Alice Come Sunday

Potentially sensitive/triggering content: alcohol abuse, underage drinking, reference to rape, ageism, mental health, infrequent profanity ***

Knickers, knickers, made in Britain! Knickers, knickers, made in Britain…!

Grabbing her sister’s new summer scarf while laughingly chanting the words of nearly fifty years before, Ellie spun onto the neon-lit dancefloor. She waved the narrow rectangle before her as her limbs shook loose to the hypnotic beat. ‘Sandstorm’ by Darude was playing at twice the speed she remembered, but even in her heels, and in spite of her advancing years, she was keeping up. Round and round she went, all the while twirling the scarf, until twist upon twist, it became a lasso, then morphed into a manic snake, uncoiled and writhing. And what a drab snake it was! Navy blue nylon, just like those knickers received on her eleventh birthday, but thinner.

When she’d been handed the parcel, and felt how soft it was, the chipper child that she was back then, had been elated. Couldn’t wait to tear it open in front of big sister, Liv and all of her mother’s guests. It had to be a scarf – a Bay City Rollers one, tartan like all the guys from her favorite band wore. Maybe even a pair of their trademark stripey socks thrown in. But no. Knickers. Seven pairs. The kind that five-year-old girls wore for infant school gym. And there they were, all her cousins, uncles and aunts looking on, a disparate mix in a houseful of strangers. Those chiffon-clad, frill-shirted, cologne-drenched, sweaty, cheese-and-wine tipsy adults who’d come from far and wide to attend this ridiculous gathering. Her party supposedly. Her bash.

Thanks, Mum. Everyone knew she didn’t mean it.

Ellen, please don’t call me that. My name’s Corine. Anyway, you know I’ve arranged for you to start ballet lessons as well, and they don’t come cheap, so I thought a practical gift. Besides, I’ve spent an absolute fortune on tonight….

Even now, when she allowed herself to remember – and she did try extremely hard not to - Ellie could still feel the heat which had rushed over her cheeks as she’d sat staring down at that cringeworthy, half-unwrapped parcel on her lap. She could still feel the sting of the tears brought on by Liv’s mocking laugh. Oh, don’t be such a baby…. It’s pants that’s all. No one cares.

Her well-meaning Aunt Harriet who had bought her a doll even though she had long since given up playing with the ones she had, and had hastily tried to make up for this by rooting around in her purse for ‘a little something to put towards a new record’ when she didn’t even own a player, proffered small consolation. Well, look on the bright side, you’ll never run short of underwear, and with you starting ballet, your mother’s bound to buy you a leotard. I’ve heard lots of girls your age wear those for gym class. They say they’re all the rage… Now, Corine, you really must show me this wonderful new hostess trolley of yours… Oh, a cheese and pineapple hedgehog, vol-au-vents and fondue! My, you haven’t half pushed the boat out… And off Auntie had trotted like the rest of them, the dregs of her wine left on the table next to where she’d been sitting. No one had noticed when she’d thrown that hideous present aside and put the glass to her lips. Not that one, nor any of the others…

Knickers, knickers, made in Britain…!

Exactly when and how she’d come up with this, Ellie hadn’t a clue. But all at once, there she was whooshing around like one of those daft inflatables she’d seen off the coast of Great Yarmouth, abandoned and tossed by the waves – and she knew all she wanted to know about them - although this time her sea was almost wholly comprised of swishy crepe de chine and gaudy flares. Her hands were full of underwear and her voice was strong and chanting… Whee…! And kickers to you…! The overhead spin and the throw… Two pairs in the fondue and one which had briefly attached itself to Cousin Archie’s bristly moustache. The glass he’d been holding had tipped, the red wine splatter adding a certain abstract interest to the playschool-inspired floral print on his shirt.

Corine, well I never! Would you just look at that child? What the…?

Olivia, can’t you do something to stop her?

She’d been in her sister’s room when she’d vomited. Dizzily gazing down into her ottoman full of homework and sketch books and teen magazines. The Rollers were on one of the covers… S – S – S – Saturday ni - ight… Had the song been playing, or had it just been in her head, pounding away on repeat? Either way, she couldn’t remember any more about that evening. And Sunday, as had so often been the case since, went by in a blur, blotted out. But it was definitely Monday when she’d found her poster of Woody, her favorite band member, torn from her wall and ripped to shreds, scattered like dark confetti all over her bed.

It wasn’t me, Elle, I swear. Olivia Kingsley. Shameless in her lies.

Ellie, for heaven’s sake, what are you, ten years old again? Stop making such a show of yourself. All the young folk back there are having a right laugh at your expense. And give me that scarf…!

Such a shock, in-your-face appearance, such a brusque lunge and snatch, was it any wonder she’d been knocked off-balance? And no, it wasn’t the drink. She’d only had three… She was good now. Behaving herself. Just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Like one should on one’s birthday. So what if people were laughing? She’d go and laugh with them. Get them up to dance.

Eleven. I was eleven… Bloody heels…

One kick and the right shoe was off, a scarlet skid across the floor. She fumbled with the left as Liv stomped after it. No glam and no glitter, like a great grey elephant in that frumpy two-piece, perhaps it was just as well ‘Big Sis’ had refused to get up and boogie when she’d asked. She’d be far more suited to the military two-step… Or the goose-step! Making a show of herself, indeed! Liv was the one doing that. More salt than pepper in her hair, looking every one of her sixty-two years, and acting it too. Dance? Me? I should cocoa… Was it any wonder this was her go-to response? At least she could still strut her stuff in her tight red dress with its silver sparkles. She kept her hair long too, roots retouched on a regular basis, and she’d started going for manicures. Glittery patterned acrylics. So, of course, people took her for younger. Forty even, a whole nineteen years less than she was. And her sister was jealous. Yes, that would explain all the lying. Liar, liar, pants around your elephant neck… Ellie giggled, she didn’t mean to be cruel, but at the same time, it did serve Liv right after all the names she’d once called her…Or had that been those girls from school? The same ones who went to ballet?

They’d had scarves then as well, little floaty things they had to hold up at arm’s length then drop away whilst stretching out sideways and balancing on one foot… Ellen Kingsley, you’re meant to look poised, delicate, not like an elephant swinging a rag from its trunk…

Ellie the Elephant. The name had stuck. Then later, when she’d had an accident coming home from high school on the bus… Corine, Ellen’s drunk! Someone gave her vodka and she’s peed herself… ‘Smelly Ellie’ had also stuck.

A lull in the music as Liv stooped to retrieve the shoe from under a table. Sorry about that, really sorry… Ugh, her sister made her want to heave. Apologizing to strangers and for what? She’d never once said sorry to her.

Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’. Yay! She’d put her hands up for that alright! Stocking-soled freedom, a sway of the hips and some sexy revolutions. So many beautiful lights to color the darkness as she spun. But she was thirsty now… A little gin would be nice… Or a cocktail. Something red to match her dress. And how starry it looked in that mirror. First here, then there, then somewhere else… Magical… Was this how Alice felt when she entered Wonderland? Or her Looking Glass world? She sometimes felt like she should change her name to hers. Now, where was the bar? No, that wasn’t it, that was the decks. Oops! She steadied herself against them as the DJ appeared to do likewise on the other side.

I don’t suppose you’ve got any Bay City Rollers?

A firework flash of the eyes, and a white-tooth, wolfish grin.

You’re kidding, right? This isn’t seventies night. Though if you head into Gillirig, I think there’s one on at the Euphoria.

Ellie raised a finger and pointed. She wanted to touch those teeth, check if they were real but she couldn’t quite gauge where they were. They kept moving from side to side. As did the tiny moon on the tip of her nail. The glitter catching the light made the most fantastic diamond and emerald streaks.

Ah, Gillirig, Gilly Gypes…

What?

The folk that live there… a bunch of nosey, judgmental, stuck-in-their-ways, stick-in-the-muds.

O…kay…?

And see her that I’m with? You wouldn’t think it, but she’s my sister. And she’s the worst of the lot. Won’t let me have any fun. Not even on my birthday… Hey, fancy a drink? I’m just about to…

No, I’m good, thanks… Tell you what, though, since its your birthday, I’ll do a bit of eighties, give you a shout out.

…And this one goes out to this special young lady who just happens to be celebrating her birthday. Twenty-one, right…? Or was that the age she was when this track was first released? Sorry, didn’t quite catch what you said there, love…. Haha, only kidding. Have a good one, babe…

And you, Mister Wolf are in the wrong story. You can stick your ‘Town Called Malice’. Besides, did Alice even encounter a wolf on her travels? Oh, what the heck. Chances were, he’d lose all his teeth one day too, if he hadn’t already.

Right. There was the bar in front of her. Step by step. Just follow the line. Think of it like ballet… Or maybe not… Better a tightrope. Arms out. Balance… If only the floor would stop swaying… Maybe she should take her tights off, stop herself slipping.

Oh, for pity’s sake! Can’t leave you alone for a second!

O…liiiiiivvv…ia! DJ Wolf’s playing your song!

Right! Get up off that floor, this minute, Elle! The scarf and the shoes and your insulting me, I can just about forgive, but this! A quiet drink, you said. A meal. Not a bloody geriatric strip-show with you as star act. I tell you, I’m far too old for this caper… Calmed yourself down? Yeah, right. How the hell many drinks have you had?

Yadda, yadda, yadda… Like Liv had never had one too many, and in her later years too. She distinctly remembered that time on her husband’s fiftieth when she’d decided it was the best idea ever to go to the library in the middle of the night. But the library will open for me! Narcissist… Okay, okay, she’d hitch the tights back up.

But did her sister really have to be so rough with her? Wasn’t it bad enough that the floor kept coming up to meet her then crashing back down again like the tide coming in on the Great Yarmouth beach? Like it did that time, back in the day, when she had barely learned to swim? And Liv claiming to have saved her life, taking all the credit when it had been she who’d pushed her off the inflatable in the first place. Admit it, why don’t you, bitch? Just admit it! Stop your lying! She could feel the water rising now, all sour in her throat, rushing through her teeth (or was it merely coating her dentures?) and the force with which it spurted out, an acid-erosion explosion through the smudged lipstick fountain of her mouth.

I knew it! I bloody knew it!

You know nothing… You wouldn’t even know a drunk if… if…

Ellie sat up and rubbed at her forehead. The punchline was in there somewhere. Still, at least she felt a bit better, able to walk unsupported, but if Liv really wanted to take her arm and guide her into the ladies just to make herself look – or rather feel - like the hero of the hour all over again, who was she to deny her illusions? And her dress did need cleaning up. No sicky stains in Wonderland. Might get her head chopped off by the queen.

Not drunk, eh? Next you’ll be telling me you danced yourself dizzy!

But that was it! This was exactly what must have happened. The doctor did say she had a problem with her inner ear. She’d prescribed some pills… Three drinks, that’s all she’d had. Three. Not that Liv would believe her… Come out with you again? I should cocoa.

Ellie sat in the cubicle, perched on the edge of the wobbly plastic seat as Liv sponged her down as best she could, muttering away to herself, complaining. The blue lights meant she could hardly see what she was doing with those ‘bloody useless paper towels’, and she ‘hoped to hell’ no one she knew would come in, for whatever would they think?

Right, that’s you. Looks like you’re over the worst of it for now. But let me know if you feel like you’re going to be sick again. I’m going to call for a taxi.

Why? We could go back in. I told you, I’m not drunk, Liv.

Yes, and Mum wasn’t raped either, and your father was a good man who died before you were born, not that putrid scumbag she’d had to move hundreds of miles away from to escape after he threatened me – a two-year-old! - when she’d tried to press charges. And she didn’t have a problem with drink and raising us – and particularly you - because of it. And I wasn’t left to look after you, and defend you, and deal with all of your shite and hers, and pick up the pieces. Literally that time when she tore your precious poster to bits… But you don’t believe me, do you? No matter how many times I tell you. Years you’ve spent in denial, Elle. Decades. You and your Saturday nights. You and your blotted out Sundays… You and your blaming every last fucking thing on me!

Stop it! Just stop it!

The back-and-forth rocking, the pressing of hands to her ears, this had happened before. But this was Saturday night and Saturdays always ended badly. But this part would be over soon, she knew it would. Like she knew she wouldn’t remember Sunday. Like she’d always be someone else then. Or somewhere else like Alice after she’d found that bottle labeled ‘drink me’ and she’d shrank down into Wonderland. But on Monday she’d come back, be herself again. Dancing on the pallets in the factory just to shake some life into those Gilly Gypes, or throwing ‘a sickie’ so she could have her hair and nails done, doing her best to persuade someone – anyone - to come out with her at the weekend, and if nobody would, or if they cancelled like everyone seemed to do these days, she’d go by herself. She’d go shopping too. She liked pretty clothes, lacy underwear. No navy knickers for her anymore. No navy or grey at all. And she’d play her tunes full blast, Bay City Rollers included. In fact, she still had the poster of Woody she’d bought to replace the one she’d found shredded. Her aunt had given her just enough money to do so. And some things deserved to be kept, left intact, irrespective of how many weeks or months or years might pass. If only her sister would realize. And everyone else, come to that.