Trio - [54]

‘If I had freckles like you, I’d get my name down for a skin-graft.’ Rosie glanced at Sophie for her approval. ‘There’s millions of them.’

‘Yeah. Looks like you’re going rusty.’ Sophie said.

Nina hated them. She felt her chest tighten, her hands go damp with sweat. She set her mouth, turned to walk away. One of them shoved her in the back between the shoulder blades. She couldn’t stop herself then. She lunged and caught a fistful of shiny blonde hair, pulled it hard down, forcing Sophie’s head towards the tarmac.

Someone grabbed her from behind. Other hands joined in.

‘Get off!’ The ringing tones of a teacher split the girls apart. Nina brushed the hair from her face, pulled her sweater round where it had twisted. She took some comfort from Sophie’s flushed face and the way her hair was all messed up.

Mrs Day, the head, went bonkers. She would have to write to Nina’s parents. If Nina couldn't control her temper then there would be no place for her in the school. It was unladylike and unacceptable. Mrs Day didn’t bother trying to establish what had led up to the brawl and Nina didn't bother trying to tell her. Sophie was a clever pupil. Her father gave the school a lot of money. She didn’t pick on anyone else, only Nina, so they all thought Nina was the troublemaker.

When she went back to her class she saw people’s eyes flicking at her to see if she’d been crying. Well, she hadn't, so bully for them. She saw Veronica nudge Rosie.

‘Sit down, Nina,’ Mrs Sinclair said. ‘And get out your Egyptian topic.’

Brilliant. She’d nearly finished her cover. She’d copied a mummy from a library book and she’d used bits of real gold paper from Dad’s cigarette packets to do the stripes on the sarcophagus with. She’d filled in-between with a lovely blue ink from the Fred Aldous shop in town. She’d done a border of proper hieroglyphics down the sides, and across the top and bottom she was doing a row of pyramids with a Sphinx in each corner. All she needed to do now was to colour in the pyramids and it would be finished.

She knew Miss Sinclair would put it on display, she’d held it up to show everyone last time.

Nina sat down and opened her desk. The bottle of blue ink lay on its side, the top open and a thick pool of it all over her folder. Her work was ruined. She could smell the metallic fumes of the ink. She wanted to cry, her eyes burned like coals and her nose prickled but she wouldn’t. She had left the ink at the other side, next to her pencil case. She knew she had. She looked across at her enemies. Saw the sly smile that Sophie shot Rosie and the prim curl on Veronica’s lips, the way her shoulders jerked a bit with a mocking, silent laugh.

She plunged her hands into the pool of ink, spreading it over the whole of the cover, and then crumpled the paper up. Rotten stinking pigs.

‘Miss!’ She held up her hands and heard the communal gasp.

‘Oh, Nina!’ Miss Sinclair’s voice was thick with frustration. ‘After all that work. You’d done so well. See – a moment’s clumsiness and it’s all spoilt. How many times do I have to tell you girls to put the tops back on properly. Go wash your hands.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘And try not to get into any more trouble on the way. I think we’ve had enough drama for one day, don't you?’

Marjorie

She was in the middle of spring cleaning. A house like this was easier to keep up with than something larger but even so you’d be amazed at how much grime accumulated from one year to the next. They couldn’t afford to be repainting and changing carpets whenever things got grubby but with plenty of elbow grease the place looked fresh and clean again.

She was methodical in her approach. A floor at a time, starting upstairs. First tidy and clear away the items that had a place to go. Put aside anything for jumble or good-as-new. Strip the beds. Remove and wash the curtains. That was a job and a half in itself. Filthy and tiring. Up the stepladder undoing all the curtain hooks, supporting the weight of the fabric on one arm. Curtains in to wash, or to the dry-cleaners. Wipe down the pelmet and the curtain rails. Clean the windows. Shift all the furniture and vacuum underneath, more swathes of grey fluff and hair and lost things. Return furniture. Dust lamps and picture rails. Vacuum again. Wipe down the paintwork with a bucket of hot water and Stardrops. Polish the mirrors. When she was damp with exertion and groaning from the effort she would stop for coffee and a cigarette.

Doing the downstairs, she put on records to jolly her along: Tony Bennett or Burt Bacharach, Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. Downstairs was worse. The kitchen worst of all. Grease in every crevice. She had to dismantle and soak the Expel-Air, watch the water turn brown with the muck coming off it, till it was ivory-coloured again like it should be. All the crockery had to come out so she could clean the cupboards and put fresh lining paper in. The food in the larder and all the baking stuff had to be moved so she could clean the shelves. The drawers in the cabinets sorted out and tidied. The nets had to be soaked in Glo-White. The kitchen took at least a full day to do properly. Top to toe.