Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

‘Bloody hell. This lot must have cost a mint.’ My voice comes out with an accidental edge to it.

  ‘Some of it was in the sale.’ Her tone’s defensive now.

  There’s a small pause.

  Then I kneel down near her and say, ‘OK. Well, it was nice of you. We’d best sort it all out before Mrs H gets here though. She hates mess.’

  ‘That was the general idea, until –’

  ‘You got sidetracked with your Grammy winning performance?’ It sort of slips out again and I wonder for a sec if I’ve gone too far, but she gives me that unreadable smile.

  ‘Something like that.’

  It doesn’t take too long to sort everything out. We stack the books on a shelf in the store cupboard, ready to be catalogued and shelved. I leave a few in a pile on the desk to do today; some Enid Blytons and ballet stories, plus a few Jacqueline Wilsons. Annabel puts the kettle on. I let her make me a cup of tea and we sit behind the desk with our cups.

  I wonder what to say to her, and settle on, ‘So … er, it was nice of you to buy all this stuff.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she says.

  I nearly say, ‘Well, yeah, to you,’ but that seems too rude. I wonder whether to bring up last week, but perhaps it’s better if I steer clear, given we’re getting on. I pick up an Enid Blyton book – one of the Malory Towers ones, but with new covers, not like the ones I used to take home from primary school.

  ‘I had these when I was little, totally loved them. I kept asking my mum if I could go to a boarding school. I think it was the swimming pool in the rocks that did it for me,’ I say.

  Annabel takes a careful sip of her coffee, staring off into the middle distance. ‘Boarding school’s not really like in books,’ she says.

  I put my head on one side.

  ‘I was a boarder from the age of eight until I was thirteen, then I became a day girl at Edrington.’

  Edrington is the local posh school.

  ‘No midnight feasts or anything?’ I say.

  She laughs. ‘Sadly no.’

  ‘Well, that bursts my bubble then,’ I say. Then I risk asking, ‘So what was it like?’

  ‘Very cold. I always seemed to be cold.’ She looks at me. ‘The buildings were beautiful but very old and there was a constant draught in the dorms. Everything’s timetabled so you’re busy all the time, but I still missed home, and Puzzle –’ She gives me another look, swift and slightly embarrassed. ‘My pony.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can’t think what else to say. ‘Eight’s pretty young to be going away from home, I guess? I’m not surprised you got homesick.’

  Annabel nods.

  ‘Did you tell your parents you didn’t want to go?’

  She gets brisk suddenly. ‘Oh well, that’s not going to make much difference. It’s what’s expected when you move in the circles my parents do. You just have to push on and make the most of it.’ She’s drawn into herself, sitting up taller, chin tipped up. It’s almost like she’s trained herself or something. Then she asks, ‘Why were you here so early?’

  I blink at the abrupt change of subject. ‘Needed to use the computer. Mine’s busted.’

  ‘Oh.’ For a second she’s lost for words, as though this has never crossed her mind as a possibility. Then she says, ‘I could do that while you use the computer?’ She gestures to the book in my hand.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll stay for a bit after.’

  I show her how to catalogue the books and we work together until Mrs H comes bustling in. She gives a satisfied nod when she sees us. ‘You’re both here already! How lovely.’ She’s so overeager it’s almost painful, but a funny thing happens: I catch Annabel’s eye and notice her mouth’s twitching slightly. I get that pulse through me again; of something being exchanged between us, and then I raise one eyebrow. Annabel turns away so that Mrs H doesn’t see her smiling, but I catch the side of it, and it makes that bell start up again inside.

  There’s no toddler group to deal with today, which is probably for the best, although Linds comes in. I watch Annabel closely, but she’s polite and friendly, helping Linds find some jigsaws to borrow from the toy library. I think about her pony called Puzzle and the loving look that flitted over her face when she said its name, like me with Jazzy, or maybe even Jack when he’s not being a pain in the backside. I wonder what happened to it, along with an avalanche of other things, but I hold back the millions of questions I suddenly want to ask her. I’m still not sure what I can get away with.

  By lunchtime, I’m definitely starting to wonder if maybe I was a bit quick the other week. Annabel works hard, no slacking off, and at one point when she drops a book, she looks at me and says, ‘Insert posh swearing here,’ with this funny little smile, before she bends to pick it up. I laugh and it suddenly strikes me she’d probably be decent company if she unwound a bit.

  It helps the sun’s out too. We’ve got all the windows open and there’s a crisp wind floating through them, chasing all the dust and winter smells away. At lunchtime, Mrs H, who seems to be delighted me and Annabel are getting on, says, ‘Why don’t you both go and eat outside on the wall, in the sun? I can manage in here.’

  I sneak a quick look at Annabel, and she seems pleased with the idea.

  We sit on the low stone wall ringing the car park. I’ve got my lunch in a carrier; marmite sandwich and some cheese puffs. Annabel opens up her lunch bag thing and makes a face. ‘Olives. Mary never remembers I hate them.’ She puts the pot to one side and pulls out a salad with the M&S logo on the front.

  I’ve already finished my sarnie and most of my crisps by the time she’s put away a few mouthfuls; she is one slow eater. I guess I inhaled mine a bit, but what can I say? I get hungry and I like my food.

  At first the silence as we eat feels OK. I can hear my own jaw crunching down the crisps, birds tweeting overhead, the odd car going by. The wind’s fresh, but not too cold. After a while though, the lack of conversation starts to feel awkward, at least to me. I’m so used to everyone chatting away at home. And it’s pretty hard to tell what she’s thinking. I look at Annabel and immediately look away again.

  Annabel puts her salad down. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Few months now.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right. It’s a job anyway.’

  ‘And when you’re not here, you are … ?’

  I frown, trying to work out her drift. ‘School. I’m at St Francis.’

  ‘Of course.’ She pauses. ‘Daddy says they have a good vocational programme there.’

  I feel like a shadow’s gone over my head, but make myself answer in a neutral voice. ‘I’m doing A Levels same as you. English, French and History.’

  Her eyebrows go up before she can stop them. I narrow my eyes, feeling that same anger as when I heard her agreeing with Hugo’s mum about Linds. Why is this apparently a shocker?

  ‘You didn’t think someone like me would be doing A Levels?’ I say.

  She blinks. The pause is only for half a second, but it’s enough to tell me I’m right. ‘No, of course not. I –’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ I jump down from the wall. ‘Course you did. You had me written right off, didn’t you? I guess you thought, I’m what, some chav?’

  Her voice is almost as angry as mine. ‘I would never use that word.’

  We scowl at each other. I’m having to tip my head back to look up at her and this makes me even angrier.

  ‘Should’ve known you’d be –’

  ‘Be what?’

  ‘A judgemental cow!’ It bursts out of me before I can stop it. I want to take it back just as fast, and not only because her face gets this really hurt expression on it.

  Annabel straightens her shoulders and levels her chin. ‘I don’t think I’m the person doing the judging here.’ Then she pushes off from the wall and walks inside, and it’s me who’s left behind this time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The wind pushes my hair back and up from my scalp, clatt
ering in my ears as I stand on a ridge right towards the top of the Downs, letting its full force pummel me. This used to be one of my favourite places to go; we’d come up and have picnics and stuff, before Dad’s back got too bad for much walking and Mum got so tired from her extra shifts. It’s still a place I think of as mine; somewhere I can come to when things aren’t going right. My legs are tingling from the walk up – I ran part of the way, my feet thudding on the turf, following a bridleway. Below me, the Downs are littered with boulders, like a giant was playing a game of marbles. To my left I can see the ridged remains of a hill fort, and splashes of yellow rapeseed. The sky is a wide purple-blue, rain clouds gathering in the distance.

  Up here there’s space to think, to breathe. I can let all my worries go on the wind. I think again about the argument with Annabel at the library, and the awkward afternoon that followed, neither of us wanting to speak, but being polite for the sake of Mrs H, who kept looking between us; clearly neither of us were doing the best job at faking everything being OK.

  Mrs H stopped me after Annabel left and put one hand on my arm. ‘Is everything all right between you girls? You both seemed rather … strained this afternoon,’ she said.

  I tried to shrug it off, but my, ‘Oh yeah, I think we’re both a bit tired, you know,’ wasn’t cutting it because Mrs H said, ‘Listen, Joni, I want you to make an effort to be friendly to Annabel. You have to work together and besides, I get the sense that she’s – well, it’s probably not my place to say.’

  I’d been about to ask why I had to be the one making an effort, but I have to admit my curiosity button was pushed. ‘She’s what?’ I said.

  ‘Well. Not entirely happy.’ Mrs H mouthed the last word, like it was a swear word or something.

  Pause.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I said casually, like I wasn’t dying to find out more.

  ‘Yes, well, between you and me, I believe there was some trouble at school. Her father certainly wasn’t pleased. I don’t think his plans for her include –’ She broke off, and pursed her lips. ‘But I don’t mean to gossip. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘All right then. I’m off,’ I said, when it was apparent she wasn’t going to say any more.

  ‘But if you could just … be nice,’ Mrs H said, and I promised I would.

  Now up here, I think again about what Mrs H said. I mean, you’ve got to wonder what Annabel’s really got to be unhappy about. That it was a bit chilly for her at her posh boarding school? Or maybe her Audi isn’t the latest model. If my family was as rich as hers, we’d be laughing.

  I open my mouth and let the wind rush in, so it feels like it’s doing my breathing for me, and I imagine all my worries – Annabel, schoolwork, cash, this house-buying thing Jamie keeps going on about – floating out like they’re feathers whirling away on the breeze. A couple of birds, too small to identify from here, arc over my head.

  After another ten minutes, I feel lighter, my shoulders less up round my ears and more where they should be.

  I walk back to my bike at the bottom of the bridleway. It’s getting dusky and I don’t have lights on my bike and I know Mum worries. Sure enough, my phone goes as I’m about to set off and I grab it, ready to text Mum back.

  But the text isn’t from Mum; it’s from a number I don’t recognise. It reads: I’m sorry about today. Truce? A. – with an emoji of a white flag.

  She must’ve got my number from the contacts list on the PC. I think for a minute. I’m still angry about earlier, but she is saying she’s sorry, which I suppose is something. The look on her face as I said she was a judgemental cow plays back in my mind and that decides me. I tap back an emoji of a white dove and add, Have a good week, J.

  Then I pedal home with only half my thoughts on the road.

  When I get back, I recognise Mason Deal’s banger parked next to our clapped-out old car on the driveway, which is both good and bad: good, because it means Mum’s home, bad that Deal gave Jamie a lift, because he might be staying for tea. I prefer it when it’s just us Coopers, and apart from that, Deal’s hard to work out.

  When I go into the kitchen, Dad’s hunched over a pan on the cooker, while Jack sets the table. There’s an extra space laid. I get a whiff of garlic bread and what smells like lentil spag bol.

  ‘You want me to do that?’ I kiss his bristly cheek and hang my arms over his shoulders.

  ‘No, love, you’ve just got in. Take a seat and watch the master at work,’ he says. ‘Jack, grate some cheese would you?’

  Jack grins at me and gets the grater out. I love that grater. It used to be Nana’s before she passed, and it’s about a zillion years old, with a misshapen handle and a bent-in bit at the top, but it always reminds me of her fast hands as she grated nutmeg for traditional mincemeat at Christmas time. It’s been five years since she went, and I know Mum still misses her every day.

  Jack puts some water in front of me. ‘Thanks. What you been up to today?’ I say.

  ‘Been round Dylan’s.’ He grins. ‘He’s got his Xbox One X Project Scorpio already!’ I can’t help laughing at the way he gabbles out the full title, his eyes huge.

  ‘Thought his birthday was next week?’

  ‘I know, his mum let him have it early.’

  I fake an enthusiastic face; Lorraine’s forever coming round ours because her washing machine’s packed up, or to borrow tea bags or whatever, but she’s always got cash to spare for Dylan.

  Jack’s going on about the 4K gameplay and I nod. I wouldn’t mind trying that out myself. Then he stops for a moment and looks all wistful.

  ‘It’s going to be another ten minutes on the garlic bread. You got any homework to do?’ Dad says.

  Jack grabs his bag out of the cupboard under the stairs and flops at the table, chewing his tongue as he concentrates. I pick up a piece of paper that fell on to the floor when he pulled out his worksheet. It’s a letter from school. I’m about to hand it over to Dad when I see the words Year Eight Residential and Instalment Plan.

  Jack meets my eyes, and we come to an understanding in a fraction of a second, but I’m too slow; Dad’s already reaching out, saying, ‘Another letter from school? What they after now? Book night? Comic Relief? Children in Need? We should get them to give you a quid, we’re People in Need!’ Dad’s joking, but as he scans the letter his face falls, and he repeats quietly to himself, ‘In need. I’m in need of a drink.’

  I’m looking at Jack’s face as Dad mutters this, and I see the way his eyes go from a teensy spark of hope to resigned. I feel a sharp twist in my chest. I remember everyone going off to that residential at the beginning of Year Eight. Having to hear the whole gang talking about what they’d pack, who was going to stay up all night, all that. They didn’t mean to leave me out, but for weeks after it felt like every other conversation began, ‘In Pengelly …’ while I tried not to let on I was bothered.

  I swallow, then say in as bright a voice as I can: ‘Tea smells lush, Dad. Shall I shout up for Mum?’

  Dad folds the letter and puts it in the kitchen drawer. ‘You can go and ask her, not yell at her. You’d best get the lads down too.’

  He says something in a low, apologetic voice to Jack as I leave the room.

  Jamie and Deal come down a moment later. Deal gives Dad a clap on the back with one hand and shakes his hand with the other. ‘All right, Derek?’ he says in this ‘guys together’ sort of way. I don’t know what it is about the way Deal says it, but it feels weird, like if you’ve got a handful of popcorn you think is sweet but when you shove it in your mouth it turns out to be salty.

  ‘Holding up,’ Dad says and only someone who knows him as well as I do would catch the edge of pain in his voice. For a second I hate Mason Deal for not noticing Dad’s bad back. Then Deal goes over to Jack.

  ‘Here you go, thought you might like this.’

  Jack gives a yell of delight and I look over to see he’s holding a pile of PS2 games. ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  ‘No problem.’ Deal giv
es him such a warm smile I almost forgive him for Dad’s back, but then he sits himself at the end of the table, where Dad usually goes because it has the most space, and kicks back with his legs stretched out. Jamie sits down too without offering to help. I’m about to say something when Mum comes in, her wet hair twisted into a loopy ponytail at the back of her head. Mum’s really pretty, although there are more lines between her eyebrows and on her forehead than there used to be, and a few wiry grey hairs springing loose as they dry. Jack’s inherited Mum’s big eyes and narrow face, while I take after Dad; I’m stocky, with a biggish nose. Jamie seems to be more of a cross between the two of them, although he got the nose too. I don’t mind it; I reckon it gives us character. I do kind of wish I wasn’t the only one who got the short-arse gene from Nana though.

  Me and Jack help Mum and Dad bring the spag bol over to the table, then Mum looks at Deal and says, ‘Budge round, Mason. Derek needs to stretch his legs.’ She says it lightly, but I know she means it.

  Deal was mid-flow about something to do with politics – I’ve already caught the words ‘globalisation’ and ‘capitalism’ and a load of other ‘isms’ – Jamie listening intently and nodding away like he’s taking mental notes, but he moves over. I lever my legs into the rickety garden chair we’ve squeezed in on the other side, elbow to elbow with Jack.

  I’m so hungry I concentrate on shovelling in my food and I’m already halfway through my spaghetti and on my third slice of garlic bread when I realise Jamie and Deal are talking about this buyout thing again.

  ‘They bought up another estate near Newcastle a few months ago. Tripled the rents overnight. A few months down the line, everyone was out,’ Deal says. He’s got a piece of garlic bread in his hand, which he waves in the air.

  ‘That’ll be us, if it goes through,’ Jamie says, nodding a few times.

  ‘Jamie.’ Mum flicks her eyes to Jack and then back to Jamie, but he doesn’t back down this time. Instead he’s clenching his fork, his face getting flushed. I stop reaching for another slice of bread; my appetite’s evaporated.