by Anne Cassidy
‘Well, no, but dad was kind of unwell after my gran died and he couldn’t look after me very well so …’
Petra pretended that she was studying her nails. She didn’t know what her dad had said to Zofia and she didn’t want to contradict him.
‘Your dad loves to look after you.’
There was a silence while Petra tried to think of something good to say about her dad. He couldn’t handle stress, that’s what her gran had said. Sometimes he was out of control of what he was doing. She didn’t say this to Zofia but eyed the edge of her T-shirt and then looked her over, her eyes searching for any other marks that shouldn’t be there. Zofia’s forehead wrinkled up as if she knew exactly what Petra was doing. She suddenly stood up, full of energy.
‘He will be here soon to pick you up! Why don’t we watch some Friends while we wait?’
Petra nodded. Zofia loved Friends. Petra did too but she’d seen them all so many times that she almost knew the lines off by heart. Zofia had seen them all in Polish but it pleased her to watch them in English. She was always saying, ‘This bit very hilarious,’ and then laughing after it came on. Chandler Bing was her favourite. Petra’s favourite had changed over the years. She’d liked each of them best at one time or another.
Her dad came about eight. The bell rang for a long time, as if he’d just kept his finger pressed on it. Zofia seemed startled and then made a dash to open the door. Petra could hear his footsteps following Zofia up the stairs. Her stuff was all packed and ready, her school clothes in her rucksack with the other new purchases.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she said.
His face was closed. There was no expression that she could read.
‘Everything OK, Jason?’ Zofia said, smiling.
The laughter from Friends was loud and Zofia picked up the remote and put it on mute. The room seemed bare without the noise.
‘Just a fare. Didn’t have the full money. I had a choice of getting the law involved or just taking what he had.’
‘Never mind,’ Zofia said, going on tiptoes and pulling his head downwards so that she could give him a kiss on the cheek.
‘Come on then. Let’s get home. Chop, chop.’
‘Bye, Kochanie. See you soon.’
‘Thanks for the clothes and the nails.’
‘Thanks, Soph,’ her dad said. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Tonight? Tomorrow?’
‘Maybe Sunday. I’m not sure.’
As they got into the car Petra looked back and saw Zofia standing at the garden gate. She waved to them. The car moved off and she was still waving. Petra waved back but her dad did not.
Fourteen
The music in the car was loud so there was no need to talk. Petra looked at her dad’s hands tapping on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Now he seemed perfectly relaxed. He’d lost the stiffness that she’d seen when he’d been at Zofia’s. From time to time he sang along with the song and when they stopped at lights he pushed his phone at her.
‘Listen to the ringtone,’ he said.
She accessed the page and pressed the buttons and heard his latest ringtone. It was a football anthem playing on a keyboard.
‘Good or what?’ he said.
At least he hadn’t said ‘cool’.
Inside the car smelt of people. That was the problem with having a dad who was a cab driver. Strangers left their scent behind in his car. Sometimes they left other things: wallets, phones, once a walking stick. Her dad said he always handed them in to the police but Petra had found the walking stick weeks later in his wardrobe.
They turned into Princess Street and slowed down. The indicator was on and the car pulled up in front of number fifty-three. Her dad turned round and pulled a plastic bag off the back seat.
‘I said I’d get some ciggies for Mr Merchant,’ he said. ‘You OK here? I’ll be five minutes.’
She nodded.
The door shut and she watched her dad walk round the front of the car and head for the house. There was one light on in the whole building. It was the living room, although her dad had described it as a kind of bedsit room. The street lamp threw light onto the front garden. It looked stuffed full with shady clumps of hedge and other bushes spreading across it.
Her dad had unhooked the front gate and walked around the front garden, heading for a side door to the back garden. He seemed to have a bit of trouble opening it but then he went through and closed it behind him.
She wondered if Mr Merchant had heard the sound of the gate and knew that someone was coming to see him. Petra knew cigarettes were not a good thing to bring for somebody in ill health but her dad had told her that Mr Merchant was old and lonely and that a few ciggies weren’t going to make things any worse for him. Mr Merchant had a carer who came in to see him once every day but she was not allowed to bring him anything like that. Her dad had known Mr Merchant for a while. When he wasn’t so ill he’d used his cab frequently but in the last year he hardly went out. He even had to use ambulances for hospital out-patient appointments.
Her dad said it was his way of doing a good deed.
It made her feel proud for a moment. Mr Merchant was old and lonely. Most people in the road probably didn’t know he existed but her dad made an effort, even if it was just for cigarettes. She watched him emerge from the gate at the side of the house. His coat was flaring out behind him. He was smiling. She wished he’d been smiling when he’d called at Zofia’s for her.
‘That’s done,’ he said.
‘Is he well enough to let people in?’ Petra said.
‘No. Poor old bloke sits in a chair or stays in bed. There’s a key on a hook by the back door. It’s hidden by ivy so only people he trusts know about it.’
Petra smiled at her dad. Mr Merchant trusted him.
‘Off we go,’ he said.
When they got home there was a man outside the door of the flat. He was leaning back against the balcony as though he hadn’t expected anyone to be in. Petra recognised him at once. It was the man who had come to the door a few evenings before. Tonight he looked rough. His hair was sticking up and his lip was swollen as if someone had punched it.
‘All right, Jason?’ the man said as they got closer.
‘All right, Nathan,’ her dad said, his voice offhand as though he wasn’t particularly pleased to see him.
Petra gave a polite smile and used her key to open the front door.
‘Go on in, Petra. Shut the door. I’ll be in in a minute,’ her dad said.
Petra closed the door behind her. The flat was cold so she turned the central heating on. She went into her room and tipped out her rucksack. She sorted the contents into three piles: her new clothes, her uniform and her school books. Then she went into the living room, picked up the remote and put the television on. She flicked around for a few moments to see what was on. She left it on and walked into the hallway. Her dad was still talking to the man. The conversation outside was loud and they were interrupting each other. She wondered if they were having a row or just an animated conversation. She headed for the kitchen but paused when she heard a familiar name.
‘Merchant.’
She stood very still and listened.
‘Don’t feel sorry for him, Jason. If he can’t pay then he’ll have to suffer the consequences. It’s not personal. It’s business. That’s all.’
‘Leave it. I’ll sort it out. Don’t get involved. Leave him to me.’
‘As long as you’re OK with it.’
The sound of her dad’s key in the door made her dart into the kitchen and straight across to the fridge. She opened it and stared inside as her dad came into the room.
‘Petra? You OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, taking out a can of drink and closing the door.
‘That was an old mate of mine.’
‘He was the man who came round the other night,’ she said, taking a gulp of fizzy drink.
‘Nathan Ball. He was the one who helped me get the driving job.’
She want
ed to say something. Why were you talking about Mr Merchant? Instead she just fiddled with the cold can that was in her hand. Her dad’s eyes dropped to her hands. His face creased up.
‘What is that rubbish on your nails? Did Soph do that?’
Petra nodded, confused. Zofia had done her nails lots of times. He had never said anything about them before. He swore under his breath and his mouth hardened.
‘I don’t like it, Petra. You’re … That colour makes you look … Well, like a tart …’
‘It’s just for the girl band,’ she said.
‘You’re only twelve. I don’t want you going out looking like that. She’s got no right to …’
‘It wasn’t her idea.’
‘I told her to lay off. She just goes ahead and does what she wants … She takes no notice of what I say!’
‘No, I asked her to. I think I picked the colour.’
Her dad’s face had flattened out. Things were going through his head, Petra knew, but she had no idea what he was thinking. He walked a few paces then turned and leant on the worktop. She could only see his back, his shoulder squared off like he was a door closed against her. The atmosphere was uncertain. She tensed herself, her eyes screwed up, ready for something.
‘I’ll take it off, Dad. I’ve got nail varnish remover. But like I said don’t blame Zofia. I asked her to.’
He seemed to deflate. He turned back and exhaled loudly. She’d misread him. He was just momentarily angry. There would be no trouble tonight.
‘I’ll get rid of it now,’ she said, walking past him.
He caught her arm though and held it. His hand was like a loose cuff on her elbow. She braced herself in case he tightened his grip.
‘Don’t get too close to Soph. She could just pack up and go back to Poland at any time. She’s a nice girl but …’
He let her arm go. She went to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. He hadn’t hurt her but she still felt emotional, as if she might cry. She heard the volume of the television go up and she walked towards her drawers, searching for the nail varnish remover and cotton wool pads. She sat on her bed and began to wipe the colour off her nails. The cotton wool became quickly red, as if it were mopping up blood from a wound. She used one after the other and placed them on her bedside cabinet in a line. The smell of the liquid was strong and medicinal.
Her dad was wrong.
Zofia wouldn’t go back to Poland. She liked it here.
Fifteen
On the way home from school Petra bought some things from the supermarket. When she got back to the flat it felt boiling hot, as if the heating had been on all day. She walked through to the living room and found her dad lying on the sofa. His eyes were closed and he looked unconscious. She could see that he was drunk. On the carpet beside him was a line of seven empty beer cans. She went into the kitchen and saw, with dismay, a bottle of vodka that was half full.
He’d probably been drinking all afternoon.
She leant against the fridge, disheartened. Things had been better for the last week and a half. Ever since the night he’d got upset about her wearing the nail varnish he seemed to have made an effort. He’d been up early every morning getting off to work and looking smart, being cheerful. He’d done a few extra jobs for Mr Constantine and he’d bought some new clothes. He’d been out with Zofia a few times and seemed happy when Petra spoke about her.
Now he was drunk again. And the social worker was due to visit the next day.
Wearily, she went back into the living room, picked up the cans and began to tidy up, sidestepping her dad and the sofa. She opened the window and straightened the footstool and the coffee table. In the kitchen she tightened the lid on the vodka bottle and put it into the cupboard. Then she put her bag in her bedroom and went into the bathroom. There, on the glass shelf above the sink, was a make-up bag. It was neon pink with black squiggles on it. It belonged to Zofia and inside was a mascara wand and a lipstick, the only make-up she wore. She had obviously been in the flat earlier. She must have left it behind. Possibly she had left before her dad had got drunk.
Petra made herself a grilled cheese sandwich which she ate in her bedroom. She got changed and sorted out her school clothes for the next day. Then, just before six, she left the flat to go to Tina’s and rehearse The Red Roses. They’d made the arrangement earlier at school while Mandy had been doing something else. Petra was glad to have somewhere to go. Maybe, when she got home, her dad would have stumbled off into bed.
At Tina’s they rehearsed The Red Roses in her bedroom. They dressed up in their outfits: black leggings, oversized red T-shirts and hair held back with bands with red silk roses on them. There had been a debate about shoes: high heels or pumps? Petra had decided on black pumps because it made it easier to move around.
They were in front of a long mirror in Tina’s bedroom.
‘Ta dah!’ Tina said.
‘Stand back to back,’ Petra said.
Tina turned and they stood sandwiched together. Petra could see their reflection. They were the same height. She smiled at this. It was a good look; as if they were two sides of a mirror image.
‘Side by side,’ Petra said.
Tina’s hair was big. They’d have to use straighteners. The rest was fine though. They were the same height, the same weight. They both had pale skin and dark hair. They looked like sisters. Or twins. Petra liked that idea. If Tina had been her sister she would have been very happy. Petra counted, ‘One … two … three …’ and they began to sing.
Ever since primary school Tina had been a fixture of Petra’s life. They’d sat together in year four and found that they’d both read the same books and comics and liked the same games. When they were first friends they’d played a make-believe game that lasted for weeks. ‘Imagine there’d been a plane crash,’ Petra said, ‘and almost everyone drowned. You and me managed to swim to the shore of an island.’ There was a lot to do in this game: draw the island, name it, build shelter, find food, deal with hostile animals and other shipwrecked people. They had to nurse each other through injuries using imaginary bandages and crutches. They had to write letters and put them in bottles and launch them into the sea. The local park had a pond which had a small island in the middle. No one was allowed on it but the sight of it fuelled their game and they played on, day after day. There was hope of rescue but it never came because then the game would end. It gave Petra an amazing world to think about: her and Tina living together twenty-four hours a day, Tina’s parents and her dad all gone. No school, no one telling them what to do, just two kids surviving, helping themselves. It made Petra feel strong, in charge of herself and the things that happened to her. Tina was happy to play. Tina was happy with Petra. Petra loved Tina.
As they grew older there were other games but in time these lessened their hold and the talk changed to computer games, magazines, bands and clothes. Tina had been around a lot when Petra’s gran died and had helped her with the move from her gran’s house to the flat. When they went to secondary school they had to grow up quickly. There was no make-believe there, just getting from place to place, turning up at the right classrooms, not looking stupid. The best thing to do, Petra decided, was to look at what the older kids were doing and emulate them. See how they carried themselves round the building, where they sat, how they behaved. Petra and Tina could copy them, become mature, divide themselves off from the year sevens who were still tearing around the playground yearning for their old primary school classrooms and teachers.