there, mostly downhill. But coming back at the end of the day, fried from the harsh northern sun and stuffed full of greasy fish and chips, was a different story. I’d done it once, borrowing my dad’s racer. At the end of it my arse felt like it had been rubbed raw, my thighs cramped tight from the effort. After that, I’d walked, sometimes hitching part of the way on a tractor or getting a lift from some of the older kids like Barry Anderson, who had a Ford Escort Mark II and would pick up anyone as long as they supplied him with fags or let him cop a feel. He’d given me a can of cider one day. Told me I was gorgeous. I lost my virginity to him in the sand dunes on a summer’s day in ’95. I’d hated the way his hands pawed at me, but I’d let him carry on.
I saw him sometimes, down the pub. Twenty years of hard drinking, fighting and labouring for the local builder had taken its toll on his once boyband-esque features; the deep lines on his cheeks seemed as if they’d been carved from stone. He still liked me, though, and over the years I’d grown to crave the rough feel of his hands against the softness of my skin.
Before I knew where I was, I was at the bus stop on the bridge on Burndale Road.
Across the road, diagonally opposite me, was Rose Cottage.
I examined the timetable at the back of the shelter, as if I was checking the time of the next bus into Edinburgh, then I turned and sat down on the hard plastic seat. From my viewpoint I could see clearly into the wide bay window to the left of the door to the cottage. I didn’t know what was in there now, but it had once been a dining room, when the McAllisters had lived there. The smaller window on the other side of the entrance was where their living room had been. A poky room and with far fewer features, but the McAllisters had been more interested in entertaining with food, hence the apparent switch of the rooms.
I’d always thought Polly McAllister was a stuck-up cow, but Claire had met her at gymnastics and seemed to think she was all right. I’d never seen the appeal of star jumps or forward rolls or throwing yourself over a pommel horse, but Claire had been something of a child prodigy so I had to pretend to be interested. Maybe if someone had been bothered enough to encourage me to try it out, I might have felt differently.
It was the Friday of the last day of term and we’d been let out of school early. My parents were away at a trades fair, trying to hawk their horrendous gold-plated jewellery like a couple of cut-price Gerald Ratners, so I was entrusted to Claire’s mum and dad until early evening when they got back from Glasgow. We still weren’t exactly friends, but she was the closest thing I had to one. I think she liked me more than she made out, but she still liked to disown me in front of her ‘proper’ pals.
‘Polly’s invited us for tea and Mum says it’s OK, so we’re going,’ Claire had said, in a tone that beggared no argument. She was stuffing her ridiculous collection of multicoloured dog rubbers into her fluffy pink pencil case.
My bag fell off the desk onto the floor and everything tipped out. Pencils, felt-tip pens, the pack of neat new blue jotters I’d stolen from Miss Reece’s cupboard. I felt my cheeks grow hot, terrified that Claire had seen. She would definitely tell on me if she had. We were allowed one jotter per subject, but I liked them in their little shrink-wrapped packs. They were nicer than any of the pads you could buy in the shops. I got a buzz from taking them. Something that prissy Claire would never understand.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Me as well?’
‘Yes, you as well. What’re you moaning about? Her mum and dad have got a brand-new stereo and Polly’s got New Kids on the Block , and anyway, you’d like her if you gave her a chance.’
‘She’s a hippy bloody vegetarian!’ I said.
‘So? And don’t say bloody. You’re not allowed.’
I snorted. ‘You just said it. Bloody,
I saw him sometimes, down the pub. Twenty years of hard drinking, fighting and labouring for the local builder had taken its toll on his once boyband-esque features; the deep lines on his cheeks seemed as if they’d been carved from stone. He still liked me, though, and over the years I’d grown to crave the rough feel of his hands against the softness of my skin.
Before I knew where I was, I was at the bus stop on the bridge on Burndale Road.
Across the road, diagonally opposite me, was Rose Cottage.
I examined the timetable at the back of the shelter, as if I was checking the time of the next bus into Edinburgh, then I turned and sat down on the hard plastic seat. From my viewpoint I could see clearly into the wide bay window to the left of the door to the cottage. I didn’t know what was in there now, but it had once been a dining room, when the McAllisters had lived there. The smaller window on the other side of the entrance was where their living room had been. A poky room and with far fewer features, but the McAllisters had been more interested in entertaining with food, hence the apparent switch of the rooms.
I’d always thought Polly McAllister was a stuck-up cow, but Claire had met her at gymnastics and seemed to think she was all right. I’d never seen the appeal of star jumps or forward rolls or throwing yourself over a pommel horse, but Claire had been something of a child prodigy so I had to pretend to be interested. Maybe if someone had been bothered enough to encourage me to try it out, I might have felt differently.
It was the Friday of the last day of term and we’d been let out of school early. My parents were away at a trades fair, trying to hawk their horrendous gold-plated jewellery like a couple of cut-price Gerald Ratners, so I was entrusted to Claire’s mum and dad until early evening when they got back from Glasgow. We still weren’t exactly friends, but she was the closest thing I had to one. I think she liked me more than she made out, but she still liked to disown me in front of her ‘proper’ pals.
‘Polly’s invited us for tea and Mum says it’s OK, so we’re going,’ Claire had said, in a tone that beggared no argument. She was stuffing her ridiculous collection of multicoloured dog rubbers into her fluffy pink pencil case.
My bag fell off the desk onto the floor and everything tipped out. Pencils, felt-tip pens, the pack of neat new blue jotters I’d stolen from Miss Reece’s cupboard. I felt my cheeks grow hot, terrified that Claire had seen. She would definitely tell on me if she had. We were allowed one jotter per subject, but I liked them in their little shrink-wrapped packs. They were nicer than any of the pads you could buy in the shops. I got a buzz from taking them. Something that prissy Claire would never understand.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Me as well?’
‘Yes, you as well. What’re you moaning about? Her mum and dad have got a brand-new stereo and Polly’s got New Kids on the Block , and anyway, you’d like her if you gave her a chance.’
‘She’s a hippy bloody vegetarian!’ I said.
‘So? And don’t say bloody. You’re not allowed.’
I snorted. ‘You just said it. Bloody,
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