by Sarah Webb
Mum smiles gently. “Why do you think I left everything on the kitchen table, Amy? I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist a little peek. And I had this really strong feeling that the boy who has been causing Mills all the grief was Finn’s son. It was just too much of a coincidence otherwise.”
I stare at Clover. “What have you been telling Mum?”
Clover shrugs. “Nothing, Beanie. Your secrets are my secrets. How do you know about the Mills and Bailey drama-rama, Sylvie?”
“Sue was very worried,” Mum says. “Mills wasn’t eating properly — or sleeping. So Sue had a little chat with her and found out about Bailey Otis. She asked my advice as to how to help her, mum to mum. After that, I put two and two together. There can’t be many boys with that name in Dublin.”
“Mills’s mum was asking you for advice?” Clover asks. Clover and I both give a laugh at the same time.
“What?” Mum demands. “I give great advice!”
“That’s right, Sylvie,” Clover says, her lips curling into a smile. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“So let’s get this straight, Mum,” I say. “You left the stuff on the table knowing you couldn’t say anything to me directly?”
“Exactly. I felt I had to do something. Get them together somehow. I couldn’t come up with anything, so I thought of you, Amy. You’re always so good at fixing things. Of course, it doesn’t always go as planned, does it, pet? Sometimes, like today, it’s a complete disaster. But at least you try.”
“I think that’s what they call damning with faint praise,” Clover says. “I thought you took a gobbledygook parenting course once, Sylvie. Maybe you should think about going back.”
Mum scowls at her. “I have exemplary parenting skills, thank you very much. And when you have your own family, you’ll realize just how difficult raising children is, Miss High-and-Mighty.”
I put up my hands to interrupt them. “Hello? Why are you two fighting? Calm down, people. We have other things to worry about at the moment.” Suddenly something occurs to me. “Mum, Bailey lives with his grandpa, Mac. Does Finn talk about him much?”
“All the time. Mac Otis was like a father to him. Finn feels he really let him down, getting his daughter pregnant and then running off like that. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering . . . It’s nothing important.”
The front door bangs, and a moment later Alex comes dashing into the room, followed by Dave, who is carrying Evie in his arms.
“There goes the peace and quiet,” Mum says, standing up. “Alex, why are you so wet?”
“He’s been jumping in puddles,” Dave says.
“But he doesn’t have his wellies on,” Mum says.
Dave grins. “Didn’t stop him.”
Mum rolls her eyes at Dave. “Maybe the responsible adult with him should have. Come here, Alex; let’s get you out of those soggy clothes.”
“Feel like fleeing the bedlam?” Clover whispers to me.
I nod eagerly.
“Sylvie, OK if I take Amy out for pizza?” Clover says easily. “She’s had a very stressful day.”
“Fine,” Mum says as she wrestles Alex out of his damp shirt. A clump of autumn leaves falls to the floor. Mum looks at Dave. “Would you like to explain that?”
He shrugs. “It was a game.”
“I don’t want to hear any more. Don’t be late, Amy,” she calls over her shoulder as we escape.
Clover starts the engine, revs it a few times, and then looks over at me. “So where does he live?”
“Who?”
“Mac Otis. I presume that’s where this Bailey journey is taking you next. You’re not a girl to give up that easily, are you, Bean Machine?”
“But what about Bailey? He said to leave him alone.”
Clover sighs. “What boys say and what boys mean are two different things, my friend. Have I taught you nothing? And it really can’t make things any worse, not now.”
“Where have I heard that before?” I murmur.
“Look, Bailey lives with this Mac guy, right? At the very least you should tell him what happened today — give him a heads-up in case Bailey does anything stupid.”
“You’re right. But I’m scared, Clover. He’s probably Gramps’s age. What will I say?”
“Tell him the truth, Beanie, plain and simple. Always best.” She pauses and then corrects herself: “Mostly anyway. A few white lies never hurt anyone.”
“Like telling Mum you were taking me for pizza?”
“Exactement. And I am, Beanie, later. See, only a white lie.” She grins and presses down on the accelerator.
I’m standing outside Valhalla, Marine Terrace, Bray — Mac and Bailey’s place — quaking in my Converse. I glance back at Clover, who is parked across the street. I left her text-flirting with Brains. She offered to come with me, but this is something that I need to do alone.
Feeling my gaze, she lifts her head, buzzes down the window, and gives me a reassuring smile and wave.
After taking a deep breath, I press the bell. It rings in the bowels of the old Georgian house. After a few seconds, I hear the sound of someone walking toward the door. It swings open. I’m relieved to see it’s not Bailey standing there. The man is about sixty with a lived-in face, closely cropped white hair, and a strong jaw. He’s wearing a crumpled blue shirt and jeans. “Yes?” he asks. His gray-blue eyes look tired.
“Is this where Bailey Otis lives?” I ask nervously.
“Yes.” He sighs. “What kind of trouble is he in this time?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. He’s in my class at Saint John’s. We’re friends.”
“Friends? Really?” He tilts his head. He seems surprised.
“Are you Mac?”
“Aye, that’s right.”
“Look, there’s something I need to tell you. About Bailey.”
He looks at me for a moment. “You don’t know where he is, by any chance? Haven’t had sight nor sound of him since lunchtime.”
It’s like someone’s stabbed me in the gut. What have I done? “No, but I did see him earlier. On Killiney Beach.”
Just say it, Amy, I tell myself. If Bailey’s run off or something’s happened to him, it’ll be all your fault.
“He bumped into Finn Hunter—”
Mac cuts me off. “Did you say Finn Hunter?” His eyes bore into mine.
I nod wordlessly.
“You’d best come in.” He stands back, and I walk into the narrow hall.
My hands are shaking with nerves. I know it’s only a matter of time until I’ll have to come clean about my involvement.
Inside, there’s a console table littered with junk mail and an overflowing laundry basket sitting in the middle of the floor. Mac kicks the basket aside and leads me to the kitchen at the back of the house. Light floods in through plate-glass windows. Outside, a trampoline dwarfs the scruffy garden, and I smile to myself. I can’t imagine Bailey on a trampoline — but it doesn’t look all that old.
Mac sees me looking at it. “Bailey’s out there bouncing every evening — even in the rain — listening to his music. Double flips, somersaults, the works; he’s completely fearless. Sometimes the neighbors’ kids hear the springs and climb over the wall to join in. Bailey doesn’t mind; he seems to like the company. He’s great with kids. Says they don’t ask stupid questions.” He stops and rubs his face with his hands. “I guess you’d better start at the beginning. Take a seat.”
He pulls out a kitchen chair, and I sit down. There’s a mess of newspapers and music magazines on the table.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. “A Coke or something?”
I shake my head.
“Mind if I make myself a coffee before we talk?”
My stomach lurches when he says the word talk. Why am I putting myself through this? It was such a bad idea. I want to get up and run. Stop being such a chicken, Amy, I tell myself.
As Mac makes coffee in a cafetière, I look around. The kitc
hen’s long and narrow, with a large stainless-steel range to the right, framed by open metal shelving that is filled with professional-looking copper pots and pans.
I sweep my eyes toward the white shelving unit to the left. It is crammed with dozens of cookbooks. Then something else catches my eye: a small silver statue of a man on a plinth. A bit like an Oscar, except the figure is playing a guitar. I peer at the plaque on the base: “Young Songwriter of the Year.”
“Bailey won that,” Mac says in a quiet voice. “Beat a whole load of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, too. That was before all the Lakelands trouble, of course . . . How much has he told you, Amy?”
“Practically nothing. Was he expelled?”
“He was, I’m afraid. Some boy was teasing him about his ancient dad — I guess he meant me — and Bailey threw a punch and knocked out one of the lad’s front teeth. Bailey tends to lash out when he can’t cope with his feelings.” Mac gives a dry laugh. “It’s how he expresses himself. That and his music. Anyway, you’d better tell me what happened with Finn. Did Finn contact Bailey directly — ask if he could meet him, that it?”
“Not exactly.” I gulp. “It was my fault. My aunt’s a journalist, and she requested an interview with Finn. Asked him to meet us on Killiney Beach for a photo shoot—”
“Knowing Bailey would be there teaching his kids,” Mac puts in. “I get it. But what I don’t understand is how you know about Finn and Bailey. Bailey would hardly have told you.”
I consider lying, spinning Mac some story about Clover’s “research,” but something stops me. I guess I figure there have been enough lies and misunderstandings already.
“My mum’s ghostwriting Finn’s memoir,” I say truthfully. “I read her notes and some of Bailey’s letters to Finn.”
Mac’s eyes harden. “Those are private letters, young lady. You had no right.”
“I know — and I’m sorry. I thought if they met face-to-face, things might be different. I thought it was worth a try, but I made a mistake.”
“And what happened? Did they speak to each other?”
“Finn tried talking to him, but Bailey was having none of it. He told Finn to leave him alone” — I take a deep breath —“and then, he, um, punched Finn in the jaw and ran off.”
Mac swears under his breath and then gives a deep sigh. “I see. Look, I’m sure you were only trying to help, but that was inevitable, I’m afraid. Bailey’s put up a wall around himself, and nothing can smash it down — not me and certainly not Finn Hunter. Jennie, my ex-wife, she fed the lad all these notions: stupid fairy tales about finding his dad and patching everything up. It was all nonsense, and it only made things worse. She made Bailey write dozens of letters to the man. Finn never wrote back, not once. Contacted me months afterward, of course. Said his mum had never forwarded the letters on. I didn’t believe a word of it. Finn’s just too selfish to care about anyone except himself. Always was, even as a teenager.”
“But it is true! Finn knew nothing about the letters until after his mum died. He’s moved back to Dublin to try to patch things up with Bailey. And he was genuinely devastated on the beach after Bailey ran off.”
“Why didn’t you just tell Finn where the lad would be and leave the rest up to him, then? Why did you have to trick him onto the beach like that? Eh?”
“Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. I’m so sorry.” I stand up, blinking back my tears. “I was wrong to come here. I just wanted you to know that Bailey’s upset, that was all. I think he was crying when he ran off.”
Mac nods, his face softening. “It took a lot of courage to come here. Bailey . . .” He shakes his head. “He’s not easy. He’s hurt and he’s been through so much. His mum, Lane, was just the same. Difficult. Had these notions about how her life should be but wasn’t prepared to put the work in. She wanted to be a singer but felt having Bailey had put the kibosh on that. Finally she just ran out on the poor lad.”
He sighs and looks directly at me, his eyes sad. “I should probably warn you off Bailey — tell you to keep your distance, but he’s my grandson and he’s all the family I’ve got. Promise me you’ll keep an eye on him. He doesn’t seem to have many friends. Maybe you’ll ring me if anything happens in school next week?”
“Of course.”
“And don’t worry about him too much. He has a habit of wandering off. I’m sure he’ll reappear later. I’ll give you a call if he doesn’t.”
“Thanks.”
We exchange numbers, and then Mac shows me out.
I walk back to the car with a heavy heart.
“You OK, Beanie?” Clover asks gently.
“That was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” I admit.
“Was he angry?”
“At first, but then he was just sad. I’ll tell you about it later, OK? Can you just take me home, Clover? I don’t fancy eating right now.”
“’Course, I understand. I’m proud of you, Beanie. We all make mistakes; it’s how you deal with them that matters. Remember that.”
School on Monday is horrible; I can’t get Bailey’s story out of my head. In English class I keep trying to catch his eye, but I think he’s purposefully avoiding my gaze. Still, I’m glad he’s in school. He didn’t run away — at least that’s something.
At the end of break, I’m walking toward my locker with Mills and Seth when Mills suddenly grabs my arm. “What’s Bailey up to?”
I look up to see Bailey smashing what looks suspiciously like my hockey stick against the door of my locker. He takes another swing.
“Bailey!” Mills yells. “What are you doing?”
He turns around and their eyes meet.
Mills gulps. I know she still has strong feelings for Bailey, even though she tries to hide it.
“I hate this place,” he says. “It’s the pits.” His eyes bore into mine; his are dark and swirling with anger and despair. “And I hate you.”
“Look, Bailey—” Seth says.
But Bailey cuts him off. “You don’t know what it’s like, being trapped here.” And he brings the hockey stick down again. WHACK! I stare at the shaft. Yep, it’s mine, all right: a silver Voodoo stick with “AG” written in black marker just above the head. (I’d left it on top of the lockers this morning, never for a minute thinking it would become a weapon of mass destruction!)
“That’s my stick, Bailey,” I say. “You’re going to ruin it and my locker.”
Bailey gives a hollow laugh. “That’s the general idea.” He hits the metal door again.
“Look, I’m so sorry about Saturday,” I say quickly. “I’d never do anything to deliberately hurt you. You’ve got to—” But I’m interrupted mid-sentence.
“Bailey Otis, what on earth are you doing?” Loopy is staring at him, looking distressed. “That locker is school property. There’s no excuse for vandalism. I’ve a good mind to send you to Mr. Montgomery.”
Bailey drops his head and gazes at the floor.
“It’s my fault, miss,” I say quickly.
She looks at me. “Really, Amy? And why’s that?”
“I . . . er . . . asked Bailey to try to open the locker for me. I’ve lost the key.”
Loopy looks back at Bailey. “Is that right, Bailey?”
“Yeah,” he says to the floor tiles.
“And Mills? What’s your role in all this?” Loopy asks.
Mills gives a little gasp. She never gets in trouble in school. “Innocent bystander, miss,” she says. “Honest. Seth too.”
Loopy sighs. “It’s a pretty stupid thing to do, Bailey. And, Amy, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you just call Mr. Joey? He’s quite used to sawing off locks.” (Mr. Joey is the school janitor.)
I shrug. “Didn’t think of that, miss.”
“Clearly. I don’t know what to do with the pair of you. I have to give you some sort of punishment, I suppose . . .” She trails off, chewing on her lip. Discipline isn’t Loopy’s strong point.
“Detention, miss?�
�� I say glumly.
She shakes herself. “Gosh, no, no. Complete waste of everyone’s time and energy.” She looks carefully at Bailey. His head is still low and his face pale. “I’ll let you off this time. I’ll send Mr. Joey up to deal with your lock, Amy, and the rather alarming dents in that door. Luckily for you, he’s an expert panel beater. But no more shenanigans, Mr. Otis, understand? Are you trying to get yourself expelled?”
“Maybe,” he murmurs. He drops the stick on the floor with a clatter, then turns on his heels and walks away.
Loopy’s eyes follow him down the corridor. She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “That poor boy.” To me, she says, “You all right, Amy? Your eyes look rather red.”
“She has conjunctivitis, miss,” Mills says, covering for me.
Loopy gives a doubtful “hmm,” then says, “Right, run along to class now, all of you.”
As soon as Loopy has gone, Mills and Seth both look at me. My eyes are still teary. I was only trying to help Bailey, but instead I’ve made things a hundred times worse. Again.
“What’s going on, Amy?” Mills asks gently. “What happened on Saturday? Why did Bailey freak out like that?”
It’s time to tell Mills and Seth the truth.
“We need to talk.” I usher them behind the lockers, away from prying eyes. We all sit down and lean our backs against the wall.
“It’s complicated,” I begin. “You know Mum’s been working on Finn Hunter’s memoir? I read her notes and, well, to cut a long story short: Bailey is Finn’s son. Finn ran off to London when Bailey’s mum was pregnant. It gets worse, though. When he was only three, Bailey’s mum ran off too.” I stop and look from Mills to Seth and then back at Mills. They’re staring at me in complete and utter shock. I had been planning to tell them the whole story — about Bailey being Baby X and everything. But now the moment is here, I can’t do it. To Mills, to Seth, or to Bailey.
I know hearing about it would devastate Mills; she has such a sheltered view of the world, and I don’t want to be the one to shatter her illusions. And with Polly in and out of the hospital, Seth has enough to worry about. Clover and Mum are different — they’re strong, like me, and they’re not as close to Bailey. Besides, would Bailey really want so many people knowing about his past? It must be painful enough as it is.