Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

  ‘Thought Dave had already helped clear that?’ I say. In response, Mum hands me a plate and a sheet of newspaper.

  ‘There’s breakfast bars in the cupboard. Save that last bit of milk for some tea before –’ Her face goes into a quick spasm and just as fast smoothes out.

  Before we go.

  I don’t hug her. It’s not the day for it. Today’s the day to be practical, to pack and lug and shift and try and squeeze ourselves into whatever our lives are going to be like now. It’s not a day for looking back. Still, I can’t help stopping at the kitchen window, to stare at the washing line where there’s still pegs dangling off the loose bit you need to hook up before you can use it. And the barbecue on bricks down the end, the patch of blackened earth where we’ve had bonfires and sparklers every autumn since I can remember. The tree line in the distance I always used to think was out of some fantasy book, that I know as well as my own face.

  And our tree with the wonky boards nailed to it, the shape of its branches that I love. I’ve spent so many hours up in that tree; it’s almost like another big brother.

  It’s just a house. Walls and bricks and trees don’t matter. Homes are about the people you love, so we can make a home anywhere.

  All the things I’ve told myself, told Jack. And still there’s this wide ache in my chest when I think this is the last time I’ll see any of it. I gulp down some water, my back to Mum. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps packing everything away methodically. Part of me wants to let the glass smash, to ask why she isn’t crying, isn’t she sad, won’t she miss our home as much as I already do? Because where we’re going, it won’t be the same, and who knows how long we’ll be there or what will happen next. And it’s so unfair.

  It’s never fair.

  But I can’t crack because it feels like if one of us does, maybe we all will, and if nothing else, us Coopers have to be strong for each other. I rinse out my glass, wipe it dry and wrap it up in newspaper like the rest.

  Mum presses a hand on my shoulder. ‘How are you? Really? I’m sorry we haven’t talked properly, what with work …’ She rubs at her forehead. ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Not much point, is there? Let’s just get the packing finished.’ I grab another glass but Mum’s next to me suddenly, easing it out of my hands.

  ‘I didn’t mean the move. I know it’s going to be hard on everyone, and a B & B isn’t ideal, but we’ll make it work. I meant, do you want to talk about Annabel?’ she says.

  I stare. Mum’s not asked before now. I was sort of hoping she hadn’t noticed, but of course she has. It’s Mum. Even when she’s stressed to high heaven and busy as hell, she still sees everything. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for me to talk to her about it. All of a sudden, I realise she’s been asking in her own way for weeks now; like when she’s engineered it so we do the washing-up together, or the times she’s popped in with clean washing at night and put it away while I sat on my bed, scowling into nothing, when normally she’d holler up for us to come and fold our own clothes and get them put away while we’re at it.

  My eyes fill with tears. ‘There’s no point … it’s not – she’s not.’ I take a breath, then look at Mum. ‘She’s gone.’

  And then Mum’s cuddling me, stroking my hair, saying, ‘Let it all go, love, have a cry,’ which makes me howl even more, but it feels good too, not to keep crying on my own.

  Eventually, I pull back and because there’s no tissues about Mum gives me a dirty tea towel to wipe the tears and the snot. I’ve left a big wet patch on her shoulder too.

  Then I tell her what happened. Not all of it – I leave out some of the physical stuff, though I think from Mum’s face she kind of guesses – but enough.

  ‘So that’s that.’ I finish up. ‘She’s gone. She was never there anyway, was she? The person I thought she was. But the thing that kills me is I thought it didn’t have to be like that with us, that money and where you go to school and if you get to go on holiday to the Bahamas or wherever wouldn’t matter. Except it does.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy for her,’ Mum says carefully. ‘We all want our parents to love us.’

  ‘I think her parents do though. Like, they think they’re protecting her in their own way. Whatever. It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘So you haven’t spoken to her since?’

  I think of how I blocked Annabel’s number and her on every social media channel I was on. How I wouldn’t open the email she tried to send me.

  I shake my head. ‘What’s the point?’

  Mum sighs. ‘That’s not the first time I’ve heard you say that. Listen, when you love someone, it’s an act of courage. You have to let yourself take chances.’

  ‘You reckon she deserves another chance?’

  ‘Only you can decide that. But I don’t think you should close yourself off because you’re scared, or angry, or hurt. You know, me and your dad nearly went south a few times, especially after Jamie was born. We were young and it wasn’t easy, but we talked about it. Even when we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. And we realised, underneath everything, we still had love and it was worth holding on to.’

  I think about this. ‘What about now?’

  ‘Well.’ Mum takes another plate. ‘Your dad’s hurting at the moment. But we’ll get through it, I know that much. You don’t have to worry about me and your dad, love, OK?’

  I nod. ‘But how will I know whether me and …’ I can’t say her name out loud. ‘Whether there’s anything worth holding on to for us?’

  Mum looks at me then and gives this smile that makes her tired face beautiful. ‘You know when you’re in love, Joni. It’s like floating on the breeze. You felt like that with Annabel?’

  ‘Yeah, up until my face smacked the ground.’

  ‘But you get back up and you carry the scars for a while and you realise it was still worth it. Nothing’s ever meant to be perfect, not even loving someone. But –’ She looks at me again. ‘It should be real. And I don’t know it all, but I do know you seem to have had something with Annabel and I think if nothing else it’s worth at least talking to her, getting some “closure”. She makes air quotes and twists her face into a smile. ‘As they say.’

  Oh my God, Mum is so old sometimes.

  She holds my eyes for a while and then smiles and hands me another plate. ‘Can you finish this one, then check on Jack? I’m going to give your dad and Jamie a hand.’

  I don’t want to be the one to wake Jack up. I stand outside his door, thinking. I can’t decide if Mum’s got a point or not. I’ll have to think about it some more once we’ve moved. Another stab of pain, then I tilt my chin up and give myself a mental shake.

  I knock on Jack’s door and call out in a vague approximation of Mum, ‘Up and at it.’

  ‘I’m up.’

  He’s taking down the posters on his side of the room, peeling them really carefully so they don’t tear, rolling the Blu-tack into a little ball as he goes. The sight of it feels like my heart is breaking, especially when he gives me this cheery grin that doesn’t quite hide the worry that’s too old for him in his eyes.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  Jack nods and I start pulling down an Avengers poster, making sure I do it slowly, then I fold it down the crease.

  ‘Joni?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Jack takes down another poster before he replies. ‘Do you think I’ll have to move school?’

  Mum’s said she’s going to drive us back up here every day, but it’s at least thirty minutes on a good day and that’s without counting petrol or when she has to be on an early. Or a late. Or most shifts. And the car needs new tyres we can’t afford and about a million other things …

  I bite my lip. I’m about to say, ‘Of course not,’ or, ‘It’ll all be fine,’ but I don’t want to do that to Jack. He deserves me telling him the truth. ‘I don’t know. I hope not,’ I say. ‘But if you do, I promise it’ll be all right in the long run.’

  �
�You reckon?’ he says, and this time I can see the fear on his face. He’s been in this house his whole life, like me. Our lives are here. And now we have to start again somewhere new and strange, all of us in two rooms, without even a proper cooker, and we don’t know for how long.

  Right now, I would do anything for it not to be happening, for me not to have to see that look on Jack’s face and know there’s nothing I can do about it.

  This time, I lie. ‘It’s going to OK. We’ll get used to it in no time. And then the Council will find us somewhere really nice and we can do it up however you like. You never know, Jamie’s been talking about renting a room in a house share. You’ll probably get a room to yourself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah! And then you can have Dylan round whenever you like.’

  I’ve kind of got my fingers crossed mentally at this last bit, but Jack seems to cheer up a little so it’s worth it even though Mum probably won’t thank me.

  Jack takes my hand like he used to when he was little and for a second I think it’ll all be OK, we’ll manage. We always do in the end.

  Then a movement outside distracts me. I peer out and see it’s Dylan, with a giant wheelie suitcase, getting into a taxi with Lorraine. Jack appears at my side.

  ‘It’s the trip today,’ he says, then he gives a shrug and turns back to the poster so I can’t see his face.

  I search for something to say, to tell him I’m sorry, but find nothing. We finish taking down the posters in silence. I’m just going out of his room when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze in the doorway without meaning to because no one I know would knock on the door like that.

  The bailiffs are here.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say to Jack. Part of me is heating up inside, because it’s not even twelve and the letter said we had to be out by five. We were supposed to be long gone before any bailiffs arrived. No one wants to get marched out.

  I take a deep breath and go downstairs. Mum’s coming through from the kitchen and by her face I can see she’s thinking the same thing as me.

  ‘Funny sort of five o’ clock this is,’ she says and she’s trying to smile, but she looks nervous as hell. ‘I think I’d better get it. Go in the kitchen. I don’t want your dad or Jamie going off. Or you,’ she adds with a ‘stay put’ look.

  Needless to say, I stay in the kitchen for all of half a second, then follow her to the front door.

  Mum stands tall and pauses for a second before she opens it.

  In my mind, the bailiffs have grown into a cross between something from a gangster film and a heavyweight boxer, but the bloke standing at the front door looks nothing like that. He’s in an expensive-looking suit, hair in one of those swept back styles you see on the Edrington types, and designer glasses.

  ‘You’re here early,’ Mum says, her voice like steel.

  ‘Sorry?’ He’s only about twenty-five, his neck and face flushed. He glances at a stack of papers in his hands. ‘Mrs Cooper?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. You lot weren’t supposed to be here until five. It says so in the eviction notice.’

  ‘Ah, no, that’s not why I’m here.’ He fumbles and drops the papers, then stoops to gather them up. I crane my neck around Mum, cursing the fact I’m so short. She shoots me a look, but I’m not budging. When the man stands, his face is redder than ever. He shuffles the papers and clears his throat.

  Mum’s reached the end of her patience. ‘Well, what are you here for? It’s not a good day if you’re selling something,’ she snaps.

  ‘No, no – I’m here to explain about the Trust.’

  ‘What trust? Are you collecting for charity, because like I said, it’s not the best time.’ Mum starts to close the door.

  ‘Wait.’

  She stops.

  ‘The New Horizons Trust. My name’s Dominic. I’m here on behalf of LCA to confirm the transfer and go through the paperwork. Didn’t you get the letter yesterday?’

  ‘What letter?’ She glances at me and I shrug. I guess it could’ve got lost in the packing. We turn back to stare at his shiny pink face, waiting, and then Mum says in an exaggeratedly slow voice, ‘We didn’t get any letter. We’re being evicted today.’

  And now he’s shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry – you should have received – well, I’m pleased to tell you in that case …’

  He fumbles again with the papers. I can feel Mum tense as a greyhound beside me. My breath’s coming loud in my ears.

  After an eternity, he finds the right one and holds it out to Mum.

  ‘The eviction notice was lifted this morning.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘What?’ It bursts out of us both at the same time. Mum’s staring at him like he’s just sprouted several extra heads.

  The man, Dominic, clears his throat again and repeats in a clearer voice, ‘I’m authorised to act on behalf of White Light Holdings and LCA. I’m here to inform you the eviction notice on this property has been lifted.’

  I stand there, jaw hanging, while Dominic starts going on about a purchase and a charitable trust, trying to process what this means, and now Dominic’s saying something about a new tenancy agreement, pointing to a figure. Mum is looking about as shell-shocked as me, but she’s smiling a little too, and nodding along.

  Suddenly, I can’t stand it any more. I need to be sure. ‘Is this –’ My voice sounds weird; hoarse and faraway. They look at me. I clear my throat and try again. ‘Does this mean …?’

  ‘That we’re staying? I need to speak to your dad, but yes, seems that way, for now at least,’ Mum says and she sounds a million years younger. Then she hollers over my shoulder, ‘Derek!’ and to me, ‘Go and get your dad. Go on!’

  But she’s yelled loud enough that Dad’s already limping as fast as he can through the house, closely followed by Jamie. Jack comes down the stairs too and for a bit it’s all confusion, with everyone milling about and Mum trying to explain, Dad letting out a long breath through his teeth, and Jack looking at us all until Jamie grabs him and says, ‘We’re staying put.’

  And Jack’s face is breaking into a grin like he’s riding the biggest roller coaster ever and even Mum and Dad are smiling, then inviting Dominic in for a cup of tea. I pause in the hallway, then I touch the wall, right next to the faded mark where Jack once scribbled his name, like I’m trying to make sure it’s still there.

  Then I go into the lounge.

  Dominic’s sat with his legs crossed at the ankle, holding a cup of tea. He has a look I know well – one that says he’s in alien territory and he’s not sure how to act. Mum and Dad are looking through the paperwork, Jamie at Dad’s shoulder.

  ‘Rent’s staying the same?’ Dad thumbs down the page.

  ‘Yes, and that’s guaranteed for twelve months initially,’ Dominic says.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ Mum says, and she smiles at Dad. His face is serious as he squints at the papers like he’s trying to suss out if they’re fully legit.

  ‘What’s this part?’ he says.

  Dominic leans forward. ‘Ah, that’s a standard cease and desist clause. We’ll need you to sign to complete the contract.’

  ‘Cease and desist what?’ I say. Dad hands over the contract. I scan it, then let out a long breath.

  ‘None of us are allowed to say anything about LCA or White Light?’

  Dominic spreads his hands and gives this closed-mouth smile, lips curling up at the corners as if to say, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  I look from his shiny face to Mum and Dad, exchanging glances. Mum nods.

  ‘You’re not signing it?’ I say.

  ‘Joni …’ Mum begins.

  But it’s Jamie who speaks next. ‘We’ve got to.’ His face is tired as he looks at me. ‘For Jack.’

  I watch them sign and Dominic gather the papers together. Dad stands to see him out.

  As they get to the doorway, a thought comes to me. I remember where I heard Dominic’s name before; at Annabel’s house, the fi
rst time I met her dad. ‘Hang on. What made him change his mind? Huntington? You’re his assistant, aren’t you? I bet you know.’

  Dominic hesitates, his neck pinking up again. Then he says, ‘It’s not really my place to speculate. I’m just carrying out orders.’

  ‘Why don’t you try?’ Turns out I do a pretty good flinty voice too, when I need to.

  ‘Well, I believe someone gave him rather a large nudge. Between us, I think his daughter might have a touch of the Huntington steel herself.’

  I open my mouth, but he’s already on his way out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I stand on the pedals as hard as I can, wind rushing in my face as I push the bike faster and faster. All today’s shocks have coalesced into one thought: I have to see her.

  When I get to the library, I’m gasping for air. I step off the bike and let it fall. Out front, the sign we put up has been taken down and replaced by a new Huntington Library one, bigger than before, with a shiny crest on one side.

  I go in and stop, just like the last time I was here.

  The whole inside has been totally kitted out; plush carpet, shelves, a massive desk with new computers. The windows are mended, the walls freshly painted.

  There’s no sign of the place it was before, of what happened at the protest.

  It’s like we were never here.

  Then I hear a low laugh, see Annabel coming through from the community hall with Mrs H and a crowd of parents and kids. Looks like I caught the end of toddler group.

  They both stop when they see me, Mrs H looking around all flustered. Annabel’s gone motionless. I look at her as the parents flow past me, ignoring the ones who say hi. She seems different. Paler, taller. There’s an ache in my chest, like I’m in a vice, but I push it to one side.

  Mrs H walks up. Her face is hard to read.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I say, and then feel myself going red as I remember what the place ended up like last time I was here. ‘I just want to talk to Annabel.’