You Only Live Once Page 4

  This was entirely beside the point. I wasn’t interested in enjoying myself! As the rest of my class scrambled onto the coach in a race to claim the back row, I made my way to the library, keen to use the time to get ahead of the rest of the class in my reading.

  As we sat on the bench on platform one, I filled Til in on how my near-death experience had spawned a new me – a new outlook, new priorities.

  ‘I’m not being funny though, Gracie, but you didn’t actually have a near-death experience, did you? You just have a cold and look rubbish in fake tan.’

  I sighed. She really wouldn’t let the whole fake tan issue go.

  ‘But that’s irrelevant! Can’t you see? The point is, I thought I was a goner. I thought my time was up. Although my body may not have been as near to death as I thought, my mind was. I’ve had a wake-up call. A brush with my own mortality. It was a gift really, that happening to me. And I don’t intend to waste it.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ Til said, idly fiddling with her train ticket. She seemed altogether uninspired by my epiphany, it had to be said. ‘It is about time you chilled the hell out, to be honest. You’ve been well boring.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. I had. But not any more. Boring Grace was dead. Killed by leishmaniasis.

  An hour and a half later, we pushed open the heavy metal gate that was the entrance to Appleyard Riding Stables. A woman with two long blonde plaits and wellington boots called over to us from where she was tossing bales of hay into the back of a van.

  ‘You ladies OK there?’

  ‘Um … yes,’ I called as we carefully made our way through the mud and horse poo to where she was working. ‘I was wondering if you can help us. We’re looking to ride a horse. Two horses, I mean. One each.’

  The woman put the last of the hay bales into the van and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Have you booked?’

  ‘No …’ I admitted. I hadn’t even thought of that. Booking wasn’t something I thought you had to factor in when you were trying to live a spontaneous life.

  The woman looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got a bunch of birthday party kids coming in twenty minutes but you could have a quick go round the field on Bertie before they turn up.’

  She nodded over to Bertie – a bedraggled grey creature, swishing his tail to sweep away the flies that were gathering around his bum.

  ‘Well, actually,’ I explained, ‘we were hoping to go to the beach. To ride a horse – two horses – there? On the unspoilt sands?’

  The woman frowned. Then she laughed. ‘Oh, were you now? I’m sorry, darlin’, but it’s not like hiring a carpet cleaner. Horses are living beasts. You can’t just take one away with you. I’ve got to think about their well-being. And yours.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling dejected.

  ‘This is going well then,’ Til muttered, poking the mud with the toe of her trainer.

  ‘I can book you in for a taster session if you like,’ the woman offered. ‘Nothing free till next week though.’

  ‘It’s just I was so hoping to ride a horse on the beach,’ I said. ‘That was kind of a key part of it. The sands.’

  Why did I keep saying sands?

  The woman went around the side of the van and opened the driver-side door. I got the feeling she was getting bored of us. ‘If that’s what your heart’s really set on, then they do rides down on the beach. Just outside Jumble’s Cafe.’

  Then she climbed into the van, closed the door and started the engine.

  I looked at Til.

  ‘We going to Jumble’s Cafe now then?’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘We certainly are,’ I said, already on my way to the gate.

  Nobby, Petal and Brenda

  Jumble’s Cafe was half cafe – selling ice creams and cones of chips from a kiosk at the side – and half beach shop, with lilos and spades and unattractive plastic sandals flapping about in the wind on the terrace outside.

  ‘This definitely the right place?’ Til said as we made our way over. ‘Can’t see any horses.’

  ‘It says “Jumble’s” though … That’s what she said, isn’t it? I’ll ask.’

  The boy curling ice creams into cones in the kiosk wasn’t much older than us.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to him. ‘I was hoping to ride a horse.’

  There was a flash of alarm in his eyes. ‘I’m new,’ he said. ‘Only been here a week.’

  I was confused. ‘Oh. OK. Well, congratulations on your new job. But do you know about the horses? Can we do that here?’

  The boy frowned again. ‘They do donkey rides,’ he said. ‘Up the beach there.’

  I looked at Til. I wasn’t sure donkeys and horses were quite the same thing.

  ‘But no horses?’ I said.

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not seen any, no.’

  We thanked the boy and headed in the direction he’d pointed.

  ‘It’s basically the same, innit?’ Til was saying. ‘Four legs, little hooves. Hairy neck-wig.’

  ‘No,’ I whined. ‘Not really. Horses are magnificent and graceful, and I would look magnificent and graceful on the back of one. Donkeys –’

  ‘Donkeys stink,’ Til said, putting her hand over her nose and mouth as we arrived at the spot where six donkeys were mooching around next to two middle-aged ladies sitting in deck chairs. There was a chalk board just in front of them with the words ‘Donkey Rides £3’ written on it.

  The main thing that struck me was just how small they were (the donkeys, not the ladies. The ladies were quite a good size). I suppose it had been a number of years since I’d seen a donkey up close and I must’ve done quite some growing in that time. As I looked at the hobbity little creatures in front of us, I wasn’t even sure my feet would clear the ground if I sat on one.

  ‘Uh yeah, so we want to ride a donkey?’ Til was already saying to one of the ladies in the deck chair. She had long grey hair in a ponytail and a translucent plastic sun-visor that meant half her face was bathed in a strange green light. She was wearing a kind of ruffled boob-tube affair, which seemed to be slipping dangerously down her torso.

  ‘Right you are,’ the woman said, heaving herself to her feet.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I hissed to Til. ‘Do we, though? Do we want to ride a donkey? I wanted to ride a horse. Not a donkey.’

  Til put her head on one side. ‘Well, there ain’t any horses here. So it’s donkeys or nothing. Plus, the thing about living for the moment is you have to, like, go with it, don’t you? You can’t be making rules and listing criteria and wanting everything to be perfect. That ain’t the spirit really, is it, Gracie?’

  She made a good point. I wanted to seize all opportunities I was given. Grab the life that was thrown my way. And right at that moment, life was throwing me donkeys, so it would be a pretty poor start if I didn’t grab one.

  ‘OK,’ I said, nodding. ‘You’re right. It’s just … I so wanted a photo to mark the start of my adventure. A photo of me on horseback, laughing, with my hair looking artfully dishevelled.’

  Til was already rooting in her purse for some change. ‘I’ll still take a photo,’ she said, tipping the change into the woman’s hand. ‘I’ll just get you, and a bit of the donkey’s back in it. You won’t even be able to tell what animal it is you’re sat on. Pretend it’s an antelope if you want.’

  That sounded more promising.

  I followed the woman, who introduced herself as Brenda, over to my steed – a dopey looking animal with a saddle that said ‘Nobby’ in bright pink paint.

  ‘Here you go then, love,’ Brenda said, holding the donkey by his reins while I clambered onto his back. ‘You have a little ride on Nobby.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Til trying not to laugh. I glared at her. She’d better make sure Nobby’s name tag wasn’t showing in the photo.

  When Til had mounted her donkey – the much more elegantly named ‘Petal’ – Brenda asked if we were all set, and we nodded. Then she stood between us, a donkey’
s rein in either hand, and called, ‘Walk on.’

  Nobby and Petal dutifully ambled forward, Til and I wobbling on their backs.

  I must say, the whole spectacle was quite far from my vision of my horseback debut. We were limited by Brenda’s walking speed, and there was no way I was going to feel the wind whipping through my hair with a middle-aged lady in a boob tube setting the pace.

  ‘Do you want me to do the photo then?’ Til asked, reaching for her phone.

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet …’ I said. Then I leant forward slightly and said, ‘Brenda, I was just wondering if we could have a go at riding on our own for a bit? Just so we can pick up a bit of speed?’

  Brenda chuckled. ‘Oh, I get you,’ she said. ‘Bit of a dare-devil, are you?’

  That was not something I would ever call myself.

  ‘No can do, lovey, I’m afraid. Accompanied rides only. Wouldn’t want Nobby and Petal to make a break for it!’

  And so on we strolled.

  ‘Shall I just do it then?’ Till said, waving her phone. ‘The photo? Doesn’t sound like we’re going to be galloping anywhere?’

  I sighed. ‘Yeah, go on then. But don’t get Nobby’s donkey face it in. Or his Nobby name tag! Just me, OK?’

  Til held up her phone. ‘Smile, then. Look care-free or whatever.’

  ‘Oh, photo op, is it?’ Brenda said. And with that she turned to the side and pushed herself up against my right leg. She looked square at the camera and did an exaggerated thumbs-up. ‘Cheeeeeese!’

  Til gave me a look as if to say, ‘Is this what you want?’

  I returned one that said, ‘Hell no, but what can I do?’

  Til took the photo. I’d just have to Photoshop Brenda out. Somehow.

  Till looked at the screen and winced.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  She passed me the phone and I squinted at the screen, holding up my hand to shield it from the sunlight.

  ‘Oh god,’ I groaned.

  The photo was hideous. My hair – far from relaxed and tousled – had frizzed into a mullet. Brenda’s neon-pink boob-tube shone out boldly against my resplendent yellow legs. I’d carefully tried to set my face into the expression of someone having a spontaneous and highly enjoyable experience. I’d been aiming for something between mid-laughter and slight surprise. A look that said, ‘I don’t know how I ended up here but I’m loving it!’ I hadn’t quite pulled it off.

  ‘Why are you doing a face like you’ve got a wasp up your bum?’ Til said as I handed the phone back. ‘You look insane.’

  I couldn’t disagree. There was no way that photo was going anywhere public.

  Soft

  Once Brenda had led us back to the deck chairs, and we’d bid farewell to Nobby and Petal, Til and I sat on the beach and shared a bag of Quavers.

  ‘That was … different,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I frowned slightly. ‘Wasn’t quite what I planned.’

  Til shrugged. ‘Like I said, that’s the point. You don’t get to have everything go to plan any more.’

  ‘I guess,’ I sighed. I took my phone out of my pocket. ‘Anyway, just because I can’t put that photo up doesn’t mean I can’t say what I’ve been doing, right?’ I typed out a tweet.

  ‘What did you put?’ Til asked as I slipped my phone back into my bag. She took out her own phone. ‘“Amazing afternoon on horseback, galloping through the waves! What a buzz!”’ she read out loud. She looked at me, one eyebrow raised. One of her favourite facial expressions. ‘Grace? Seriously?’

  ‘I know it’s not technically true, but does it really matter?’

  ‘Mate, who cares if it’s true or not. The point is, you sound like a plank.’

  ‘Three likes already,’ I pointed out. ‘I guess some people like planks.’ I sighed and leant back on my elbows. ‘It was fun, though, in a way. Wasn’t it? Brenda and Nobby and Petal.’

  Til nodded as she twisted her crisp packet into a knot. ‘Yeah, it was all right. And yeah, actually, it is good. You. Being like this.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like … leaving the house. Being up for stuff. Not banging on about practice papers or designated revision breaks. I missed you, man.’

  I didn’t know what to say. This was hands-down the most affectionate thing Til had ever said to me. It was turning into quite the day.

  I just looked at her.

  ‘What?’ she said, irritably.

  ‘You never say nice things to me!’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said, but she shifted about a bit in a way that showed me she knew I was right. ‘You don’t always make it easy. You’re a pain in the bum. And you didn’t come to my birthday.’

  I knew she was still stewing about that.

  For her sixteenth birthday in May, Til had organised a camping trip to a site in the Downs. I was meant to be going but I’d panicked at the last minute about a history essay and pulled out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, even though I’d said it a million times already. ‘Look. I’m free now. I’m fun now. Let’s do it again. Let’s do it at the weekend.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? That site gets booked up months and months in advance. No way we’ll get in. Or anywhere else round here at this time of year.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘OK, so maybe we can’t do that. Not exactly the same. But we’ll do something. I’ll do something. For you. We’ll do something fun.’

  Til looked at me, the slightest smile on her face. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Cheers, Gracie.’ She gave me a soft punch on the shoulder. ‘That sounds cool.’

  Then she leant back and closed her eyes with a smile. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘That near-death experience of yours has made us soft.’

  Hapy Brthdax, Til

  I spent the following Saturday morning rummaging around in the garage looking for all the props I needed for that evening.

  Today was Til’s sixteenth birthday: Part Two. The better part, one might argue, as it would be the part where I was in attendance. After all, new Grace was the life and soul of any celebration.

  The garage was a tip because Dad was in charge of it and Dad’s idea of being in charge of something was shutting the door on it so he didn’t have to think about it.

  I was looking for the tent, last seen when Ollie took it to Glastonbury the previous summer. I eventually found it under a giant plastic model of Elvis wearing an apron that said ‘All shook up’ that Dad refused to throw away in case we needed it. I could not even begin to imagine a scenario where a person would need a giant plastic Elvis in an apron. The tent was a bit dusty but seemed intact, so I tossed it into the middle of the garden and decided to tackle it after I’d been on a provisions run.

  I went to the shop and bought barbecue coal, sausages, drinks and marshmallows. I also bought Til a cake in the shape of a Thomas the Tank Engine because it was the biggest and most expensive one on offer, and now I was living for the moment I didn’t think twice about splashing out on novelty cakes and other such frivolities. Also, I’d just realised that, much to my surprise, I was somewhat flush with funds.

  For the first half of Year Eleven, I’d worked in Wagstaff’s Chemist every Saturday from 9 a.m. till 5 p.m., sometimes on the checkouts, but usually just pulling bottles of shampoo to the front of the shelves to make them look tidy, and generally ambling about, pretending to be doing something useful. This job earnt me the princely sum of £38.50 a week, which was actually all I needed. The only problem was that, as my workload got higher at school, so did my stress levels.

  One Saturday, after attempting to stay up all night to finish an English essay and then go straight to work without so much as a catnap, I was so tired that I fell off the bus. I have no idea how it happened. One minute I was upright in the doorway, ready to bid the driver a cheery, ‘thanks, bye!’, the next I was on my hands and knees trying to push my lunchbox back into my bag while a passing golden retriever misread the situa
tion and tried to mount me.

  More from embarrassment than physical injury I decided I couldn’t face work that day. I went home and cried to Mum, who said that it was more important that I focused on my exams and that she’d give me £20 a week until the year was finished, to tide me over until I had time to get another job.

  Mum and Dad weren’t pushy as such, but they were keen on talking about potential. Dad’s job was something to do with computers and trains that he always said was too boring to talk about but he never seemed too worried about whether he’d made the right career choice. Mum, though, always said she wished she’d gone to university. I think she was happy enough working in the sexual health clinic next to the station – ‘just on the phones, I keep my hands clean!’ as she liked to say – and there certainly seemed to be more freebies than you’d imagine in that line of work. There were so many educational leaflets on the pin board that I think even Paddy could have advised you on the best way to avoid contracting chlamydia. We also had a bowl of condoms in the downstairs toilet where other families might have had pot-pourri. Although who they were for, I have no idea.

  I knew I was lucky. In fact, I never told Til about Mum’s offer, as I knew she’d roll her eyes and call me a spoilt princess and maybe she was right. The thing was though, as I worked more and went out less, I was barely spending any of the pocket money Mum was giving me. By the summer, I’d built up quite the nest egg.

  I spent a long time pitching the tent in the garden, an endeavour that turned out to be even more stressful than the time I realised I had my school shirt on inside out and tried to turn it around underneath my jumper in history, nearly suffocating myself in the process. In the end, Nancy Brewster had had to guide me to the medical room so I could be wrestled free by the school nurse and given a glass of orange squash to calm down.

  If it had been any other occasion I would have asked Til over to take charge of the situation. Til was nothing if not capable.

  For example, when I’d woken up one Sunday morning with an essay and a lab report to finish, only to find my laptop screen reporting a dramatic ‘fatal error’ message, I’d texted Til in a panic and she’d told me to come over. When I’d arrived at her flat, I’d found her lying on the floor of her kitchen with her head under the sink, making some kind of adjustments to the pipes with a spanner. The floor was covered with a suspiciously yellowy water.