Chloe Rayban - Watching You, Watching Me

The boys didn’t reappear. I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling. Out of all the girls in my class I reckon my parents are the strictest. Maybe some of it’s boasting, but from what I’ve heard, other girls my age are allowed to go out loads more than me. They dress up and get into pubs and clubs. My parents would have a fit if I did any of those things. They still think I’m a child.

I sat up and stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. I even look young for my age. I didn’t stand a chance with a guy like the one over the road. He’d hardly want to be seen around with some kid.

You know what Mum says? It’s the most depressing and infuriating thing anyone can say: ‘Your turn will come, Natasha.’ Well, I simply don’t believe it. By the time it’s my turn, it’ll be too late.

I lay there for quite a while trying to summon up the energy to finish my French homework. I strained my ears for sounds from the house opposite but I guess the boys must have gone out or something.

It was a warm evening and my window was open. I could hear the anxious cheeping and scrabbling of the house-martins. They made a rough mud nest under the eaves of our house every year. This one was just above my bedroom window. Gemma was doing a nature project on them for school and was always barging into my room to check on them. It had been a bit of a pain to start with, but then I couldn’t help getting involved. This summer the parents had brought up three separate broods of fledglings. So there had been constant comings and goings as the parents tried to keep up with their demand for food. I could see a couple of martins darting back and forth across the street catching insects right now. I loved the way they always looked so neatly dressed in black and white — like an anxious pair of waiters in a smart restaurant, with a load of diners grumbling about the time they took bringing the food. And it wasn’t just the adults who did the work. Later in the year — like right now — the earlier, older fledglings would join in and help feed the younger ones. You’d think they’d prefer to be off on their own somewhere, wouldn’t you? Flying down to Spain perhaps, sorting out where they were going to spend the winter? Instead, they were stuck at home doing chores for Mum and Dad. I’d started to identify with some of those martins over the course of that project.

Gemma had wandered into my room.

‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down on my bed beside me.

‘What’s up? Nothing on TV?’

‘Just wondered what was going on over there.’ She indicated the window over the road.

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘Oh. Sorry about letting on to Mum.’

‘I’ll survive.’

‘But you do fancy him, don’t you?’

‘He’s all right.’

She leaned towards me and asked in an undertone: ‘Do your knees go to Jell-o whenever you see him?’

‘Go to what?’

‘Jell-o.’ She paused. ‘What is Jell-o?’

‘Jell-o is American for jelly. And no, they don’t as a matter of fact. Honestly, Gem. I don’t know what you see in those books.’

The school week dragged to an end at last, and Friday found me in my room doing my long overdue oboe practice.

I had a really difficult piece to practise for my next exam. It had this long sustained opening note which you had to count through and keep your breathing controlled until you felt you could burst. I dread to think what I must have looked like while playing it.

On my third attempt it really came out well. The piece was by Albinoni. He’s a genius. If you play his music properly it’s really stunningly beautiful. That’s the funny thing about practice. You put it off and put it off and when you can’t put it off any longer and it comes to doing it — you find you enjoy it. No, not just enjoy It’s as if you’re on another plane when you really get into it. You get to a state when you’re so totally absorbed that you can’t break off …

Like now.

‘Natasha, can you hear me?’

‘Yes Mum … What is it?’

‘Help me with this, can’t you?’ Mum’s voice was muffled. She appeared in her bedroom doorway half-in and half-out of a dress, her best dress.

I put down the oboe and went to rescue her. I gave the dress a tug and her head appeared over the top.

‘Can you keep an eye on Jamie and Gemma? It’s only for a few hours. I’ll be back by 9.30.’

‘But it’s Friday …’

‘Yes, and this is a very important meeting. Might mean promotion.’

‘I’m doing my oboe practice.’

‘Well, that won’t take all night.’

‘Why can’t Dad babysit?’

‘Working late on that river project.’

‘Uggghh.’

‘You can take the two of them to the cinema, my treat.’

‘Big deal. We can go to a U.’

Mum was leaning into her three-piece mirror putting lipstick on. I stood behind her and watched critically.

‘You ought to use a lipliner you know — you’d get a much better shape.’

‘You said yourself you wanted to see Babe,’ she mumbled, rubbing her lips together. They’re doing a rerun at the MGM.’

I had actually. OK, I know it’s pathetic, but I still get a kick out of kids’ films — it’s the one and only compensation for having a younger brother and sister. You can veg out in front of stuff like 101 Dalmatians and pretend it’s for their benefit.

‘Popcorn and ice-cream too?’

Mum put a tenner on the dressing table and then increased the bribe by adding a five pound note.

‘It’s a deal then,’ I said sweeping them up. What time does it start?’

‘You’ve missed the early performance — have to take them to the 7.15. So you can finish your practice first.’

‘Can I stand the pace?’

Mum straightened up and took an assessing look at herself in her full-length wardrobe mirror.

‘How do I look?’

I’ve never liked the dress. It’s a really ghastly oxblood red and that terrible middle aged length that makes you look as if you end at mid-calf.

‘It’s not exactly power dressing, is it?’

‘What do you think I should wear?’

‘Your black suit.’

‘The skirt’s too short.’

‘Rubbish. You’ve got good legs Mum, flaunt them. And you need mascara too.’

It took about half an hour to get Mum looking halfway decent, and I had to lend her my lip-gloss. She took another long assessing look at herself in the mirror.

‘I look like Joan Collins.’

‘Well look how successful she is.’

‘True. And — oh my God! Look at the time! I’ve got to dash. They’ve both had tea. Now make sure Jamie holds your hand anywhere near a road. And …’

‘Mum … Do you think I’m stupid or what?’

‘Or what,’ she said, giving me a hasty kiss.

‘Thanks. Knock ‘em dead.’

‘Do you really think I look OK?’

‘Of course!’

‘Not mutton dressed as lamb?’

‘You looked like lamb dressed as mutton in that red thing. Raw mutton.’

‘OK … Here goes.’

We could walk to the MGM from our house. Jamie and Gemma kept running on ahead so I was forced to run with them. Going with me instead of Mum made it an extra-special treat, and I knew that it was going to be a struggle to stop them getting out of hand.

We arrived at the cinema hot and out of breath to find there was a queue and it had started to drizzle too. We’d hardly joined the tail-end before Jamie started to put the pressure on for me to go inside and stock up with supplies of popcorn.