Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

  Dad’s chiming in now. ‘We know you were trying to do what you felt was right, but all this protesting, it stops now. It’s not going to do any good anyway. We’re moving soon and we’d all best focus our energies on sorting that out and looking for jobs. You too, Joni.’

  I nod, still ashamed, not wanting to look either of them in the eye, because I’m sure Mum will know if I do.

  ‘A fresh start away from here might even turn out for the best,’ Dad says, but I’m not sure any of us really believe him.

  Especially me. I’m not sure about anything any more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  For the next two days I don’t leave the house except for a fast trip to the corner shop for milk. At the till I ask for a lottery ticket.

  Gotta be in it to win it! says a sarcastic voice in my head.

  I can’t help noticing Mrs Jenkins serves me with pursed lips and doesn’t chat like she usually does.

  There’s endless comments online about what happened with the protest, which range from the mild (rare) to the stuff of nightmares (basically most of it). Eventually, I turn all notifications off, but I can’t help looking from time to time. Jamie’s hardly home and when he is, he stays in his room. Deal’s not been in touch, but we find out the next day that three people have been charged with criminal damage.

  Mum’s constantly at work and apart from going to his jobcentre appointment, Dad stays in bed. Even Jack’s spending more time at Dylan’s than with us. He probably wants to make the most of it before we have to move. The eviction date is looming closer and closer like a monster out of those nightmares you have as a kid, when you can’t move and it feels like something’s on your chest. Or maybe he just wants to escape the tension at home.

  It feels like whenever I close my eyes I see the rock leaving my hand, smashing through that window. The broken glass lying on those wrecked books, red paint splashed everywhere. I still can’t work out what went wrong. With the protest. With me. And we’ve lost any chance we had of changing things. Not just so we can stay, but for everyone – God, even for annoying Lorraine next door. Although perhaps less annoying than usual, given I heard her chatting to Mum downstairs and loudly proclaiming it was, ‘All the bloody police’s fault. Why’d they have to show up like that? It was like they were the ones who wanted trouble.’

  This should make me glad, but I’m pretty sure no one else around here shares her views. Even if they do, it’s not going to make any difference. The campaign’s dead. I’m actually going to really miss Lorraine. And I don’t even want to think about what Jack’s going to do without his best mate next door.

  The papers, if they were ever really on our side, are definitely not now. The Daily Mail, the Sun and the Express all pick up the story. Far as they’re concerned we’re practically Enemies of the People or something. And Lattimer’s stupid face is all over the place as he ‘condemns the violence’ – like it was that bad.

  OK, it was kind of bad. But we never hurt anyone.

  Even Jemima doesn’t want to be involved any more. Kelly, who is about the only person I’m speaking to, pops round with a massive bag of doughnuts to tell me. I start eating one, my jaw working mechanically on the too-sweet gooeyness.

  ‘I can’t get Jemima to reply to my tweets or messages,’ she says. ‘I reckon her manager or agent or whoever told her to write this.’ She shows me one of those statements posted up as a tweet where Jemima basically pulls a Lattimer and is also ‘condemning the violence’.

  I shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’

  Kelly tries for a light-hearted smile, but her eyes can’t really make it past worried. ‘Well, what’s the next step? Where’s Deal?’

  No one knows. And I can’t be arsed to sit around speculating. It’s like I said, none of it matters now. The writing was there right from the very start.

  We lose.

  They win.

  It’s the way it always is for people like us.

  Four days after the library protest, I wake up again with everything aching, like I’ve been clenching all my muscles in my sleep. There doesn’t really seem much point in getting up and I lie there for ages, just staring at the ceiling, wondering how everything has gone so wrong.

  It’s not until I hear Jamie’s raised voice downstairs that I haul myself out of bed.

  ‘Bastards,’ he’s saying as I go into the kitchen.

  What now?

  Mum’s sitting at the table in her dressing gown.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I say.

  ‘Fucking bastards,’ Jamie says again, and for a horrible second I think he’s going to cry. His Adam’s apple is working underneath his stubble and his eyes are damp. He gives them a rough swipe with the back of his hand.

  ‘Mum?’ I say, and hate the fear in my voice.

  Mum says, on a sigh, ‘It seems the papers thought they’d run a little story.’

  ‘Haven’t they got bored yet? Let me see.’ I take the paper out of her hands and scan it. The Daily Mail, of course it bloody is.

  And then I feel like someone’s come up behind me and given me a bear hug that’s crushed all the air out of my lungs.

  There’s a picture of Jamie, taken the other day by the looks of it. He’s wearing his old tracksuit bottoms and they’ve caught him at a really unflattering angle, looking over with a frown on his face that’d make someone who doesn’t know him think he’s aggressive or something.

  ‘SOCIAL JUSTICE’ YOB’S VIOLENT DRUG HISTORY

  I grit my teeth at the headline, then scan the handy bullet points they’ve put underneath.

  •Cherry Tree thug Jamie Cooper ‘assaulted a co-worker after he was sacked for drug dealing’

  •Neighbours say Cooper family ‘Have wrecked our estate’

  •Dad Derek branded ‘a scrounger’

  I don’t want to carry on reading the rest, but my eyes have already tracked down to the start of the article.

  Disturbing details have emerged about the thuggish past of the self-styled ‘social justice warrior’, Jamie Cooper, two days after he sparked a near-riot in a sleepy market town in middle England. The Daily Mail has learned that a year ago, Cooper, 19, was fired from the award-winning Molray’s restaurant after he was allegedly caught dealing drugs and assaulting a co-worker. Now a neighbour has branded the family ‘troublemakers’ and ‘scroungers’.

  The neighbour, who did not want to be named, added that dad, Derek Cooper, 48, claims disability benefits of nine thousand pounds a year, despite being able to work, saying, ‘Everyone knows the Coopers around here. Their eldest has been stirring up trouble for months now. Derek reckons he’s out of work because he’s got a bad back, but we see him walking about fine, all the time.’

  Last week, Jamie and his sister, Joni, were ringleaders in a violent protest outside the town library, shocking local residents. Three people were arrested. The area is home to the world-famous Edrington School, which regularly tops league tables, but it’s a world away from the violent, scrounging lifestyle of the Cooper family.

  The MP for Wiltshire, Douglas Lattimer, condemned the violence ...

  There’s a load more, but I’ve read enough. I rip the article out of the paper and tear it into shreds.

  ‘Who the hell fed them all that crap anyway?’ I say, and my unspoken question is whether everyone around here hates us now. I think about Mrs Jenkins at the corner shop yesterday.

  ‘They probably just made it up,’ Jamie is saying.

  ‘They haven’t even got half of it right! Dad was turned down for disability. And what about Mum’s job? Or why we were protesting in the first place? We should sue, that’s what we should do.’

  ‘With what money, Joni?’ Mum says. And then she suddenly puts her hands up to her face and I see her shoulders start to heave.

  Me and Jamie both put our arms around her. ‘Come on, Mum, don’t cry, it’ll be OK,’ I say.

  ‘What’s your dad going to say when he sees this? Never mind having to live in a B
& B – this is going to bloody well finish him off. Those complete, total bastards.’ Mum’s voice rises to a near-shout.

  I don’t know what’s more shocking; Mum crying or swearing. And all I can do is cuddle her and offer to make a cup of tea, when really what I want to do is smash the cup to pieces against the wall. Because smashing stuff went so well for me last time.

  I’m so tired of being angry.

  ‘How could they do this?’ I say.

  ‘Because they can.’

  ‘But it’s not fair!’ Jamie’s words burn in my mouth.

  ‘What isn’t?’ It’s Dad, standing in the doorway. I look at the shreds of newspaper in front of me, Jamie’s picture still visible.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I grab the pieces of paper and start to squash them up, but Dad looks from one face to another, his own dark, and says, ‘I’m not stupid. Tell me what it is.’

  Jamie does it in the end. He has to bring his laptop down so we can see it in all its glory, online for everyone we’ve ever known to read. Dad scans it through without a word, his face getting paler by the second. I think it’s the fact that it’s the Daily Mail, his paper, which somehow hurts him the most.

  When he’s finished, there’s possibly the most excruciating silence of my whole life, which is saying quite a bit considering how things have been recently. He raises his head slowly to look at Jamie. ‘I’m only going to ask you this once. Is any of this true?’

  ‘You even got to ask?’

  ‘It’s not, Dad, course it’s not. Jamie didn’t –’ I begin.

  Jamie stops me with a look. ‘It’s all right.’ He turns to Mum and Dad. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time. I didn’t want to worry you.’

  And he sits at the table and tells them the story he told me. When he’s done, Mum gets up and kisses him on top of his head. ‘You did the right thing. I’m proud of you for sticking up for that girl. Right, Derek?’

  ‘Right.’ Dad’s voice comes out in a croak, like he’s holding back tears. He looks again at the paragraph about him. ‘I’m going up The Crown,’ he says.

  Mum hesitates, then says, ‘Do you think you should? What if there’s more of those journalists out there?’

  Dad stops in his tracks, then gives Mum this awful look. ‘I’ve still got a decent enough right fist.’

  ‘Derek.’

  But he’s barrelling past her now, intent on getting to the door, limping heavily.

  ‘I’ll go with him,’ Jamie says. He follows Dad out.

  Mum sinks back into a chair.

  It seems like our whole family is falling apart.

  Then, because things can hardly get worse, or because I’ve always been the sort to pick off scabs before they’re ready, I ask in a small voice, ‘Are we definitely going to a B & B?’

  Mum takes a sip of tea, her hand shaking so much she slops some down her dressing gown, then says, ‘I’m sorry, love. I went to see the Council again the other day and that’s the only thing doing. It won’t be forever. We’ve just got to pull together. I don’t want you and your brother thinking you have to keep secrets from us. Things might be a bit tough at the moment, but we’re still your parents. Let us know if there’s something going on.’

  I nod fast, ignoring the fact there’s no way I’m talking to her about Annabel. ‘We will, Mum. It’ll be OK, you’ll see.’ Although I have no idea how. How will Jamie and Dad ever come back from this? How will any of us?

  *

  A few days later, I realise I can’t sit around worrying about it all any more. I consider going to school briefly, but change my mind. I’ve got to see this B & B for myself. I get on Jamie’s bike and cycle the hour-long journey. As I rattle along, I can’t help thinking about Annabel’s bike, abandoned at the library the day I ran away. Will it always feel so raw?

  I stand outside the building for ages until someone buzzes in, and then duck through the door after them. They don’t bother to turn around and look at me. There’s heaps of post from all the people who have lived here piled in the communal hallway, spilling on to the stained carpet. I go into the shared kitchen, which has two fridge freezers and a grimy cooker, plus a big metal sink with dirty washing-up piled high in it.

  When I open the door to one of the toilets I have to back out again fast; the whole thing is covered in crap. Someone’s shouting behind a closed door. Another toilet has an out-of-order sign on it.

  I spot a harassed-looking woman coming out of one of the doors and I go up to her.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She looks defeated.

  ‘My family … we’re moving here in a couple of weeks and I wondered … Can I have a quick look?’

  She gives me a once-over, sizing me up, then sighs and says, ‘All right.’

  I follow her into a room which has a knackered-looking double bed and a mattress on the floor. There’s clothes and boxes everywhere and a tiny TV propped up on the only chest of drawers in the place. To one side is a tiny cupboard with a two-ring electric hob on it. There’s barely any floor space not covered with stuff. Two kids are sitting on the mattress, one with a book, the other with an old Nintendo DS. I say hi to them and they both grunt, barely looking up, while I try to keep my face from looking appalled. How the hell will Jack do his homework somewhere like this? And how will we cook? Or dry washing?

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I manage to get out.

  ‘Three months,’ the woman says, and it sounds like three years. ‘I’ve got to get some milk – some bastard nicked our last bottle.’ Her faces softens slightly when she looks at me. ‘If there are more of you, you might get one of the bigger ones. They’ve got two rooms and you get your own fridge.’

  I thank her and cycle home slowly, my whole body heavy.

  The last days leading up to eviction day are pretty crappy, if I’m looking for an understatement. I put off packing for as long as I can, while I think about how to tell Mum what I saw in the B & B. I persuade her to chuck quite a few things out, but whenever I bring up where we’re going she just says, ‘Let me worry about that, love.’

  The abuse on social media never lets up, especially not since the article about Jamie and Dad, but I don’t have the energy for it any more. I just stop checking all the accounts, although I know Kelly’s making valiant efforts in the background. Whenever I go out of the house, it feels like everyone is watching, so I keep my head down and don’t talk to anyone. Nothing Kelly can say will persuade me to go to the pub or even round to hers.

  Then Deal shows up.

  I’m sat at – where else? – the kitchen table, staring out at the burnt orange leaves of our tree, when someone knocks softly on the front door. For a long moment, I do nothing, then I push myself up and open it.

  Deal looks different. He’s still dressed the same, but his cheekbones are more prominent and there’s something about his eyes that’s starker, although now I see it, I realise shades of it were always there.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, and I’m not making my voice too friendly.

  ‘Hi.’

  We look at each other for a moment. ‘Jamie’s not in.’

  ‘I know.’ His voice is softer, less confident than it was before. I remember the way he shouted at the policeman in the library. I open the door wider and he follows me to the kitchen.

  I brew some tea and he puts the milk back in the fridge before we sit down.

  ‘So …’ I say.

  Deal takes a sip, then puts his cup down. He seems to be having trouble finding words, which is definitely a first for him. And something about this makes me soften, even if part of me doesn’t want to. There’s been so much anger recently. The wrong sort.

  ‘Your name’s not really Mason, is it?’ I say eventually.

  ‘No. It’s …’ He looks down.

  ‘I don’t need to know. And I don’t need to know why you were helping us.’

  I think I might get it anyway.

  ‘I was es
tranged from my parents. And angry,’ he says. And I know what he means. It suddenly dawns on me that perhaps the whole fairness thing hurts everyone in some way, at least some of the time.

  We finish our tea.

  ‘Will we see you about?’ I say.

  He smiles then, and I see shades of the old Deal. But maybe a wiser Deal, kinder. ‘I’m getting my job back at The Olde Inne. And –’

  ‘You’ve got to speak to Jamie.’

  He nods.

  ‘You’d best do it then.’ It’s Jamie in the doorway. His look isn’t one-hundred per cent forgiving, but I’m pretty sure it’ll work out.

  I leave them to it and go outside to climb the tree.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It’s eviction day. We’re the first family to go, but I guess we’re not going to be the last. Most of my stuff, other than some clothes and my toothbrush, is already shoved in boxes stacked at the end of my bed.

  Even though the birds aren’t making quite as much of a racket as usual, I’m awake anyway, watching the ceiling go from dark to grey yet again. Jazzy’s curled up behind my knees, fast asleep. I’ll have to take him over to Kelly’s later – she’s agreed to look after him until we get somewhere proper to stay. I’ve got to get cracking, finish packing my stuff. I’ll shove my covers into a bin bag in a bit, but for now I lie still, listening to the birdsong. Can you even hear any birds at the B & B?

  You’ve been so stupid.

  Same words I wake up with every morning these days. But still. I can’t lie here in a puddle of self-pity forever; I might go drowning myself with it. Kelly’s mum’s voice comes to me, how she says, ‘Up and at it, feet on the floor now,’ in this super chirpy way, partly, I reckon, to drive Kelly wild. She’s got a point though. Even when everything is about as crap as it’s going to get, you still have to roll over and get your feet on the floor.

  So I do.

  Downstairs, Mum’s putting sheets of newspaper round some glasses before they go into boxes. Dad’s sorting out the shed with Jamie.