by Adam Baron
‘Awful,’ she said. ‘Though non-violent crime has gone up twelve per cent since last year.’
‘Has it? How do you know that?’
‘I heard it on the Today programme.’
‘What’s that?’
‘News and stuff. On Radio Four. It’s great. You should listen to it tomorrow.’
‘How can I listen to the Today programme tomorrow?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Anyway, they didn’t take much. But they made a massive mess.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Just idiots, Mum says. The police said it too.’
‘Maybe they were looking for something.’
I frowned. ‘What? A million pounds in cash? A massive hoard of diamonds?’
Veronique laughed and then asked what Barcelona had been like. I just sighed and told her what had happened.
We were going to Hall Place because of Henry VIII. He wasn’t taking us; it was because of our project. On the way, Miss Phillips told us to discuss what we knew about him with the person we were sitting with.
‘He was right to get rid of his first wife,’ I said.
Veronique was shocked. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Catherine of Arrogant. Who’d want to live with someone like that?’
‘Cym …’
‘And his third wife wore glasses.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Jane See More? Course she did.’
Veronique did this humph noise and got a book out.
When the coach pulled in, we all trooped off and stared at this big, ancient house. Miss Phillips said it was Tudor, i.e. from Henry VIII’s time. She took us in and we put our bags in a massive bin with our school’s name on. Then we did a workshop, which was really fun. There were clues in the house and we went round in groups, finding out facts, me soon realising that I’d been born 500 years too late. If I’d have been a Tudor (well, a rich one), I would never have had to even look at a vegetable, let alone eat one. Bathtime was practically non-existent. Mum really digs her nails in when she’s washing my hair, but this would have only happened once a year!
I probably would still have moaned, though.
After that, a Hall Place helper got loads of costumes out of a big wooden trunk. We all dressed up. I was only a peasant, but Darren Cross got to be a King’s Guard, and Marcus Breen was Cardinal Wolsey. Lance was Henry VIII himself!
‘I hereby announce that football is legal again!’ he said, and we all cheered. ‘Though netball is against the law.’
All the girls booed, including Daisy, who is great at it because she’s so tall. She got to be Anne Boleyn and we all laughed when she grabbed her neck, backing away from Lance and pulling a face. The Hall Place helper laughed too, then asked us to settle down.
‘Now then, young people, does anyone actually know why Henry had Anne Boleyn executed?’
Veronique’s hand went up this time. She said it was because Henry needed a male heir and Anne was getting too old. It underlined the ruthlessness of patriarchal power. The helper said good answer, but I wasn’t sure. I thought back to the night before, and Dad, and I shoved my hand up too.
‘Did she snore?’ I asked.
We had lunch and watched a Tudor film. Then Miss Phillips said we were lucky because there was a travelling exhibition on. It featured Tudor items, like swords and cups and books, that had been borrowed from other places. They were in glass cases, most of the class just glancing in at them and moving past, though I couldn’t do that. I was with Veronique and she insisted on studying EVERY LAST THING. She got SO excited, especially when we came to what looked, to me, just like some boring wooden pegs. The sign said they were piano keys, though, which had been played by Elizabeth I when she was young.
‘Her fingers actually touched them!’ squealed Veronique. ‘And there! The middle C is much more worn than the others. That’s the same with our piano, Cymbeline!’ I agreed that that was so (yawn) thrilling (yaaaawwwwn) to (yaaaaaaaawwwwn) know, and tried to pull Veronique away. Billy and Marcus Breen had snuck out into the gardens and were sharing a pack of Skittles!
Veronique frowned. ‘I thought you liked history!’
‘I do,’ I insisted. ‘I like history WHEN IT’S ON TV! I don’t like it when it’s like this. It’s too …’
‘What?’
‘Historical.’
‘Then what should it be?’
‘About fighting!’ I said. ‘Or brain-sucking. Doing things with intestines, or having pointless battles with French people. And beheadings of course. Hey, there aren’t any severed heads here, are there?’
‘There’s one!’ Veronique exclaimed.
For a second I was excited. Would I see Anne Boleyn staring at me from a glass case? Or Catherine Howard, who I felt sorry for, actually. Not only did she have to marry Henry VIII when he was old, and couldn’t walk, but he cut her head off! How ungrateful is that? And, worse, no one remembers her. Google ‘Henry VIII’s wife’ and all you get is Anne Boleyn, Anne Boleyn, Anne Boleyn. Catherine Howard must be furious. Anyway, I followed Veronique with my eyes wide open, but then groaned.
She was looking at a badge.
It was on its own, in one of the smaller glass cases. It was gold and looked like one of the brooches that Mum’s granny left her, which she never wears but takes out to look at sometimes. It was small and roundish, with Elizabeth I’s face and shoulders in the middle. Surrounding it were entwined green leaves, some a bit chipped. Dotted about the leaves were flowers, which made me nod. Some of them were red, and some white, from the two sides in the Wars of the Roses (Lancaster and York). The sign said ‘1571’.
‘That’s four hundred and fifty years ago! Imagine!’
‘I am imagining. I like the red ones.’
‘The red ones?’
‘Skittles.’
‘Skittles? Don’t be silly! The real Elizabeth the First actually touched that, Cym. She wore it round her neck. That’s amazing. Come on, you have to admit that really is incredible!’
And I did, actually. It might have helped that the badge was gold, not wood, but, after glancing at it, I did have to admit that us looking at it after so many hundreds of years was cool.
Or was it?
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not incredible.’
Veronique frowned at me then, but I didn’t turn round to look at her – because I was more than glancing at the badge now. I moved forward, my nose touching the glass as I screwed my eyes up and squinted at it. Veronique was asking what I meant, but I just stared at the badge, not wanting to speak until I was sure.
And then I WAS sure.
‘It’s not amazing,’ I insisted.
‘What isn’t?’
‘This. Though it would have been.’
‘Would have been?’
‘Yes, IF Elizabeth the First HAD worn it.’
‘But she DID wear it!’
‘No, she didn’t.’ I moved away from the case and turned back to Veronique.
‘Because it’s a fake,’ I said.
She came round on the same day Dad got out of hospital.
The lady.
Mum had picked us up from after-school club and there was Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. It was greater than GREAT to see him back home, but he was looking so pale. And thin. He normally shaves every day, but he hadn’t in hospital and, when I kissed him, his bristles felt wrong. I didn’t say anything, though. I just started telling him about the school play and how I was helping build the sets, getting really excited until Mum held her hands up. Dad didn’t even argue, just saying that he needed a rest. He’d only been waiting for us little monkeys to get back so he could say hello. I poured milk for Milly and Benji while Mum helped him upstairs. When she came back, she put Benji in front of CBeebies, which she never normally does. Then she came and sat with Milly and me.
Mum told us that Dad had to be careful. He wasn’t allowed to walk far and had to get lots of rest. We weren’t to fuss
around him. They’d put him on this medicine, which was a good thing, but until they’d worked out how much to give him he was going to feel the effects.
‘He will be all right, though?’ Milly was looking at Mum like the answer was an obvious yes. She nodded.
‘Though you mustn’t tire him out. You REALLY mustn’t. And there will have to be changes.’
‘What like?’
‘We’re going to have to put hand grips up, to help him. We’ll need them in the shower and other places. He might have to start using a wheelchair for a bit and that’ll mean moving the furniture about and having ramps outside.’
‘Can we get a skateboard then?’
Mum would normally have laughed at that, but she didn’t seem to hear Milly. She just looked round, then said that someone from the council was coming over later.
‘What for?’
‘To do an assessment. Of the house. Tell us what we need. Don’t worry, though, I’ll …’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘I’ll be back by then.’
‘Back?’ Milly asked.
Mum took a breath then and looked down at the table. She took some more deep breaths, like she had something hot in her mouth and wanted it to cool down. She spread her hands out to steady herself and I noticed that her thumbnail was chipped. She loves her nails, always getting Elaine to do them when she’s in there for her hair. I was surprised that she’d let it get like that.
‘Yes. Back. I’m having to work more.’
I frowned. ‘But you are working more.’
‘I know. Some more again, I’m afraid. There’s plenty of shifts going.’
‘So … Are you going now? To work?’
‘No.’ Mum took another breath. ‘I’m …’
‘Yes?’
‘Taking Benji out.’
‘To the park?’ Milly asked. ‘Can I come?’
Mum shook her head. ‘No. I’m taking him … to see a nursery.’
‘But he’s got a nursery,’ I said. ‘Apple Trees.’
‘I know. But …’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ demanded Milly. ‘Mum, we all went there! It’s lovely!’
‘I know,’ Mum said. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘Because of my work, Benji’s going to have to go to nursery more. Five days, not three.’
‘So? He can still go to Apple Trees.’
‘He can’t,’ Mum said. ‘They don’t have any extra space.’
I stared at her. ‘So you’re moving him?’
‘No. Sandford, that’s the other one. They’ve got two days they can give me.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘He’ll be going to two nurseries?’
‘Yes. He’ll have to. I can’t …’
‘But that’ll be really weird for him!’ Milly said. ‘He’ll have to get used to new people. It was hard enough for him at Apple Trees. You know how he was. He cried and cried. He’ll be confused ALL THE TIME. He won’t know where he is!’
‘I know,’ Mum insisted. ‘I know, I know. I KNOW!’
And she pushed her chair back so fast it fell over. She jerked to the side and ran out to the loo, slamming the door behind her.
Milly and I just looked at each other.
When Mum came back in, her face was red. She must have washed it. Milly asked if we could go with her to the new nursery.
‘Sorry. I know you’d like to see where he’s going, but someone has to be here with Dad.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, though it felt a bit weird. Would Dad be looking after us or would we be looking after him? Again it made me feel suddenly older. Too old. I shook the question away. This was just the sort of thing we’d have to do now, wasn’t it?
‘We can manage. We’ll do homework.’
‘Or watch TV. I don’t mind. Jess, get Milly some milk and biscuits if she wants some. You know where your formula is.’
‘But, Mum,’ Milly said, standing up from her chair, ‘does this mean that Jessica’s in CHARGE?’
Mum turned then. Her face went serious as she looked at Milly and said, ‘Yes, she is.’ She was clearly expecting Milly to complain and I was too, but Milly didn’t. She looked relieved if anything, even reaching over to hold my hand.
‘Gucci,’ she said.
And five minutes later we both watched Mum push Benji down the road past the corner shop.
It really was odd then. Milly and I shut the door and walked back into the lounge. The house was all big and empty-seeming. I looked around, not knowing what we should do.
‘We can’t watch TV,’ Milly said. ‘What if Dad calls out? What if he needs us?’
‘We could have it on low.’
‘But we get bound up in it, don’t we? Mum calls us for supper and we don’t even hear.’
We did hear – we just pretended not to – but I knew what Milly meant. So instead of TV we got our bags from the hall and plonked them on the kitchen table. We both had maths sheets, which weren’t due until next week, but we did them anyway. I filled in a quiz sheet on Henry VIII because he was our topic subject, and then asked if Milly had anything else to do.
‘Only spellings,’ she mumbled, though she didn’t get them out of her folder. She looked miserable, and it wasn’t because they were hard. You see, Dad normally does our spellings with us, on Sunday nights, and, if that sounds like a bad way to end the weekend, it’s NOT. Dad makes it into this massive game. He tells us to fetch our folders, reminding us that he is not Dad any more. He’s a TRULY EVIL AND PARTICULARLY FOUL wizard who’s trying to make everyone in the world really BAD at spelling. He watches as we learn the words (read, cover, read, write). Then he tests us. When we get one right, he pretends it actually hurts him and, if we’ve got nine out of nine, he pretends to be REALLY cross. He stands up from the kitchen table and we have to stand up too – getting ready to run. He says the last word and we start to spell it out, pausing before the last letter – because if we DO get it right (ten out of ten) he chases us. We’ve got to get to the armchair in the lounge, which is home, because if he catches us before then he REALLY tickles us. I am SO ticklish that I sometimes pretend to get the last word wrong! He can always tell, though, and I have to leg it anyway, me leaping on to the chair and giggling, him saying, ‘DRAT!’ and, ‘CURSES!’ again because I’ve escaped from him.
And, though it might sound a bit lame, now that I actually say it, it’s just the most brilliant thing.
But Dad wasn’t going to be able to do the game today, was he? Would he ever be able to do it again?
I didn’t know the answer to that. I nearly asked Milly because she’d be really positive and say, ‘Yes! Of course!’ But I didn’t get a chance because the doorbell rang.
Milly and I looked at each other. Mum hadn’t said it that day, but we KNEW not to answer the door. So we ignored it, Milly actually getting her spelling sheet out.
But the doorbell rang again.
Our doorbell is loud. What if Dad heard? As fast as I could, I pushed myself back from the table. I went to the kitchen window and, very carefully, lifted one of the slats on the blind. I was hoping it was just Kieran from up the road, who sometimes comes to ask if Milly wants to throw a rugby ball around in the park.
It wasn’t, though.
The lady was tall, with short, curly grey hair. Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of a long, padded coat and she was wearing glasses with red frames, through which she was peering at our door.
‘Well?’ Milly hissed.
I turned. ‘A lady,’ I said, letting the blind down, hoping the lady didn’t see. Then I waited, praying we’d hear footsteps going back up the drive.
But we didn’t. The doorbell went AGAIN, sounding twice as loud as it had before, though I knew it couldn’t have been. Milly winced. ‘What if it wakes Dad up?’ she mouthed.
‘I know. But …’
‘What? He’s ill. He needs to sleep. Mum said. And what if it’s the person from the council?’
I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Aren’t they comin
g round later?’
‘What if they’re early?’
‘I don’t care.’ I turned back to the blind. ‘We can’t let anyone in.’
‘I know. But Mum won’t want to miss it. What if it is them and they leave? Why don’t we just tell her to wait outside?’
‘All right,’ I said, also reasoning to myself that it was a woman outside, not a man, and that made it easier somehow.
So we both ran through to the hall. And, very cautiously, I pulled the door open.
‘He-llo!’ the woman said, in a singsong voice.
I peered through the crack I’d made and, when the woman stepped away, I opened the door a bit more.
‘Are you from the council?’ Milly asked from behind me.
The lady frowned. ‘Should I be?’
‘Well, it’s just that,’ I said, ‘we’re expecting someone.’
The woman shrugged. And smiled again. ‘Well, I’m not from the council – but I am expected. Mrs Rose?’
‘Who?’
‘Ah. I see your mum forgot to mention me. Is she home?’
I didn’t know how to answer that. Should I admit she was out? For some reason I didn’t want to. ‘Dad is,’ I said. ‘But he’s … busy.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Rose smiled. ‘Well, never mind. I don’t want to disturb him. And I don’t need to see your mum really.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No. You can just tell her that I called.’ I was about to shut the door, but the woman held her hand out. ‘And that I’m really grateful.’
‘What … for?’
The woman – Mrs Rose – smiled yet again. ‘Her message. On WhatsApp. Friends of Cuckmere Haven? About the bear.’
‘The …?’
‘Bear,’ the woman repeated, doing her best to keep the smile going. ‘That you found? At the beach?’
‘The …?’
‘Teddy bear. May I have it, please?’
Veronique frowned. Then she looked CROSS, which she always does when something is happening that she can’t work out.
‘Fake?’ she said. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Cymbeline?’
I ignored Veronique and thought about being in school instead: learning about the Wars of the Roses.
‘They made up,’ I said. ‘Afterwards.’