‘It’s just, I reckon this is the first time I’ve seen you get worked up over a girl since you were going out with Lara.’
I shake my head. ‘I swear, it’s really not like that,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Seriously yeah. It’s about as far from that as it’s possible to be.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Way-huh.’
‘OK.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘But she is fit though?’
I think about this a bit too long before I say, ‘Not really.’
‘Ah-ha!’
‘Shut up, Kells.’
I take a long drink because, to my extreme annoyance, I’m blushing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lie ins are my favourite things about Sundays. If I had the choice, I’d stay in bed till ten all the days. I’m still pretty stiff from the bike crash/box lugging when I wake up. I stretch, then lie back for a moment, listening.
The birds are back from wherever they go in the winter. They start up again somewhere in that weird time just before early spring, when the days could be anything from freeze-your-nuts-off to let’s-take-a-chance-and-not-wear-a-coat. That point when you think the dark and cold are going to exist forever. Then just when your legs are screaming to be out and running somewhere where there’s clear air that isn’t going to numb your face half to death, you realise you can hear the birds again. Only one or two at first, but as the days get lighter, more arrive, making their nest in the chimney, flitting from the hedge that lines one edge of our garden up to the old horse chestnut tree and back to the roof.
Jamie hates it when the birds are at their loudest, even though they’re definitely noisier in my room, not his and Jack’s, owing to the fact that the tree’s on my side, but I love them.
Today it’s only a couple of birds, but they sound happy, and busy. Jazzy (everyone except Mum and Dad has a name starting with a J in this house, it’s a whole thing), will be on the hunt. Luckily, he’s too fat and lazy to actually catch anything, at least most of the time. I can see his outline on the window sill, gazing at the bird, with the tip of his tail flicking from side to side.
I bung on my dressing gown and pad downstairs to find Mum already dressed and humming along to the radio as she peels potatoes for later. She likes to do a roast on Sundays when she’s not on shift.
Mum looks tired but relaxed, like the song she’s nodding along to has taken her back to some place in the past.
She spots me and smiles. ‘Morning, chicken.’
I loop my arms around her. She smells faintly of apples, from her shampoo. Of Almat washing powder and clothes dried indoors, and then just her – warm somehow, like home. ‘Morning. Do you want me to do that?’
‘No, it’s all right. You can make me a cup of tea and take one up to your dad though,’ she says, her fingers moving fast over a potato. Her hands are red and dry from the antibac gel she uses for work. The washing machine’s already going with the first of several washes; there’ll be clothes hanging off all the doorways for the rest of the day. A sudden flash of guilt goes through me. Mum does so much for us all, especially at the moment with Dad’s back being bad. He would usually be in here prepping the veg with her.
‘How was work yesterday?’ Mum asks, as I wait for the kettle to boil.
‘All right.’
‘And your schoolwork?’
‘Under control.’ Sort of. I don’t add this though. As ever, Mum picks up on the unspoken bit of my sentence and frowns at me.
‘I don’t want you going out until you get it all done, lovey.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll do it in a bit.’
‘Joni …’
I stiffen, but here it comes anyway.
‘You know, it’s important to do well at school, not waste your chances.’
If I was really mean, I could ask, ‘What, like you?’ Mum did all right at school, but then she met Dad, and Jamie kind of happened and well … she’d be gutted if she thought we believed she had any regrets. And she doesn’t. She loves us all. But still. I see how the years of getting by, the endless bills and everything going up a bit more while wages stick where they are, sit on her, making her hair greyer than other mums’ who’ve got ten years on her easy.
But I’m not about to say any of that. Still, maybe Mum picks up on what I’m thinking in some way because she says, ‘There’s a whole world out there. You don’t want to be stuck on the minimum wage, living at home.’
She doesn’t say like Jamie, but it’s suddenly in the air. Mum adds, ‘Not that your dad and me would let you get away with that.’
I smile, but I can’t help feeling the weight of all those dreams she has for me. Of something bigger than she’s got, better.
I don’t say any of this, just crack on with making the tea, and after a pause that feels way longer than it actually is, she turns back to the potatoes. I take a cup up to Dad, who’s fighting himself awake through a haze of painkillers. His face is on the grey side.
‘Thanks, love,’ he says as I plonk the cup of tea down on the rickety cabinet by the side of his bed, which is piled with George R.R. Martin books and old copies of the Daily Mail.
I give him a careful hug, and he squeezes me back with one arm; even though he’s in pain, Dad still gives the best hugs, squishy and safe.
‘You be OK for work tomorrow?’ I say.
‘I’d best be, hadn’t I? No work, no pay,’ he says and then he smiles just like Mum did downstairs, as though he’s trying to take away the sting of it. ‘Could be worse, least I’ve still got work, even after the stunt they pulled.’
He means when everyone got laid off from his building company, then told they could still work there if they agreed to be self-employed as subbies. And pay for their own materials. Oh, and forget about holiday or sick pay.
I hate how deep the lines on his face look, and the white strands speckling through his hair. I can’t help wondering how much longer Dad can keep on working, with his back so bad.
Later on, when Dad’s managed to get himself up and Jamie’s come home between shifts, we all sit at the table for Mum’s roast. She does officially the best roasties – crisp and golden on the outside, fluffy on the inside. I take five and scoff the lot.
Jamie looks about as knackered as Dad as he munches through his stuffing.
‘You’re quiet,’ Mum says. ‘Work going all right?’ She can’t help the hint of anxiety in her voice; we still don’t really know why Jamie got the boot from Molray’s when it had all been going so well.
Seems like a long time ago when my brother talked constantly about Anton, the famous chef he worked under, and how he’d get a Michelin star too one day and open a restaurant by the sea. I can still summon up echoes of his voice and that look in his eyes, like Jack’s shiny look, as he’d bang on about the ingredients they used.
‘They bring the fish straight from the sea, caught that morning. You should see them, Joni,’ and he’d get this look and I’d know what the next word out of his mouth would be. Sure enough, he’d say, ‘Anton says, you can always tell by how firm they are. You’ve got to check they’re real shiny, no dull eyes. And if it’s hard to get the skin off and backbone out you know it’s a good one …’
I’d be making puke noises by then, especially if it got to him going on about how loads of blood was a good thing. I used to shudder at the thought of those fish eyes. I sort of miss them now.
Today, Jamie simply gives a short nod and shovels in a mouthful, then puts down his fork as he chews in a way I’ve started to recognise. I open my mouth, ready to make some chat about the library or whatever, but he’s already started.
‘Me and Dealo have been looking into this White Light buyout thing and I’m telling you now, it’s bad news if it goes through.’
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. Mason Deal has been working at The Olde Inne for a couple of years and since Jamie started there, his name is about the only thing that gives Jamie the look he used to get talking about A
nton. I’ve only met Deal once or twice, and there’s something about him I really don’t like, which is weird for me because I usually get on OK with most people. If – ahem – we ignore Annabel the other day. He’s just a bit too sure of himself.
Dad helps himself to another Yorkshire pudding as Mum frowns. ‘Do we need to talk about this at the table?’ She gives a meaningful glance at Jack, which Jamie chooses to ignore.
Instead he bangs his knife down. ‘Well, when are we going to talk about it? We should be getting ready, not pretending like it’s not going to happen.’
‘We don’t know if it will,’ Mum says, using her extra patient voice.
Jamie laughs, but not in a nice way. ‘Course it will. Those companies always get what they want. And then we’re all going to be screwed. You really think they’ll let us carry on renting this place once they’ve bought all the houses up? Not likely. First thing they’ll do is kick us all out and then flog them on to the highest bidder. The one per cent never care about anything except getting richer.’
This last sentence has a ring to it that tells me Jamie’s got it on loan from someone else.
I look round the table, wondering. Mum and Dad exchange a glance and I suddenly realise they are worried, maybe have been for a bit now. And that makes the last potato I’m eating wedge itself in my chest, hot and heavy.
For a moment, no one speaks and then Dad says in a really firm voice, ‘We’ll worry about it if it happens and not before. And that’s a big if, in my opinion.’
I can see Jamie wants to say more, but even he’s not going to argue when Dad uses that voice. But later that day as I’m going through my homework in between the usual Snapchats from the gang, I can’t stop myself thinking about the look in Dad’s eyes and I wonder whether that ‘if’ is really very big after all.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday rolls around way too fast. I walk the same route to school I’ve done since I was five – my old primary school is literally across the road from St Francis – picking up Kelly on the way. I have a free period first, which I use to finish a History essay. Usually, I’d have stayed late at the library to get it done. Mrs H gave me a set of keys a few weeks back, which felt like a pretty big milestone. But with Annabel there I pretty much forgot. Of course, Annabel got her own keys straight away, because obviously a different set of rules apply to her …
‘Oi, daydreamer.’ Kelly’s waving a hand in front of my face.
That makes three times a girl I’ve barely met for a couple of hours is taking up my brain space. I focus on Kelly. ‘What?’
‘I said you’re off the hook – Mr Weston’s off sick again.’
I glance down at where I’ve only written an extra two sentences. ‘Thank God for that.’ I fold up the pages. ‘That’s the third time this term. What do you reckon’s wrong with him?’ I say.
Kelly pokes her tongue out of the side of her mouth. ‘Man flu probably. Or the plague. Or something super embarrassing like … syphilis.’
‘Eww.’
Kelly wiggles her eyebrows. ‘What? Alvin probably has a very healthy sex life, he –’
‘Kells!’ I put my hands over my ears. Mr Weston – or Alvin as we’re now allowed to call him in sixth form, but no one does because it’s just too weird – is about two years short of retirement.
Kelly’s trying to pull my hands away from my ears, and we end up laughing so hard she’s in danger of falling off her chair.
Eventually, I straighten my face and look at the clock. ‘We’ve got to go. English.’
‘Have they said anything about a tutor to replace Denise yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Ah well, skiving all round then.’
I grin, but then it fades as I think about the revolving door of supply teachers we’ve had over the last two months. No one wants to work here. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
The rest of the week doesn’t really improve. Mr Weston’s off the whole week – hopefully not with syphilis – so History ends up being a write-off. Don’t suppose it really matters anyway; it’s not like I’m planning to do a lot with my A Levels. For the millionth time since starting in the sixth form, I wonder what I’m doing here and whether I should’ve taken the Business and Administration apprenticeship I got offered. It would’ve meant a pretty long bus journey every day though and the fares were so expensive, although I’d have been earning more than in the library, to put towards the bus. But then there’s smart clothes to think about and I’d probably need to get a sensible haircut and take out my nose ring … plus Mum really wanted me to do the A Levels she never did. And I did do pretty OK in my GCSEs. Recently though, it’s seeming like a bigger and bigger waste of time.
The bust of a week means I’m not in the best of moods as I bike it to the library on Saturday morning. I manage to make it without falling off, and on time, which is an improvement on last week. What’s not an improvement is the way I feel when Annabel comes in ten minutes after me, and five minutes late by the old plastic clock. Mrs H doesn’t say anything to her though. Instead she jumps up and says, ‘Good morning! Lovely to see you. Why don’t you help Joni get ready for toddler group while I make us both a nice coffee?’
I watch Mrs H’s retreating back with my mouth hanging for a second. Can’t remember her ever offering to make me a coffee – even if we’re ignoring the fact I only drink tea. I turn to Annabel, trying not to let the annoyance show on my face, but I think she picks some of it up because she says in that startling, clear voice of hers, ‘I’m sure Genevieve would make one for you too.’
Genevieve? Bloody hell. That’s worse than Alvin.
I feel my eyebrows climb, but I get my face under control. ‘Nah. Hate the stuff.’ I search for something else to say. ‘So you ever refereed a toddler group?’
‘Well, I don’t have much experience with children, but,’ she flicks back her hair and gives this big, confident smile, ‘I’m sure it can’t be too difficult.’
I open my mouth, ready to tell her, but then shut it again. She can find out the total carnage that’s toddler group the hard way. Mind you, it probably won’t be for someone like her. She’ll probably scare them into their best behaviour.
‘Come on then,’ I say.
We set off towards the hall, Annabel’s heels clipping on the parquet floor. I unlock the storage cupboard and haul out mats, dropping them in a pile so they make a booming noise, then give Annabel’s clothes a swift look.
‘Some of this stuff’s a bit dusty,’ I say, and there’s a small challenge in my voice.
Her eyes give me a quick once-over. ‘I’ll find something a little … ah …’ I see her searching for the word. She finally settles on, ‘Older, for next time.’
I stiffen, realising what I must look like in my jeans that are fraying at the knee and my hoodie with the lettering peeling off and the sleeves rolled up. I guess it must seem like I’m in my worst clothes to her, but actually I wear this all the time because one: it’s comfy, two: I hate clothes shopping with a fiery passion and three: I can’t afford to keep buying new stuff anyway. But now, with her looking at me like that, I feel wrong suddenly.
I turn away to hide my expression and wrench the first mat from the pile, sending it spinning harder than I meant to towards the middle of the hall, then repeat the process with the next two before dropping to my knees to push them together. I’m breathing fast, wondering where this sudden burst of anger has come from. Then I hear Annabel’s footsteps.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ Her voice is about as stiff as I feel.
‘I’m not offended.’ We stare at each other. Her eyes are super blue. I won’t compare them to anything, because that’s too cheesy even for me, except maybe they’re a bit like the sky on the Downs in summer … I shake my head.
What is wrong with me today?
‘I can do the toys if you like – why don’t you get out the chairs?’ I say.
Annabel seems like she’s about to say something else, but I’m looking
past her ear, my face set. Then she turns away and starts lifting chairs down from the stacks at the edge of the hall. I grab some toys and scatter them around. We’ve got a little slide, a couple of scrappy old rockers and some balls which I leave where they are. I learned my lesson the hard way with those.
I’m dragging the slide out when I feel the other end lift. I peer around the ladder to see Annabel holding the other end. Her cheeks are flushed from the lifting and one or two strands have come down from her piled-on-top-but-stuck-in-place-with-two-zillion-pins hairdo, so they tickle the sides of her face. It makes her look … I give a quick cough and concentrate on positioning the slide.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Our eyes meet again and for a crazy moment, this strange, familiar feeling grabs me in the gut.
You see, there’s this look. I’m not saying it’s gaydar exactly, but very occasionally I meet some girl’s eyes and this thing happens, like a low bell sounding somewhere inside me and I … well, I wonder, I suppose. Nine times out of ten, I tell myself it’s nothing, and I can never be sure if someone’s interested in that way, but I can’t stop thinking how startling Annabel’s eyes are and that bell is definitely there, this gentle, deep chime.
What is going on?
I’m telling myself not to be a dumb-ass, yet neither of us is looking away, and the look is turning from a simple eye-meet to what feels like another kind of meeting altogether, even though maybe only two or three seconds have gone by. Then Mrs H clatters down the hall holding a cup.
‘Here we are!’ She hands the coffee to Annabel and I swallow, knowing I’ve gone red. I busy myself inching the slide to the left. When I risk another glance at Annabel she’s totally relaxed, like nothing unusual happened at all. I immediately get this sinking feeling I’ve got it wrong again, that she’s probably got some posh brayer of a boyfriend anyway. Maybe the arrogant one from the restaurant the other evening. My imagination has gone and let me down yet again, not that I was really imagining anything, obviously.
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