Pie Factory 2

“I’ve invented a new sweet,” I said, looking at Sharon for a reaction.

She didn’t look too interested, but I decided to tell her about it anyway.

“You chew a Toffo and then eat a mouthful of crisps,” I said, and then demonstrated by stuffing a handful of ready salted crisps into my toffee-filled gob.

“That’s disgusting,” Sharon replied, rolling her eyes.  Her eyebrows disappeared underneath her pink sprayed fringe.

I laughed and rolled the wheels of my roller boots against the tarmac, lifting up my feet so that they spun round and round with a satisfying whirring noise.

Sharon continued fiddling with the dial on her transistor radio.  We were trying to find some pop music, but it was proving impossible; all we got was screeching and crackles.  She flung it down in disgust and wobbled to her feet, holding onto the wall for balance.

“Did you see that old man’s face?” she asked. “‘I wish I’d got my glasses on’ he said”. 

“He’s probably never even heard of Adam and the Ants.”  I replied, musing as to whether my Nan would be able to recognise Adam Ant.  I didn’t think she would.

Sharon was sporting a white stripe right across her nose and I’d drawn a heart-shaped beauty spot on my cheekbone.  Our hair was sprayed pink and glittery with some stuff we found in Boots.  It came in a can like hairspray and you could just brush it out.  I was wearing my white frilly blouse, leather pedal pushers and Deely boppers with little windmills.  I didn’t think Adam Ant would ever wear them, but perhaps he would admire the way the windmills twirled as I roller skated.  I spent a great deal of my time pondering Adam Ant’s likes and dislikes.

“I don’t think Kelly’s going to come out,” Sharon sighed.

“He’s probably not even home.”

We’d been sitting on Kelly’s garden wall for what seemed like hours, hoping to get a glimpse of him.  I was surprised his mum hadn’t come out to tell us to move along.

“Why don’t we roller skate along the High Street?” I asked.  I found Sharon’s endless pursuit of boys really boring, but better than being at home on my own.  “I love to see the looks on people’s faces as we skate past them.”

“Nah, let’s go to my house,” Sharon said.

I felt joy, like a match had been struck inside me.  Sharon’s house is lovely, with a proper tidy garden, and her bedroom has a matching bedspread, curtains and wallpaper decorated with Pierrots.  I don’t like clowns, especially ones that are crying, but it fills me with awe to be in a home where things are actually meant to go together.  Sharon’s mum, Trisha, is really house-proud and I’ve never seen her not cleaning or cooking.  In fact, the only time I’ve seen her resting is when I once caught her smoking a fag in the garden.  I’m sworn to secrecy, not even Sharon and her dad know that Trisha smokes, and she cleverly disguises the smell with Zoflora.

“Hello, mum!” Sharon shouted as we unlaced our roller boots at the back door.  I could already detect the familiar smell of disinfectant and furniture polish.

“Don’t be making rubber streaks on my lino.”

Trisha’s shout came from in the ‘sun room’, which is what the family called the extension.  It was very light and cheerful on account of the patio doors and was filled with wicker furniture.  I think Trisha was going for the exotic holiday home effect, probably wishing she could see rolling beaches through the glass doors, rather than the ornamental fish pond.

I was surprised to see Trisha sitting down, relaxing with a cup of coffee in her hand.  She was curled up in one of the high-backed bamboo chairs, which reminded me of the big fan tail of a peacock.  To her right, seated together on a wicker sofa, were her neighbour, Marlene, and a teenage boy.  The boy squirmed as Sharon and I stared at him, then suppressed a smirk as he noticed our hair and make-up.

“Good heavens!  Would you look at the sight of them!” Marlene exclaimed.  “It’s the kids from Fame.”

“Adam and the Ants,” I corrected.  “We’re ant people.”

Marlene and Trisha looked at each other and laughed.  Sharon shot me a desperate look, which indicated that I should shut up and stop embarrassing her, then gestured towards the empty sofa opposite them.

Trisha eased her bulk out of the chair and asked if we’d like something to eat.  I tried not to grin too enthusiastically, in case she thought I’d only turned up in hope of being fed.

Sharon seemed to know the boy, so I assumed that he was Marlene’s son, who left school last year.

“How’s it going at the butchers?” she asked him.

Marlene gave him a nudge with her elbow.

“’Alright.”

“Do they let you use the knives?” I asked, feeling suddenly very curious.

“Of course.  And the mincer.  I won’t tell you what’s in the mince, though, or you’ll never eat cottage pie again.”

“Why?  Do they put bits of people in it?” I asked. 

He looked at me like I’d gone mad.

“Not on purpose, but the butcher once lost the top off his finger.”

“My mum’s boyfriend said they shut down the pie factory because of the children who kept disappearing.  Do you believe him?”

Before anyone could answer, Trisha came back into the room carrying a tray with two plates, two glasses of lemonade and two orange Club biscuits.  The sandwiches were cloudlike in their white fluffy perfection; crustless and cut into triangles.

“Thank you, Mrs Cartwright,” I said politely.

“Where did you find this one?” Marlene asked Trisha, nodding towards me.  “She’s a right ghoulish character.”

“She just seems to turn up at meal times,” Trisha answered.  She didn’t mean it unkindly, but I still felt ashamed.

Sharon seemed to sense my discomfort.  “I’ll show you the SodaStream, when you’ve eaten that,” she said with a grin.