by Sarah Webb
Gramps stayed put too. I think he’s still traumatized by his near-death experience with Esther.
Clover’s wearing a tiny gold-sequinned mini over white three-quarter-length leggings, gold flip-flops, a white cotton vest top with a golden sun embroidered on the front and a gold-sequinned headscarf tied in a knot under her chin, like a disco Queen Mum.
Even in my new black and white stripy T-shirt, white jeans, silver belt and ballet pumps, I feel a bit dowdy beside her. I’ve even clipped two silver butterfly hairgrips in my hair and layered more glittery green Urban Decay eyeshadow on to my eyelids, but I still don’t look as good as Clover.
Inside, the pub’s rammed with bods. We have to wiggle our way through the sweaty hordes to find Brains. We eventually spot him with his band in the beer garden, setting up their equipment.
Clover whistles under her breath and pokes me in the side to get my attention. “Would you look at Dr McSteamy over there?”
“Which one?” I stare over at the band.
“Him. Hubba-hubba. Must be the new lead guitar.” Clover is staring at a tall, muscular boy with a tattoo of a skull on his hand. He’s adjusting the strings of his guitar. “I do like a tasty Indie boy. Hubba-hubba,” she says again. “He can tighten my strings any time.” She gives a dirty laugh.
“Clover! Brains is just over there, remember?”
At the sound of his name, Brains lifts his head. “Hey – it’s our very own teenage fan club.” He grins and waves us over.
The boy with the skull tattoo looks up, presses his lips together in an impressive bee-stung pout and cocks his head. “You must be Clover.” He checks her out. “And you must be Amy. Brains has told me all about you both.” His eyes lock on mine. “Are you really only thirteen? You look older.”
“Thanks.” I grin like an idiot and he gives me a slow wink. My stomach flips. Clover’s right. He is something. Green eyes, long dark Bambi eyelashes – totally wasted on a boy – white scar on his top lip.
“I’m Felix,” he says. “Lead guitar. Fender Stratocaster, to be precise.” He strokes his guitar with pride. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
“And here’s the man with the plan. Diablo,” Brains says. A wiry, freckled guy smiles from under a shaggy strawberry-blond fringe.
“Hiya, girls,” he says chirpily. “Nice to see you again, Clover. How are the ol’ hols treating you? Weather OK? Been swimming yet? Any jellyfish in the water?” He says all this without waiting for an answer, shooting his words out like gunfire, rat-a-tat-tat.
He’s about to open his mouth again when Barra the drummer says, “Lions, are we ready to roar?” He rubs his drumsticks together.
“Sure thing,” Felix says easily.
Brains nods. “Bring it on. Bang a gong. Riff out the intro, Diablo, my man.”
We move away as Diablo starts to play the opening bars of “A Little Less Conversation” (an old Elvis song) on his keyboard. A crowd begins to gather and Brains grabs the microphone. There are cheers and claps as he belts out the first line in his strong, clear voice.
“Hey, they rock!” Martie says, appearing beside us. “What a relief.” She’s wearing black shorts and a silver-sequinned T-shirt. There’s a trace of mascara on her lashes and her lips are a glossy pink. Her outfit is simple, yet stunning.
“Last year’s band,” she continues loudly over the music. “One word: brutal. Two old geezers with blue satin shirts and false teeth singing along to backing tracks. These lads are cool. And would you at look him…” She fans herself with her hand as Felix goes down on one knee for a guitar solo. “A star in the making if ever I saw one.”
“I can introduce you later if you like,” Clover offers.
“Nah. Thanks – but I don’t do stars. Never know where you are with them.”
“Diablo’s nice. Not at all starry.”
Martie smiles. “Thanks, Clover, but I’m off men for Lent.”
Clover grins. “Oh, I’ve been there, girlfriend. Muchos, muchos times. But a girl can always look.” She gazes at Felix again.
I spot Mum to the left of the crowd, also gazing adoringly at Felix. I shake my head. Cringe City. Mum’s so embarrassing.
By ten o’clock the Golden Lions are in full swing, tearing through the Beatles’ back catalogue, from “Yellow Submarine” to “Love Me Do”.
“And here’s something a little different, especially for Clover,” Brains says. “ ‘Mamma Mia’.”
“Yeah!” Clover claps her hands together and starts wiggling her hips. She grabs Mum’s hand and makes her dance too. “Up on the table, Sylvie,” she yells at her.
I find it hard to believe, but apparently Mum was a big table dancer once upon a time. Clover swears there’s video footage somewhere of Mum prancing about on a table at her and Dad’s wedding. I’ve never seen it, but I’m taking Clover’s word for it.
Dave frowns. “That table doesn’t look all that steady.”
“Don’t be such an old man,” Mum says. “We’re very light. It’ll be fine.” She climbs up, followed by Clover and then Martie. They all throw their arms in the air and bump hips to the music.
“Why don’t you join them?” Dave asks me.
I shake my head. To be honest, I’m a bit self-conscious about dancing. And I’m certainly not going to draw any extra attention to my lack of co-ordination by dancing on a table.
“You were great on the guitar,” I say, changing the subject.
Earlier, Dave joined the Golden Lions for U2’s “One” and “With or Without You”. He played Brains’s acoustic guitar. I thought he’d look like a dinosaur beside Brains and the boys, but he was so confident and natural on the stage that I was blown away. For a second I forgot he was my almost-stepdad.
“Thanks. I miss performing, Amy. But hey, life goes on.” He shrugs. “But there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to—” and I get the feeling he’s about to launch into some sort of confession, when CRACK! The table collapses, and bottles and bodies tumble out of the sky and crash down to earth.
OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Basically, the Golden Lions stop playing, there are a lot of shrieks and screams, two beer bottles smash on the stone paving – and Mum and Clover slide down the table on top of Martie.
“Girl sandwich!” Clover shouts. “Everyone OK? Sylvie? Martie?”
Mum gets up and brushes herself down, nodding, and Martie is laughing so much she can’t speak.
“Guess that’s a yes,” Clover says. “How about ‘Dancing Queen’, Brains?” she calls over to him.
He gives her a thumbs-up and launches into the song.
Clover grabs my hand. “Come on, Beanie. Shake a tail feather.”
This time I do. And once I’ve stopped worrying about who’s laughing at my horrible dancing, I start to really enjoy myself. I wave my arms in the air and sing along.
Chapter 20
It’s the day after the Golden Lions gig and Mum and Prue are knocking lumps out of each other in the kitchen. Not literally, although from the dragon look in Mum’s eyes earlier, it might not be all that long. The two of them have been itching for a fight all day.
Clover is listening in, her ear pressed against the gap between the wall and the kitchen door. She looks shocked. And believe me, it takes a lot to shock Clover.
“What are they arguing about this time? Fizzy drinks. Or eco-nappies versus Pampers. Yawn.”
Clover waves me quiet with her hand. “Shush. This is getting interesting.”
I crouch down beneath her and press my ear against the crack.
Mum is snorting with laughter. “Are you really accusing me of flirting with Dan?”
“What’s wrong with Dan?” Prue asks, her voice sharp.
“He’s just not my type, that’s all. He’s too clean-cut. I’ve never been into safe men in baggy cords and button-down shirts.”
“What is your type? Grubby.”
“Grubby? He’s your brother, for God’s sake,” Mum says. “Have you no family loyal
ty?”
Prue harrumphs like a horse. “Family loyalty? Don’t make me laugh. I’ve been keeping Dave afloat for years. Who do you think paid his way through medical school before he dropped out?”
“Medical school?” I whisper to Clover.
She shrugs. “News to me.”
“That would have been me, Sylvie.” Prue drawls out the end of Mum’s name. “And I paid for the bloody wedding when he jilted poor Simone.”
I look at Clover again; her eyes are the size of saucers.
“Dave Marcus, heartbreaker,” she whispers; “who’d have thought? I mean—”
“Shh,” I hiss. “I’m trying to listen.”
“That would be the poor Simone who married Dave’s best friend, Paudie, six months later,” I hear Mum say. “The poor Simone who had been seeing Paudie all along – behind Dave’s back. That poor Simone.”
“All speculation,” Prue says tightly. “It was never proved. And regardless, it’s another in a long line of Dave’s failures. He keeps making a mess of his life, time after time. Just look at him now. Working all hours to pay half of someone else’s mortgage. It’s pathetic.”
“One day we’ll buy the other half of the house off Art,” Mum retorts and from the ice in her voice I can tell she’s about to snap. “And our financial affairs are none of your concern, Prue, so why don’t you just keep your nose out of our private family business and worry about your own family?”
“My family are all perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
“Really? You seem to have conveniently forgotten about Denis’s comfort eating. He’s going to be the size of an elephant soon unless you do something about it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Denis.” Prue sounds outraged. “Nothing. He’s been to the very best dieticians and child psychologists. He does not comfort eat. How dare you!”
“I’ve found him in the kitchen almost every night, Prue. Wolfing down slices of bread or biscuits.”
“Stop! I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that because your own life is such a mess. Your parenting skills are appalling and you have a boyfriend who can’t commit. If Dave really loved you, he’d ask you to marry him. And as for having children with two different fathers, talk about irresponsible. If you ask me—”
“That’s it,” I hiss. I’ve been getting more and more angry, but this is final straw.
Clover tries to grab my arm, but I’m too quick for her. I storm into the kitchen and go to stand beside Mum. “Mum’s right,” I tell Prue. “Denis is always eating. I’ve seen him too. Mum’s not lying. And for your information, Dave is forever proposing to her. Mum’s just not ready to get married again yet. She needs some time after Dad and everything. Isn’t that right, Mum?” (The bit about Dave proposing isn’t true, but everything else is.)
Mum just stares at me, her face twisted up. She looks angry and upset. Her hands are balled into fists and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
“Mum,” I say again, more gently, but she runs out of the room.
“Sylvie!” Prue shouts at her disappearing back. “I’m sorry. I was out of order.”
Mum pounds up the stairs and a few seconds later her bedroom door slams shut.
Prue makes to follow her, but I put a hand on her arm. “It’s probably best to leave her alone.”
Prue collapses on to a chair. She puts her head in her hands and starts sobbing. Oh my God. They’re both crazy.
“Prue?” Clover says gently.
She lifts her head. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hard on Sylvie. She just winds me up so much sometimes.” She hiccups through her tears. “She makes me feel so boring and pedestrian. Everything about her is more interesting – her job, her clothes, her friends. I wish my own life was a bit more exciting. I thought having a few drinks the other night might help, but I just felt really ill the next morning and ended up with a stain on one of my favourite tops.” She sobs again.
“If it’s any consolation, I think you wind Sylvie up too,” Clover says. “Look, it’s not easy sharing a house with another family – especially a family that’s as mad as ours. There are bound to be disagreements.”
“Here.” I hand Prue a piece of kitchen roll. Luckily, she doesn’t believe in wearing make-up, otherwise she’d have mascara running down her face with all the waterworks.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, flashing me a teary smile. “She’s done such a good job with you, Amy. Even as a lone parent.”
I don’t really like the way she says lone parent – it makes Mum sound like a charity case – but I let it slide. I don’t think she means it in a bad way.
“Being a parent is so hard,” she says. “I love Denis, but I don’t find him easy. Sometimes I’d just like to hand him back. Isn’t that dreadful?”
“He’s a good kid,” Clover says kindly. “Smart too. He’ll grow out of the weird behaviour.”
Prue smiles through her tears. “Thanks, Clover. I do hope you’re right.”
Chapter 21
The following morning I find Gramps sitting on a deck chair in the greenhouse reading the Irish Independent.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” I say.
“It’s like a zoo in there.” He points at the house with the top of his newspaper.
“No kidding.” I sit on the edge of a red-brick potting shelf.
There’s a loud scraping noise outside and we both look over. It’s Kit. He’s pulling a huge terracotta pot with a giant sunflower in it across the patio. The flower must be about four metres tall – its head is as big as a tyre.
Gramps smiles. “Esther told me about Kit and his sunflowers. He feeds them seaweed.”
“Have you been speaking to her again?” I ask, very surprised. “I thought you said she tried to kill you.”
Gramps looks sheepish. “Ah, well, I may have exaggerated. She apologized for all that, anyway, said she got a bit carried away.”
“But I don’t understand. Did she explain why she did it?”
“No. She wants to call over. To talk. But I’ve asked her not to.” He sighs. “There’s no point. She made it perfectly clear how she feels about me the other night. And who knows what she might do to me this time!”
“Gramps, maybe you should see her. Clear the air. I’ll come with you if you like, to keep you safe.”
He smiles. “Thanks, Amy. But to be honest, she always was a tricky one. Full of life, but if you crossed her…” He draws a finger across his throat and whistles. “I’m sixty-five; I just want an easy life. She’s a wonderful woman, but—” He shrugs. “You, on the other hand, have your whole life ahead of you, so go and talk to the young man with the sunflower; I know you’re itching to.”
I smile, my cheeks burning. “See you later, Gramps.”
Kit has disappeared round the corner of the house so I follow him. I gasp when I see what’s there. A dozen towering sunflowers – some at least three metres tall – are standing along the side wall; their heads, supported by solid, slightly furry stalks, are tilted towards the gentle morning sun.
Some of the flower-heads are turning to seed, and I run my fingers over the nubby roughness of the only one within reach. There’s a bark to my right; it’s coming from the maze. I’ve been itching to explore it since we got here and now’s my chance. And if that’s Jack barking, then Kit’s bound to be with him. My heart thump-thump-thumps just thinking about him.
I walk through the gate, feeling a little nervous at seeing him again, and come to a stop in front of the neatly pruned gap in the hedge – the entrance to the maze.
Jack barks once more, as though drawing me on.
But how do I navigate the maze? Then I remember what Mrs Sketchberry told us in Classics, about the Labyrinth of Crete and the Minotaur. Apparently, in most mazes the walls are connected, so if you put one of your hands on the wall and keep it in place – never lifting it – you’ll eventually find the exit.
I really hope it’s as easy as that.
I start to walk, trailing my right hand along the scratchy hedge. It’s giving off a bitter, tangy smell that catches at the back of my throat.
Jack barks again. I walk on more quickly, taking a few more turns. The walls seem to be getting taller with each step and the path narrower. The hedge presses in on either side, catching my shoulders.
It’s completely airless in here and the smell is becoming overpowering. I must be nearing the centre by now, surely – but maybe Miss Sketchberry was wrong. Maybe I’m completely off track. Lost. I should have never stepped inside.
Then I hear Jack to my right. He seems to be luring me further in.
Speeding up, I follow the noise. But what if Kit’s on his way out of the maze? I don’t want to get stuck in here by myself – trapped and alone until I die from heat exposure and dehydration. I pat my pocket: nothing. My mobile must be in my room, and in here no one will hear my screams. The hedge might grow up and over my head, sealing me beneath its boughs, like something out of Harry Potter. The way it’s towering over me, it really feels as if it could.
OK, now my imagination is running away with itself. There’s no such thing as an enchanted hedge.
Crunch! Hang on, what’s that? I hear it again, louder this time. It sounds like a twig breaking. Maybe it’s a mouse – or even worse, a rat. My mind goes into overdrive. There’s something in here with me, following me. What if all that Minotaur stuff is true? Maybe a bull-headed maze monster really is after me!
I begin to run, dashing round the corners completely randomly, not caring whether I turn left or right, just wanting to get away from whoever or whatever is chasing me. And then suddenly I stop dead.
Miraculously I’ve found the centre of the maze. I hinge at the waist, panting; my hands rest on the tops of my thighs as I gasp for air. When I look up I see a green metal bench and an old stone pond, its curved sides covered in moss.
“Amy, are you all right? Why were you running away from me?”