Life According To...Alice B. Lovely Page 6

  “Hmm … well, my favourite colour is yellow, but that wouldn’t look too good for an eye colour, I don’t think.”

  Yellow. She would like that. All phoney bright. Yellow is a BFPC (Big Fat Phoney Colour).

  “Tell us something else!” Stan grins.

  “Let’s see … how about art? Art is my favourite subject at school.”

  “I love art too!” says Stan excitedly. “But tell me something else!”

  “Ooh…” murmurs Alice B. Lovely, glancing around the room for inspiration. Her eyes settle on the cooker. “I love Quattro Formaggio pizza – it’s my favourite food.”

  Then, seeing Stan’s look of confusion, she adds, “It means four types of cheese”.

  “Yew – Edie would hate that. She doesn’t like cheese, do you?”

  Stan and Alice B. Lovely wait for me to answer, but I pretend to be reading my book.

  “Tell me something else!” he starts again.

  “Er … magpies. I love them.”

  “Stan hates birds,” I mutter darkly, but maybe a bit too quietly – neither of them seems to have heard me.

  “I remember. A ‘charm’ of magpies!” Stan says, and giggles at his cleverness.

  “That’s right, Stan. And hey, I just remembered something,” says Alice B. Lovely, slapping her hand on the draining board. “Crocodiles … it’s a ‘bask’ of crocodiles!”

  Stan immediately rushes over to his school bag and pulls out Arthur, who’s been shoved in there along with his pencil case and packed lunch.

  “Hear that, Arthur?” he tells his squashy, much-loved friend. “Arthur, meet Alice B. Lovely. Arthur comes from Kenya, where there are lots of crocodiles! My uncle went on a safari there last year and brought him back for me. Arthur likes cuddles…”

  Aw … Stan is too cute. (As long as he doesn’t think it’s all right to cuddle real crocodiles, otherwise we’re in BIG trouble next time we go to a zoo.)

  You know, I remember that visit from Uncle Bob; he brought me back a toy hippo. You can guess how many times I cuddled that… (Clue: it was between zero to one times.)

  “Pleased to meet you, Arthur,” says Alice B. Lovely, shaking one green paw. “You know, my dad’s been on safari.”

  “Did he go to Kenya too?” asks Stan.

  “No, not Kenya. Not that far…” she says dreamily, then lets her gaze shift to the window above the sink. “Your dad must love living here, with this view!”

  I think my dad preferred the view he had at our old flat, his old home. Staring at a stagnant puddle of brown canal water can’t make up for the fact that he’s living in a tiny apartment on his own all week, except for the couple of nights me and Stan stay over.

  “Yeah, it’s great if you enjoy watching rubbish bobbing by,” I say, irritated to see Alice B. Lovely now making herself at home. She’s moved away from the sink and is unlocking the door that leads out on to the balcony.

  I’m even more irritated to see Stan trot after her.

  Reluctantly following them, I lean on the door frame and stare a hole in the back of Alice B. Lovely’s head. Her silky straight hair is beautiful. Next time Stan gets nits, I’ll have to get him to rub his head against hers…

  “There were three shopping trollies in there last week, weren’t there, Stan?” I say.

  “Maybe a ‘tangle’ of shopping trollies, eh, Stan?” Alice B. Lovely laughs softly.

  Stan laughs too. It wasn’t even funny. I wish my brother would just stop with all the grinning and giggling and laughing.

  “Or a ‘rattle’ of shopping trollies, ’cause that’s the sound they make!” he takes a turn to suggest.

  “Nice one!” she says, lifting her silver-gloved hand up for a high five, which Stan obligingly slaps. (What?!)

  “Dog walkers sometimes throw doggy poo bags in there as well,” I tell her.

  I don’t know why I’m only mentioning the yucky stuff. Me and Stan, we have a list of the funny things we’ve seen bobbing along. Like the hamster ball (luckily, minus a hamster inside), the boogie board (no one was going to be catching any waves in this particular stretch of water any time soon), and a giant inflatable palm tree (we fished it out with a broken branch from one of the nearby cherry trees, but ended up bursting it).

  The trouble is, I often just get stuck in this habit of coming out with the most negative stuff possible. Or the sarkiest. Specially in the company of unwanted nannies.

  “I bet you see beautiful things too,” says Alice B. Lovely. “Ducks and swans…”

  Uh-oh. Wrong thing to mention in front of Stan.

  “We saw a dead swan in there once,” he replies.

  I should correct him, remind him it was just a plastic Argos carrier bag. But I’m quite keen for the perfect(ly strange) Alice B. Lovely to think she’s said the wrong thing.

  “It’s given him nightmares,” I tell her. “He gets creeped out by birds now.”

  “Oh, but Stan – birds are beautiful,” Alice says, blinking her feathery eyes. “Can you imagine how it must feel to soar up in the sky?”

  What on earth is she doing now? She’s standing on the little ledge that runs around the balcony, pressing herself against the railings, and has her arms out wide.

  Stan is staring at her as if she’s gone stark raving bananas.

  “Come on, Stan – we’re at the same height as the birds here. See how it feels!”

  She glances around, sees an empty window box and tips it upside down. Next thing, Stan is standing on it, tummy pressed against the railings, arms outstretched.

  He giggles self-consciously.

  “See that pigeon?” says Alice B. Lovely, and Stan nods. “Well, just copy the way it swoops!”

  So Stan swoops, stiffly at first, but Alice B. Lovely stands behind him, puts her arms under his and starts to bob, weave and glide.

  It’s like watching some corny move a CBeebies presenter might do.

  “Cooo!” says Alice B. Lovely.

  Help – she’s doing pigeon noises. Kill me now.

  “You try it, Stan.”

  Don’t, Stan! I urge him under my breath.

  “Coooo!” says Stan. “Coooo!”

  No…

  I stand in stunned silence for a few seconds, watching from behind as my brother and this very strange stranger waft from side to side making ridiculous sounds.

  A couple of very gullible pigeons flutter close by, lured by the cooing, though maybe they’re just as confused as me and want a better look at the crazy humans.

  “OI ! ! ! ! !”

  The real pigeons flap off in a panic of wings and loose feathers.

  The fake ones drop their arms and look at the source of the shouting.

  I bound forward too, recognizing my dad’s voice in a heartbeat.

  “GET AWAY FROM THE EDGE, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” he’s yelling from the bridge that crosses the canal a little further up. “DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW DANGEROUS THAT IS?”

  Oh, yeah … I guess from his angle it might look more like Stan is about to dive head first into the canal.

  From his angle, Dad wouldn’t have seen that Stan was perfectly safe, wedged between the railings and Alice B. Lovely.

  From my angle, it seems like Alice B. Lovely is on a countdown to a big shout-down with my dad.

  Hurray!

  Anything that makes things uncomfortable for nannies is fine by me.

  That might sound harsh, but that’s just life, according to Edith P. Henderson.

  And Alice B. Lovely better get used to it, or get lost.

  (I’d prefer the second option, please…)

  I have a headache.

  It’s lasted for, let’s see, nearly three months now.

  It starts the second my alarm clocks shrills on at seven-thirty a.m.

  That’s when I
open my eyes and have a blast of Dulux Lemon Tropics sear my retinas.

  “It’s lovely!” said Tash, when she came and saw my formerly cream-coloured bedroom walls painted vivid yellow by my temporarily insane mother. “Like sunshine!”

  She would say that, obviously. Tash tries to put a good spin on everything. Like when her old dog Sid died, she said, “At least he’s not in pain any more…”

  Then when my parents split up, she said, “Well, at least you won’t have to listen to them arguing and throwing mugs at each other.”

  If an asteroid was about to hit the planet and wipe out mankind, she’d probably say, “Well, at least Mum won’t expect me to tidy my room today…”

  And when my mum went a bit loopy after Dad moved out and painted every room in the flat the sort of colours used in Year 1 art lessons, my loyal, ever upbeat best friend said, “Well, it’ll be nice to wake up to such a – a fizzy colour in the mornings.”

  Fizzy? Well, I guess it was a bit like being woken with a mouth full of sherbet every day.

  “Does this colour come with a free pair of extra-strength sunglasses?” I asked Mum, when me and Stan came back from a week at Nana’s new house, not long after Dad had moved out. (It was a long week. I love my nana, but her bungalow isn’t exactly comfy and relaxing. I hate to say it, but when she comes out with stuff like, “Make yourself at home!” it’s a little bit phoney, considering she’ll hyperventilate over crisp crumbs.)

  “I just thought we needed to … freshen things up!” Mum had said with a nervous smile and a shrug, and a streak of Sugared Lilac in her hair.

  She’s asked me to live with the mental yellow for six months, and if I still hate it, I can change it. I’ve already picked out what I’m changing it to, which suits me so much more: Midnight Plum. Yes, it’s dark, but if anyone can suggest something a little gloomier, I’d love to hear about it…

  But back to headaches, since they are such fun.

  I’ve had a particularly bad one today (Wednesday), because I had a horrible dream last night about swimming in the browny soup of the canal and cracking my head on a sunken shopping trolley.

  Then I woke up and realized I’d smacked my forehead on the metal bar surrounding my delightful, luxury top-floor bunk.

  “And for my project, this is what I have wrote—”

  “Written,” I correct Stan, as I trudge behind him and Alice B. Lovely and wonder if we have any ibuprofen at home. But Mum’s been pretty rubbish at buying regular, essential sort of things since she got her great new job and her brilliant new marriage break-up, so I expect not.

  “So what have you written?” Alice B. Lovely asks Stan encouragingly.

  Mum and Dad had a big old phone fight about her last night. It went on for ever. It even went on after Stan was asleep, and considering Stan finds it hard to get to sleep at Dad’s, that’s really saying something.

  Since we were staying at Dad’s, I could only hear his side of the argument, of course, which went along the lines of how could Mum employ such an irresponsible idiot teenager to look after me and Stan (that’s the highly edited version, of course).

  Whatever Mum had said stayed a mystery. Except it must have been something along the lines of “I like her!” (edited version again), ’cause there was Alice B. Lovely, waiting patiently at the school gates for me today, hand-in-hand with a beaming Stanley.

  And today Alice B. Lovely’s outfit consisted of her furry-collared jacket, a tweedy pink mini kilt, sparkly gold tights and black patent T-bar shoes.

  “Oh, jeez!” said Holly King, as she and her friends passed her by.

  “Oh, lovely!” says Alice B. Lovely now, as we amble home.

  She’s faking interest in the homework book Stan is holding up to show her.

  Today’s eyelashes have the deep bluey-green pearlescent gleam of peacock feathers, and they seem to flutter slightly as she squints at the squiggly handwriting and age-six version of spelling and makes no sense of it, obviously.

  Sighing with impatience, I catch up with the two of them and pull the book out of her hand.

  All abut crocdills

  1)Crocdills are riptills.

  2) Crocdills liv in Merica, Afrka, Stralia, Nindia and other plasses.

  3) Crocdills are clevr and biteey.

  4) Crocdills are not alagaters.

  I quickly translate and hand it back. I can’t help notice that today Alice B. Lovely’s eyes are a deep, deep blue to match the lashes.

  “That’s fantastic, Stan!” says Alice B. Lovely.

  Stan grins shyly.

  “I’ve got to do a drawing or make a model to go with it.”

  “Oh, I’m good at art,” says Alice B. Lovely. “Maybe I can help you do it?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” Stan practically burbles.

  Humph.

  I was going to help him with that.

  We might have a matching pair of artistic designer parents, but let’s face it, they certainly weren’t going to have time to work on his project with him. So shouldn’t that be a job for a big sister? Not a brand new who-does-she-think-she-is nanny!

  And what’s she going to help him make, anyway? Knowing her take on style, it’ll probably be a Lego croc accessorized with a squirrel tail, hummingbird wings and sequinned beanie.

  Actually, you know something? That’s it.

  Time is up for Alice B. Lovely.

  I need to work out ways to get rid of this weird creature.

  I found the weak spots in all the other nannies and I’ll find hers too, I prom—

  “Actually, I’ve just thought of something I want to show you.” Alice B. Lovely interrupts my silent plotting. “Come on, let’s cross the road here.”

  “Let’s not,” I mumble under my breath, but there’s not much I can do apart from follow behind her and Stan. I’d hoped to hang out round at Tash’s today, but she’s had to go to the dentist. (I offered to go too, but her mum just looked at me funny. She has no idea just how dull and irritating my life is and how exciting a friend’s dental appointment is by comparison.)

  “What do you want to show us?” Stan says eagerly.

  “Some art,” beams Alice B. Lovely, taking his hand and running around the corner, along the road, and into an alleyway.

  By the time I catch them up (I didn’t run; I hate running and I didn’t want to look all desperate and keen), they are standing still and panting – and staring down at a paving stone.

  I’m sorry … what could be so interesting about a paving stone?

  “Edie! Look at this!” Stan calls out, getting down on his hands and knees.

  Alice B. Lovely is tucking her curtains of hair behind her ears and crouching down beside him. “Check out this chewing gum, Edie!”

  Excuse me? We’re examining litter? I immediately think of nanny-number-whatever Cheryl passing by, casually spitting her gum after sneck-sneck-snecking it to death.

  Thanks, but I’d rather be home reading my book, actu—

  Oh!

  It’s a dried blob of gum … with a tiny painting on it.

  Yuck! Why would someone paint on old gum?!

  But hey, I guess I’m mildly curious, so I kneel down beside Stan to see better.

  “A kitten! A little curled up kitten!” Stan says in delight.

  “Don’t you just love it?” says Alice B. Lovely. “Just think; someone stupid and irresponsible has spat out their chewing gum. And then ta-da! – another person comes along when it’s all dried out and stuck to the pavement and turns it into actual art.”

  “Ta-da!”? Did she really just say something that twee? I wonder to myself.

  “Come on; there’s another one in the next street.” Alice B. Lovely announces, scrabbling to her patent feet and holding out her hand for Stan.

  And so we set off on a bizarre guided tour, m
e always a few reluctant steps behind Stan and Alice B. Lovely as they hurry on to the next piece of gum.

  On our trail we see a miniature footballer, a vase of flowers, a map of Britain, an Easter chick, a Christmas tree, a guitar and a message that says, Will you marry me, Dee? Love, Sam.

  “There are two to see here!” Alice B. Lovely calls out, leading us towards a parade of shops.

  She and Stan stop and look down at something outside a charity shop. As I catch up with them, Alice B. Lovely glances up at me and points at a patch of pavement right where I’m about to step.

  I crouch down on the pavement … and gasp.

  I’m looking at a perfect, dainty clock face, painted on to an imperfect circle of dried-up old chewing gum.

  The smaller of the feathery black hands is pointing to twelve, while the longer one is just about to catch up with it.

  Around the edge of the clock face, there’s some spidery, swirly writing.

  It reads: Countdown to happiness!

  Shivers of shock ripple through me.

  (It’s good that I’m kneeling down, otherwise I might just fall over.)

  So … the happiness clock is real.

  Tiny.

  Made of gum.

  But real.

  And there I was, thinking it was just some nuts idea that existed in the privacy of my head.

  (The blood pounds in my ears like a demented tick-tock.)

  Why have I found this?

  What is it trying to tell me?

  Is it some kind of clue?

  A message?

  Wouldn’t it be funny if it was trying to let me know that it was time for my stupid, spiky-edged life to change?

  “Edie! Edie! Come and look at this one,” Stan calls out, waving me over.

  As quickly as the thrill rushed over me, it ebbs away again.

  I’m being stupid. Way too dramatic.

  It’s just a random coincidence, this dumb bit of gum art – not some magical sign that everything’s going to be fantastic.

  Face it; stuff like that does not happen in my grey little life.

  Shaking the unexpected, unexplained ripples away, I stand up and walk over towards my brother.