Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

  ‘I wasn’t too heavy for her,’ Annabel says.

  ‘Yes, but your legs, darling. I’ve never seen a more gangly child. It really did look ridiculous.’ She laughs again and I glance at Annabel, whose face seems frozen into a smile. I suddenly hear echoes of Annabel saying she’s ridiculous in my head. She takes a sip of water and I want to reach out and touch her hand, but I don’t.

  Eleanor seems to be enjoying her reminiscing. ‘I am glad we finally got you out of the habit of slouching though. I always think if you must be tall, wear it well,’ she says and smiles at Annabel. I think I catch something in Eleanor’s eyes then, like the shadow of an old worry mixed up with softness and it makes me think of Mum again, but Annabel hasn’t seen because she’s staring at the picture of Puzzle. She’s also sitting really upright.

  When tea is ready we go into the dining room. Eleanor insists I sit down so I watch as Annabel brings in a dish of baby potatoes, creamy yellow, the faint smell of mint floating across the table, the fish and this plate of baby corn on the cob and other veg.

  Eleanor dishes out the food. I notice she only puts a really small portion out for her and Annabel. Mine, on the other hand, is massive and I wonder if I can eat it all. I put a big forkful in, burning my mouth. I chew and swallow as fast as I can and take a long slug of water, the inside of my cheek stinging. At home, I’d have been waving my hand in front of my open mouth and laughing, but no way am I doing that here.

  ‘I understand you’ve been doing some wonderful work in the library,’ Eleanor says after a moment, in this voice that reminds me of the mums at toddler group. When they’re trying to get their kids to talk to someone new.

  ‘Er, well, I guess. Annabel’s been a real help.’

  ‘Has she?’ She leaves a tiny pause, almost as though she doesn’t believe this. ‘And you’ve been working there for some time?’

  ‘Yeah, a few months now.’

  ‘You’re local?’

  ‘Yes – I live on Cherry Tree Estate?’

  Eleanor says, ‘Oh. Yes. Lovely.’ It isn’t, but for a moment I get the sense she’s floundering, unsure what to say next. ‘Ah, what does your father do?’

  Seriously? My mouth’s hanging open, but nothing comes out for a moment. It’s like she’s sniffing me out, making sure she knows exactly where I fit. Or don’t. But why? Why does it matter so much?

  ‘Joni’s doing A Levels,’ Annabel says quickly and her mum’s face clears, like this is a conversation she can handle.

  ‘Really? Which subjects?’

  I tell her and she makes a face. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do an arts degree. Have you thought how that might affect your career prospects?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She gives a small shake of her head as if this is confirming something. It’s kind of patronising. ‘Annabel’s father wants her to take a Maths degree. I understand it’s the most useful thing in the City these days. What is it Daddy always says, darling?’

  ‘“It’s brains not balls”,’ Annabel says quietly.

  Eleanor gives one of those braying laughs while I stare at Annabel. She never said. I can’t exactly imagine her as a banker or something. Jeez.

  We limp on, Eleanor asking me clipped questions, but I’m on edge, a rerun of that out of place feeling I got at the restaurant we went to for Jack’s birthday. Also, I seem to be talking in a really weird fake posh voice. Annabel looks uncomfy too, even though it’s not like I’m about to blurt out, ‘Oh, and by the way I’m gay and I’m pretty sure your daughter is too. We’ve just been doing some serious snogging upstairs.’

  I’m getting beyond full, but I don’t want to seem rude, so I plough on through my food. We’re nearly finished and I’m thinking about making my escape with a pretty large sense of relief when a door slams. A second later a man comes into the dining room, talking into a mobile. ‘No, tell Amir that’s not good enough. I need stats tonight. Yes. Right. Dominic has those. Tomorrow then.’ His voice is clipped, tired. He reminds me oddly of Dad, his face crumpled with that same look of pained weariness Dad gets. He finishes his call and looks at Eleanor.

  ‘I thought you were on the seven o’ clock?’ she says, a hint of something, maybe irritation, creeping into her voice. Annabel has gone completely motionless: obviously she hadn’t expected either of them. Oh Jesus.

  ‘I got the driver to bring me down. Bloody protesters on the train in First Class. And I’m going to have to let Dominic go if he doesn’t buck his ideas up.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Eleanor says. ‘I’ll get you some supper.’ She goes into the kitchen.

  He looks again at his phone.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ Annabel says, her voice quiet, and he finally seems to notice we’re both in the room.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he says. She turns her face up to him and smiles the same sort of tentative smile I’ve seen on Teddy’s face when he’s after a toy or biscuit in the library, all big eyes and shy charm. Then her dad looks at me and raises expectant eyebrows.

  Annabel says, ‘This is Joni from the library.’

  I get the same feeling he’s assessing me like Eleanor was. I reckon he comes to the same conclusion, but this seems to relax him; the frown he was wearing smooths out as he says in a jolly voice, ‘Ah, hello. I hope Annabel’s been pulling her weight?’ He smiles at her.

  ‘She has, yeah. She’s a trouper,’ I say.

  ‘Wonderful to hear.’ He pats Annabel on the shoulder. ‘And the Maths score this week?’

  ‘Joint first,’ she says.

  He smiles properly at this. ‘Excellent stuff.’ He reaches into his suit pocket. ‘Dominic ordered too many,’ he says as he hands her a small box with the Apple logo on the front.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  I can’t help thinking she probably would’ve preferred a hug.

  Eleanor comes back with another plate of food, but he’s barely started eating when his phone goes again. Ignoring Eleanor’s frown, he picks it up, gives a few instructions then ends the call and puts it back on the table. It’s the latest model, light glinting off the metal around its edges.

  ‘Edward,’ Eleanor says in this jokey voice to make it sound like she isn’t really telling him off.

  His finger strokes the side of the phone once, then he pushes it away and starts to eat. He’s a good-looking bloke, even I can see that, with the sort of greying hair Mum calls ‘distinguished’ and strong features. You can totally imagine him in an office behind a giant desk, with lots of minions.

  For a minute, I think we’re going to sit there watching him in silence. Annabel and Eleanor seem to be waiting for him to speak. It’s easy to see why Annabel is so tall. I feel like a midget next to the three of them.

  Finally, he says, ‘Damn protesters. What do they think they’re going to achieve?’

  ‘Why the trains?’ Annabel asks.

  ‘To make a nuisance out of themselves. They want all first-class carriages abolished. Pure spite and envy,’ he says.

  I’ve only been to London a couple of times: once on a school trip and once with Kelly last year. She badgered me into going shopping on Oxford Street and I went because she agreed we could visit the Natural History Museum too. We had an ace day, but walked about a zillion miles. The train home was rammed; we wedged ourselves into a space between two carriages. I was crapping myself the plates we were standing on would somehow shift apart and I’d disappear through the gap. First Class was silent, peaceful. And pretty much two-thirds empty.

  Annabel is nodding like everything her dad says is coming down from on high. I speak before I’ve thought it through. ‘They might have a point about First Class.’

  Every head swivels to me.

  Annabel’s dad’s eyes go hawk-like. ‘You think so?’

  I swallow. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, you’d fit a load more people in, wouldn’t you? Then they wouldn’t have to stand up or get squashed.’ His eyebrows are much darker than his hair, thick and low as he gazes at me. ‘It’d be faire
r,’ I finish lamely.

  Annabel closes her eyes for a second.

  Her dad gives me a long look, then laughs suddenly. It makes his face so much younger, softer. ‘I admire your idealism. Completely unrealistic of course, but that’s the prerogative of the young.’

  It’s weird, even though I know he’s kind of talking down to me, there’s also something about the way he smiles when he says it that makes you want to agree with him. Annabel nods.

  I open my mouth, trying to work out a counter-argument, but it’s like my brain goes blank under his gaze. Then he smiles again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Let’s not spoil supper with a discussion on politics. What I really want to know is how’s the library? Putting my money to good use?’

  I guess that lets me know who’s in charge of the conversation then. His tone is friendly, but I get this sudden image of a lord handing out coins to the commoners.

  ‘Um, yea– yes. I think so. I was saying before, we’re doing new classes in the summer holidays and we’ve got the toddler group. Plus all the books and that.’

  ‘You have enough resources?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘Wonderful. Well, you let me know if there’s anything you need. Libraries are another thing the Tories can’t get right,’ he begins.

  ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk politics, darling.’ Eleanor smiles, but Annabel’s dad ignores her; he’s off on some speech about meritocracy and a load of other stuff, like he actually cares. Annabel and her mum smile in agreement, but Eleanor’s eyes seem strained, maybe because he keeps barrelling past any contribution she tries to make. Annabel doesn’t even bother trying. But her dad doesn’t stop. It’s like he’s so sure of his opinion, he can’t even consider the thought that anyone else might have one. For a moment, I feel sorry for all of them.

  Finally, Annabel’s dad finishes and stands up. ‘You’ll have to excuse me – I have a lot of work to do.’ He pats Annabel on the shoulder and she smiles up at him. I’m staring. I don’t mean to, but I can’t square the version of the bloke who hates people for wanting to get rid of First Class with the one who is happy to give his cash to the local library.

  He clocks me looking and I feel the beginnings of a blush. ‘Er, yeah, nice to meet you,’ I say. He nods his head, gives Eleanor an indecipherable look, then leaves the room.

  ‘Well!’ Eleanor says, her voice bright. I can’t tell if she’s putting it on or not. Annabel seems to take this as a sign and stands up, looking at me to follow.

  ‘Right. OK, I’ll get off then.’ I get up too and give Eleanor an awkward smile. ‘Thanks for tea,’ I say.

  Annabel walks me out into the hallway. Her dad’s study door is ajar and through it I catch a glimpse of him in a chair behind a huge desk, his legs stretched out as he talks on his phone, frowning into the distance.

  ‘Well, see you Saturday then,’ I say as we go outside, and Annabel nods, her face suddenly miserable. I wish I could take her hand but we’re in full view of her dad’s study so I just wave and get on my bike. I think I see him looking out of the window, but I pretend I haven’t, shout another bye to Annabel, then whizz off up the drive.

  On the ride home, I think about them all in that massive house, of the strange undercurrents between Annabel and her parents. And for the first time since I’ve met her, I don’t feel even a tiny bit jealous of Annabel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The two weeks before the march go by in a massive blur. I see Annabel every night if I can or we speak on the phone. I haven’t been back to her house although she comes to mine one night and we watch a DVD, holding hands on the sofa.

  The more time I spend with her, the more I want to. Even with everything else going on, she’s on my mind pretty much 24/7.

  I’m listening to all the romantic Beatles songs on repeat.

  I am so in trouble.

  The one downer is that even though it’s getting easier to talk to her about stuff, I know there’s still so many things I’m not saying. Like whether she’s going to come out to her parents.

  And I haven’t told her about the campaign.

  One evening we take a drive up to Avebury. We park at the Red Lion, which is quiet apart from a few bikers, and hold hands as we wander towards the stones. It’s warm out, the sun skimming the undersides of pale clouds. I can smell fresh air and grass and also sheep poo … I check the ground carefully before I sit, resting my back against one of the stones.

  We lace our fingers together.

  ‘Joni? I was wondering something. Are you going to apply for university?’ Annabel says.

  I reckon she’s thinking of the conversation with her mum.

  ‘Because you really should,’ she adds. ‘You’ve got more brains than half the people in my year.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘I see it,’ she says. And I remember what I thought the day I first kissed her, that I saw her too. It makes me smile.

  ‘You sound like my teacher. Or my mum. They’re all on at me to decide. I guess I’ll have to soon-ish.’

  ‘But don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Plenty of reasons not to. Money, for starters. And what for? I mean, yeah, if I was going to be a nurse or a lawyer or something, but to be in that much debt for three more years of essays and exams, and still not get a job at the end of it … What’s the point? There’s not that many jobs round here anyway.’

  ‘But surely you won’t always live here? And university isn’t only about the career you get at the end. You could study something you love.’

  ‘What, like Maths?’ It’s a low dig, but the words fly out of my mouth anyway.

  She flushes. ‘That’s …’

  ‘Different? How? I’m not stupid. I know everyone says you should “do what you love”.’ I put air quotes around it. ‘Which is great if you can afford it. Some of us can’t.’ I look her dead in the eyes. ‘You could though. You can afford to do whatever you want, go wherever you want. And you’re doing Maths? You hate it.’

  Annabel shifts as if to stand up, then she sits back again. Her face has gone from pink to really pale. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Why not?’

  It comes out loud enough to make a couple strolling past look over, but I can’t help it; it’s not like I’m trying to start a row, but I could shake her right now. It’s the lake all over again. Why can’t she see she has all the choices in the world?

  As if reading my mind, she says, ‘I don’t have a choice, not without … There’s things to consider … people to consider.’

  ‘Like?’

  Annabel sighs as though this should be obvious. ‘My parents have all these plans for who they want me to be, the things they want for me.’

  ‘What about what you want for you?’

  She tries to laugh. ‘They’ll be paying my tuition fees and living expenses after all. Daddy could easily decide not to.’

  ‘So? Get a bloody job then, Annabel. Put yourself through uni like the rest of us.’

  We’ve moved apart to face each other, the evening air cool on my face. How has this blown up so fast? I guess that’s what happens when you don’t say the stuff you really want to; it builds up inside until it comes crashing out whether you like it or not.

  Annabel raises her voice too. ‘But you just said yourself you can’t afford to go to university. Well, neither could I, if Daddy didn’t pay.’ I open my mouth, but she’s shaking her head. ‘Truthfully? It isn’t only that. It’s also …’ She dips her chin so the next part is aimed at her shoes. ‘I – I don’t want them to be disappointed in me.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You’re so focused on the external things I have – the money, the house, the school. Don’t you see I’d swap them all in a heartbeat, for a family like yours?’

  She walks off so fast it’s almost a run.

  I stare into the sky, breathing hard. I never realised Annabel might feel trapped too. I think back to the look she gave her dad, her
eyes screaming out a question he didn’t notice she was asking. Even I stress about not letting Mum and Dad down and I know they’ll always love me whatever I do.

  These last weeks, I’ve thought I get her, but I guess people are harder to work out than you think. Maybe you’re not supposed to know everything about someone.

  I go after her, through a little gate and up to where she’s gazing at this huge tree with its roots all sprawled out overground. Dangling from it are hundreds of coloured ribbons, swaying in the early evening breeze.

  Without looking at me she says, ‘What are they for?’

  ‘I think they’re wishes. You tie a ribbon on and make a wish.’

  Her face is hurt, but open. ‘What would you wish for?’

  ‘Right now?’ I look into her eyes. ‘For you. I’d wish for you.’

  We sit under the tree and talk properly this time, no shouting.

  ‘You’re wrong about the house and car and stuff. It’s not about having all that, it’s that I think – thought – money gets you freedom. Choices. But maybe it doesn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘But …’ I’m feeling my way, trying to think about things from her point of view too. ‘I still reckon it helps. You’re right – I’ve never doubted my parents love me and I love them. And my brothers – well, apart from Jamie when he’s driving me crazy – but having no money … it stresses you out. Always having to worry about the next bill. It gets hard to plan so far ahead when you’re worrying about how to afford the food shop. You see, your dad’s not going to see you homeless, is he? Or your mum, or that rich gran of yours in Toulouse. But for me, well …’ I take a deep breath and then I explain what’s happening about the estate and the campaign. I finish up with, ‘So we really could be homeless. Probably will be. Best thing I could do right now is quit sixth form and the library and get a full-time job.’

  ‘My God, Joni. Why didn’t you tell me?’