Page 17 of If I Could Say Goodbye
1.Down in the valley = Me – 15 Jen – 16
2.Cinderella = Me 21 (it was actually 22 but Jen says it didn’t count because I got my foot stuck on the rope but it doesn’t matter because Jen only got 19 so there)
‘What’s “Down in the valley”?’ Hailey asks, pushing her glasses up her nose and turning to me.
‘It’s a song you sing when you skip . . . don’t you do them at school?’
‘We’re not allowed to play with skipping ropes after Chloe almost choked Jamil with it.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose with health and safety and all of that . . .’ My voice trails off.
Ed’s mouth opens and closes as though he’s about to add his views on health and safety but thinks better of it.
‘It goes . . .’ I continue:
‘Down in the valley,
Where the green grass grows . . .’
Kerry joins in, as does Ed:
‘There sat Janey,
Sweet as a rose.
Along came . . .’
‘Johnny? Or was it Jimmy?’ Mum questions as she goes into the house.
‘Johnny,’ Ed clarifies:
‘And kissed her on the cheek.
How many kisses did she get this week?’
‘. . . And then you start counting with each jump . . . One, two, three, four, five . . .’
‘Can we do the skipping song? Can I go and get my rope?’
‘Yes! That sounds like great fun!’ Mum announces, returning to the garden with another bottle of wine and two more glasses.
The afternoon passes in a haze of laughter as we work our way through the wine and skipping songs. Even Dad has a go, but sadly only manages to get three kisses from Johnny; Ed on the other hand is all kissed out. I look around the garden from behind my sunglasses, watching them all giggling and laughing, the flush to Oscar’s cheeks and the way his tongue pokes out as he concentrates; the beam of pride as Hailey gets better with each try and the memory of my sister, watching it all from the tyre swing that hangs from the old apple tree at the bottom of the garden.
Today has been a good day.
Chapter Twelve
Jennifer
I have walked past these pop-up events that are held in the centre square of town many times. At Christmas, the main square is made into an ice rink; Kerry was part of the opening ceremony once. Today, it’s a roller-boot park. There is a flat surface as well as ramps and rails for the more experienced skater, one of whom – a man dressed like a teenager, his thinning hair somehow holding on to a man bun – is making a very pleasing grinding sound. Toddlers and mothers are hanging on to the sides: laughter and tears, encouragement and worry. Just past the hangers-on are the speeders, the roller-booted elite, their boots from a specialist shop brought with them. In the middle are a few teenagers, half-way from childhood to adulthood, unsure if they should look like they’re enjoying it or look indifferent. A little girl with her brow furrowed in concentration has just let go of her mother’s hands and is moving forward on her wheels, the mother’s face a picture of pride.
My feet continue to walk past, but then hesitate. Why am I hesitating? I’m on my way to a café, it has the most delicious wares in the window, and I promised myself that I’d have one.
‘Jen!’ Kerry shouts at me from within the rink, as she did so many times when I had been sat in the stalls doing my homework while she practised: spinning on one leg, her body blurring as the momentum of her spin took hold, her arms outstretched. She pulls herself into a stop, her face flushed, her eyes wide and her black AC/DC top skimming the top of her pierced belly button. ‘You don’t need that! You need this! Come on . . . you know you want to!’ She skates backwards, her legs crossing over each other seamlessly.
The teenage boy looks at me as I hesitate and scour the prices board.
‘Thinking of bringing your kids?’ he asks. ‘Only, we’ve got an area sectioned off for kids with a foam party running at four till five. The little’uns love it.’
