The phone rings.
D’oh.
Now I have one of two options here, I reckon. I can answer it, or I can let it ring. Razor sharp, me.
My mind’s desperately racing to try and weigh up these options while I’ve still got them. If I answer it, and it’s for Mum, I’ll have to think on my feet. If it is for me, end of problem. What if it’s Mum checking up on me though? Or one of Jesse’s prattish mates phoning to find out how he is?
I decide it isn’t Mum. That sleeping pill will be kicking in about now, I reckon. She’ll be keeping the rest of the ward awake with her snoring (it’s that bad). No, she won’t wake now till they shake her up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, with a cup of milky tea and a soggy slice of carpet-tile toast.
It’s still ringing. On an impulse I pick it up. I decide to keep quiet and let the caller speak.
‘Hello …’
‘Hello.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Is this some kind of parrot convention line I’ve called by mistake?’
‘Uncle Stu? Is that you?’
‘Luke, of course it’s me, you wally. Who’d you it was?’
‘I don’t know. Could be anyone.’
Uncle Stu is Mum’s brother, her baby brother as she always calls him. He’s about ten years younger than Mum, and he’s all right. She used to look after him when they were kids. She wiped his snotty nose, cleaned his dirty bum and stuffed his face with food. If he got bullied, she’d beat them up. She was older and tougher. A lot tougher.
‘How you doing, kiddo?’
‘Not bad, thanks, Uncle Stu. How are you?’
‘Fine, fine. Well, you know, could be better. Work’s not great …’
His voice trails off. In my experience, when an adult goes all quiet on you, this normally means only one thing. He’s got something to spill, only he isn’t going to tell. I’d have to drag it out of him. Adults are dead predictable like that. They want to share, but they like you to do all the hard work. I figure I’d better get trawling.
‘What’s up, Uncle Stu?’
‘Nah, work is pants. I’m fed up. Need a change. Your mum around?’
I knew the conversation was going to take this particular direction sooner or later.
‘She’s, er …’ I have to think sharpish. ‘She’s in the bath. Up to her neck in Radox. Had a bit of a day.’
Well, I can’t tell him I’m home alone, can I? I mean, he may be all right, but if you let an adult in on a little secret like you’ve snuck off home for a little ‘me’ time, they’re sure to rat on you. They just would.
‘Yeah, well, she’s not the only one,’ Uncle Stu replies. ‘Listen, I don’t want to take up any more of your time, you probably want to get back to CSI. Tell your mum I just called for a chat. I’ll give her a ring tomorrow.’
There’s a gap. I’m feeling sorry for him. There’s something in his voice telling me he really needs to talk.
‘You can tell me if you like.’
‘You what?’
‘You know, if you’ve had a bad day. Get if off your chest. Sounds like your day was pretty stressful.’
I don’t know why I’m saying this. I really want to get him off the line. But it’s too late now. I’ve said it.
‘Tell me about it.’ Uncle Stu sighs. ‘It’s not every day you get made redundant.’
‘Made redundant?’ I didn’t see that one coming. Uncle Stu’s a translator, works for some language agency in Manchester. To be honest, we hardly ever see him, and, when we do, he never really mentions work.
‘Seems there’s not the demand any more. Cut backs and that. So they’re laying three of us off. Well, at least I know it’s nothing personal.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle Stu,’ I say. ‘Something else will turn up, though, won’t it?’
‘Course it will, kiddo.’ I can hear him smiling. He’s not one to mope, Uncle Stu. He’ll get on with it. I’m feeling a twinge of guilt about lying to him about Mum, but at least I haven’t added to his woes. He could probably do without that tonight.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘You’d best get on with your homework. Bet you haven’t even started it yet, have you?’
‘No …’ my voice trails off. ‘Yeah, I’d better get on with it.’
‘Tell Patty I’ll call her tomorrow. Might just go out and get pi—, er, drown my sorrows. No need to get up early for work now, is there?’
‘See you, Uncle Stu.’
‘Take care, Luke.’
I put down the phone and make sure it clicks. Blimey. He sounded cheerful – not. Still, I have enough troubles of my own.
My stomach rumbles loudly. It sounds like a whale about to give birth. God, I’m starving. Time to get the pizza on and crack open the oven chips. Tonight, I’m home alone. No Mum, no annoying little brother. Bloody brilliant. I stick my finger up my nose and pick away to my heart’s content. Homework? Pah, I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Right now I have a pressing engagement with a pepperoni pizza. And sod it, I’m going to put extra pineapple on top.
chapter five
The next morning is just the beginning of my troubles. For a start, I oversleep, which isn’t surprising as I don’t have Mum yelling up the stairs at me. Then again, I don’t have to bang on the bathroom door either, telling Jesse to get a move on. But in the end, I’m so late that I just about manage to brush my teeth, wave a comb over my hair and wash my face, all at the same time, before grabbing my bag and heading off out.
I leg it up the road but I know I’ll be logged – it’s about quarter past nine by the time I get to school. There’s this smarmy-looking prefect on the gate writing down the names of all latecomers. I can see him smile as I run up, bright red in the face and panting like a sumo on a treadmill. He licks his lips in anticipation. I can tell he loves this job.
‘So that’s 9.16 precisely for, um …’
He looks at me.
‘Name? Class?’
‘Napier. 10N.’
He passes me a chitty.
‘We’ll see you in detention, Napier. 4.15 p.m. sharp. And don’t do it again tomorrow.’
I throw him my best insolent glare. He has the smug, self-satisfied look of a traffic warden about him. Not tonight, you won’t, bum face, I think. Tonight I’m going to see my mum.
‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ Jack whispers as I sit down next to him.
I suddenly remember. English homework. A poem inspired by a flower. Or not, as the case may be.
‘You have written your poem, haven’t you?’ Jack says. ‘I mean, I did tell you last night, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you told me, and no, I haven’t done it. Not yet, anyway.’
Mrs Blythe strides into class, shuts the door behind her and approaches her desk.
‘Congratulations – you’ve just run out of time,’ Jack hisses.
I throw him my most desperate, piteous look.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, pass me your exercise book …’
I shove it towards him.
‘Has anyone not done the homework?’ asks Mrs Blythe, her lips reverberating as she speaks. Tuna Chops we call her, on account of the big fishy kissers slap bang in the centre of her mug. She’s always picking on me, for some reason. I suppose I must look guilty.
‘Because if you want to put your hand up now, it’ll save an awful lot of embarrassment later.’
I look at Jack. He’s staring straight at her, but his hand is speeding across the book at a rate of knots, composing his mini masterpiece. First law of not doing your homework – make eye contact with the teacher who’s asking for it. That’s what they do, scan the horizon for anyone who’s not looking at them. Instant proof of guilt. It’s obvious really, isn’t it, but I was impressed when Jack pointed it out. Not that he ever has to use the technique. He’s always done his homework.
‘Good.’ She turns her back a minute, writing something on the board.
I can see Jack’s pen still scurry
ing across the book, a look of concentration knotting his eyebrows as he dashes off my twelve-line epic. I knew he wouldn’t let me down.
‘Okay, who’s going to be the first to share their floral tribute with me and the rest of the class?’ Tuna Chops’ beady eyes roam the room on stalks, almost as obtrusive as her lips. They beam in on me as I dare to look down for a second, just to see if Jack has finished. I see him apply the final full stop.
‘Ah, Luke. Yes. Off you go.’
I knew she’d pick on me. As she bends to sit down, Jack pushes the exercise book back at me.
‘Come on, stand up and address the whole class,’ Mrs Blythe says. ‘Nice big voice, please. What’s it called?’
I look down at the heading.
‘“Hyacinth Wood”, Mrs Blythe.’
‘“Hyacinth Wood”.’ She sighs in mock anticipation. ‘I can almost smell them from here. Take it away, please.’
Sarcasm is Mrs Blythe’s stock in trade. She’s very good at it, too.
I clear my throat.
‘The sun arose across the hill
I lay beneath the tree
A butterfly just flitted by
And landed on my knee.’
Yousef Marn sniggers. Tuna Chops ignores him.
‘When times are hard
When things get rough
I head for Hyacinth Wood
I forget about my homework and I think of something
good.’
Hmm. Mrs Blythe pushes her glasses back up her nose and looks out.
‘Comments, anyone?’
People shuffle their papers and look away. I’m thinking, thanks, Jack. Thanks for nothing. Still at least it wasn’t a big fat zero.
‘Jack Duvall. What did you think of Luke’s “Hyacinth Wood”?’
‘Uninspiring, Mrs Blythe.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘What else?’
‘He’s used some rather trite rhymes, Miss. Wood – good. Tree – knee. He’d have done better to avoid the rhymes and concentrate on some more interesting images. Why say tree, for example, when he could have used “elm” or “oak” or something a little less …’
‘Clichéd?’ suggests Mrs Blythe.
‘Exactly.’
‘And how many lines do you think it was, Jack?’
Jack stops a moment and adds them up in his mind.
‘I’d say eight.’
‘Yes, I would too,’ she agrees, staring at me. ‘Do you have a problem with counting, Luke?’
‘No, Mrs Blythe.’
‘Well, would you like to read back over your poem and tell us how many lines you wrote?’
I look down at my book.
‘Eight, Miss.’
‘Yes.’ She looks over the top of her specs at me this time. That’s the advantage of glasses. They can be a useful weapon in classroom intimidation.
‘And how many lines did I ask you to write, Luke Napier?’
‘Twelve, Miss.’
‘Yes, twelve. So in fact you’ve only done two-thirds of your homework, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Blythe.’
‘So you can do me a detention this evening, please. A whole hour. Not forty minutes. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mrs Blythe.’
‘Good. Now Jack, would you like to share your poem with us, please?’
Jack stands up. ‘It’s called, “Crushing the Petals to Release the Perfume”.’
Mrs Blythe looks pleasantly surprised.
‘Quite.’
‘Thanks, pal.’
We’re standing outside the science block. It’s a couple of hours since the carnage that was ‘Hyacinth Wood’, but I’m still reeling from the sheer horror of it all.
‘“Uninspiring, Mrs Blythe.” “Trite rhymes, Mrs Blythe.” “And I should know, Mrs Blythe, because I wrote it two minutes ago.” And you obviously can’t count.’
‘Oh come on, Luke,’ says Freya, setting about her apple as though she hasn’t eaten all week. ‘You didn’t exactly give Jack a lot of time to compose a masterpiece now, did you?’
That’s the trouble with Freya. She’s always the voice of reason, always being fair to everyone.
‘Wasn’t as though you didn’t have time to write anything yourself,’ sniffs Jack huffily. ‘I told you last night what the homework was. Anyway, why didn’t you just play your trump card?’
‘What trump card?’
‘The sick brother in hospital,’ he points out. ‘It was worth a shot. I reckon it’d get you off detention at least.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘I had other things on my mind last night in any case.’
‘What things?’
Jack and Freya exchange glances.
‘Like my mum. They’ve admitted her to Gospel Park.’
‘Admitted her? I thought she already worked there?’
As I say, for a bright boy, Jack can sometimes be more than a little dim.
‘Yes, she does work there. But she was ill yesterday and they’ve taken her in. All right? Got the picture now?’
I stomp off in a huff to make my point. That’ll teach him to dash off total rubbish for my homework.
As I turn the corner, I almost walk slap bang into Mrs Blythe.
‘Not looking where you’re going, Luke.’ It is an observation.
‘Sorry, Mrs Blythe.’
‘Perhaps you should concentrate a little harder on the basics. Looking where you’re going. Doing your homework. Were you pleased with your poem this week, Luke?’
‘No, Miss, it stank.’
For a moment I think she’s going to smile.
‘Didn’t it? Still, at least you realise when you present something … something …’
I can see her grasping for a way to be tactful.
‘Something totally pants?’
‘Ah, yes. Totally pants. That just about covers it. You have a brain, Luke. A good one. You really ought to use it.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘And next time, don’t rely on Jack Duvall to write your homework for you. His ability to count is “totally pants”, too.’
She gives me another look, and I think I can see a smile play across her face. Tuna Chops? Smile? No, I must have imagined it.
‘I don’t know why,’ she continues, ‘but, against my better judgement, I’m going to let you off your detention this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
‘Don’t let it happen again,’ she throws over her shoulder as she turns away. Blimey, she is human after all.
Off she swishes in a blaze of brown corduroy, walking lopsidedly across the playing field, dodging kids and footballs as though she’s negotiating a minefield. Ha, so she knew all along. Very crafty.
Freya suddenly appears in my line of vision. We’ve been friends since about Year Three, Freya and me, back in the days when boys weren’t meant to be friends with girls. Now we’re older and at secondary school, half the school thinks we’re going out, and the other half doesn’t care.
‘Hey, what’s wrong, Big Nose?’
She pushes a couple of strands of brown hair behind her ears, one of her more endearing habits. I can see Jack standing a few metres away, looking sheepish. Then she puts a friendly hand on my grey blazer.
‘What’s up with your mum?’
We sit on the railings and, as the grey clouds scud over our heads, I tell Jack and Freya all about Mum being ill. I don’t tell them that I’m worried stupid or anything like that, but they’re my mates, you know, I think they can work that out for themselves. A bit like old Tuna Chops and my flower poem. I tell them about Jesse too, and about ‘staying the night at Jack’s’.
‘What are you going to do tonight?’ Freya’s always the practical one.
‘Well, I’m going to see my mum obviously. She thinks they’ll let her go home.’
‘No, I mean, where are you going to stay if they don’t let her out?’
I haven’t really thought this far ahead. Much a
s I enjoyed staying up until two a.m. watching Attack of the Giant Killer Bees From Mars on the movie channel, I don’t really want another night home alone. To be honest, I was a little freaked out by the time I got into bed. I notice it’s starting to rain now and I begin to think about Mum lying in her hospital bed, probably bored stupid and desperately trying to escape. I wonder how Jesse is too. The prat.
‘Blimey – sixty-six per cent of one family in hospital at the same time,’ says Jack, maths whizz-kid, sucking in sharply. ‘You’d better watch yourself, Luke. It could be an ancient Egyptian curse.’
‘Considering you can’t tell the difference between an eight-line poem and a twelve-line poem, that’s quite an impressive calculation,’ I tell him.
‘Why don’t you sleep at mine if your mum is still in hospital?’ he continues, ignoring me. ‘My mum won’t mind. I’ll text her now.’
He gets his mobile phone out. It looks like a real dud, the kind of phone you’d get free with a few tokens off the back of a cornflake packet, but, as Jack always points out, at least it works and no one in their right mind would ever want to nick it. I had a snazzy Nokia that some bunch of no-marks lifted from me in the park before I’d even had a chance to explore its fifty-three different functions. Now I have a mobile so ordinary that I leave it at home most of the time (including today when I could really use it). Still, it’s not as sad as Jack’s.
‘What about your detention?’ says Freya. ‘I know you wheedled your way out of Blythe’s but I thought you got logged this morning for being late?’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Yes. True.’
‘Okay, pass me the chitty,’ she says.
I rummage in my pocket and dig out the crumpled detention form I’d forgotten about.
‘Napier, 10N,’ reads Freya. ‘Just as I thought. Okay, I’ll do your detention for you. You owe me one.’
‘What? How?’
‘Duh,’ she says. ‘It’s never the same prefect who does detention and they have no idea who we are. They only write your surname and class down. So tonight, Freya Napier is in detention and you can go and see your mum at the hozzie.’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I say.
Life, Interrupted Page 3