‘Why would he do that?’ Jo puzzles.
I shrug.
‘Embarrassed?’ I suggest.
‘About what?’
I look at Jo. She really hasn’t a clue what’s been happening in my life over the last few days.
‘I told you we were moving,’ I say, inventing some creative fraction answers for Miss McDougall to mark wrong.
‘But Kevin Parker said that Max said…’
I make a huffy noise, put down my pencil.
‘Mum’s left Max.’
Jo whistles under her breath, and I can see, at last, I’ve got her attention.
‘I didn’t think… you’ve really moved?’
‘To the mouldy basement from hell.’
Miss McDougall cruises noiselessy to a halt beside our desk and clears her throat in a talk-any-more-and-you’re-dead kind of way.
I huddle down over my fractions, scrawl in a few more imaginary answers and doodle hearts and flowers and crescent moons all down the margins.
At break, we lie in the grass at the edge of the sports field and paint our nails with purple glittery nail varnish from Jo’s stash.
‘Why did your mum leave Max?’ Jo wants to know. ‘Is he having an affair? Is she?’
‘No! Course not,’ I say indignantly. ‘I think… I don’t know. Max was grumpy all the time. Mum just got fed up.’
‘Fed up?’
Jo’s not convinced. She wants drama, passion, soap-opera details.
She’s not going to get them, though. I need to get my head round what’s happened. I need to get so I don’t feel scared and ashamed and confused every time I think about it.
‘They were just rowing all the time. It wasn’t working.’
‘They fell out of love…’Jo sighs.
Like I told you, she reads too many slushy magazines.
I open the silver nail varnish and blob tiny silver spots on her perfectly painted nails.
‘Yeuchh! How am I going to eat my crisps now?’ Jo demands.
‘With great difficulty,’ I grin, tearing open the packet and feeding her a large sliver of cheese and onion.
‘Pig,’ she says. ‘I missed you.’
‘Missed you too.’
It’s not warm exactly, but we grin and stretch ourselves out in the watery April sunshine. School’s not so bad, if you don’t count the lessons bit.
‘Will we do our toenails too?’
‘OK. Silver with crisp-crumb sprinkles?’ Jo suggests.
We take off our shoes and socks.
‘Is it really the flat from hell?’ she asks, and I tell her all about 33 Hartington Drive with its hot and cold running damp, the brown lino with blue Misti-footprints all over it, the grim landlady who looks like she’s about a hundred and three.
I tell her how we cleaned the whole place from top to bottom, then decorated till every surface was bright and fresh and clean. I tell her about the bookshelf with the multi-coloured stripes, the polka-dotted drawers.
‘Sounds cool,’ Jo says. ‘Can I come over? See your new room? I’ll bring my CDs…’
‘Probably. I’ll ask my mum.’
We paint our toenails silver with big purple spots, and when the bell goes we have to limp across the playground barefoot because the varnish is still wet. Miss McDougall marches down the line, sniffs loudly when she sees our feet and confiscates the nail varnish till home time. Then she makes us put our socks and shoes back on, so we both get smudgy toes.
Later, we’re eating lunch and giggling, when I see Aisha hovering at a distance, looking at us wistfully. You can tell she’d love to come and giggle too, but she’s not sure. Not sure if she’s welcome.
I flash her a fake, cheesy smile, a told-you-so grin, and she starts smiling back before she twigs I’m not being friendly. Her face falls, and she takes her tray over to a table where Miss McDougall is sitting with a couple of Year Five girls.
I feel kind of mean, but then Aisha’s not really a friend or anything. She thinks that hanging around grinning a lot and trying to tag along can change that – bet she thought her luck had changed when I was off school. All she had to do was move seats and she had a ready-made mate.
It’s not like Jo is missing her, though. Not like she missed me.
Tough luck, Aisha.
At home time, Jo sprints off the minute the bell goes – she’s got swimming class right after school. I dawdle through to the corridor, shrug on my fleece and then mooch back to the classroom for my bag.
‘Got no home to go to, Indigo?’ Miss McDougall asks brightly.
‘Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.’
‘Your cold’s all better now, then?’ she presses.
I nod, sniffing loudly for good measure.
‘Well, anyway, I’m sorry I got the wrong idea about your gran being ill. That’ll teach me to listen to Kevin Parker. And by the way, your mum called the office this morning about the change of address. I hope it’ll be a happy home for you, Indigo. I hope things will be better now.’
I blush to the very roots of my hair. What does she mean? What does she know?
‘If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, Indigo…’
‘Yes, Miss. No, Miss. I mean, there isn’t. I have to go…’
Miss McDougall means well, but I think I prefer her when she’s all tweedy and strict, dishing out lines and homework and confiscating nail varnish.
I slouch across the playground, and though I should be chirpy because Mum promised sausages for tea, I’m not. I hate this walk home. I hate the estate. I hate 33 Hartington Drive. I hate…
Max.
It’s Max, over the road from the school, leaning against his van, smoking lazily. My heart thumps and I try to look away, walking faster.
‘Hey, Indie!’
I look round, lost, and he’s walking over, the ciggy chucked to the gutter, his face all smiles, his blue eyes sparkling like there’s nothing wrong in the whole wide world.
‘Indie, how’s it going? Good to see you! I had a job just over the road, thought I’d just hang on and say hi…’
‘Hi!’ I try to stop my face from grinning, but fail. I’m pleased to see him. Scared but pleased. Sick but happy.
‘So… how’s your mum? Calmed down a bit, d’you think? I mean, Indie, it was just a row, you know, grown-up stuff. Nothing to make such a big deal of. No reason to go uprooting you and Misti…’
I’m still smiling, but I can remember the night of the row pretty clearly, and the morning after. I remember Mum’s face. Nothing to make a big deal of.
‘Look, Indie, pet, I love you and Misti. I love your mum. She’s made her point, so why can’t she just come home now? Why don’t I give you a lift back to wherever you’re staying, talk to her?’
Max reaches out to throw an arm round my shoulders, but I flinch away. Mum doesn’t want to talk to him. Mum doesn’t want to see him.
I don’t want him to know where we live.
‘Come on, Indie. We’ll get chips on the way, surprise the girls…’
‘No!’
Max takes a step back, still grinning, holding his hands out in surrender.
‘Just an idea. Another time, maybe. Hey, just tell your mum you saw me, OK? Tell her I miss her. Tell her it’s OK to come home. Will you do that for me?’
I nod, staring at my feet.
‘Look, I’ve gotta go, Indie, but I’ll see you again. It’s OK, really. Just a silly row, nothing serious. We’ll get it sorted out. Tell your mum.’
I give him a shaky wave and start walking. I feel sick, I feel bad, I feel scared.
What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? Take the lift?
What do I tell Mum?
I look back as I turn the corner, and Max is sitting at the wheel in his van, watching me. He waves as I tear my eyes away again.
Why didn’t Mum tell me this might happen? Why didn’t she tell me what to do? Will she be cross I didn’t bring him home? We could have had lemonade and chips and Mum and Max could ha
ve talked things through, made it up. Max could have rescued us from damp walls and brown lino, taken us back home in the back of the blue builder’s van.
Maybe. Maybe not.
Mum loves him, she said that the other night. But she doesn’t want to live with him. She doesn’t want him to know where we live, I know she doesn’t.
I’m halfway round the dodgy estate before the bad feeling starts to fade. It’s OK. Max had a job near the school, that’s all. It wasn’t like he was lying in wait for me. He was just being thoughtful. Mum won’t be cross.
He wouldn’t follow me, he wouldn’t.
But when I look behind, there’s a blue van, way, way in the distance, parked in at the kerb. Too far away to see if it’s Max. It can’t be.
I start to hurry, walking fast, but when I reach the next corner and look back the same blue van is crawling closer.
I’m running then, faster than I ever would in any race, dodging between the cars, thumping along the pavement, hurtling round the corner into Hartington Drive.
I look back and there’s no blue van, no Max, and I’m into the driveway of number 33, round to the back, down the steps and into the flat. I’m shaking and my breath comes in great gasping sobs that burn my lungs and throat.
My face is wet with tears.
Mum strokes my hair and hugs me tight, and tells me I did the right thing. She wipes my face with a tissue and makes me hot chocolate.
I let its sweetness seep through me, calming, warming. Mum sits across the table, drinking black coffee, and Misti sprawls on the carpet, unpacking my school bag and swishing books, papers and pens across the floor.
‘Maybe you were wrong about the blue van,’ Mum says. ‘Could you have been wrong? It was far away, you said. Maybe it was a different van.’
‘Maybe,’ I say. But I know it wasn’t.
‘Max wouldn’t follow you. He wouldn’t want to scare you. He wouldn’t want to hurt us.’
Her fingers stray to the faded bruises along her cheek and jaw.
‘He says he loves us,’ I tell her. ‘He says it was just a silly row, and we can come back any time.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mum says. ‘But, Indie, it was just one silly row too many. We’re better off here, love. I’m sorry for what happened at the school, but you did right. You did right.’
And though it’s not even five o’clock yet, she stands up and moves around the flat, pulling across the blue velvet curtains, shutting out the light. Shutting out Max.
‘Mum…’
‘Yes, love?’
‘It’s just… Max was going to give me a lift back. He was going to get chips for us all, come and see Misti, talk to you. What if I’d said yes?’
Mum takes in a deep breath. ‘If you’d said yes… well, that would have been OK too,’ she decides. ‘We’d have coped. But I’m glad you didn’t, Indie.’
‘So am I.’
I finish my hot chocolate and try to change the subject. ‘We’re learning about the Victorians at school,’ I tell Mum, who is staring blankly at her empty coffee mug. ‘I’ve got to make a project book, work on it at home.’
‘Mmmm.’
She’s miles and miles away, her face all sad and anxious. It makes me nervous.
I spend a while drawing out an elaborate title page, with a lady in a big crinoline dress and The Victorians written out in big, old-fashioned letters. I add my name at the bottom, then a border of daisies for good measure. I colour it in with pencil crayons, because Misti is using my felts to draw huge, psychedelic swirls all over her arms and legs.
I’m hungry, but Mum seems to have forgotten about tea. I raid the biscuit tin and find three crumbly fig rolls. I eat one, give one to Misti, one to Mum. It’s kind of a hint.
Mum gets up abruptly, but even I can tell she’s not thinking food. Misti grabs the abandoned fig roll.
Mum opens the door and starts up the steps in the dusk.
‘Mum? What are you doing?’
She looks back at me, forehead creased. It’s like it’s taking an effort for her to see me at all.
‘I just wanted to check that it wasn’t Max’s van… make sure he’s not hanging around somewhere, looking for us. I’ll feel safer if I know he’s not there.’
I’m frowning now. If Max is out there watching for us, looking for him isn’t a brilliant plan. If Mum spots him, the chances are he’ll spot her.
‘Is that a good idea?’ I ask.
Mum must think so, because she runs across the drive and into the street, her eyes searching up and down the road. I duck inside, grab Misti and bundle her outside, grizzling. We stand a few feet away from Mum, watching.
There is no blue builder’s van. She stares into the distance for a long time, jumping every time a car turns the corner. In the end the light has gone, and she leans against one huge gatepost, looking sad, lost, alone.
I lean against the other, feeling worried. Misti is asleep on my shoulder, and my back is aching.
Mum jumps forward again as something scoots round the corner, engine slowing as the headlights get closer. For a moment, the sick, scared feeling is back, and then the headlights whirl round into the drive and I can see it’s just a car, the smart red Fiat I’ve seen parked here before.
The Fiat parks neatly, the engine dies, the lights fade and a young bloke in a suit gets out, struggling with a briefcase, a newspaper and two bulging bags of shopping.
‘Hello there… everything OK?’ he says to his weird welcoming committee.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I mumble, dragging Misti round so she’s resting on my other hip. ‘We were just…’
Then Mum’s at my side, and the sad, anxious look is gone from her face. She’s OK again.
‘Just looking out for someone,’ Mum says, hauling Misti out of my arms and cuddling up to her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sorry if we startled you.’
‘No problem! You must be the new people in the basement flat,’ he grins. ‘I’m Ian Turner. I live in the attic flat. I think it was the servants.’ quarters once.’
He holds out a hand and we all shake it, dutifully, while Mum introduces us in turn.
‘See you around, then,’ he says, with a special smile at Mum. ‘If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or whatever, come on up – I’m your man!’
‘Thank you,’ Mum says, smiling politely. ‘I’ll remember that. Come on now, girls, it’s time to get indoors. It’s turning chilly.’
We’re down the steps and into the flat, and Mum’s bustling about like nothing was ever wrong, switching on the leccy fire and rustling up emergency beans on toast for everyone. She glances at my project title page as she clears the table, and gives me a big thumbs up, so I know she approves.
‘This house is Victorian, you know,’ she tells me.
‘It looks it,’ I say. We both laugh.
Later, when Misti’s asleep and I’m shuffling around in pyjamas, getting my gym kit sorted for tomorrow, I decide to get brave.
‘Mum…’
She looks up from the sink where she’s washing clothes by hand because the flat doesn’t have a washing machine. ‘Yes, pet?’
‘Jo was asking… can she come over to tea one day? We could work on our projects together. I’d love to show her my new room.’
Mum frowns, and for a minute I think she’s going to say no, but then she’s smiling, telling me that’s a great idea, why not, any day this week would be fine.
I can’t wait to tell Jo. It’s going to be great.
Miss McDougall has gone mad.
I mean, she looks quite normal (for her) and she sounds quite normal (a brisk tongue-lashing for Shane Taggart, who came to school wearing a red-spotted bandana tied gangsta-style round his head). But she’s not normal, because instead of launching into spelling tests, mental arithmetic or ten laps round the running track to ‘wake us up’, she marches us through to the TV room and we squish into giggly rows on the carpet, wondering what delights await us.
Will it be a thrilling play,
all in French, on the theme of camping, shopping or cooking a meal? Ah, bon. Will it be a yawn-inducing story set in a castle, where we have to remember the word for a medieval toilet or that criss-crossy thing that goes behind the drawbridge? (Portcullis. We had that programme last month.) Or will it be something scary and scientific, with jolly presenters in bootleg jeans and spiky hair trying to get excited about solids, liquids and gases? Who knows – who cares?
We shift about, trying to get comfy, and the programme starts.
This is the amazing bit: it’s not French or history or science – it’s some old film I once saw on TV on a rainy Sunday afternoon, all singing, dancing and drama. It’s called Oliver!.
OK, it’s old. It’s probably not cool. It’s sad and scary and funny and weird, but I love it, and I think the others do too, because there’s no whispering, no shoving, no notes being passed. Shane Taggart doesn’t fall asleep like he did in the castle programme. We’re all watching, wide-eyed, because if nothing else, it has to be better than the literacy hour.
Way better.
By the time it’s finished, we’ve missed playtime, but nobody complains at all.
Miss McDougall quizzes us on the video to prove we weren’t asleep, but we’re covered, no problem. Everyone knows the plot.
Oliver’s this Victorian orphan boy who dares to ask for more gruel at the dingy workhouse where he lives. (Gruel is kind of like school dinner semolina, I think.) He gets chucked out for being cheeky and meets up with a whole bunch of pickpockets led by some old bearded guy called Fagin. He has loads of adventures, makes friends with Artful Dodger and Nancy and runs into trouble with Bill Sykes, Nancy’s no-good boyfriend. In the end, Bill kills Nancy (I saw Aisha wipe her eyes at this bit), Oliver gets reunited with his long-lost grandad and Fagin and Dodger just keep on picking pockets.
Oliver! is one of those mad old films where everyone keeps bursting into song the whole time, but it’s not as cheesy as it sounds because the songs are either heart-tuggingly sad or really happy and fun.
Anyway, Miss McDougall asks if we’d like to learn some of the songs from the film, and everybody says they do. She has a stack of song sheets and a music tape, and next thing we know the whole class is belting out ‘You’ve Gotta Pick a Pocket or Two’ like our lives depend on it.
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