Doubleyou

George and Clemmie’s mother was driving, dangerously close to running out of petrol. Again. The dial crept closer and closer to “E” for empty which meant they would need to look between the sofa cushions for coins again, excavating them from their crumby hiding places.

George stared out of the car window. Her nose and mouth close enough to the glass to make foggy “O”s that appeared and disappeared in a misty heartbeat. It was raining. Fat streams ran down the glass and gathered in the stretch of moss growing along the rubber crevice of the door seal. She picked out a rogue raindrop and traced its silvery path with her fingertip until she was distracted by a nudge in the ribs.

Squashed in beside George on the back seat of the old white Nissan was her best friend Jodie. Jodie sat beside her brother Kit, who squirmed next to George’s little sister Clemmie. The four children held in place shoulder to shoulder, in a time before laws about seatbelts. It wasn’t an intentional chronological lineup, although perhaps at some point it had been ordered that way, probably by George, back when these things had been important to her.

The two older children sat quietly whilst the younger two fidgeted — the origin of the elbow-in-ribs-ripple effect. Jodie ignored them easily, her attention focused on George who was still staring at the rain and the thin moss garden. When the soft green fuzz had first begun to appear they had been convinced it was the work of fairies, not neglect. They had tracked its progress up until the day of the big argument. That was the day George changed everything. Jodie looked at her friend and ached again for their old games, to talk about fairies, for their own private world. She concentrated really hard on not crying. George hated crying.

The younger two whispered and giggled in their secret language and took turns to pick at the big scab on Kits knee. He was particularly proud of this one due to the large brown and yellow crust it had formed. They had devised a new game. The aim was to take turns to pick at the scab without making it bleed. Kit would eat his bits of scab and although he wanted Clemmie to do the same, for her this took the boundaries of their friendship too far. As a compromise, Clemmie fed him the bits of scab she picked instead.

The car slowed into the car park of Wickes. Once parked — the crunch of the handbrake signalling permission to open the door — the children piled out, one after the other in brightly coloured wellies and rain macs. It was still raining and a murky grey hung over everything George saw. Except for Jodie’s shiny new boots. They were bright red with white stars on each side. She looked at her own scuffed up green wellies with the dead eyes that rubbed her feet at the sides. They had belonged to someone else before her. The rain made Jodie’s boots sparkle and George’s tummy hurt.

George and Clemmie’s Mother gathered her bag and keys and shut the car door with a slam. Another que the children were accustomed to. Clemmie and Kit held hands, then reached for the hand of the older girl who was not their sister, because what could be more gross than holding hands with your own sister? Big ones on the outside, small ones on the inside they followed the Mother across the car park in a shambolic line of fringes, snotty noses and seeping knees.

They approached the large glass doors that opened by magic to reveal the vast warehouse. As always the familiar smell of sawdust, paint and oil caused George the dilemma of simultaneously wanting to run away, yet stay here forever. This was her Daddy’s smell. George tightened her grip, which made Kit wince. Instead of acting on her instincts and punching Clemmie on the arm which always provided an instant release from this dichotomy, George remembered what she had recently been taught. She clenched her eyes shut for a second and blew the feeling away. Picture your anger as a dandelion clock. She tried to imagine the tiny fragments of rage drifting across the wallpaper aisle and disappearing out through the garden section. It didn’t really help but her grip softened.

Although the sisters had been to this Wickes often, it was a first for Kit and Jodie. George decided it was necessary to be the boss and show the others what was what. She felt warmth in her chest and absolutely a bit taller as she expertly pointed out what was for cutting things, what was for banging things, what was for sticking things.

They followed the Mother around making sure not to lag behind or run in front. They passed row upon row of shiny chains and thick ropes all twisted up in big wheels. The younger children’s fingers twitched with the temptation to pull at them and run in screaming abandon until the rope ran out. They passed the flappy plastic entrance to the garden section, a hazy paradise that held its warm lemony smell even in winter, even in the rain. They paused a while at the kitchen and bathroom department whilst the Mother spoke to a member of staff about something to do with balls and cocks. The children took this opportunity to play with the fake rooms on display. Jodie had waited for George to initiate a game, then they quickly established who was the mum and who was the sister before commencing to make tea in a granite kitchen. Kit and Clemmie resumed a round of “smell my bum” in one of the compact bathrooms. Before the games had a chance to really begin, however, they were hurried along by the Mother whose arms were now full of all the things she needed.

George had been observing her Mother changing everything since the big argument, including their house. Covertly repainting every room, changing every light switch, making everything look and smell different. George wanted everything to smell the way it had before.

As they made their way to the tills, George spotted a carousel display stand. It stood tall, multi-limbed and inviting — like a Christmas tree — with row upon row of little metal arms glinting in the fluorescent strip lighting. As she got closer she could see that each arm held hundreds of shiny stickers. They had numbers and letters printed on them. She reached out and turned the carousel around and around, it squeaked and rocked a little. Each one of the gold, silver and bronze stickers caught her brightly in the eye. Big, medium and small ones. George was distracted from the spinning stand by her mother just ahead who had dropped something. A man, a stranger, picked up the dropped object. Her mother did the full teeth-smile, laughed the wide-mouth-louder-than-normal-laugh, and shook her hair as this stranger helped carry everything to the till. He stood very close to George’s Mother.

George grabbed at handfuls of the stickers. She stuffed them into the hungry pockets of her mac, grateful for once that the seams inside were ripped and worn so the metallic stickers slipped though and she could fit more and more of them into the lining of her coat. She stopped when she heard her mother call her name. She felt a rush through her body, it was silver like the rain, it was bright and wet and alive. She felt her feet on the ground through her boots. Happy, she felt happy. She quickly caught up with the others at the checkout. The stranger had gone.

Back in the car and driving home, George — to Jodie’s delight — was smiling and talking. In their old secretive whispers, Jodie’s best friend explained that she had a treat for everyone, and from the depths of her pockets George was fishing out handfuls of hard shiny stickers. George gave Jodie a very special large gold rectangle with a fancy black J printed on it. Jodie looked into its warm glowing surface and she felt it reflect back on her pale freckled face. She smiled. George had smaller personalised letters for the younger ones, a big silver W for herself, and a stack of mixed letters and numbers in various sizes. George handed them out as diplomatically as possible in accordance with age, height, speed etc. Clemmie did not like her stickers and was beginning to express her dissatisfaction by whining. The two older children tried to shush her quiet.

The Mother’s head twitched in annoyance from the front seat. Distracted from dark thoughts of mortgage payments and court orders, she turned toward the mounting squabble emerging from the back seat.

“But that’s not fair, you’ve got more than me,” Clemmie whined.

“Got more what?” asked the Mother. She looked in the rearview mirror to see what the children were playing with. She caught her eldest daughter’s eye in the reflection. Guilt spread from George’s eyes into her cheeks, diluting them red. It did not occur to the Mother that this was the first time in a long time they had looked each other in the eye. George froze.

“Georgina?” The Mother, hostile now, narrowed her gaze like a hunter. “What have you got?”

Instantly the younger children dropped the stickers and turned on George, pointing. The Mother stopped the car on the side of the street, opened the door where George was sitting and saw her daughter surrounded by the shiny stolen treasure. The Mother then proceeded to shout at George. This familiar tirade didn’t hold Clemmie’s attention for long, so she put her finger up her nose and looked out her window instead. The Mother’s anger came out in globules of spit. They landed in bubbly heaps on the plastic seat nearest George, who stared at her mother trying to understand what she was saying in the thundering train of words.

“whatonearthdoyouthinkyouareIraisedyoubetterthanthisyourfatherandwaituntildoyouwantmetocallthepolicewelldoyoucallthepoliceyouwilltakeitallbackrightnowhowcouldyoudothistomeisthisthethanksiget”

Tears rolled and rolled down George's face. Jodie felt sick and scared. She didn’t understand entirely what George had done, but she understood very deeply that it was wrong. She wanted to grab her friend by the hand and run. She tried to formulate an escape, as George would have done for her. Open car door, grab George by hand, run, run for life, to the park, hide in the bushes where the porno mags are left. The Mother snatched all of the letters, still frothing with angry words that landed on each child in turn. Only Clemmie emitted an insolent “owwwwwah” at having to take them back. The Mother got back in the driver’s seat, slammed the door and turned the car so fast the wheels made a screeching noise. All the children were squashed together to one and then the other side of the car. Kit and Clemmie thought this was fun, like dodgems. They laughed. George tried to control her sobbing and turned her face away from her friends and sister.

Suddenly they were back at Wickes. The Mother had been yelling the whole way, looking at the side of Georges face in the rearview mirror. George was to return the stickers, come clean and confess what she had done. Although George, like Jodie, didn’t fully understand that what she had done was steal.

Out piled the children again, only this time the line was not in the correct order and dragged by the mother pulling on George, who pulled on Jodie who pulled on Kit who pulled on Clemmie who found the whole thing hilarious and wondered what they were doing back at Wickes because hadn’t they been here today already?

The Mother halted the procession of children at the large black and red desk where a fat lady with grey hair piled on top of her head and glasses balancing on her nose looked down at George. George’s crimes were laid out in front of the lady as onlookers stopped to pass their judgements, tutting and shaking their heads at the sticker thief. George looked up at the lady. The lady sternly told her how wrong it was to steal and next time (the mother leant over and whispered something in the lady’s ear), next time the police would be called and George would go to prison where she would not be able to watch Pat Sharps’ Fun House, eat crisp sandwiches or play fairies with Jodie, ever again.

George’s forehead was sweating under the buzzing lights. She felt dizzy. She felt she had grown smaller, or the grown-ups had gotten taller. She managed to hold back her tears in front of the grey lady but choked on them in terror when she saw the security guard. He was enormous. He wore a black uniform with a radio strapped near his shoulder. His hands were huge, bigger than her Daddy’s. When the security guard peered down at her he blocked out the light. His foul breath of coffee and cigarettes had the combined aroma of cat poo. This made George wretch. A warm puddle trickled into her scuffed up too small wellies.

Humiliated and exhausted, George vowed she would never ever return to Wickes again. She never wanted to see that place, that horrible lady, that scary man or have to smell those smells ever again. She wanted to punch Clemmie very badly, although she knew she was in enough trouble as it was.

Back in the car again everyone was quiet. The younger two had fallen asleep, leaning on each other’s heads, exhausted from the drama. George stared out the window once more. Dried tears had left tracks down her cheeks that made the skin tight and sore. The seat was cold underneath and she could smell her own urine. The rain had stopped.

Jodie, still sitting close to George, kept her eyes firmly fixed on the back of the Mother’s head. Very carefully, without moving any other part of her body, Jodie crept her fingers along the seat until they found the crack in the plastic. From here she gently, silently, retrieved the remaining shiny square from where she had hidden it during the Mothers’ raid. Jodie manoeuvred it under her flattened palm and slid her hand toward George.

The Mother’s head twitched with instinct.

Jodie froze and met the Mothers gaze in the rearview mirror. She smiled her sweetest smile at the woman, whose eyes softened and winked at the young girl, before continuing to look at the road. Jodie kept looking at the back of the Mothers head as she poked George with the tips of her fingers. George turned to face her friend with sore swollen eyes.

Jodie looked at George.

Jodie looked down to her hand and then back up to George.

George frowned.

Jodie looked at the Mother, then back to George, down to her hand, then back to George and prodded her again with her fingertips.

George looked at the Mother, slipped her hand from her lap and on top of Jodie’s.

Jodie snapped her hand away, leaving George to hide the W in her coat. George leant her head on her best friends’ shoulder. Jodie thought her heart would burst.

Later that night George sat at the top of the stairs whilst her Mother thought she was asleep. She held the shiny W in her hand. She heard her mother pick up the beige house phone and press the clunky sticky numbers.

“Hello?” Her mother’s voice was hard which meant she could only be talking to one person. “Will? We need to talk about what Georgina did today”

George, who couldn’t bear to hear the story again, carefully stood up and expertly dodging the creaky floorboard crept back to bed unnoticed. In the darkness she felt for the edge of her pillowcase, she slid the W inside and with its sharp edges pressing into her face, she fell asleep.

Many, many years later, George found herself in the same Wickes again, her stomach swollen by the curled up arms and legs of her own child. She felt haunted as she wandered the aisles, and only when she saw the carousel did the memory run into her with a thud. The stickers were smaller than she had remembered and the carousel was not like a Christmas tree at all, but a small dusty display with grey empty spikes for arms.

The child inside her elbowed her in the ribs.

Without buying the silicone gun she needed to mend her leaking shower, George turned and left, the magic doors closing behind her.