You should have told me that Ms. Bartlett offered to take me in! At least then I’d know that someone has my best interests at heart, that someone gives a rat’s ass about me!”
“We all care about you!” my mother cried.
I pointed at my father. Iggy was still holding him back from doing God knows what. “You call that caring, Mom?”
She looked crushed. “Kit, please…”
I walked out the door and slammed it behind me.
Mr. Adams was in his garden. I was too mad to ask what he was doing, but it looked like he was shaping one of his bushes to look like Elmo.
“Take a deep breath, flower,” he said. “Why don’t you go for a walk and blow off some steam? There’s a nice park down the road. ’Bout one mile past Pelley’s Pharmacy.”
Flower. I liked that. Better than ungrateful little brat.
I sat in the park for an hour. It was cold. It was damp. And it was boring. So I went back home, took the pitiful $1.50 out of poor old dead Aunt Margie’s candy dish and went to Pelley’s.
“I bought some bickies,” I said when Mr.
Adams opened his door.
He sighed as if I was causing him a great inconvenience.
“I suppose I’ll ’ave to put the kettle on.”
“I suppose you will.”
The hint of a smile appeared on his face.
I passed him the gingersnaps I’d bought. “I couldn’t find Jammy Dodgers.”
“That’s because I get ’em specially ordered. Imported, like. From Bartlett’s.”
I slumped in a chair at the kitchen table. “I might be able to get you a discount then,” I said flatly. “My mother works there.”
His face lit up. “Really? A penny saved is a penny gained!”
I didn’t smile back.
“Somethin’ wrong, lass? You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.”
This time, I smiled back.
“Whatever it is, flower, a cuppa will help.”
He placed a pot of tea on the table and covered it in a multicolored crocheted tea cozy.
“Nice,” I said.
“The missus made it. Before she died, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Did you know,” he said, “that the longest street name in York is Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate?”
“Cool.”
We sipped our tea without speaking. And that was when I realized what was so familiar, so comforting, about Mr. Adams’s kitchen. It was the radio. I hadn’t put my finger on it the day I came to borrow butter, but sure enough, there it was—the soft murmur in the background. I followed the sound and saw a little transistor sitting on the windowsill, just like at Nan’s. And the walls. The walls were yellow. All I needed now was for Mr. Adams to put on an apron and start baking bread. I looked down to hide the smirk that had appeared on my face.
“Are you laughin’ at my skirtin’ boards?”
“Your what?”
“My skirtin’ boards. You must know what skirtin’ boards are! What the bloody hell are they teachin’ at school these days?”
“The usual. English, math, science.”
Mr. Adams made a noise that sounded like a cross between harrumph and pshaw and, for added effect, threw his hands up in the air as he said it.
I helped myself to a biscuit.