Midsummer Meltdown

by Cathy Hopkins

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked.

  Dad shook his head. ‘Don’t know yet. And before you ask, we’ve already checked flights for the Saturday. There’s one seat on one plane but there’s no way you’re travelling alone and anyway, you’d hardly get to spend any time there and you’d miss the dinner on Friday night. We’ve tried all the airlines. It seems there’s some sort of convention happening on the Sunday. I don’t know; maybe it’s not meant to be. But what else can I do? Arrange a big picnic in Mount Edgcumbe park? I don’t know. I’ve blown it. Left it too late.’

  I shook my head. ‘Picnic? Doesn’t sound the same, does it? So should I let the others know?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dad as he turned to the window and gazed out. ‘Look, leave it with me.’

  He looked so sad. Even Max and Molly sensed that something was wrong and looked at him with concern.

  ‘You can’t give up, Dad,’ I said. ‘There has to be a solution.’

  ‘Like what? I’m a rock star, not a magician.’

  And that’s when I had my idea.

  ‘Yes, Dad. That’s it. You’re a rock star. You are a rock star. So maybe it’s time to act like one.’

  Dad looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Spend a bit of your dosh. It’s Mum’s birthday. Splash out.’

  ‘I’m going to. That hotel isn’t cheap, believe me . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ I said. ‘How much have you got in the bank?’

  ‘Dunno. My accountant does all that.’

  ‘Roughly?’

  ‘Couple of mill . . .’

  ‘Couple of million?’

  ‘Yeah. Couple of million comes in every year. Used to be more.’

  ‘Every year? Then for heaven’s sake, Dad. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘I’m not with you, love. Isn’t what obvious?’

  I spread my arms out to look like wings and play-acted flying round the room.

  ‘Lia, what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘The solution, Dad. Simple. No flights on commercial airlines. I bet that doesn’t stop Elton John or Paul McCartney or Mick Jagger.’

  Dad was still looking at me as though I was mad.

  ‘Hire . . . a . . . plane . . .’

  SUSIE WORKED MIRACLES and soon it was sorted. Mum and Dad were booked first class on a commercial airline on Friday morning. And not one but two private planes for the guests! One to leave from London early afternoon for those who lived near there. And one for the Cornish contingent who were to leave from Newquay late afternoon.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m going to go on a private plane,’ said Cat. ‘I haven’t even ever been on a normal plane. How many of us are there?’

  ‘Eight. Meena – to chaperone us all – and Ollie and his mates, who are all coming down on Thursday night,’ I began.

  ‘But won’t your mum suspect if she sees them?’ Becca interrupted. We were at her house on Saturday morning going through her wardrobe for the thousandth time.

  ‘No. She knows they’re off school on Friday so just thinks they’re down for a long weekend.’

  ‘Wasn’t one of them down last year for your mum’s Christmas party?’ Squidge asked.

  ‘Yes. Er . . . Michael was.’

  Squidge looked out into the distance for a few moments and looked thoughtful. ‘Yeah. I remember him. Good-looking guy. He’s . . . well, he’s the kind I thought you’d always go for.’

  I punched him. ‘Don’t be mad . . .’

  ‘Are his parents loaded too?’ he asked.

  ‘I think they do OK. I think his dad has his own production company.’

  ‘TV?’ asked Squidge.

  I nodded. It made me feel uncomfortable talking about Michael, and I wanted to get off the subject before I blushed or did something stupid to give myself away.

  ‘TV company, huh? More interesting than what my dad does. Being a mechanic isn’t exactly mind-blowing stuff.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ I said. ‘Your dad’s the most important man in the village. Cat told me that when I first moved down here. And your mum’s the most important woman. Transport and good hair. We’d be lost without them.’

  ‘Not very glamorous, though,’ said Squidge with a wistful look.

  ‘She’s incredibly glamorous, your mum,’ said Cat. ‘A blonde babe.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Squidge. ‘Ordinary. My folks are ordinary.’

  I’d never heard Squidge talk like this before, as if he was embarrassed by his background. It was strange, as I’d always thought that I was the one with the hang-up about being ordinary.

  ‘Go over the whole itinerary again,’ said Becca, getting out her notebook. ‘I want to write it all down so I don’t forget.’

  I laughed. ‘We’ll all be together. You’re not going to forget or get forgotten and anyway, haven’t you got the print-out that Susie did for us all. That has everything on it.’

  ‘I know. Just go over it again. I like hearing.’

  ‘OK. Next Friday afternoon, straight after school, you all come back with me to Barton Hall where we will be picked up and driven to the airport in Newquay, from where we fly to Marrakech. The flight is just over three hours and we have time on our side as they’re an hour behind us over there.’

  ‘So we need to have everything ready and packed on Thursday,’ said Squidge. ‘I must check that all my camera batteries are charged and that I have a spare memory card – I don’t want to run out when we get there.’

  ‘Does your mum know anything yet, Lia?’ asked Cat.

  ‘She suspected something was up because of all the phone calls coming in so Dad told her half the truth. He told her that he’s booked them a weekend away in Morocco at the hotel where they met. She was really pleased and I think she believes that that is it. That’s the secret. I don’t think she has a clue that we’re all going too.’

  ‘Are they going by private plane?’ asked Cat.

  I shook my head. ‘Dad’s going to take Mum up to London early on Friday to get her out of the way. Then they’re flying first class with a commercial airline from Gatwick. He’s going to whisk her out to tea as soon as they get there. We check into Riad Rhoul as soon as we arrive and hide until Dad tells us. He knows the times that the rest of the guests will be arriving. He’s going to tell Mum that he’s taking her for dinner somewhere special and will suggest a drink at the roof terrace bar in the hotel before they go – and that’s where we’ll all be.’

  ‘Top,’ said Squidge. ‘Couldn’t have organised it better myself!’

  ‘Saturday will be sight-seeing,’ I said. ‘Susie’s printed out some interesting places for us to choose from. We can go to the souk, we can hang out by the pool, we can visit some of the old palaces . . .’

  ‘Let’s do everything,’ said Squidge. ‘I want to see as much as I can. I’m going to get up at five o’clock on Saturday morning and go out and photograph before all the tourists arrive.’

  ‘On the Saturday evening, Dad’s booked everyone in for a tourist event called Fantasia. It sounds like fun.’

  Cat picked up Susie’s information sheet and read. ‘An evening of Moroccan cuisine and entertainment, finishing with an extravagant show of Arabian horses. Now, that’s something you don’t get to see down Whitsand Beach. It’s going to be sooooo cool.’

  ‘I know. It just gets better and better,’ said Squidge. ‘Horses. And I bet there will be firelight. Wow. Can you imagine the shots I’m going to be able to get?’

  ‘Then on Sunday once again, guests can choose either between a trip into the Atlas mountains for lunch or a trip to a little fishing port for lunch in a hotel there. Both places are a couple of hours’ drive away so it’s a chance to see something of the countryside and then, early evening, we fly back.’

  ‘Essoo . . .?’ asked Cat as she looked over the agenda. ‘How do you say the name of the fishing port place?’

  ‘Essaouira,’ I said. ‘Es-ah-oo-weara. Or something like that.’

&n
bsp; I’d looked it up on the Internet as soon as I’d heard that we had a chance to go there and it looked heavenly. Long white beaches by a working fishing port, a walled town, little alleyways full of stalls selling all sorts. I wanted to go there rather than up into the mountains as it would be perfect after the hustle and bustle of Marrakech. I could just imagine Squidge and me, hand in hand strolling along the beach in the sun. I hoped that he wouldn’t pick to do the mountain trip.

  ‘Essaouira was the place where all the artists and musicians and writers used to hang out in the Sixties and Seventies,’ I said. ‘Jimi Hendrix, Frank Zappa and Jefferson Airplane – apparently, they all went there. Even my dad was there for a brief time when he was a kid. Gran and Grandad Axford were doing the hippie trail. Dad said he can remember Hendrix being in Essaouira although he didn’t stay there long.’

  ‘Your family is just soooo cool,’ said Cat. ‘My gran and grandad never even left Cornwall.’

  Squidge’s jaw dropped. ‘Hendrix? Zappa? Can’t wait, can’t wait, can’t wait.’

  On Sunday, it was Cat’s turn for us to go through her wardrobe and pick out what she should take. Becca was so funny because she lay on the floor most of the time we were there, doing abdominal exercises.

  ‘If I’m going to have to wear a bikini in front of all those boys, I want to look halfway decent,’ she panted as she did her tummy curls.

  ‘I don’t know what you worry about,’ I said. ‘You have an amazing body.’ She does. She’s tall and curvy as opposed to me, who is tall and flat-chested. I look like a boy in a bikini.

  Cat looked at her watch. ‘Five more days, eleven more hours . . .’

  ‘Twenty-five more minutes,’ said Becca. ‘Time seems to have been going so slow since we found out. I can’t wait for Friday to come round.’

  We hadn’t seen much of Mac. His mother really had meant business when she said that she wanted him to study, and he hadn’t been allowed out, not once. In a way, that wasn’t a bad thing because I think hearing the rest of us talk non-stop about the trip would only have made him feel left out. Squidge had made sure that he’d been round to see him when he could and they’d studied for their exams together. His parents had a much more laidback approach to homework though and left it up to Squidge to set his own study times. Their method seemed to work as Squidge worked hard in most of his spare time.

  On Monday night, he came home with me after school for a quick supper and to talk over last-minute details for the trip.

  He sat on the window seat in my room while I pulled out the case that I had hidden under my bed. I’d started packing days ago and kept adding things then taking them out.

  Squidge laughed when he saw me swap the sundress I wanted to take for the third time.

  ‘You will look fabulous whatever you wear,’ he said. ‘You should do a checklist, you know; write it all out so that you know you haven’t forgotten anything. Camera, bikini, dress, sunglasses . . .’

  ‘Sunglasses!’ I said. ‘I must put them in.’

  I went to my drawer and rummaged about and pulled out my favourite pair. I’d bought them a few months ago and they were the best glasses I’d ever had. Big and black and they felt really comfortable. However, when I pulled them out from where they’d been shoved in the drawer, I noticed a little crack in the right lens.

  ‘Oh no. They’re broken!’

  Squidge got up and took them from me. ‘Yep. Think they are. Haven’t you got any others you can take?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not as nice. Those are my favourites. I got them from the post office in Kingsand.’

  Squidge nodded. ‘Yeah, they have some good stuff in there. She’s probably got some more the same. Want me to go and look?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yeah. I could get some tomorrow after school.’

  I suppose my face showed my disappointment. ‘I don’t suppose we could go now. We’re leaving on Friday so that doesn’t give us much time and I want to be sure that she has them otherwise I’ll have to go over to Plymouth tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Nah,’ said Squidge. ‘I shouldn’t worry. There will be shops at the airport. You can get some there if the post office is sold out.’

  ‘But we’re not going to have time to hang about. It won’t be like flying normally. Private plane. You drive straight up and get on. And anyway, Newquay’s a small airport; they might not have shops and, if they do, they might not have nice glasses on sale. Oh, finking stinking nuisance . . .’

  Squidge stood up. ‘Tell you what. I’ll go for you now.’

  ‘No. You don’t have to do that . . .’

  ‘No problem,’ said Squidge as he picked up the broken glasses. ‘I’ll take these with me so I’m sure to get the right ones and I’ll be back in no time. What time will supper be?’

  ‘In about half an hour.’

  ‘It will take twenty minutes tops on my bike.’

  ‘No really, don’t, Squidge. I was just ranting as I’m so cross I broke my favourites. It doesn’t matter . . .’

  But he was already heading for the door. ‘Be back in a tick,’ he said. And with that, he was off. A man on a mission.

  As I waited for him to come back, I tried on a few more clothes. So many decisions. Whether to take my turquoise bikini or my black swimsuit. Or both. My striped sarong or the Indian one that matches my bikini. Or both.

  It was only when Meena called up that it was supper time that I realised that Squidge had been gone over half an hour. I quickly gave his mobile a call to see how long he would be but it was on voice mail. Grrrr, I thought. I really must talk to him about always leaving his phone off. But it must mean that he’s on his way back.

  I went down to the kitchen and told Meena that Squidge was on his way and I’d like to wait for him.

  I went into the red room and looked out of the window and down the drive to see if there was any sign of him but it was empty apart from Max and Molly cavorting around.

  I checked my watch. Forty minutes had passed.

  I called his house in case he’d dropped in for something while he was down in the village.

  ‘No, love,’ said Mrs Squires. ‘He said he would be up at yours for his supper. So where is he?’

  ‘Oh probably on his way back. He went into the village to fetch something.’

  After my call to his mum, I tried his mobile again.

  Still on voice mail. And by now it was getting close to an hour that he’d been gone.

  I tried calling Mac but he was none the wiser and like Mrs Squires thought that Squidge was with me.

  An hour and a half went by and I was starting to get hungry waiting for Squidge.

  I had just gone into the kitchen to get some juice when I heard the phone ring. Mum got to it before I did.

  ‘It will be for me,’ I said as I walked towards her but then something in the tone of her voice and her expression made me stop.

  ‘. . . yes, yes. I’ll tell her,’ said Mum into the receiver.

  ‘What? What’s happened?’ I asked, as a feeling of dread came over me.

  Mum put the phone down and turned to me. ‘There’s been an accident . . .’

  ‘Oh God. Squidge?’

  Mum nodded. ‘An ambulance was called and he’s been taken to the hospital.’

  I COULD HARDLY BREATHE.

  ‘Is he OK?’ I asked.

  ‘They don’t know yet,’ Mum answered. ‘That was his dad on the phone and he said that he’d call as soon as they know anything.’

  ‘Which hospital have they taken him to?’

  ‘Torpoint.’

  ‘I have to go. Will you take me, Mum? Please. Please. I can’t sit here and wait.’

  This can’t be happening, I thought. It felt unreal and I felt numb, couldn’t take it in. Oh God please let him be OK, I prayed.

  Mum put her arms around me. ‘Hey, come on. We don’t know what happened. He might be fine.’

  ‘He might not be. We don’t know. Please, Mum. Let’s go.’


  Mum nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll go and get the car,’ she said.

  On the way to the hospital, my imagination ran riot and images of Squidge broken and bruised played through my mind. What could possibly have happened? And where? I made Mum repeat to me over and over what Squidge’s dad had said in case I’d missed something but no, it seemed that Mr Squires knew very little.

  ‘I bet he took a corner too fast and came off his bike,’ I said. ‘He’s always doing that. I bet that’s what it is. He’s broken something.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Mum but she sounded as worried as I felt.

  When we got to the hospital, we raced to Accident and Emergency and I quickly scanned the people waiting in the hope that we’d see Squidge sitting there, wearing a big sheepish grin and nothing the matter with him except a sprained wrist.

  But there was no sign of him or any of his family.

  Mum went up to the reception desk and spoke to a lady sitting behind there.

  ‘Please could you help us? We’re looking for a boy, sixteen years old. He was in an accident and was brought in maybe half an hour ago.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Mrs Axford.’

  ‘No. The boy’s name.’

  ‘Oh. Course. Sorry. Jack Squires.’

  The lady scanned the computer to her right and then jerked her chin towards double doors on the left. ‘Through there. Straight on then left at the bottom. The doctors are with him now and his family are in the waiting area there. You can join them if you like.’

  Doctors with him? I thought as I reminded myself to keep breathing. Oh God, oh God. Oh please, please let him be OK.

  The corridor which led to where we’d been sent was lined with chairs filled with worried-looking people, probably patients’ relatives. They looked so pale in the bright fluorescent light. I hate hospitals, I thought. I hate the suffocating disinfectant-mixed-with-boiled-vegetables smell. I hate the unnatural light. I hate the atmosphere of anxiety. I hate to think that Squidge is in here and is hurt.

  As we turned the corner, we knew we’d found the right area – at the far end of the corridor, we could see Mrs and Mr Squires and Will, Squidge’s younger brother. The sight of them sitting there in silence made my eyes well up with tears. It was unlike them to be so quiet as usually whenever the Squires family was around, it meant noise, laughter and everyone talking at once.