My Friend Miranda

By IM Griffin

Last night I dreamt that I was walking along the edge of the River Irwell with my friend Miranda. It was a summer evening and we were laughing and singing our favourite Billy Connolly songs. Miranda had bought a bag of sherbet lemons and we sucked them hard until the sherbet came shooting out of the ends, leaving a hollow sugar shell behind. There was a row of pebble-dash houses, with a man outside one of them painting his fence with creosote. We stopped for a while to inhale the heady chemical smell, the essence of suburban summers.'

A tale of friendship, of growing up and of falling apart.

'A treat for those who are growing up or whoever managed to do so.' Kitty Wakes, (Steal Softly Thru' Sunshine)

'Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.' Morrissey (The Smiths) Reviews Classy writing and a lovely relaxed style.' Gareth Davies **** Although there are some very light hearted moments in the book, it is a very sad read and I finished reading it with a definite lump in the throat. Highly recommended.' Elaine G (Top 50 Reviewer, Amazon) ***** 'Delightful.' Boo Radley ***** Really really enjoyable…try the book- it's unputdownable' Eva-Nicole *****

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Minor
• Release date: Feb 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301157617

Book preview

My Friend Miranda

by IM Griffin

Published by sea minor, 2013.

ISBN: 9781301157617

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

MY FRIEND MIRANDA

First edition. June 16, 2013.

Copyright © 2013 IM Griffin.

Written by IM Griffin.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

My Friend Miranda | Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

for

Nancy, Kitty and Donald

and all those at school who helped to make life so much fun

x?x

My Friend Miranda

Preface

Last night I dreamt that I was walking along the edge of the River Irwell with my friend Miranda. It was a summer evening and we were laughing and singing our favourite Billy Connolly songs. Miranda had bought a bag of sherbet lemons and we sucked them hard until the sherbet came shooting out of the ends, leaving a hollow sugar shell behind. There was a row of pebble-dash houses, with a man outside one of them painting his fence with creosote. We stopped for a while to inhale the heady chemical smell, the essence of suburban summers.

A little further down there was a tree whose branches overhung the Irwell, and someone had tied a rope for swinging onto one of the branches. It would have hung right down over the water, except that they had tucked it back round the tree trunk ready for whenever they came along next. Miranda seized upon it immediately; she was a person who could never resist a challenge, ‘a messpot’ in my mother’s words.

She freed the rope and examined the piece of wood that had been attached to the bottom for a seat. It was smooth and rounded – an old chair leg perhaps, or a length of broom handle. Looks secure enough, she said.

I didn’t want her to do it. When she swung out she would travel several yards across the water. She could allow herself one or at most two swings, and then she would have to leap off again, because otherwise as the arc of the motion diminished she would find herself suspended above the river, with no option but to jump. The Irwell was a wide, deep river and there had been a lot of rain recently, leaving it brown and swollen in its banks.

Miranda don’t, I begged her. It’s not safe.

Safe? Pah! Safe’s for sissies, she replied. It was the kind of thing she always said. She took off her cardigan and gave it to me to hold, it was a blue one with a red furry collar that she’d chosen for her birthday. Then she spat on her hands and rubbed them briskly together. I suspected that she was prolonging the moment for my benefit.

Ok. Here goes. She pulled the rope back until it was taut and stood poised to jump. I could still have stopped her, but I didn’t. With an almighty Wheee! she was off, her legs lifting up and into position on either side of the broom handle, her pigtails blown back by the breeze.

The rope inscribed a lazy arc across the surface of the water. It gradually slowed and at the furthest point it seemed to wait for several seconds before turning back, in the same teasing way that men at fairgrounds leave you suspended at the top of the big wheel until you scream to be let down. Then Miranda was hurtling towards me, a crazy whooping bird lit dazzlingly by the last rays of the sun. As she drew level with the bank she made to jump, but she only managed to unhook one leg before the rope set off back again, leaving her hanging half-off the seat.

Hold on tight! I called. I’ll catch you next time.

When the rope came back I was ready. I grabbed hold of Miranda and tried to pull her down. She was quite heavy though, and it was harder than I had expected: her legs didn’t want to come free and the rope was straining to be off again.

Get your legs out! I shouted.

I can’t!

It felt like an interminable fight between Miranda, the rope and me. However, as my strength ran out I felt the rope gaining the upper hand; we were losing precious inches of dry land as it dragged Miranda back across the bank. I gave it one last shot and heaved Miranda’s other leg off the seat. Success!

Miranda was still holding onto the rope, and in the remaining fraction of a second while it was safe she should have let go and dropped down onto the bank. Instead the vital moment came and went and she took off again. Perhaps I could have pulled her back, but my feet were slipping on the edge and I panicked and lost my grip. She swung out with her legs hanging down loose and her arms taking all her weight. Oh God.

I can’t hold on! she yelled at me.

Then she started coming back, but it was obvious she was going to stop short of the bank. I lunged ineffectually and my hand clutched at thin air several feet away from her.

She swung out again.

Back towards me.

Out again.

Just before she fell the rope twisted her round so that she was facing me. Her eyes met mine and for the first time ever I saw real fear there. But she still didn’t scream. She dropped like a stone and the brown waters rose and then closed around her.

I don’t remember if she struggled or sank immediately. I was just running as fast as I could, back to the man painting his fence and the adult world where things like this didn’t happen. I don’t remember what I said to him either, but some time later we were back by the river: me, him, two dogs, and a few other people. Some of them might have been policemen, I think. They were poking around at the edge of the river and shaking their heads.

The man who’d been painting his fence noticed I was shivering and pointed kindly to my lap. Put your cardigan on, love.

I looked down and saw I was still holding Miranda’s birthday cardigan: kingfisher blue with a red furry collar, and then I started to cry.

Chapter 1

School uniform sucks. I saw that recently written on the wall behind our bus stop, and although it’s not an expression I’d use myself, I’m in whole-hearted agreement with it. Not, obviously, if you go to the kind of school where all that’s required is any old grey or black jumper and any old grey or black skirt, or trousers even, teamed with any old shoes and any old coat, and you have a mum who understands fashion to boot, and lets you shop in Chelsea Girl and Miss Selfridge. The kind of mum who would rather go round town without her make-up and dressed in pyjamas than sully herself in the uniform department of John Lewis. If those are your circumstances then you’re fine, and you’ll doubtless look cooler on your way to school than I do at the weekends.

Unfortunately, my own situation was rather different. I was going to a posh school where they had rules about everything: how many pleats your skirt should have, how many inches high your heels could be, and even what style of duffel coat you were allowed (I never knew that duffel coats came in more than one style, but there were ones with waists and ones without; we had to have the shapeless ones, naturally). Add to that the fact that my mum never wore make-up, might as well have gone out in pyjamas for all the fashion sense she demonstrated, and considered John Lewis to be the shopping Mecca of the universe, and you’ll understand why I wasn’t relishing the prospect of acquiring my school uniform.

My mum took me shopping in Manchester the day after I finished at primary school. She said she wanted to get it out of the way before we went on holiday, but the real reason was that she was hoping to get everything in the July sales, regardless of such trivial issues as whether the clothes looked nice, or even whether they fitted. She tried to pretend we were having some kind of girls’ day out, that we’d be skipping down Market Street laden with glossy carrier bags and sipping frothy coffee in sidewalk cafes like they do in films, but I knew better.

First we went to some funny-looking, old-fashioned shop on Deansgate. My mum told the lady which school I was going to and she peered at me and started pulling garments out of drawers. When the lady had gone into the back room to look for gym skirts I tugged at my mum’s sleeve.

Mum, none of this is in the sale. I was stunned by how much it all cost; you could have traded my whole wardrobe in for the price of one set of uniform.

My mum frowned at me. We’re not going to buy it here, she hissed. I’m just checking what style you’re supposed to have before we go to Lewis’s.

Oh.

The lady came back then, and then I felt even more embarrassed, knowing we were basically wasting her time. With every garment she spent ages deliberating my size, would the thirty-two inch be better, or should I have the thirty-four inch to grow into, and I wanted to tell her not to worry about it.

When she had finished assembling it all she asked if I wanted to try it on. My mum frowned; she was busy fingering the skirt to check how many pleats it had.

I don’t think so at the moment thank you. We have some other shopping to do and then we’ll call back later.

The lady opened her mouth as if to protest but my mum was already smiling briskly and marching out of the shop, with me trailing guiltily in her wake. I had been planning to complain once we got outside but I could see that she felt bad too so I didn’t say a word.

So on it was to Lewis’s, where my mum swooped on the sale racks in the school-wear department. This is the right skirt isn’t it?

I think so. I didn’t like it as much as the one in the posh shop, which had been thick and heavy. This one looked shiny and cheap.

And here are some blouses. I took the three-pack that she shoved towards me. Was it my imagination or were they slightly the wrong yellow? A touch too sandy when they should have been more lemon? Next we selected two plain black V-neck pullovers. I was disappointed in them.

I wanted the ones with yellow round the neck.

Yes, well they don’t have them here. Go and try it all on while I look for the PE kit.

I trudged into the changing rooms and removed my cotton summer dress and matching cardigan. Hadn’t I known all along that this was going to happen? My fears were confirmed when I had the stuff on: the skirt was too big and stuck out, and in so much black I looked washed-out and miserable.

What do you think? Mum was hovering outside with another armful of black and yellow.

Can I have a smaller skirt? This one’s too long and the waist’s too big.

Rubbish! The length is fine. Lift up your jumper so I can see the waist.

I showed her the waist-band and stuck both hands triumphantly down inside it. See!

That’s just room to grow. I can’t be buying you another one in six months you know.

I shrugged my shoulders resignedly. The skirt wasn’t that important anyway, it was the blazer that really mattered. It was made from luxurious back felt with a yellow ribbon trim and had a badge on the pocket. It cost at least fifty pounds, and I was confident that there was no cheap alternative available from Lewis’s; my sister, Nancy had been bought a new one when she started school last year.

What about my blazer then?

My mum sighed. I can’t afford another one. You’ll have to wear Nancy’s and she can have one from the uniform sale. I already knew about the second-hand sales they held at the school, because my mum had got us hockey boots and sticks from there. But second-hand blazers! My mum saw what I was thinking.

They just cost so much. Come on, let’s go and get your shoes.

I already knew from every other visit to the July sales that the purchasing of shoes was nothing to get excited about. My mum was insistent that we should have Clark’s shoes, but the styles that made it into the sales were inevitably the dud ones that the full-paying customers had rightfully spurned. Furthermore, my G width fitting limited my choice even further (my dad said the width fittings stood for D for Delicate; E for elegant; F for fat and G for Ginormous). Unsurprisingly, this year was no exception.

My mum found two Clarks’ shoes in my size, an ugly black t-bar and an even uglier black lace-up, that looked like it had been designed to correct walking defects. I, meanwhile, tried on a gorgeous black slip-on with a little patent bow on the side. It was a pretty good fit. Mum attempted to entice me with her offerings.

But mum, just look at this, I pleaded. It fits really well.

She rolled her eyes and reluctantly squeezed my foot.

It does actually fit you, she said doubtfully. She glanced at the old ladies’ lace-up. Surely she could see how horrendous it was? I allowed myself a glimmer of hope. I walked across the floor and back in the slip-ons, and then sat down on the seat and slid my feet in and out just to feel that soft leather caressing my feet. Bad move. My mum was shaking her head.

I don’t think slips-on are suitable for school. You’ll wear down the backs and then your feet will be sliding out all the time. You need shoes with proper support.

Mum...

She held up the hideous lace-up again. This one’s not so bad is it? I remember you choosing some like this before.

That was when I was about eight and wanted to be a boy.

In my youth I had devoured Enid Blyton books and concluded from the stance adopted by George/Georgina inThe Famous Five that the only way to have any fun in life was to be a boy. I had refused to wear skirts, asked the hairdresser for a crew cut and actively chosen ridiculous clompy shoes. However, I had since decided that it was just as easy to have fun in nice shoes as in horrible ones, and that you felt much better whenever you looked down at your feet besides.

Eventually I gritted my teeth and selected the T-bars, which were basically identical to the shoes I’d been wearing for the last two years, only black instead of brown, and even more lumpy and square-toed. My mum took me to MacDonalds and bought me a chocolate milkshake by way of compensation.

I’m so glad we found most of your stuff in the sales, she said. I’ve been worrying about managing with both you and Nancy needing uniform.

She looked at me anxiously. You don’t hate the shoes that much do you?

I wanted to cry and tell her just how ugly they were but I was too full of chocolate milkshake and guilt at the thought of her worrying to complain. I shook my head to avoid having to speak, and tried to be grow-up about it.

For most of the summer holidays I successfully put the shoes and the too-long skirt out of my mind. Just every now and then I’d get a sick clammy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I’d remember the box in the back of the wardrobe and have to think about something nice to make it go away. The blazer was a different issue altogether. Nancy’s cast-off or no, it was still a fairly new-looking proper school blazer, and whenever she was away I got it out and paraded in front of the mirror on the landing. I’d have liked to move it into my own wardrobe but mum hadn’t told her yet that it was being given to me, and it seemed wisest not to raise the subject.

I spent quite a lot of time with Jennifer from across the road, because she was also going to a school where she wouldn’t know anybody. We speculated about what it would be like.

Perhaps no one will talk to us, Jennifer said gloomily.

Of course they will! I sounded more confident that I felt.

It’s alright for you anyway, she continued. You’ll have Nancy to look after you.

I suppose so... I didn’t say that Nancy’s idea of looking after me would probably be abandoning me in Piccadilly to find my own way to school, on the grounds that this would toughen me up a bit.

In the end we made a pact that if we both hated our schools we’d insist that either she got moved to my school or I got moved to hers, and go on hunger strike until our demands were met. I wasn’t sure how well this plan would stand up in practise, but it was still some consolation.

Chapter 2

The night before my first day, I just couldn’t get to sleep. I watched in misery as the fluorescent hands on my travel alarm clock clicked to ten, then eleven and finally midnight, and wistfully recalled a similar sleepless night three or four years ago, when I had been so worked up about the annual school trip, on this occasion to Chester Zoo, that I had lain restless until at least half past ten. As the time passed I had grown increasingly anxious, fearing that I would be too tired to fully appreciate the day ahead, and eventually I had descended the stairs to the sitting room in tears. My mum had been full of cheerful reassurance, and, looking back on it, had probably found my distress quite funny.

It doesn’t matter if you can’t actually sleep. Resting is almost as good for your body as sleeping, so if you can just lie quietly all night with your eyes shut, you’ll be ready for tomorrow.

She had carried me back up to bed, and, freed from all worries, I had quickly dreamt of elephants and the chocolate fingers in my lunchbox.

Unfortunately this time it wasn’t so simple. My body was tensed not with excitement but with terror, and although I tried reminding myself that resting was as good as sleeping, I became increasingly panicky as the night ticked away. When I finally did fall asleep, it was to dream a tortured nightmare where I was trapped in my new classroom in desperate need of the toilet but too embarrassed to ask.

In the morning I felt physically sick, and was incapable of eating anything. Nancy was nervous too, and was additionally in a foul mood because I was wearing her blazer and until mum got her another one she had to go to school in her duffel coat. She ranted about the unfairness of it all the way up to the bus stop, and then ignored me completely for the rest of the journey. There were some girls she knew waiting for the next bus in Piccadilly, but when it came and they asked her if she was going upstairs, she shook her head.

I would but I can’t. She pointed at me. I’ve got to look after her.

I couldn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t go upstairs on the bus, and I suspected Nancy was just using me as an excuse to avoid having to talk to them. However, I knew better than to say anything.

We went past the Indian shops in Rusholme, where in happier times we had been given money to buy rich, condensed milk sweets, for consumption on the way home after my entrance exam. As our stop approached the girls on the top deck came pounding down the stairs, and Nancy gave me a gentle shove to indicate that I should stand up.

En masse we turned into the side street, which was packed with cars and coaches, and little knots of shrieking girls. Nancy pointed out the entrance where we would normally go to put our coats in our lockers. However, as it was the first day we had to enter through the big doors at the front into the hall, where Nancy would find out her new classroom from a list on the wall, and I would be deposited to meet up with my new class.

On our way over to the notice board, we met a buxom girl with blonde hair scraped into a high ponytail. Nancy was all smiles and friendly greetings.

Hi Margaret! Did you have a good holiday?

Oh, not bad, not bad. We went to Lanzarote for three weeks, so that was pretty exciting. Good nightlife.

It’s alright for some...Margaret, meet my kid sister, Janet.

Margaret beamed down at me. I didn’t know you had a sister.

"Yeah, lucky me. Anyway, I’ve got to