Angels Next Door

by Karen McCombie

  ‘RILEY, IT’S FOR YOOOOOOOOU!’ Dot positively screams, probably deafening whoever’s at the door.

  As I walk into the hall, at first I only notice that Dot’s also got a decorated cereal-packet jet-pack strapped to her back with string. Then I see someone bent down just inside the doorway, gently stroking Alastair in his doggy bed.

  ‘Hello, Sunshine! Come on in!’ says Hazel, appearing behind me and rubbing her hands dry on a tea towel.

  What makes Hazel think Sunshine would want to come in?

  What makes her think I want Sunshine to come in?

  And what will I do with Sunshine if she does? Come in, I mean.

  ‘Riley?’ Hazel is frowning at me.

  ‘Uh, hi,’ I say hesitantly, shoving the feather into my skirt pocket.

  ‘Hi!’ smiles Sunshine, standing up again and staring straight at me.

  Eek! I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do or say.

  ‘Why don’t you show Sunshine your room?’ Hazel suggests on my behalf, ushering her inside.

  ‘Um, yeah, sure,’ I mumble feebly. ‘It’s –’

  ‘– THIS WAY! HURRY!!’ squeals Dot, grabbing Alastair by the lead and clunking him step by step up the stairs behind her.

  ‘That is my room!’ Dot yelps, pointing a finger at her polka-dot and bunny-poster-filled bedroom. ‘And this is Riley’s!’

  Our tiny tour guide stands in the doorway with arms outstretched and bits of space paraphernalia gently detaching from the jet-pack.

  Sunshine glances around, and begins to mooch and meander, gently touching books and nail varnishes, gazing up at the dangling beads of the plastic chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.

  But, while I’m not much of a host, Dot is loving every second of showing off my stuff.

  ‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ she says, flipping the light switch on.

  ‘Wow!’ Sunshine gasps softly as the different-coloured plastic segments of the chandelier glow.

  She’s being sarcastic, right?

  But then her purply-greeny-blue eyes are wide and innocent. Those eyes, her floating, fluttering gold-red hair … she might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  ‘And see THESE?’ blurts Dot, waving her arms towards my pinboard of pictures as if she was presenting them.

  ‘Dot, we haven’t finished cleaning you up,’ says Hazel, appearing at my bedroom door. ‘You’ve got paint all over yourself.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But nothing. Come on … leave the big girls alone.’

  Nervous now, I nibble a strand of my mousy hair to a backdrop of ‘not fair’s and thunks (Alastair making his way downstairs).

  Sunshine’s back is to me as she slowly examines each photo.

  I’m about to ask her why she stepped in and lied to Lauren about me doing my project earlier – but she gets in with a question of her own first.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asks, and I shuffle self-consciously to her side to see what she’s talking about.

  Ah, it’s the photo I took of Tia cartwheeling by the Angel.

  ‘That’s up at Folly Hill,’ I explain, pointing out of the window.

  Sunshine tilts her head to one side in confusion, pale red waves falling away from her face like the softest of velvet.

  Oh. She doesn’t get what I mean!

  Hasn’t her family noticed that they’ve bought a house beside a huge mound of earth?

  ‘Here,’ I say, motioning her over to the window.

  Now she can see it: the looming green of the hill rising behind the roofs, the glint of the white-marble Angel on her plinth on the summit.

  ‘Tia and me used to lie on our backs up there and watch the clouds,’ I say softly, scared that my voice might crack as I mention my best friend.

  And then whoosh … out of nowhere a sudden, startling idea whizzes into my head. It must be the combination of the pinboard and the view, cos now I’ve thought of my overdue holiday homework, and what it can be about.

  It’s that day in September, when everything changed.

  I took photos, didn’t I?

  Of Tia lying back with her eyes closed.

  Of the Angel watching over us.

  Of Tia sitting up, telling me the awful news about New Zealand.

  Of her face, trying to smile, to make it OK.

  Of her breaking down when she saw me start to cry.

  Of the two of us hugging, the Angel behind us, the camera on timer propped up – capturing the end of an era.

  Yes, that’s what I’ll submit for my school project. It had to be the most important day in my first half-term at school – even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

  I feel a flurry and flutter of excitement – I’ll let the photos tell the story, with no text. I’ll print them out when Sunshine leaves, mount them on a big bit of card, and think of a great title. Actually, maybe I’ll ask Dad to copy them at his shop, on bigger paper, like he did for my self-portrait –

  ‘We’d like to go up there,’ Sunshine interrupts my thoughts, speaking – bizarrely – in plural. ‘We like being up high. That’s why we’re all in the loft room.’

  ‘What … you, Kitt and Pearl?’ I check, so surprised I forget my nervousness, forget about my project.

  The thing is, Tia’s house has four bedrooms, enough for each girl to have her own room.

  ‘Mmm,’ Sunshine murmurs dreamily. ‘And that’s why Frank, our foster dad, is building us that.’

  Now she’s pointing across at the broad branches of the chestnut tree in her garden – where Mr Angelo, in jeans and fleece zip-up top, is balanced precariously, planks of wood under his arm and a hammer in his hand. Watching him intently from below are Kitt, Pearl and Bee.

  ‘You’re getting a treehouse?’ I check again.

  The chunky chestnut is perfect for it, and I’m amazed no one – including Tia’s family – has ever built one there before. But it’s a funny thing to do when you’ve only just moved into a new home, isn’t it? I thought Mr and Mrs Angelo might still be busy unpacking boxes, not doing a sudden stint of outdoor DIY. Especially since Mr Angelo doesn’t look too steady. In fact, he’s pretty wobbly.

  He’s stepped one foot down on to a branch that doesn’t look strong enough to take his weight.

  He’s realized his mistake at the last minute and pulled his foot back where it was, but too fast.

  I see a flash of red trainer as his foot starts slipping off the mossy old bark of the main branch and, uh-oh, now his hand launches out to the side, trying to grab on to the tree trunk.

  But in the panic of the moment his hand doesn’t find it.

  Now he’s dropped the hammer from his other hand and … and it looks – oh, help – it looks like he might – oh, please no! – fall!!

  Just as a choked squeak of alarm lodges in my throat, the girls’ foster dad miraculously manages to grab hold of the branch above and steadies himself. He looks puzzled, staring at the empty hand that was holding the hammer a moment ago.

  Stunned, I turn round to see Sunshine’s reaction.

  And it’s the strangest thing.

  She seems to be silently, madly mouthing something. Words? A desperate prayer maybe?

  But her face doesn’t look desperate; her expression is completely calm, just as it always seems to be.

  And, hey, she’s not looking at her foster dad, she’s staring down at her sisters in the garden.

  Kitt is mouthing something back, while Pearl does a little twirl of pleasure, hammer in hand!

  Then – snap – the mood of the moment is gone; Sunshine turns and smiles sweetly at me as if nothing just happened. Down on the grass a stony-faced Kitt takes the hammer from Pearl’s hand and matter-of-factly reaches up to pass it back to Mr Angelo.

  ‘Well, better go help out with the treehouse!’ Sunshine says brightly, turning to go.

  Huh?

  Did I just see what I think I saw?!

  Of course I want to ask Sunshine about her foster
dad’s near-accident, but I’m scared it’s going to be like yesterday when I thought I heard her say my name, or when Kitt pulled me back from the car. She might shake her head at me, denying it all, and I’ll feel even more like I’m going a tiny bit loopy.

  So, completely tongue-tied, I nearly let Sunshine leave without another word. Nearly.

  As I pad down the stairs behind her, something stirs inside my befuddled brain and I find I am able to ask her one question at least, even if it has nothing to do with Mr Angelo.

  ‘Er, Sunshine … why did you come over in the first place? Did you want something?’

  I hadn’t thought to ask earlier, and neither had Hazel; she’d simply ushered her inside.

  ‘Oh, I just wanted to see your photos!’ Sunshine says with a bright beam over her shoulder. ‘Bye!’

  ‘Right … bye,’ I reply as she heads out of the door and down the path.

  It’s only as I close the door that another obvious question pops into my head. How did she know about the photos …?

  ‘Can we? Can we? Can we please, Riley? Pretty please! Can we?’

  When Dot asks if we can take Alastair out for a walk I usually say no.

  Not because I’m mean, but because people tend to stare when you’re dragging around a stick on a lead.

  But today, just this once, I don’t mind. Sunshine went home a few minutes ago, leaving me with a head full of tangles, and I’m desperate to get some fresh air.

  ‘Where are you two going?’ Hazel asks as she watches me and Dot put our coats on.

  ‘Where are we THREE going, you mean,’ Dot corrects her mum, nodding at the lump of wood on the end of the lead she’s holding.

  ‘Three, then!’ Hazel smiles indulgently.

  ‘Up to the Angel,’ I tell her. If the brisk October wind up on Folly Hill can’t blow away head tangles, I don’t know what will.

  ‘All right – but don’t be long,’ she replies, looking at the kitchen clock.

  ‘We’ll be back in half an hour, before it starts to get dark,’ I promise, thinking of Dad’s recent chat with me.

  I help wrestle Dot’s padded jacket on over her jet-pack and we set off, trudging up the flinty path that meanders towards the Angel and –

  Oh.

  Look who’s beaten us to it.

  Sunshine must have taken her sisters (and dog) up here almost as soon as she got back from ours.

  ‘Don’t you get it, Riley?!’ Tia would’ve said. ‘Sunshine guessed you were into photography, cos she saw that self-portrait you took – the one in the library!’

  Well, OK, maybe that made sense, but Mr Angelo nearly falling, his foster kids’ super-strange reactions …

  ‘BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’ shrieks Dot, running as fast as she can towards the snow-blond fluffball on legs.

  Bee happily bounds over to meet her, and even courteously attempts to sniff what might be Alastair’s bottom.

  The two dogs and Dot are joined by Sunshine and Kitt, while Pearl … Pearl is twirling on the spot, arms wide, face to what warmth there is in the watery October sun.

  ‘Oooh!’ She laughs as her twirling brings her straight across to me. ‘Hello!’

  Everything about Pearl seems to twinkle – her laugh, her eyes, the sequins on her baseball boots.

  ‘Hello,’ I answer warily, wondering if she’s just too pretty and sweet to be true. I mean, people meeting someone like Lauren for the first time would think she was a gorgeous, smart girl, not a twisted, mean-mouthed bully. You can never trust first impressions, can you?

  ‘It’s nice up here!’ Pearl says with a happy sigh. ‘We really like it.’

  I start to soften. Anyone who likes this special spot of mine can’t be all bad, can they?

  ‘But what’s that supposed to be?’

  Pearl’s eyes are on me, but one of her hands is pointing slightly behind her, to the right. The only thing over there – apart from an amazing view – is the Angel.

  ‘It’s … uh, an angel,’ I say simply.

  Pearl frowns, then makes an unexpected sound. ‘Prrrrrrrrfffffff!’

  Now it’s my turn to frown. She just sniggered?

  ‘What did you think the statue was?’ I ask, bewildered.

  I mean, big wings: tick.

  Hands clasped together: tick.

  Dress like a floppy sheet: tick.

  Eyes to the skies: tick.

  What else would she be?

  You know, I bet the long-ago lord of Hillcrest House had her made so she’d watch over his land and protect it or something. Don’t think he’d have expected a twelve-year-old girl to get the giggles over her one day in the far-off future.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never seen –’ Pearl goes from grinning and chatty to silent all of a sudden, as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  She’s now glancing in the direction of Dot, the dogs and her sisters. Kitt is staring our way. Hard.

  ‘Never seen what?’ I tentatively ask, wondering what it is about me that makes Kitt dislike me so much.

  ‘No, nothing. I forget,’ Pearl says unconvincingly. Then a small smile breaks out on her face again. ‘She’s funny.’

  ‘The Angel?’ I ask, confused. Again.

  ‘No – your sister.’

  ‘Dot? Yeah, she’s great,’ I answer as I watch her tearing around with Alastair thunking behind on his lead. ‘But she’s not my sister. She’s my sort-of-stepsister. It’s complicated.’

  I hope I can leave it at that. I’m not really up for the whole Dad/Hazel/my-mum-died story, not with people I hardly know.

  ‘Like us,’ Pearl replies, and begins her twirling again.

  As she spirals away from me, I guess she’s as reluctant as I am to get into messed-up family stuff.

  I have no idea what sort of tangle of chaos and social workers it took for Pearl and the two other girls to end up here, and I’m not about to ask. Not yet.

  But right now I find myself wishing I had my old rubbish camera with me. I’d love to snap Pearl spinning, spinning against the background of the green grass and cloud-spattered sky, with the marble-pale angel in the background. It would make a great photo.

  ‘Uh-oh.’ That’s Pearl, suddenly twirling to a halt, and staring straight at Kitt.

  Kitt, in turn, is staring at the brow of the hill.

  But why? There’s no one and nothing there …

  Ah, except here comes someone now.

  It’s as if Kitt sensed them coming, I think to myself as I absently watch Bee bound off, Dot lolloping after him, dragging Alastair by his lead.

  The someone is an old lady, who gazes off happily at the view – at the exact time my little sort-of-stepsister crosses in front of her, the stupid stick dog hidden by the longish grass.

  ‘Oof!’ cries the old lady, tripping over Dot’s non-dog and landing in an unladylike pile of crumpled coat, groaning.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ Dot starts to cry, realizing what she’s done.

  We ‘big’ girls are all there at once, Pearl hugging Dot, Sunshine and Kitt on either side of the woman, taking an elbow each, my chilly bare hands holding her two woolly-gloved hands.

  ‘Oh my!’ she mutters, letting herself be hauled upright.

  Seeing that the old lady is steady enough, we all gently let go.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, thank you, dear. No damage done!’ she jokes, patting her puffy-as-candyfloss hair. ‘Just a bit of a dent to my pride. Oh! Your face!’

  The candyfloss lady has lost her smile and is frowning at me now. She’s spotted the bruise above my eyebrow, from thumping my head on the desk earlier. Or maybe my hairband’s slipped and she’s seen the bald spot. Or maybe she’s seen both …

  ‘You know, dear, you look exactly like someone I used to know,’ she says, a smile of recognition suddenly blooming.

  I do?

  ‘I used to buy flowers from her, years ago.’

  Oh.

  �
��Now what was her name? Emma? Amy? No, no. Annie – that’s it! Annie’s Posies, that was what the shop was called. Do you know the place I mean? Used to be right by the station. Do you know her?’

  ‘No,’ I reply, shaking my head more than it needs to be shaken. ‘Um, glad you’re OK. But I’d better get going.’

  Grabbing a puzzled Dot by the hand, I hurry away from the Angel, from my neighbours, but most especially from the old lady, her candyfloss hair, and her heart-stopping questions about my mother …

  ‘Look, think of it like some great tragic love story,’ says Tia as she paints my toenails the same shade of fuchsia as her bedroom walls. ‘Two people who are crazy about each other, then fate steps in and cruelly steals one of them away …’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not a story,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s my life.’

  ‘Well, technically, it’s your mum and dad’s,’ Tia replies. ‘You were only a baby when your mum had her accident. You have no memory of it. Your dad saw it happen, so no wonder he’s still broken-hearted and never wants to talk about her.’

  Yes, I think, flopping back on to Tia’s bed. It’s just that I feel like I’m not allowed to know my own mother, or even to love her …

  ‘Riley!’

  I shake myself out of my daydream. My daydream of hanging out with Tia in her loft room, talking about life, love and long-gone mums. I missed Tia so much last night. After what that old lady said to me up on Folly Hill I was desperate to talk it over with someone. But there was no one.

  ‘Riley!’

  I blink, and find myself staring at … me!

  ‘Riley! Are you so speechless at seeing yourself on screen?’ asks Mr Forbes, our English teacher.

  The latest News Matters is being projected on the whiteboard.

  My so-called interview and photo, courtesy of Lauren, is up there for everyone to see.

  Or crack up at.

  And no wonder.

  The photo is terrible. There’s the egg-sized lump on my forehead, and my pound-coin-sized bald spot is in clear view. It’s like a still from CCTV camera footage, the sort of thing that gets flashed up on one of those crime programmes on telly.

  As for the (very) short paragraph underneath, it makes me sound like I have all the brains of a tin of soup.