‘Well, it’s been difficult.’ Mum gave a short laugh.
‘I know. But you’re brilliant at your job. And you win prizes and you wear great jackets . . .’
Mum threw back her head and laughed again. ‘Darling, you don’t go to work just to wear great jackets.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Well, most of the time you don’t.’
‘You’re staying at home because of me, aren’t you?’ I persisted.
‘Sweetheart . . .’ Mum sighed. ‘I love being here with you. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’
‘I know.’
There was silence and we watched as Jo turned down Laurie’s proposal, which, every time I watch it, I wish she would say yes.
‘But still, I think you should go back to work,’ I said. ‘You’re all shiny when you’re at work.’
‘Shiny?’ Mum seemed a bit taken aback.
‘Shiny. Like, super-mum.’
Mum looked incredibly touched. She blinked a few times and threaded another ribbon through the bow, and then said, ‘It’s not as simple as that, Audrey. I might have to travel – there are long hours – you’re starting a new school . . .’
‘So we’ll make it work,’ I said, as robustly as I could. ‘Mum, there’s no point me getting better if things don’t get better for all of us. I mean, we’ve all had a bad time, haven’t we?’
I’d been thinking about that all morning. About how it would be easy for me to get better and spring happily through the door, and leave Mum and Dad and Frank and Felix behind. But it shouldn’t be like that. We were all affected by what happened. We should all spring happily out of the door together.
Well, you know. Maybe Frank could slouch happily.
We watched for a while more in silence. Then Mum said, as though she was carrying on the same conversation, ‘Dr Sarah told me why you ditched your meds. You wanted to have a straight graph?’
My heart kind of sank. I had really not wanted to get onto the subject of meds. But I might have known it would come up.
‘I wanted to be better,’ I mumbled, feeling hot. ‘You know. Properly, one hundred per cent better. No meds, nothing.’
‘You are better.’ Mum put my face between her hands, just like she used to when I was a little girl. ‘Sweetheart, you’re so much better every week. I mean, you’re a different girl. You’re ninety per cent there. Ninety-five per cent. You must be able to see that.’
‘But I’m sick of this bloody jagged graph,’ I said in frustration. ‘You know, two steps up, one step down. It’s so painful. It’s so slow. It’s like this endless game of Snakes and Ladders.’
And Mum just looked at me as if she wanted to laugh or maybe cry, and she said, ‘But, Audrey, that’s what life is. We’re all on a jagged graph. I know I am. Up a bit, down a bit. That’s life.’
And then Jo met Professor Bhaer, so we had to watch that bit.
And then Beth died. So I guess the March sisters were on their own jagged graph too.
That night I come downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate and hear Dad saying, ‘Anne, I’ve ordered Frank a new laptop. There. I’ve said it. It’s done.’
Wow.
I creep forward and peer through the open door to see Mum almost drop her mug.
‘A new laptop?’
‘Second-hand. Excellent price. I went to Paul Taylor – he has some good deals—’ Dad breaks off at Mum’s expression. ‘Anne, OK. I know what we said. I know. But I can’t cope with the tension in this house any more. And Frank’s right, he does need the internet for his schoolwork, and he can hack into my emails, as we now know—’
‘I can’t believe you just went and did it.’
Mum is shaking her head, but she doesn’t sound quite as shrieky as I was expecting. In fact, she seems almost calm.
It’s eerie. I’m not sure I like Mum calm. She’s better all mad and voluble.
‘Is it so bad for Frank to play computer games once in a while?’ ventures Dad.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Chris.’ Mum rubs her face. ‘I don’t know any more. About anything.’
‘Well, nor do I.’ He pulls her in for a hug. ‘Anyway, I’ve got him a laptop.’
‘OK.’ Mum kind of subsides onto Dad and I can see how tired out she is. Frank said he’s never seen Mum like she was when I was missing. She was kind of grey, he said. And her eyes were flat inside, like their battery had died.
I’ll never get over doing that to them. But I’m not brooding. I’ve talked to Dr Sarah about it and we’ve agreed that the best way I can make it up to them is to stay well. Stay on my meds. Think healthful thoughts.
‘You remember that Christmas when they got ill?’ Mum says presently. ‘The year they were about two and three? Remember? And got poo all over their Christmas stockings, and it was everywhere, and we said, “It has to get easier than this”?’
‘I remember.’
‘We were cleaning it all up and we kept saying to each other, “When they get older, it’ll get easier.” Remember?’
‘I do.’ Dad looks fondly at her.
‘Well, bring back the poo.’ Mum begins to laugh, a bit hysterically. ‘I would do anything for a bit of poo right now.’
‘I dream of poo,’ says Dad firmly, and Mum laughs even more, till she’s wiping tears from her eyes.
And I back away, without making a sound. I’ll get my hot chocolate later.
And so the only piece left in the jigsaw is Linus. But it’s a big piece.
Frank just showed me the footage of Mum laying into Linus in the sitting room and I stared in total disbelief. First, I couldn’t believe Mum could blame Linus for anything. Second, I couldn’t believe he’d only just got my text. Third, I couldn’t believe he’d come over to see me.
So he hadn’t given up on me. He didn’t hate me. I hadn’t spoiled everything. I’d been wrong on pretty much everything. As I watched it for the second time I felt pretty sheepish and I could tell Mum felt even worse.
‘I don’t sound like that,’ she kept saying in horror. ‘I didn’t say that. Did I?’
‘You totally sound like that,’ said Frank. ‘You sound worse, actually. The camera was flattering.’
He was rubbing it in. She doesn’t sound quite as shrill as that in real life.
‘So, I need to apologize to Linus.’ She sighs.
‘So do I,’ I say quickly.
‘So do I,’ says Frank glumly.
‘What?’ Mum and I swivel to look at him.
‘We had a fight. About LOC. He was talking about the tournament and I got . . . well, jealous, I suppose.’
Frank looks like an overgrown schoolboy. He’s got ink on his hands and is staring miserably at his knees. He doesn’t know about the laptop yet, and I would love to whisper it in his ear to cheer him up, but I’ve had enough of going behind my parents’ backs. For now.
‘So.’ Mum is in her brisk mode again. ‘We all need to apologize to Linus.’
‘Mum, that’s all very well,’ I say in a flat tone. ‘But it’s too late. Linus’s parents are emigrating. He’s at the airport right now. We’ve missed our chance.’
‘What?’ Mum looks up as though scalded.
‘We could make the airport.’ Dad looks alertly at his watch. ‘Which airport? Anne, we’ll take your car.’
‘Which flight?’ demands Mum. ‘Audrey, which flight?’
What are my parents like? They’ve watched too many Richard Curtis films, that’s their trouble. They’ve gone soft in the head.
‘He’s not at the bloody airport!’ I expostulate. ‘I said that as a joke. Don’t you think you’d know if Linus was emigrating?’
‘Oh.’ Mum subsides, looking highly embarrassed. ‘OK. I just got carried away for a moment. What shall we do, then?’
‘Invite him to Starbucks,’ I say after a moment’s thought. ‘It needs to be at Starbucks. Frank, you text him.’
It’s actually pretty funny. When Linus arrives at Starbucks we’re all sitting there at one big table, the whole
family, waiting for him. He looks totally unnerved, and for a moment I think he’s going to run away, but you know, Linus isn’t a runner-awayer. After about five seconds he comes forward resolutely and looks at us all in turn, especially Mum. And last of all me.
It takes him about thirty seconds to realize.
‘Your glasses!’
‘I know.’ I can’t help beaming.
‘When—?’
‘Dunno. They just fell off. And . . . here I am.’
‘So, Linus,’ says Mum. ‘We would all like to apologize to you. Frank?’
‘Sorry I got ratty, mate,’ says Frank, turning red.
‘Oh.’ Linus seems embarrassed. ‘Er . . . that’s OK.’
They bang fists together, then Frank turns to Mum.
‘Mum, your turn.’
‘OK.’ Mum clears her throat. ‘Linus, I’m very sorry I took my worries and fears out on you. I got completely the wrong end of the stick. I know how good you’ve been for Audrey and I can only apologize.’
‘Right. Um.’ Linus looks even more embarrassed. ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this,’ he says, looking around the family. ‘I know you were all stressed.’
‘We want to.’ Mum’s voice gives a sudden waver. ‘Linus, we’re all very fond of you. And I should not have shouted at you. It was a bad time, and I really am sorry.’
‘Sorry!’ chimes in Felix, who has been chomping on shortbread biscuits all this time. ‘We have to say sorry to Linus. Sorry, Linus.’ He beams. ‘Sorry, Linus.’
‘Felix, you’re fine,’ says Linus.
I can see Felix gazing at Linus, his dandelion-clock head on one side, as though trying to work out what we’re all doing here.
‘Did Mummy cut your hair?’ he says, as though he’s cracked it. ‘Did you cry? Ben cried because he was happy.’
‘Er, no, Felix, no one cut my hair,’ says Linus, looking baffled.
‘Ben cried because he was happy,’ reiterates Felix.
‘So that’s me,’ says Mum. ‘Chris? Your turn?’ She turns to Dad, who looks a little startled. I’m not sure he realized this was a go-round-the-table apology.
‘Er . . . hear, hear,’ he says. ‘What she said.’ He waves towards Mum. ‘Count me in on that. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ says Linus with a little smile.
‘And, Linus, we’d like to give you a little present to make amends,’ says Mum. ‘A little gift. Maybe a theatre outing . . . or a theme park? You choose.’
‘I can choose anything?’ Linus looks secretively from Mum to Dad. ‘Anything I want?’
‘Well, within reason! Nothing too expensive . . .’
‘This wouldn’t be expensive, what I’m thinking of.’
‘It sounds great!’ says Dad at once, and Mum frowns at him.
‘I want to play in the LOC qualifiers with Frank,’ says Linus. ‘That’s what I want more than anything.’
‘Oh.’ Mum stares at him, discomfited. ‘Really?’
‘You’re in a team already,’ says Frank gruffly. I can tell he’s super-touched from the way he won’t even look at Linus.
‘I want to play in your team. They’ve got a reserve. They don’t need me.’
‘But we haven’t got a team!’ says Frank, and there’s a sudden depth of misery to his voice. ‘I haven’t got a computer, we don’t have a team—’
‘Yet,’ chimes in Dad, bubbling over. ‘Yet.’ He grins madly at Frank. ‘Yet.’
‘What?’ Frank stares blankly at him.
‘You haven’t got a computer yet.’ Dad gives one of his stage winks. ‘Just look out for a big brown box, is all I’m saying. But no more hacking my emails.’
‘What?’ Frank looks almost heady with hope. ‘Seriously?’
‘If you follow our rules and don’t make a fuss when we tell you to stop playing,’ says Mum. ‘If there’s any trouble, it’s going out of the window.’ She gives a satisfied little grin. ‘You know I’ll do it. You know I want to.’
‘Anything!’ Frank seems almost beyond speechless. ‘I’ll do anything!’
‘So you can play in your game,’ says Dad, who looks almost as fired up by this as Frank. ‘I was reading a piece about it in the Sunday Times magazine. I mean, this LOC is a big business, isn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ says Frank, as if to say Finally! ‘In Korea it’s an official spectator sport! And they have scholarships for it in the States. Actual scholarships.’
‘You should read the piece, Anne,’ says Dad. ‘What’s the prize pot – six million dollars?’ He grins at Frank. ‘So, are you going to win that?’
‘We don’t have a team.’ Frank suddenly deflates. ‘We’ll never get a team together. It’s, like, a week away.’
‘Ollie could play,’ suggests Linus. ‘He’s not bad, for a twelve-year-old.’
‘I could play,’ I offer, on impulse. ‘You know, if you want me to.’
‘You?’ says Frank derisively. ‘You’re crap.’
‘Well, I can practise, can’t I?’
‘Exactly!’ says Mum. ‘She can practise. So, that’s sorted.’ She glances at her watch, then at Linus and me. ‘And now we’ll leave you two alone, for Audrey to . . . Well, for you to . . .’ She pauses. ‘Anyway. You don’t want us hanging around embarrassing you!’
OK, the thing is, no one was embarrassed till she said the word embarrassed. As it is, Linus and I wait in awkward silence while they all get up, and Felix drops his biscuit and wants another one, and Dad starts looking for his BlackBerry, and Mum tells him he didn’t have it, and honestly, I love them to bits, but could my family be any more annoying?
I wait until they’ve well and truly left and the glass door has closed behind them. And then I turn properly to Linus and look at him.
‘Welcome to my eyes,’ I say softly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I like them.’ He smiles. ‘I love them.’
We’re just looking and looking at each other. And I can feel something new between us, something even more intimate than anything we’ve done. Eye to eye. It’s the most powerful connection in the world.
‘Linus, I’m sorry,’ I say at last, wrenching my gaze away. ‘I should have listened – you were right—’
‘Stop.’ He plants his hand on mine. ‘You’ve said it. I’ve said it. Enough.’
He has a point. We’ve sent about five zillion texts to each other since I came back. (Only Mum isn’t supposed to know how many, because I was ‘resting’.)
‘So . . . are we OK?’
‘Well, that depends,’ says Linus, and I feel a lurch of fear in spite of myself.
‘On what?’
Linus looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘On whether you can ask that blonde woman three tables away directions to the circus.’
I start laughing in a way I haven’t for ages. ‘The circus?’
‘You’ve heard the circus is in town. You’re desperate to see it. Especially the elephants.’
‘OK. I’ll do it.’ I get up and do a mock curtsey. ‘Look, no glasses! Just eyes!’
‘I know.’ He looks up, smiling. ‘I told you, I love them.’
‘You love them?’ I preen myself.
‘You.’
Something catches in my throat. His gaze is fixed on mine and there’s no doubting what he meant.
‘Me too,’ I manage. ‘You.’
We’re sinking into each other’s gazes. We’re like starving people gorging on cream cakes. But he’s challenged me, and I’m not going to wuss out, no way. So I wrench myself away and go to pester a strange blonde woman about the circus. I don’t look back once, the entire time I’m talking to her. But I can feel his eyes on me all the time. Like sunshine.
Mum’s printed us T-shirts. She’s actually printed us team T-shirts. We’re called The Strategists, which got pulled out of a hat when we couldn’t agree on a name.
You wouldn’t believe the playroom. It looks like Gaming Central. Ollie and Linus brought their stuff over yesterday, so now there
are two desktops (Dad’s, which he’s lending me for the match, and Ollie’s) and two laptops, each with a chair and a headset and a bottle of water so we stay hydrated. And – last-minute purchase by Mum – a box of Krispy Kremes.
I mean, we could all play online in our own homes. That would be the normal thing. But Mum was like, ‘OK, if this is a team sport, play it like a team sport.’ And it’s a Saturday morning, so actually it works fine.
Mum’s suddenly become interested in LOC for the first time in her life, and we’ve spent all week explaining the characters and the levels and the backstory and answering her dumb questions, like, ‘But why does everyone have to be so greedy and violent?’ In the end, Frank snapped, ‘It’s Land of Conquerors, Mum, not Land of Community Service Volunteers,’ and she did look a bit embarrassed.
I’ve put in a few hours online and I’ve sharpened up my game a little. I mean, I’m no Frank. But I won’t let them down. I hope. Actually, I think I’m a little better than Ollie, who asked me at our first practice session if I was dating Linus, and when I said, ‘Yes,’ looked deflated for about thirty seconds, then said, manfully, ‘Well, let’s just be good friends and team-mates, then.’ He is quite a cutie, old Ollie.
‘I bought some Cokes for the team!’ Dad arrives at the door of the playroom.
‘Chris!’ Mum frowns. ‘I got them water!’
‘One Coke won’t hurt.’
‘Oh God. Look at this,’ Mum is peering around the room as though for the first time. ‘Look at this room. Coke? Krispy Kremes? Computers?’ It’s like the triumvirate of all the things she despises and fears. I feel quite sorry for her. ‘Are we bad parents?’ She turns to Dad. ‘Seriously. Are we bad parents?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably. What of it?’
‘Are we, Audrey?’ She wheels round to me.
‘Hit and miss,’ I say, deadpan.
‘We’re not as bad as these guys,’ says Dad in sudden inspiration, and hands her a copy of the Daily Mail which he must have bought while he was out. ‘Read this.’
Mum grabs the Mail and her eyes fall avidly on a headline.
‘We have to wear identical clothes every day,’ she reads. ‘Mum forces her six kids into matching clothes. Oh my God.’ She looks up, totally cheered. ‘We’re so not as bad as this! Listen: The children are teased at school but Christy Gorringe, thirty-two, is unrepentant. I like my kids to match,’ she says. ‘I buy my fabric wholesale.’ Mum shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Have you seen them?’
Finding Audrey Page 18