by Dave Cousins
‘We’d like to book a holiday,’ says Mum, as if there’s any other reason we’d be here.
‘Do you have a destination in mind?’ The woman shows us to a desk moored between two cardboard palm trees and we sit down on the plastic chairs in front.
‘We want somewhere hot,’ says Mum. ‘Greece?’
‘Greece is lovely.’ The woman taps at the computer keyboard in front of her. ‘We do package deals to Corfu, Thassos, Kefalonia, Zante … What kind of holiday are you looking for? Is it just the two of you?’
‘No, three,’ says Mum.
‘Four,’ I remind her. ‘Dad might want to come too.’
Mum stares at me for a moment, then laughs. ‘Course! How could I forget?’
‘So a family holiday then? Two adults and two children?’
‘That’s right, the four of us. Your dad won’t want to miss this one, will he,’ says Mum, raising her eyebrows at me.
‘And accommodation? We have a range of luxury five-star hotels, as well as spacious self-catering villas and apartments.’
‘Ooh, hotel!’ says Mum. ‘I want looking after! Somewhere with a swimming pool!’ She nudges me and winks. Happy. Enjoying herself.
The woman nods. ‘Let’s have a look shall we …’ The sound of her nails clicking across the keys makes me think of the roaches in our kitchen.
‘Here we are …’ She turns her monitor towards us, so we can see the screen. ‘There’s this one in Lyttos, Crete. Five-star, right on the beach. Five swimming pools!’
‘Five!’ says Mum.
‘Or there’s the Beach Retreat in Zante. Again, a lovely position … they only have two swimming pools though.’
‘Bit of a dump then,’ says Mum, laughing too loud.
The woman’s face twitches. ‘Have you a particular budget in mind?’
Mum reaches into her bag. ‘My … husband won this. It’s all-expenses-paid.’
Orange Lady looks slightly puzzled as Mum passes her the gold envelope. She takes out the Hardacre Holidaze brochure and the letter with the Radio Ham logo at the top.
‘Ah!’ she says, glancing at me, then back to Mum. ‘You must be Mrs Roach.’
‘That’s right.’
The woman folds the letter and puts it back into the envelope. ‘I’m afraid we can’t honour this.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s been cancelled. The radio station reported it stolen.’ Her eyes bounce in my direction. ‘Apparently, two boys took it from Radio Ham reception at the weekend.’
‘Stolen!’ Mum turns to me. ‘You told me you won it.’
‘Dad won it!’ I’m aware that the woman is watching us. ‘Me and Jay just went to collect it. We didn’t steal it.’
Mum’s eyes are boiling. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’
‘I wanted you to have a holiday. Away from here—like you’re always talking about. I just … wanted you to be happy.’
Mum erupts from her chair, sending it crashing behind her, and leans over me. ‘You think stealing’s going to make me happy?’
‘I didn’t steal it!’
I watch the skeletal finger trembling in the air centimetres from my nose, and wait for the inevitable … but it doesn’t happen. Mum just lets out a long, slow sigh and turns back to the woman.
‘Thank you for your help.’ She coughs and picks up the golden envelope from the desk. ‘Sorry if we wasted your time.’
Orange Lady stares at us wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open like a fridge door, but doesn’t reply.
‘Come on, sweetheart, we should be going,’ says Mum, through clenched teeth.
I stand up and notice everybody in the shop is staring at us. I keep my head down and follow Mum to the door, wincing as the Hawaiian music heralds our departure, and we stumble out into the street.
We wait at the bus stop in silence; Mum smoking furiously. I watch the rush hour traffic crawling along the high street, and hear a burst of the Radio Ham jingle through the open window of a car. Do I feel lucky? Don’t ask.
‘I’m sorry … about the holiday.’
Mum exhales a lungful of smoke, but doesn’t answer.
‘I didn’t steal it, honest. It was mine—I won it. They just wouldn’t let me have it.’
She takes a final drag and flicks the butt into the road. ‘Didn’t want to go anyway—I mean, what’s Greece got that we haven’t?’
‘Five swimming pools?’
Mum grunts. ‘Not much good if you can’t swim.’
‘True.’
‘Anyway, if going to Greece means coming back orange like that stupid cow in the shop.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s a Hardacre tan if I ever saw it—straight out of a bottle.’
I laugh. ‘Did you see her teeth?’
‘Almost had to put my sunglasses on!’ Mum’s eyebrows flicker.
‘We could still go on holiday you know.’ My heart thumps. ‘I’ve got some money.’
‘Where’d you get money from? You didn’t steal that as well?’
‘Nanna gave it to me.’
Mum looks down at her feet. ‘If you mean your building society—I spent it.’
‘You spent Jay’s. Not mine.’
Her head comes back up. ‘How much?’
‘Enough … to go somewhere. Not Greece, but somewhere … by the sea.’
‘I don’t know. That’s your money, Laurence—what Nanna gave you.’
‘She wouldn’t mind. She’d be happy if we went on holiday.’
‘Maybe … let’s see how we get on, yeah?’
‘OK.’
She lights another cigarette, and I wonder how much longer the bus is going to be. We need to get Jay from The House of Fun.
‘I remember when you were born,’ says Mum, out of nowhere. ‘You were so small. Imagine that!’ She laughs. ‘You looked so fragile, I was scared—scared I wouldn’t be able to look after you.’ She sucks on the cigarette. ‘You used to cry all the time when you were a baby. All night sometimes. The people next door started banging on the walls, so I had to take you out—push you round in the pram. You’d fall asleep then, so long as I kept moving. I used to walk the streets for hours. Sometimes it would be getting light by the time we got home, but it was the only way I could stop you crying.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s not your fault, sweetheart. It was never your fault.’ Her bony fingers grasp mine. ‘It’s me. I just didn’t know what to do. Your dad left and then Greg …’ Another drag and a sigh of smoke. ‘When Nanna died I had nobody. I was on my own and I didn’t know what to do.’ A tear trickles from under the black lens of her sunglasses.
‘You’re not on your own, Mum. You’ve got me and Jay.’ For back-up I think, because Jay’s not here to say it.
‘I don’t deserve you … either of you.’
‘You’re our mum.’
She takes off the sunglasses and wipes her face with the back of her hand. ‘You poor kid!’
‘Yeah.’ I laugh.
‘And you found me,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I left you—and you came and found me.’
‘I only wanted to dump Jay on you—he was starting to get on my nerves.’
She laughs—though it’s part-laugh, part-sob—laughing and crying at the same time.
The front door slams. Mum’s back.
It sounds like a dead body hitting the ground as she dumps her stuff in the hall and goes straight to the kitchen. I hear the thud of a bottle on the table, the crack of the cap, then the slow glug as liquid spills into a glass.
It’s eighty-one days since Mum came home from the canal. Nearly three months. It feels like no time at all.
I leave Jay and Mina in the front room and go into the kitchen.
‘How’d it go?’
Mum looks up through a doughnut of smoke, and sighs. ‘If there’s anything going to make me want a drink, it’s one of those meetings.’
There’s a yellow leaflet on the table, with bold black letters across the cover: Sta
ying Sober—One Day at a Time. It’s five weeks since Mum had a drink. As far as I know.
‘What you got this time?’ I pick up the bottle and read off the label. ‘Elderflower and ginger—any good?’
Mum pulls a face. ‘Tastes like someone washed their socks in it.’
‘Want a coffee?’
‘No thanks, sweetheart. I’ve been drinking the stuff all afternoon.’ She leans back in the chair and her face brightens. ‘Jay didn’t bite anybody at school today. Miss Shaw said they’ve got a chart for him, with stickers to put on each day he doesn’t bite anybody.’
I laugh. ‘He’ll do anything for a sticker.’
Recently, Mum’s been collecting Jay from school … and taking him. She hasn’t missed a day yet this half-term.
‘We could do one for you, if you like. You know, each day you don’t have a drink …’ I see the look on her face and stop mid-sentence, wishing I’d never started.
‘Sorry! I …’
‘It’s all right.’ She shakes her head and looks away. ‘Might be a good idea.’
Silence pours into the space between us, while I try to think of something to say. Then Mina appears in the doorway.
‘Hiya, Mags! Your hair looks nice.’
‘D’you think so?’ Mum puts a hand to her head and frowns. ‘I thought I should get it done before I start. I couldn’t go to work at a hairdresser’s the state I was in.’
On Monday, Mum starts her new job as the receptionist at a salon in town. It’s just part-time and not much money, but we’re getting housing benefit now, thanks to Chris—and it’s like Mum says: she won’t come home stinking of chips, and she doesn’t have to put her hand down anybody’s toilet.
‘It looks lovely,’ says Mina. ‘You don’t look a day over twenty-five.’
‘I wish!’ Mum taps ash from the cigarette, then tugs at her lip. ‘I’m ever so nervous though … What if I make a mistake?’
‘You’ll be fine!’ Mina walks over and gives Mum a hug. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Ooh, go on then. Anything’s better than this muck.’ She pushes the glass of elderflower and ginger across the table.
‘Have you got your outfit sorted?’ says Mina, carrying the kettle over to the sink.
‘I keep changing my mind. Everything looks rubbish.’
‘Want some help?’
‘Would you, love?’
‘Of course. We’ll have time before we go out. If the birthday boy doesn’t mind.’ Mina looks at me and grins.
Today is my birthday. I’m sixteen years old.
‘Happy birthday, sweetheart!’ says Mum, placing the cake in the centre of the kitchen table.
‘What’s that?’ Jay stares at the plate.
‘It’s mine, you’re not having any.’
He looks relieved. ‘Why’s it so flat?’
‘It’s great! Thanks, Mum.’ I give Jay a kick under the table.
It’s the first time she’s ever baked me a cake—even if it does look like roadkill covered in chocolate.
‘Sixteen candles,’ says Mum. ‘Make a wish.’
I look at the candles. At the cake. At the three faces watching me.
What do I want?
Not so long ago that would have been easy.
Then a thought drops into my head and I smile. Well, you never know …
‘What did you wish for?’ says Jay, tugging at my arm.
‘No! If he tells you, it won’t come true,’ says Mina.
Jay growls, then shrugs and hands me the card he made. He’s been sitting on it—to make sure I wouldn’t see—so it’s a bit creased and slightly warm.
Hapy 16 bithday Laurence!!! it says on the front, in a big cartoon speech bubble. Underneath Jay has drawn himself as Scooby-Doo, me as Shaggy, and Mina as Velma, and Mum … as Mum. And at the bottom, in Mina’s handwriting, From all the gang!
Inside there’s another drawing of Scooby and something that could be a bone, or a telephone, with lots of splatters that look like blood.
‘Scooby bit the baddie’s leg off,’ says Jay, pointing.
‘Thanks! That’s … brilliant.’
‘Yeah, I know. You can borrow it though … cos it’s your birthday.’
‘Borrow it?’ I check to see if he’s joking. ‘You know, normally when you give somebody a card, it’s for them to keep.’
Jay twists his mouth and shuts one eye as he thinks this over. ‘OK. You can keep it.’ He frowns. ‘Until tomorrow.’
‘You don’t have to give this one back,’ says Mina, grinning as she hands me a red envelope. Instantly, my ears glow to match it. I’m relieved to see that the card inside isn’t a picture of a pink teddy bear holding a heart-shaped cushion, with the words Happy Birthday to my Boyfriend on the front—and a bit disappointed at the same time. Instead, it’s a black and white photo of a bloke with boggle eyes and goofy teeth. Inside it says, Happy Birthday Gorgeous. Jay thinks this is so funny he falls off his stool.
Mum’s clutching an envelope too. She thrusts it across the table.
‘You already gave me a card,’ I say, then wish I hadn’t. Maybe she forgot.
She’s been forgetting lots of stuff recently. She says it’s the pills the doctor gave her. Her Happy Pills she calls them. She says they make her forget all the bad things that made her want to get drunk. Not exactly happy then—but better than before.
Mum shakes her head. ‘It’s not a card. It’s …’
‘A present?’ says Jay, excited.
‘I suppose.’
I dig my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Inside is an official looking letter with a small rectangle of plastic stuck to it. I don’t know what it is, until I see the building society logo and my name, embossed in silver, across the bottom.
‘What’s that?’ Jay looks disappointed.
‘It’s a cashcard,’ says Mum. ‘So you can get your money out … whenever you want.’
Jay tuts. ‘Boring!’
‘No, it’s not. Thanks, Mum.’
She nods and for a moment her eyes hold mine. ‘I thought it might be useful. Now you’re sixteen, you don’t need me to sign for it any more.’
I know what she’s thinking, but that’s not going to happen.
I follow Mina down the stairs two at a time, our footsteps bouncing off the walls, racing us to the door. She’s taking me into town to meet Han and Amy. It’s a surprise for my birthday, so she won’t tell me where we’re going. We left Mum and Jay watching telly and eating my birthday cake, which tasted better than it looked.
A smell of cabbage and disinfectant hangs in the lobby like old curtains, but the door to Nosy Nelly’s flat stays closed. Outside, the air is crisp and cool. I look out across the grey concrete sprawl of Hardacre, and realize that right now, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be.
The bus is already coming down the hill. I grab Mina’s hand and start to run. I make a bet—if we get to the stop before the bus, then everything will be OK.
Even now it’s hard to walk away, but every time I come home and Mum’s still there, it gets easier. At least she’s trying. Staying sober: one day at a time.
That’s how we live.
We have good days and bad days.
But the gaps between the bad ones are getting longer—and that’s something.
A good place to start.
We beat the bus by a car’s length.
Writing a book can take a long time and is, for the most part, a solitary venture. But I would like to acknowledge the help and support I have received from a number of people, without whom 15 Days Without a Head would never have been published.
My greatest debt is owed to my family (Cousins and Raven) and friends, for their tolerance, encouragement and patience. My wife Jane read each draft many times and never held back from giving an honest opinion. Other early readers, my mum Pam Cousins, and Tony and Viv Martin, gave me valuable feedback, while Helen Corner at Cornerstones told me I should keep going. A special thank you to EDMTC, fo
r her never-ending faith, and for buying me a computer to write this on.
Natascha Biebow, Sara Grant and Sara O’Connor at SCBWI will eternally be my fairy godmothers for organizing the inspired Undiscovered Voices anthology, and changing my life for ever. Ann Tobias was generous with her time and advice, and I am privileged to work with Sarah Manson, probably the best agent in the world, and to benefit from her insight, belief and enthusiasm. Sarah, alongside Liz Cross and my wonderful editor Jasmine Richards, must take the credit for making a dream come true. Huge thanks also to Michelle Harrison, Harriet Bayly and everyone at OUP for giving Laurence, Jay and Mina a home, and for making me feel so welcome.
I am indebted to Patti Wright-Goss for putting me in touch with Eilis Woodlock whose experience as a Children’s Social Worker was invaluable. Thumbs up to Mike Bouvier and Nick Harper for setting me straight on the workings of a local radio phone-in. And many thanks to my dad, Mike Cousins, for sharing his inside knowledge of the day-to-day operation of secondary schools, and for checking my Shakespeare.
Finally, love and thanks to Ptol, Hock and Dylan for inspiration, and for reminding me of what’s really important.
Dave Cousins grew up in Birmingham, in a house full of books and records. Abandoning childhood plans to be an astronaut, Dave went to art college in Bradford, joined a band and moved to London. He spent the next ten years touring and recording, and was nearly famous.
Dave’s writing career began aged ten, with an attempt to create a script for Fawlty Towers. He has been writing songs, poems and stories ever since. His short story The Floodlight Man was broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live, read by Dave himself. Working in a graphic design studio by day, Dave writes every evening and in lunch breaks, sheltering under a canal bridge when it rains.
He now lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and family, in a house full of books and records, and writes in a corner of the attic with an anarchic ginger cat for company.
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