Doctor Who_ Time and Relative - Kim Newman [9]
I admitted it.
'Good-oh. Keep out of trouble.'
When they drove off, veering around snowy lumps in the road, John looked back at me.
I think he likes me.
Later –
I like Peter O'Toole and John Lennon and Patrick McGoohan. I love Lawrence of Arabia and the Beatles and Danger Man.
I don't like Albert Finney, except I don't like him in a special way that might mean I like him more than any others I mention.
Because it had an X-certificate, Gillian and I had to dress up like Year Six girls, with high-heels and make-up and scarves, to get into Saturday Night and Sunday Morning at the Rialto. We sat in the back stalls and two lads tried to chat us up, but they were horrible and Gillian saw them off. The big scandal was that we saw Mr Chesterton and Miss Wright from School in the audience, and had to hide because they might give our ages away.
I keep thinking about Albert Finney. Or maybe Arthur Seaton, the man he plays in the film – which comes from a book by Alan Sillitoe that I haven't finished yet. Ghastly confiscated the paperback because I was reading it when I should have been studying Swiss crop-rotation. When he dropped the rat on the factory conveyor-belt or broke windows by throwing stones, I could see that he was wrong and right at the same time. I think I like rebels, being at least an honorary one myself.
I don't like Cliff Richard and I'm quite sure about that. Ugh! As far as I'm concerned, it's no surprise that he's likely to stay a bachelor boy.
Of course, these aren't people I know personally. I've only seen and heard them in films and magazines or on television and the wireless.
I don't know them. (Like I know John and Gillian and teachers and Grandfather.)
At my apparent age, in some earthly cultures, I'd be married and have children. Even here and now in England (with my forged birth certificate), I could be married a year and a half from now – though that seems hardly likely. Gillian says Year Five girls who leave School to get married usually have a bun in the oven.
John likes me. Do I like John?
That's a question I don't feel like answering here.
Later –
After John left with his Dad, I hung about the High Street for a while. I have a sort of weekend job on Saturday afternoons, looking after Malcolm, with a lavish take-home wage of five shillings. Gillian calls Malcolm my boyfriend, but he's six years old and babyish even for his age. His Mum works in the newsagent's and his Dad's on the buses. They're from Trinidad and were complaining about the climate even before it got cold. Malcolm likes going to the pictures, especially cowboy films (which are boring) and cartoons (which make more sense). Sometimes, I take him to the zoo or a museum, but mostly I stay in his parents' flat with him, playing games and telling stories.
Malcolm likes being told stories. I've told him that I'm a runaway princess from outer space. He pretends to believe me. Or maybe he's not pretending. When I'm talking with him, I can tell him things I'm not supposed to tell anyone else. My head doesn't hurt. It's as if Malcolm doesn't count.
Children are different.
Malcolm has toy robots and spaceships and is fascinated by what's up there, beyond the sky.
His favourite toy is a gonk. They're a craze at the moment: stuffed Humpty Dumpty-like things, huge eggheads with exaggerated faces and tiny limbs. His is a cowboy with a black moustache, a tiny stetson and holsters around its jowls.
Cowboy Gonk goes everywhere with Malcolm.
Today, I took Malcolm – mummified in layers of coat, scarves, boots and mittens – from his Mum at the newsagent. He insisted we watch the soldiers, though they weren't doing anything that interesting.
'Keep your golliwog out of the way, miss,' said a soldier, a private.
That was nasty. Malcolm may be only six, but he went quiet when he heard the soldier, holding Cowboy Gonk tighter, eyes on the pavement.
And we weren't in anybody's way.
'Little blighter ought to go back where 'e came from,' said the squaddie.
If that's what people