by Linda Green
We have maths and science. I am quite good at science. Mum said once it was because I have an enquiring mind. But the lesson doesn’t seem to be one where you have lots of enquiring to do, just things to read and write down. They have proper science labs and everything, but we don’t actually get to use any of those things. I put my hand up to answer a couple of questions about the structure of leaves and photosynthesis. The teacher, who is called Miss Cahill, seems impressed. The boy with glasses I sat next to in tutor group, whose name I now know is Harrison, is not.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asks, coming up to me at break time, with two other boys behind him.
‘Nothing,’ I say, although I know that is not going to stop him.
‘You’ve got girl’s hair and now it seems you’re a girly swot.’
‘I know about plants, that’s all.’
The two boys standing with him both laugh.
‘Why?’
‘Because I like gardening.’
‘Then there must be something wrong with you. What’s your favourite sport?’
‘I don’t like sport.’
‘Wrong answer,’ he says. ‘And you’re the wrong sort of boy for Ickfield then, aren’t you?’
‘I like music. I came for the music.’
Harrison laughs. ‘Good luck with that, Gay Lord.’
He walks off, the other two boys laughing with him. I so wish Mum had won the school argument.
*
When I get home that afternoon, I text Lottie on my new phone.
‘I hate it. Even more than I thought I would.’
‘Are they all Tory posh boys?’ She replies.
‘I think so. There’s a boy called Harrison who is dead mean and the PE teacher told me I have to get my hair cut.’
‘Sexist pig. Don’t listen to him. I’d start a petition if I was there with you.’
I manage a little smile as I read it.
‘What’s your school like?’ I ask.
‘It’s OK. Missed you though.’
The little smile turns into a wobbly lip and then proper tears. I put the phone down. I have no idea how I am going to get through this.
AFTER 12
12
Kaz
I can tell as soon as I arrive that Finn has had a bad week. One look at his face as he opens the door is enough for that. I step inside and he throws his arms round me and bursts into tears.
‘Hello, pet. I’ve missed you so much. Were it that bad?’ I ask, stroking his hair. What there is left of it, at any rate. He’s had a trip to the barber, by the looks of it. And I can’t imagine that was his idea. It is a few moments before he can answer.
‘I hate it,’ he says. ‘I’m the wrong sort of boy for that school.’
‘Who says that?’
‘Harrison. A boy in my class. He’s right, too. I’m not like the other boys. I don’t play rugby and football and cricket like them. And I don’t do gaming or mess about or tease the girls, which is why they don’t want to be my friend.’
‘So who have you been sitting with, at lunchtime and that?’
‘No one. On the second day, I tried sitting at a table where some older kids were, and they told me to go away, only they said a rude word.’
‘And did you tell a teacher?’
‘No. Because then they’ll call me a grass. That’s how it works. Anyway, my tutor group teacher’s horrible. He’s called Mr Makin and he said my hair looked like a girl’s and it was too long for a boy so I needed to get it cut. I didn’t want to but Dad said it was best not to get off to a bad start, so he took me to his barber this morning and now I don’t even look like me any more.’
He looks up and wipes his snotty nose on his sleeve as Martin comes into the hall.
‘Finn, let Kaz come in, love. She probably needs a sit-down after being on her feet all day.’
‘He’s all right,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. A brew would be good, mind.’
Martin nods and goes back in the kitchen.
‘Have you talked to your dad about how much you hate it?’ I ask.
‘Yeah but he just says I’ve got to give it a chance. That it will get better. It won’t, though. I’ve had all this before. It only gets worse.’
I look at him and wipe the tears from his cheeks. I hate seeing him like this. He’s done so well all summer and now to have to go through this, it’s heartbreaking to watch.
‘Have you been able to make any friends?’
‘There’s a boy called Mustafa and I sit next to him in tutor group now, because he hasn’t got any friends either. He’s OK but he doesn’t talk much. He’s only lived in this country a few years. He’s never heard of Alan Titchmarsh.’
I pull Finn close to me and give him another hug.
‘What we going to do, then?’
‘I don’t know. I want to leave but Dad won’t let me. He says we’ll talk again at half-term and it’ll probably all seem better by then.’
I shake my head. I’m trying not to show how cross I am at Martin, but it’s difficult to hide.
‘Would you like me to talk to him for you?’
Finn nods.
‘Please don’t do noisy arguing, though. I don’t like that.’
‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘You go upstairs to your room. I’ll be up when we’re done.’
Finn goes slowly up the stairs, his head bowed. I take a deep breath and go into the kitchen, where Martin has just poured the tea.
‘Thanks,’ I say, as he hands me a mug. ‘Poor lamb. Sounds like he’s had a tough week at school.’
‘I knew it was going to be hard for him, but I think he’d made up his mind he was going to hate it before he started.’
‘He said he never wanted to go there. That it wasn’t right school for him.’
Martin sighs. ‘He’d struggle at any school, to be honest. That’s why we took the decision to send him there. We thought it was better than him being eaten alive at the local comp.’
‘We?’ I ask.
Martin looks at his feet. ‘OK, so Hannah didn’t want him to go there. But she didn’t want him to go to the comp either. She had this crazy idea about home-educating him.’
‘That’s what Finn says he wanted.’
‘Yeah, well, we can’t always have what we want. We couldn’t afford for her to give up work to home-educate him, for a start. And anyway, a few half-baked lessons around the kitchen table wouldn’t have got him into college or uni. It’s a tough world out there. They want people with good qualifications and a proper education.’
I look at Martin. He really doesn’t seem to get it.
‘But Finn wants to be a gardener.’
‘He does now but he’ll realise later on that he’ll need a proper career to earn him enough to buy a decent house or provide for a family. That’s why he needs a good education.’
‘Alan Titchmarsh has done OK for himself.’
Martin snorts. ‘There are plenty of kids who want to be the next David Beckham, but it doesn’t mean they’re all going to make it.’
I pick up my mug and walk to the other side of the kitchen.
‘Are you happy, Martin?’ I ask.
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘Most important one there is. You’ve got a degree and a well-paid job and a nice big house. Are you happy?’
Martin’s eyes darken. His frown lines deepen.
‘That’s hardly the right question to ask, in the circumstances, is it?’
‘It is, because life isn’t about having a well-paid job and a nice house. Believe me, I’d like both of them, but I’m not daft enough to think they’re more important than being happy. And I’m trying to work out why you think things that haven’t made you happy are worth making Finn miserable for.’
‘He�
��s had a tough week, that’s all. He’ll get used to it. He’ll make friends.’
‘Like he did at his last school, you mean?’
Martin spins round to face me. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘It’s true, though. He only survived there because of Lottie, from what he’s told me. Other kids were horrible to him. And now you’re sending him to a school where kids are already picking on him and his teacher’s publicly humiliated him and made him have a haircut.’
‘You make it sound awful.’
‘It is awful for him. And he’s got no one fighting his corner this time, like his mum used to.’
‘That was uncalled for,’ says Martin, raising his voice and jabbing his finger at me. ‘You’ve only known him five minutes and now you’re telling me you know better than me how to bring up my own son.’
I can feel the heat coming to the surface. All the things I’ve held back for so long. It’s a struggle to keep my voice low.
‘I were with him for toughest hour of his life, remember. I were one who held him when you weren’t there because your wife thought it best to take him away from you. And unlike you I am listening to him and hearing his pain, when you refuse to accept it, because that would mean you admitting you were wrong. Wrong about everything.’
I turn and walk out of the kitchen before Martin shouts at me and Finn has to cover his ears. I go straight up to Finn’s room. He is lying on his bed, reading a gardening book. He looks up at me.
‘He won’t listen, will he?’
I sigh and sit down on his bed. ‘No, not at moment. I gave him a bit of an ear-bashing, though, in hope it’ll get through to him.’
‘Is he mad at you now, then?’
‘Probably a bit.’
‘Will he still give you macaroni cheese for tea?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say with a smile. ‘But I hope so, because I’m bloody starving.’
‘Maybe he’ll just put lots of broccoli on it,’ says Finn. ‘Dad doesn’t like broccoli.’
We go downstairs when Martin calls up that tea is ready. You can hardly see the macaroni cheese on my plate, for the great big pile of broccoli.
*
My alarm goes off at seven the next morning. I want to get a few hours of cleaning in before I start work, so it’s ready for Terry when I bring him home later.
If I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home, yet. I’ve scrubbed it from top to bottom. Put in a few pot plants, which they gave me at work, and even put up a couple of photos; one of Terry and one of Finn in his garden at the grand opening, which he printed off for me. But I think that, despite all my efforts, the reason it doesn’t feel like home is because Terry isn’t here. That’s what it’s waiting for and what I’m waiting for.
As soon as I’ve had my breakfast, I get to work on the kitchen. The best thing about the kettle and toaster is that they remind me of Finn. Although they also remind me of the kindness Martin showed me, and I’m feeling a bit bad about having a go at him.
He needed it; I haven’t changed my mind about that. But I also know that the truth can hurt and he’s probably still smarting from what I said. He was certainly quiet for the rest of Saturday evening. It was pretty stupid too, seeing as he’s representing Terry at his appeal tribunal in a week’s time. I should have thought of that before I opened my gob. Story of my life.
When I’ve finished in the kitchen, I go upstairs to Terry’s room. I’ve got him a new duvet and pillow. Not that he’s staying over tonight, but I wanted it to look ready. Wanted him to see that he’s got a proper place to come home to when he’s ready. Doctor Khalil says it won’t be long now. They’re still reducing his meds, but he’s been doing fine on a low dose and he’ll be able to come off them completely once he’s home. I’ve told Doctor Khalil that. Because what he needs right now, more than anything, is to come home.
*
‘Are you on a hot date with our Barry tonight?’ asks Marje later that afternoon, when she catches me looking at my watch again.
‘No, and I told you to behave. Our Terry’s coming home. Just for a visit, mind. But if it goes well, he’s going to do an overnight next Sunday.’
‘So what are you bloody doing still here, then?’ asks Marje. ‘Go and get him. You’ve been waiting for this long enough.’
‘Thanks, Marje,’ I say. ‘I’ll make time up tomorrow.’
‘No, you won’t. Now bugger off.’
I smile at her and take off my apron. Five minutes later I’m walking down to the hospital, remembering all the times I went to pick Terry up from school. Always worried in case something had happened to him and he’d got in trouble. And all the times I’d lain awake at home when he was little. Scared that he’d be able to hear Mum and Dad fighting and then, a few years later, scared that Mum would get so drunk she’d wake him up coming upstairs. I can still remember lying awake the night after Mum had died too. Feeling guilty for feeling relieved. And scared stiff that they would take him into care or something. They didn’t, though. They said I was old enough to look after him at eighteen. Not realising that I’d already been looking after him for years. And here I was now, still caring for him. Still worrying. But with a slither of hope in my heart this time.
When I get to Terry’s room in Kingfisher ward, he’s all ready, sitting in his chair, waiting.
‘Hello, pet. You all set?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Bit nervous. I haven’t been out since, you know.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘That was your illness and you’re a lot better now. Doctor Khalil said so. He wouldn’t let you out if he thought you weren’t well enough.’
‘It’s weird because it’s a new place, too. It doesn’t really feel like going home.’
‘I know. It’ll be fine, once you’re there, though. Once you’ve seen your things.’
‘Is there owt left from old place?’
‘Only your TV and video and all your tapes.’
‘Who lives there now? In our old place, I mean.’
‘I don’t know, love. I haven’t been back. We’ve got a new home now. A fresh start and all that.’
Terry stands up and picks up his carrier bag.
‘Shall we make a move then?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, as he follows me out of the room.
*
It is strange seeing Terry standing in the kitchen, looking around the home he has never seen before.
‘You’ve got a new kettle and toaster,’ he says.
‘Yeah, Martin gave them to me when I moved in. You know, chappie I told you about who’s going to represent you at appeal.’
‘Finn’s dad,’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say, pleased that he has actually been listening while I’ve been chatting away on visits.
‘He sounds nice, that Finn.’
‘He is. You’d like him a lot. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him soon.’
‘What’s this?’ Terry asks, pointing to a flyer I have stuck to the fridge.
‘Oh, it’s an art class that’s starting next week. I picked it up in library, thought I might go, although I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit it in.’
‘You should go,’ says Terry. ‘You were always right good at art. And I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me.’
I smile at him. It’s not true, of course. But it’s so good to hear him actually thinking about other people again.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I might just give it a whirl.’
Terry follows me upstairs into his bedroom and looks around.
‘It’s big,’ he says. ‘Bigger than my last room.’
‘Yeah. And it’s nice and bright.’
When we get back down to the living room, Terry goes straight over to the TV. He looks in the cardboard box to check that all his tapes are there.
He turns
and smiles at me. ‘Put kettle on then, Sis. We’ve got time for a couple of episodes.’
I toddle off into the kitchen. When I come back with the teas, he’s watching the crappy Freddie Mercury and it’s almost like he’s never been away.
BEFORE 13
13
Finn
I lie next to Mum in the tent on Sunday night. I am not sure if she is asleep or is just pretending like me. My legs are tired from the long walk we had earlier, and my tummy is still full after the veggie sausages and baked beans we cooked for tea. But all I can think about now is Dad. He will be worried that we haven’t come home and has probably realised that he will be going to the meeting with Mrs Ratcliffe on his own in the morning. That’s if he still goes. I expect he will cancel it because there’s no point going if I’m not going to be there. And however angry he is about it now, he’s going to be even angrier by Thursday when we go home.
I can’t help thinking this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been sick, Mum might not have thought of taking me away on a camping trip. I wonder what the other kids will say at school tomorrow when I don’t turn up. They’ll probably think I’m pretending to be ill just to get out of the exams. Lottie will guess, though. I’m pretty sure she’ll work out that it’s actually a big protest.
If I had a mobile, I could text her and let her know what was happening. I think she’d be very excited. But then maybe she’d get in trouble for not telling on me, so it’s probably best that I haven’t got one. I understand why Mum didn’t bring her mobile now. Dad would have rung one hundred times and we would have ended up going back.
I try to join up the stars into constellations in my head. I still have them kind of imprinted on my eyes, because I was staring at them for so long earlier. It’s a very clear night. I wonder if Dad looked out at the stars tonight. Or whether he was too busy being angry to look.
*
When I wake up in the morning, I have a tummy ache. At first I think it’s because I have my SATs today, but then I open my eyes and remember that I am in a tent and that I have a tummy ache because I am not doing my SATs today.