By the Time You Read This Read online

  “Thanks, Lois,” he said one Saturday afternoon, right after I’d helped clear the shed—a job I’d been putting off for weeks.

  “For what? It’s only a shed.”

  “The effort you’ve made. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed, because it hasn’t.”

  I wasn’t about to move in for a hug but did manage a quiet “Thanks.”

  But, of course, in true Mom fashion she had to go and spoil things one Sunday, right after I’d just reread some of Dad’s entries.

  Strike one: She entered my room without knocking.

  “I’m really, really pleased you’re both getting on!” she squealed as I discreetly slid The Manual under my bed.

  Strike two: She sat on my bed—again, uninvited, and almost squashing the one-eyed teddy.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” she said.

  She had a strange, overly smiling face that reminded me of those loonies outside the mental hospital two streets away from the dentist.

  “Okay…” I urged.

  “Things are a lot better between us all…you know…?”

  “They’re all right,” I replied, as my mind shifted to more important things, like whether Carla and Corey wanted to go down to the rec.

  “That’s what I thought. So I wondered if…”

  “What?”

  “If you should think about calling him Dad?”

  Strike three.

  “Lois?”

  Silence.

  “Lois?”

  “I heard, Mom.”

  “How about it, then?”

  Tempted to pour a whole tub of dish soap into my ear just to check I’d heard right, I replied with a calmness that contradicted the rage fizzing up inside of me. “I already have a dad.”

  “I know.”

  “Well then…” I jumped off my bed, not wanting to be involved in any segment of this pointless discussion.

  “I know, but…and nothing would change that, I just think it would be nice.”

  My mother was obviously sick in the head. “Nice for who?”

  “For you!”

  “No, Mom!”

  “But why?”

  “I told you, I already have a dad!” I didn’t want to shout at her, but she kept pushing. My stomach felt like a kettle just about to whistle. I needed her out of my room.

  “Lois, no one’s taking that away from you.” Mom dropped her gaze. “But you were only little when your father…”

  “Died. And I was five. So?” I stared at Dad’s picture on my side table.

  “So, I think it’s important you have a father figure in your life like—”

  “NO!” I roared, unable to take this garbage any more. I soooo wanted to tell her about The Manual’s existence in my life. How I was able to talk to my dad whenever I wanted. Have him beside me, just before I drifted to sleep, and under my pillow as I slept. He spoke to me through those pages, told me he loved me over and over again. I JUST WANTED TO TELL HER I STILL HAD MY DAD!

  “Lois…”

  “You think I don’t know my dad, but I do.”

  “Lois, look—”

  “I know him more than you think. We speak every day…”

  As I trailed off, her eyes widened in disbelief.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, my body language willing her to get out of my room, my sanctuary, and away from any proximity to my dad’s special manual.

  “We’ll talk about this another time,” she said, calmly shutting the door behind her. I located The Manual, opened it, and swore as a stray tear plopped onto a page, blotting and smudging two precious letters of a word my dad would never, ever be able to write again.

  I tried to ignore Mom and the Bingo Caller as much as possible while the weeks dragged by, only communicating by the absolute essential of words. So, for once, it was an unusual but welcome relief when the annual trip to see Granny Bates came around.

  I used to enjoy spending time with my mom’s mom, but that had been impossible since she’d moved into sheltered housing. Granny Bates, however, lived in Sussex and insisted I spent a week of my summer holidays with her at a bleak seaside house, with furniture more at home in a museum and surrounded by pictures of my dad, his school reports, soccer medals and any scribbles he’d presented her with as a child. What struck me was the absence of anything belonging to his sisters, my aunties Philomena and Ina. I never asked Granny Bates about this, though. In fact she hardly spoke to me at all, and I found the whole experience a bit like having a filling put in. I also missed Carla and Corey so much, especially as Granny’s area was surrounded by sheep and old people! Luckily I had my Walkman and Corey’s tape, which kept me sane while I sat opposite Granny Bates as she munched on the ginger snaps Mom always insisted I bring to her.

  When I was younger, as long as I took my dolls or some books I could get through the experience without screaming, but since hitting my teens I was finding it increasingly harder to be around Granny Bates. I just wanted to spend time hanging around the rec with Carla and a few of my new friends from school. Sussex and Granny Bates now signified a total waste of my life, and I hated it.

  “Gran, can we watch something else?” I asked. A tiny bit bored with the news program. Carla’s mom had just got cable installed and I longed to flick onto something worthwhile, like Yo! MTV Raps.

  “Your dad always loved watching the news.”

  Here we go again, I thought. That was another thing. Constantly comparing me to my dad. I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t feel she was having a go at me. Perhaps seeing me as not living up to what he was. I don’t know. She was “pleasant” enough. I just felt that sometimes there was so much I didn’t know or understand about the Bates family.

  I stood up.

  “Where are you going, young lady?”

  “To my room, I might listen to my Walkman.”

  “You’d rather listen to that radio thing than stay down here with your Gran?”

  “No, it isn’t that…”

  “You go off then. And keep the room tidy. It’s Kevin’s room.”

  She was almost raising her voice. I rolled my eyes again and headed for the room my dad hadn’t even slept in before—Granny Bates had only moved to Sussex AFTER his death. Mad cow.

  I spent the remainder of the evening staring at the ceiling, wishing my dad could rescue me. I opened up The Manual and picked up where I had left off.

  So, instead of listening to your mom, you probably prefer to get advice from your friends. My best friend (as hopefully you still know) is Charlie.

  Nope. Had never met him (at least I didn’t remember ever meeting him). Seen a few pictures of him and Dad together though, but that was it.

  When we were your age it was always about me and him. He once told me to stick my head down the toilet and let him flush—so I did. No, not really, but when we were thirteen I would have—if he’d asked. All I’m trying to say is, not ALL advice from friends is the right advice. Really think before you do stuff, consider who it may hurt (and yes, this includes your mom), then make a decision.

  I’m not asking you to listen to every drop of advice given to you by an adult, no. Because, as you will soon find out, people (including myself) can at times talk a load of horseshit. But if you can, take note of older people. And when I say old I mean really old. The elderly. They know stuff. You can almost picture the years of experience in their faces—and this can include the reality that life doesn’t always go according to plan, no matter how efficiently you think you’ve planned it. Remember, they’ve seen it, done it, tasted it, felt it, experienced most of what you haven’t yet. So try to cut them some slack when they have a go at you about things you may want to do. Their lack of support may just be a result of their own bad experiences while attempting to achieve something similar, and in their own special way they are merely trying to warn you against making the same mistakes. Make sense? You see, it’s not always just another way to spoil your fun, however much you may
think so.

  But for some reason or other, people won’t be listening to them as much any more—so do the complete opposite to these “other people.” Listen, absorb and plant at the side of your brain stuff you can use later on. It’s so invaluable. Things my granddad used to tell me, I still use to this day. Of course your granddad is gone, but you’ll hopefully have my mom and your other granny and granddad around to be getting on with.

  One morning on the way to the supermarket, I decided to take in Dad’s words and make an effort with my father’s mother, by helping to carry the bags without being asked (I even carried more than was comfortable), and, back at the house, by packing away the groceries as she droned on and on about noisy neighbors and how she missed “back home” and wished she’d enough money to go back forever. I brought up the subject of Dad, hoping it would bring us closer together, I suppose. Instead, she remained silent, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball.

  “What was he like?”

  Her face softened and I thought I saw a tear. “Your father…was the best son a mother could ever have.”

  She walked over to a picture of Dad and held it, running her index finger over his chin, up to his full lips and then to his mole. She stared at it for what seemed like ages.

  I broke the trance. “You must miss him so much…like I do…” I know it was such an obvious statement, but I suppose I just wanted her to speak to me. For us to have some type of conversation. About Dad.

  But my plan was—sort of—beginning to backfire.

  “Of course I miss him. Very much. He was my son, my little boy. I miss him every waking moment of every day. My life seems to have stood still since that day…the day he went…”

  She moved over to the old-fashioned glass cabinet. Among the porcelain figurines and a cloth map of Grenada was a picture of my dad. She picked it up.

  “Me and his father always knew we wanted a good life for our children. That’s why we came to England in 1948. I always made sure my little boy was safe. I could never rest when his father took him out. Never knew what they’d be getting up to. Climbing trees, running about. If he came home with a scrape, I’d immediately put the antiseptic on it. Make it clean. Then when he was a teenager, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until I was sure he was safely tucked up in bed. I never stopped worrying about him. The girls, Philomena and Ina, never understood. Never.” She looked at me blankly again, then turned to pick up Dad’s picture. “Then he left home and moved in with…” she placed the picture back down again “…your mother. And that was it. Never saw him much after that. My son.”

  I wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. So I said the first thing to enter my head. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry,” she repeated blankly, placing the picture back into the glass cabinet.

  Granny Bates seemed to shut down after that conversation. She’d say little words here and there, perhaps to answer a question to do with the whereabouts of the ketchup. It was as if an already dim bulb had blown—with no chance of a replacement any time soon. And I was quickly able to envisage the remainder of my “holiday” as something I’d rather not endure.

  I rang Mom when Granny Bates was in the bathroom, telling her I was ready to hitch a lift home if she didn’t get me out of here a few days early. She arranged for Carla’s dad to drive over, while a silent Granny Bates sat in her rocking chair clutching a picture of my dad.

  As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d be in no hurry to see her again. Maybe I’d change my mind. Maybe I wouldn’t. I couldn’t have cared less. Okay, I did care. A little. For all her faults, she was still Dad’s mom and I suppose I would drop her a line in a few months (groan). But I’d survived this long on my own and now, I had my dad constantly keeping an eye on me and really didn’t need anyone else.

  I was thrilled to be back in London with my friends, sleeping in my own bed and not having to be back at school just yet. My brief time away had seen a change in Carla. Her hair was a bit longer and she’d started to wear lipstick! Worst of all, she now had a boyfriend.

  “He’s over there!” she whispered, as we passed Lanes Fish Bar, our old spot now occupied by a gang of spotty girls. Outside the alleyway stood a bunch of boys in back-to-front baggy dungaree jeans and identical orange sneakers with huge white tongues sticking out. They did look cool, I had to admit.

  “His name’s Darren!” she said.

  The lovebirds caught each other’s gaze and Carla ran over.

  “Hi Daz,” she said, all teeth and sloppy voice. I had never seen my best friend act like this before and it felt disturbing. The others were totally ignoring me as the couple lip-locked and Darren, or Daz, or whatever, stuck a huge furry-looking tongue into her mouth. It was utterly sickening.

  Over the next few days it was “Daz this” and “Daz that” and, frankly, I was relieved when he dumped her for the school slut, exactly a week before the beginning of term.

  My fourteenth birthday, which took place at the ice-skating rink, was a totally contrasting experience to my thirteenth—especially when Mom brought out this huge babyish cake complete with dodgy pink candles as my guests sniggered in the corner. I vowed never to have another birthday party again in my whole entire life, while almost bursting into tears on the spot and displaying my Mega Wimp side in the process.

  Mom reckons I’m at a difficult age—I overheard this during a gassing session with Carla’s mom over the garden fence as she put up the washing. Carla’s mom lay on the lawn chair dressed in a teeny little bikini and looking quite gorgeous. Glancing at her and then at Mom sticking pegs into the Bingo Caller’s revolting odd socks, I knew which mom was the trendiest. My mom knew zilch about being a teenager—how to dress, or who Kriss Kross were—and actually liked Take That! A difficult age? Me?

  I did start to notice changes with my body. I had a shape that was catching up to Carla’s but which I suspected would always be behind. And as for the other stuff, let’s just say if it weren’t for the awkward sex education classes at school, and Carla, I’d know nothing about THAT subject.

  One morning I even woke to find that my tiny little ant hills had decided to grow into breasts. No longer a slave to the training bra, Carla and I got measured at Marks right away, only to discover we were in need of a 34B! And Dad was right, boys did start to change (not least when word got around that Carla was no longer with Daz). They began to sniff around Carla like dogs around a slab of ham. Plus they all sounded like freaks as every boy (except for Billy Turner) seemed to have picked up a new deeper voice that sounded like a cross between Corey’s and Sharlene Rockingham’s (she’d always sounded like a boy).

  Miscellaneous: Hormones

  Oh boy, I was dreading this bit, so let’s just skip it until later, right, Lowey?

  Oh all right, we’ll do it now then…

  I can safely say I’ve never been a woman so am unable to speak with any authority on the subject. Therefore, we’ll just have to stick with the hormones of a teenage boy.

  Have you read what I wrote about boys talking to your breasts? Well, hormones are the logical explanation. If a boy at school asks if he can carry your backpack, what he’s really saying is, “I want to have sex with you.” When he asks “How are you?,” he’s really saying, “I want to have sex with you.” When he looks at you, he’s more than likely thinking about…yes, you guessed it…sex. So my point here is…teenage boys are like teabags bursting with hormones. Once you dip a teabag into hot water what happens? It literally bursts (you’ll get this analogy when you’re older. Much older. For now, please beware, especially as by now you are drop-dead gorgeous in the making, even if YOU think you look like a giraffe in need of urgent dentistry). Just bending down to pick up a pencil will induce a craning neck in a boy. Or the way you purse your lips when you talk. Even a certain way of laughing will bring on something in these hungry little boys, so…I’m just asking you to be aware of it and remember, you’re still only thirteen or fourteen.

  Oh, and you’re be
autiful. Love you, with stars on. Dad.

  Dad was so wrong about the boy bit (they only ever looked at me when Carla was within spitting distance) but right about the giraffe thing (although I’m inclined to go with anteater). The only boy who ever really spoke to me was Corey. But as I’d known him since forever, he didn’t matter. Anyway, I’d come to terms with the fact that no boy would ever consider me girlfriend material and was content to live my love life through Carla anyway. As well as Darren she’d already been to the pictures with an older boy called Jake Saunders and snogged Colin Meek behind Lanes. With her long legs and elegant haircut, it wasn’t surprising guys found her irresistible.

  Miscellaneous: Can’t get a date?

  Great!

  No, not really, I know this is hard, especially if it seems like everyone around you has a boyfriend, is out at the pictures, holding hands, and buying sloppy-looking cards shaped like love hearts. But don’t be in a rush. One day, someone will see how special you are, how great it is to be with you and vice versa. I never thought anyone would ever look at plain old me, but she did. Your mom did and what a stunner she is—proving the theory that there is indeed someone for everyone in this world.

  When I looked at Gary Jones, Jake’s best friend, I felt things. Like I wanted him to kiss me. But Gary, along with a host of other guys from Lewisham to Deptford, seemed to enjoy me invading their company as long as it was to discuss tapes and soccer. Nothing else. And I was okay with that. Especially when Gary and Jake once said they liked me because I was just like one of the lads, a comment which proved that one day I’d get a boyfriend. Didn’t it?

  Miscellanous: Male friends 1

  I bet you have a load of male friends. If not, then at least one. Someone you can hang out with, talk to? You make each other laugh? Discuss everything from school dinners to the state of the nation? This is all well and good, but don’t expect anything else from this if you start to fancy him.