shyness ‘common’, because she’s not that mad, but she definitely thinks it’s ‘not to be indulged’.
‘Anyone above the age of ten,’ she told me on my tenth birthday, ‘should have learned to hold their head up and speak clearly, and if you do that you are equal to anyone.’
So, I straightened my back and pushed the door, which tinkled a bell as I walked in, making the girl at the desk look up from her magazine.
She had extra-blonde hair extensions and she was chewing gum. She had on a white(ish) tunic that buttoned down one side, like dental hygienists wear, and its colour made her tanned face seem even darker.
I smiled and approached her desk.
‘Hello,’ I said.
(Incidentally, Gram always recommends ‘How do you do?’ on first encounters, but she’s in her sixties and I’m not.)
According to a badge on her tunic she was called Linda. Linda nodded in acknowledgement and stopped chewing for a second.
‘I see you’re selling off your equipment,’ I continued.
She nodded. ‘Aye.’
A short conversation followed, during which I managed to learn that three all-over, walk-in tanning cubicles were being sold off because Geordie Bronze had fought a ‘price war’ with the salon next door and lost. Geordie Bronze had gone out of business, or something like that anyway.
The cubicles could be mine for ‘two grand each’. Two thousand pounds.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I turned to leave.
‘Hang on, pet,’ said Linda. ‘Is it for yourself, like?’
‘Umm … yeah?’
‘Is it for the …?’ And she made a sort of circular motion with her hand round her face, meaning, ‘Is it for my spots?’
I nodded, while thinking, What a cheek!
She gave a little half-smile, and it was only then that I noticed that, beneath her thick make-up and tan, her cheeks were pitted like the skin of a grapefruit.
Acne scars.
‘Aw, pet. You’ve gorrit bad, haven’t you? I had that when I was about your age.’ She paused, then looked again, head cocked on one side, and added, ‘Mind you … not quite as bad as that.’
Gee, thanks. She beckoned me to follow her to the back of the shop, where she pulled a sheet off a long, white sunbed, and lifted the lid.
I’m guessing you’ve seen a sunbed before? You lie on it, and then pull the lid down, and you’re sort of encased in this giant sandwich toaster. Brilliant UV tubes come on above you and below you and, well, that’s about it.
‘It’s knackered an’ old,’ said Linda, rubbing at a scratch on the lid. ‘But it still works. We’re just norrallowed to use it commercially any more. New regulations. We cannit sell it, neither. It’s gonna go to the dump tomorrow.’
Long story short, she let me have it for free (I know, right!), and five minutes later, me and Elliot Boyd were carrying it up Whitley Road, one end each.
Halfway home, we stopped for a rest. He was panting much more than me.
‘I’ve never ’ad a suntan,’ he said. ‘Never even been abroad.’
If he was hinting that he’d like to come and use it, then I was going to pretend that I hadn’t understood. Even he wouldn’t be crass enough to ask directly.
‘I was just wonderin’, seeing as I’m helping you home with it, if I could come and use it sometime?’
Hmm. Subtle. I found myself totally unable to say no. It would have been kind of rude, and he was so pleased, he babbled on – suggesting when he could come round, and saying how tanned he’d be – and I just switched off, heaving the thing along the pavement.
Fifteen sweaty minutes after that, I’d cleared a space in the garage. I propped the sunbed upright and covered it with the sheet, it kind of blended in with the old wardrobe, a pile of boxes and other garage junk destined for a church bazaar.
Gram and Lady were out. And it’s not like we ever use the garage for anything other than storing stuff.
In fact, given that Gram hardly ever even goes in the garage, I thought I might just be able to get away with not telling her at all. The very last thing I wanted was her forbidding me to use the sunbed, either because it’s ‘common’ or unsafe, or uses too much electricity, or … I dunno. Gram’s odd sometimes. You can never tell.
Boyd was red-faced and sweating.
‘You’ll get a nice tan,’ he said.
He was kind of making conversation and it was nice of him to help me carry it, so I said, ‘Yes. Erm … thanks for the, you know …’
There was one of those awkward silences before I said, ‘Soooo, erm … I’d better, you know … erm …’
And he said, ‘OK, erm … I’ll be … you know … erm … See you.’
That was it. He was off.
By the time Gram let herself in the front door, I was trying not to gag as I forced down my daily dose of some Dr Chang His Skin So Clear (it had been three weeks with no sign of improvement).
‘Hi, Gram!’ I said when she came into the kitchen.
Gram looked at me with an expression that could easily have been suspicion. Was I being a bit too enthusiastic?
But perhaps I was overthinking stuff.
Later on, I remembered Elliot Boyd’s round, sweaty face and it occurred to me that I was very close to him and he didn’t smell.
The next day, Saturday, I was dying to try out the sunbed, naturally, but I couldn’t do it because it was Great-gran’s hundredth birthday and there was a bit of a party on in her care home.
I say ‘party’ like it was going to be a wild affair, but of course it wasn’t, seeing as me and Gram are about the only family Great-gran has. There was a cake, a few people from church, the other residents and the staff of Priory View, and that’s about it.
Great-gran has been in this home as long as I can remember. Apparently, when Gram first moved back to the north-east, Great-gran was still living in a big old house in Culvercot on her own. Great-grandad had died years ago, and then Great-gran fell over in her kitchen. (Gram always says ‘she had a fall’, which I think is odd. I never ‘have a fall’. If I ever fall over, I just ‘fall over’.)
The house was sold and turned into flats and Gram moved here. The home overlooks a little beach and the ruined old monastery on the clifftop.
It’s very quiet, and very warm. As soon as you go in the big front door, the cold seafront breeze outside is swapped for a hot, stuffy blanket of air that manages to smell both super-clean and a bit dirty at the same time. The clean smells are disinfectant and wood polish and air freshener; the less-clean ones smell of school dinners and other stuff that I can’t identify, and probably don’t want to.
Along the thickly carpeted corridor is Great-gran’s room. The door was half open. From inside I could hear the cheery Geordie nurse talking to her loudly.
‘There you are, Lizzie, sweetheart. You’re gerrin’ some visitors now, you lucky birthday girl. No misbehavin’ now, eh? Ah’ve got me eye on yuh!’
The nurse winked at us as she left the room, and once again, I found myself baffled as