This last one is obviously the biggy.
3.Find a way to get back to reality.
I add a question mark after this one. I can’t go back yet – there’s too much to do. I add:
4. Make Sasha’s life hell.
That should be easy; I’ve got it well in hand. I need to concentrate on number two. Perhaps I could get hold of some marriage guidance leaflets and place them strategically around the house.
Then I have an idea. Maybe I can stop them getting divorced by behaving really badly. I remember when I was in Year Eight there was a girl in my class who refused to get out of bed when her parents split up. She was off school for ages, but then she moved away with her mum, who went back north after the divorce. That obviously didn’t work, then.
Or there was that girl in Year Nine. She was dead quiet and shy until her parents got divorced, then she went right off the rails. She shaved off all her hair and started getting off with loads of boys, and there were rumours that she was self harming. She left eventually, as well. Anyhow, her radical behaviour didn’t stop her parents from getting divorced, either.
In fact, just thinking about that girl has made me so depressed I feel like giving the whole thing up. I’m about to put my notebook away when I hear my dad come back. He’s in a good mood and I can hear Mum laughing at something he’s said. It’s like being a proper family again and I don’t want it to stop.
Right, I just need to look at this in a different way. I have the advantage here because I’m seeing it in retrospect. I need to persuade Mum that our life will be awful if she leaves Dad. I need to show her that she needs him. I decide to write down everything I know about the divorce, so I turn to the back of the notebook and make a fresh start.
I know that Mum threw Dad out, because Dad told me all about it. Dad often has a moan about Mum, so I do know that she stopped loving him and made him move out and he was heartbroken to leave us behind. He had nowhere to go and ended up camping out on the floor of a flat belonging to a workmate. The workmate just happened to be Trish and, according to Dad, she was very kind and sweet so that he ended up falling in love with her and they’ve been together ever since. Even though she’s quite a bit younger than him.
It wasn’t long after Rory was born that all this happened, so I’d better get a move on. Why did Mum throw him out? I chew the end of my pencil while I give this some thought.
It doesn’t help that Mum never says anything against Dad. She has a strict policy of not slagging Dad off in front of me and Rory because, she says, however she feels about him, he’s still our dad. That’s all very well, but it means that I don’t know how she feels about him. If she’d ranted and raved I might have a clearer idea as to why she did it.
How can I explain to Mum that if she throws Dad out she will be forcing him into the arms of another woman? Surely that would make her jealous and she might see sense. Unfortunately, I don’t know how I’d manage that without her thinking I’ve turned into some freaky psychic overnight, assuming of course she believes me – which she won’t.
How I can stop Mum falling out of love with Dad? I suck the end of my plait and stare into space, trying to think of an idea. I’m disturbed by raised voices coming from downstairs. Oh no, not again! They were laughing a minute ago. I creep out on to the landing to find out what it’s about this time and hear Mum’s shrill voice.
‘All I’m asking is that you stop spending so much money down the pub and at the bookies. You promised you’d stop the gambling when I got pregnant, so what’s this . . . ?’
I can see through the banisters that she’s waving a betting slip in his face.
‘And you promised you’d stop nagging me . . .’
He’s got a point. At this rate she won’t have to throw him out – she’ll drive him away.
‘If you won’t do it for me, then do it for your children. You’ve got a family to look after . . .’
‘I never wanted the bloody children in the first place. It’s hardly surprising that I spend all my time down the pub when all I get here is a whiney daughter and a nagging wife.’
He slams out of the front door and I crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. I can hear Mum crying in the sitting room.
I don’t whine, do I?
Chapter Five
The next morning, I spring out of bed with all the energy of a hyperactive seven-year-old on E numbers. At least that’s what it feels like. My good mood is slightly marred, though, when I walk into the kitchen and see Dad sitting at the table finishing his toast and marmalade. I find it difficult to look him in the eye when I remember what he said about me last night.
‘And how’s my little Princess, this morning?’ he asks in a bright voice, which sounds forced, now I know his true feelings.
‘Oh, just my usual, whiney self,’ I say sweetly, as I sit down. I really can’t help myself.
I notice him exchanging a look with Mum over my head. ‘I’d better be off, then,’ he says, pushing back his chair and standing up. An avalanche of toast crumbs fall to the floor. I can hear them crunching underfoot as he goes over to Mum and gives her a kiss. ‘Someone has to keep this family in the style to which it’s become accustomed,’ he laughs.
If that’s a joke it’s not a very good one, in the present circumstances. Mum laughs, because she always laughs at Dad’s jokes, but I don’t think she sounds very amused.
Dad slips out of the door and Mum gets the dust pan and brush from the cupboard. She tries to sweep up the toast crumbs but the bump prevents her from bending down. I take the dustpan and brush from her and clean up the mess. I wonder why Mum wants another baby when she’s already looking after the biggest one in the world – namely, Dad.
‘What was it that made you fall in love with Dad?’ I ask. I’m attempting to get Mum to remember how she used to feel about him, in the hope that she’ll see what a great bloke he is. The problem is it comes out all wrong, so it sounds like I’m saying, ‘What the hell did you ever see in him?’ Although, actually, I am beginning to wonder. I’m not entirely sure Dad is such a great bloke, after all.
‘Your father,’ says mum, ‘can be a very charming man when he wants to be.’ She’s got a faraway look in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face and she’s rubbing her hands over her bump. Oh my God! She’s thinking about sex! Yuck! And they were only arguing about that the other night! What is it with adults? I wish they’d make their minds up. One minute they’re shouting each other’s heads off, and the next minute they’re all lovey-dovey.
‘He’s under an awful lot of pressure at the moment, though,’ says Mum, ‘at work and with the new baby on the way. He does have his little failings, I admit, but I love him all the same.’
I stare at Mum. I’ve got my mouth open again. The gambling and drinking are hardly ‘little failings’. She’s not even lying to me about loving Dad. She really means it, I can tell. I’m confused.
‘So how come he slept on the sofa last night?’ I ask.
Mum laughs. ‘Because I threw him out of the bed. I’m so big at the moment there isn’t really room for him as well and neither of us were getting any sleep so he went downstairs instead.’
It seems that not everything is as it appears. But that doesn’t answer the question. If Mum is still so ‘in love’ with Dad, why is she about to leave him?
I try to persuade Mum that I’m perfectly capable of walking to school on my own, but she won’t hear of it.
‘Maybe when you’re a bit older, Alice.’ God, and there was me thinking that I didn’t have any freedom at fourteen! At least I wasn’t escorted everywhere like a prisoner.
I go up to my room to get my school things ready. If Mum does still love Dad then her reason for leaving him must have been the gambling and drinking. If I can get him to stop, then maybe we can all live happily ever after. The problem is, I get the feeling it would be easier to persuade the Pope to convert to Buddhism, than to get my dad to change his ways.
I’ve got so
me serious research to do. I need to find out about support groups for Dad, like Alcoholics Anonymous. And there must be a similar thing for people with a gambling problem. Gamblers Anonymous maybe. And I might as well find out everything I can about post-natal depression while I’m at it. If we had a computer this would be easy. It’s not the sort of thing that I’m going to find in the school library, I really need to get to the public library. An idea forms itself in my head.
As we make our slow, waddly way to school, I say to Mum, ‘Don’t forget I’m going to Sasha’s for tea tonight.’
Mum has stopped to catch her breath. She’s breathing quite heavily and luckily not paying too much attention to me, which makes a nice change.
‘What? Are you sure? I don’t remember that.’
‘Yes, it’s all arranged,’ I lie cheerfully. ‘I’m going home with Sasha after school and her mum will bring me home.’
‘OK, that’s quite a relief actually. I’m feeling a bit sluggish today.’
‘I’ll see you later, then,’ and I give her a kiss and run into the playground. Now, after school, I can nip off to the library and when I get home I’ll pretend I’ve been to Sasha’s and Mum will never be any the wiser.
It’s quite a relief to be at school. At least now all I have to worry about is being horrible to Sasha. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.
It’s still weird to see all these people I know as little kids again. It strikes me that they’re not really all that much different to their fourteen-year-old selves. Lauren Hall, who I sit with in GCSE maths, is painfully shy; I can see her clinging to her mum at the school gates. Lucy Clark is surrounded by a load of friends, girls as well as boys, Luke is larking around with them in his cheerful, funny way and Chelsea and Clara have separated themselves from the crowd and are leaning against the wall, whispering together and looking superior. It’s just me that’s different. My seven-year-old self would have been playing happily with Sasha, no doubt, trying to stay out of trouble and thinking about not very much except Barbie, probably. Oh, the blissful ignorance I lived in!
Someone’s tugging at my sleeve. ‘Did you bring the skipping rope?’
‘No,’ I tell her, and then before she can have a go at me I say, ‘Ponies is a stupid game, anyway.’ She’s about to argue so I add, ‘It’s a bit babyish running around pretending to be a horse.’
I can tell Sasha is dying to play at being a horse, but I also know that she won’t want to be thought of as ‘babyish’. Nothing is going to get me to play one of those ‘pretending games’, though. I know I used to love them, but I’m way too old to play them now.
Sasha is looking cross and puzzled. She’s probably wondering what has happened to the pliable, meek and easily bossed around little playmate that I used to be.
‘Well, you thought the game up in the first place – so it’s you that’s babyish.’ She puts her hands on her hips and sticks her bottom lip out. I can’t help laughing at her as she flounces off.
The bell goes, and as we line up I find myself thinking about Imogen again and wishing she was here.
I decide during assembly that Sasha hasn’t suffered enough yet. I need to up the ante. I think its time for her to go on a little trip to Coventry.
I put my plan into action at playtime. When everyone rushes outside, I hang back and go up to Miss Carter at her desk. I arrange my face into it’s best ‘little girl lost’ look and even wring my hands in despair.
‘What is it, Alice?’ she asks kindly. I have a moment of regret for lying to her in this way, but remind myself that it’s not really a lie, I’m just complaining about something before it actually happens.
‘The thing is . . .’ I gulp.
‘Yes?’ This is really going to have to be good, because Miss Carter is not stupid and she must know that little girls fall out all the time. I decide to go in with the heavy guns.
‘Mummy would have come to see you herself, only she’s not well, with the baby on the way and everything. I wouldn’t have bothered her with it normally because she’s got enough on her plate with Daddy’s gambling and drinking,’ – Miss Carter is really listening now, I’d better be careful or she’ll have social services down on us – ‘but she noticed, what with the nightmares and me wetting the bed suddenly.’ Miss Carter’s eyes look as if they’re about to pop out.
‘Why? Whatever’s the matter?’ she says.
‘It’s Sasha,’ I whisper, finally letting the tears fall.
‘What about Sasha?’ says Miss Carter. I can tell from her tone of voice that she knows full well just what Sasha is capable of.
‘She really scares me,’ I say, looking really frightened. ‘She said if I told, she’d come and kill the baby when it’s born.’
Now I really do feel scared because I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Have I gone too far? Surely even Sasha wouldn’t be that horrible. Miss Carter seems to have no trouble believing it, though, which gives me the strength to carry on.
‘She won’t let me be friends with anyone else, and when you’re not looking . . .’ I pause, dramatically, ‘. . . she hurts me.’
I remind myself that Sasha did actually pinch me the other day after the spelling test, so it’s not a complete fib.
‘The thing is . . . Mummy was hoping that you could move me to a different desk, but please, please, please can you do it so that Sasha doesn’t know I’ve said anything. And please don’t say anything to her about the bullying.’
Miss Carter looks very worried and not totally convinced about the ‘not saying anything’ clause. I mean, these are quite serious offences – threats to kill and grievous bodily harm usually carry a prison sentence – but we are only seven, I can see her thinking, and that it will probably all blow over soon.
She pats me kindly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it any more. I’ve had a great idea, but I can’t do anything about it right now, so I need you to be a brave girl for a little bit longer.’ She hands me a tissue and I mop up my crocodile tears.
‘Thank you, Miss Carter,’ I say and dash out into the playground. At least I won’t have to sit next to Sasha for much longer.
I’ve got a lot of work to do before playtime is over. I start with Chelsea and Clara. Going over to them I say, ‘Can I play with you?’
They stop what they’re doing and stare at me, but don’t tell me to push off, so I carry on. ‘It’s just that Sasha’s not talking to me. Well, actually, the truth is – I’m not talking to her.’
They both look interested now, so I get truly stuck in.
‘She said you’re stupid and smelly and ugly and she’s going to invite everyone to her party except you two. I didn’t think that was very fair, and I told her you were nice, so then she picked on me and said I was stupid and smelly too, so I decided I wasn’t going to talk to her anymore.’
Chelsea and Clara fall for it. ‘Well, you can play with us and we won’t talk to her either.’
We’re just beginning a game of tag, which I’ve initiated so that I can run round the playground and stir up more trouble with the other kids in our class, when Sasha comes up.
‘Come on, Alice. Why are you playing with these copycats? I thought we were playing Puppies.’ I turn my back on her and look scared.
This seems to give Chelsea courage. ‘Go away – you’re stupid and ugly and smelly.’ Chelsea grabs me and Clara and we all run off. Sasha looks surprised at this outburst but I can tell that the ‘smelly’ hasn’t been lost on her.
By the end of the lunch break, Sasha is well and truly out in the cold. No one is talking to her, and it doesn’t stop there. It seems that I’ve set something in motion for which Sasha only has herself to blame. She’s been bossy and horrid to everyone at some point, but so far no one’s actually stood up to her. As all the children in our class realise that everyone is in on it, the campaign takes on a life of its own, and I just sit back and watch.
Sasha doesn’t really realise I’m not talking to her at first because the morning is
spent doing a times-table test and then personal reading time. But at lunchtime I run off with Chelsea and Clara. Sasha tries to join in with the others, but every single one of them turns their back on her and eventually she plays with some of the little children from Year One. I can see her bossing them about as I skip round the playground with Clara’s skipping rope. She keeps looking my way with a puzzled look on her face, but I just look straight through her as if she’s not there.
After lunch we have to get changed for PE, which is taught by our headmistress, Miss Strickland. I remember that I was absolutely terrified of her and kept out of her way as much as possible.
She takes us outside and tells us to get into pairs. Sasha is immediately at my side. Personally, I was hoping to pair up with Lucy Clark. I’ve always liked Lucy, and she’s the one I was watching from the art room window, in my old life, and wishing that I was in her group of friends because they always seem to have so much fun. She’s paired up with Miranda Wilkes, though, and as everyone else is now in pairs it looks like I’m stuck with Sasha.
Miss Strickland is handing out tennis balls and telling us to practise our throwing and catching. Sasha and I stand opposite each other, throwing the ball back and forth. It isn’t long before I get seriously bored by this. To be fair, Sasha isn’t bad at it. She doesn’t drop the ball as often as some of the kids, judging by the numbers that are running around chasing balls all over the playground. I can tell I’m the best by a long shot. I’m waiting for Miss Strickland to notice, and praise me for my skill, only she doesn’t, because she’s not even watching us. She’s talking to the caretaker about the drainpipes.
‘Come on!’ says Sasha, impatiently. ‘Throw me the ball.’
‘OK,’ I tell her. ‘Catch this, Bossy Boots,’ and I lob the ball as hard as I can, right over her head. There’s a moment when I think it might hit the window and break it, but thankfully I’ve thrown it too high and it bounces off the roof. I’m about to let out a sigh of relief when one of the tiles slides gently down the roof. It lands with a smash on the tarmac between Miss Strickland and the caretaker. One of the shards of tile hits the headmistress on the leg, cutting her shin and causing her tights to ladder.
Alice in Time Page 13