“Funny how she can always afford booze and fags,” Kate muttered to herself as she closed the window. She turned, sensing the presence of someone at the door. Angie came into the room and not looking at Kate or saying a word began plumping-up the cushions on the settee. Kate said a silent prayer she hadn’t heard her.
“I’ll take those,” Angie said without making eye contact, indicating the empty bottles Kate cradled in her arms.
“No, it’s all right...,” she began but Angie interrupted her. “Give them to me. I’ll put them outside for the dustman. You’ve had breakfast I s’pose?” Kate nodded.
“And Emma?”
“Yes,” Kate answered, feeling bizarrely self-conscious in front of Angie who seemed to have no difficulty ignoring the bruises and swelling on Kate’s face.
“Good,” she said. “I want to give you and Emma your presents.” She turned to leave the room then stopped and turned back to Kate, frowning. “Buck up, Kate, for heaven’s sake. It’s Christmas Day today or had you forgotten?” An incredulous Kate shook her head. “No, Mum. I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Good. Well get a move on then. We’ll put the dinner on and then you can open your presents.”
Kate went back into the kitchen and looked at Emma who was shaking her head in astonishment.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered. “It’s as if nothing’s happened.”
The girls prepared their Christmas meal. They peeled and sliced the vegetables that had survived Angie’s outburst the night before. The pie was put into the oven and Kate had saved a little from the housekeeping money to buy a Christmas pudding. Emma mixed up some custard to go with it. “I don’t suppose it’s too bad,” she said jauntily, smiling at Kate. They turned the radio up and sang along to The Jackson Five and The Sweet and their spirits lifted as the awfulness of Christmas Eve diminished.
A bit later Angie called the girls into the living room. She had washed and brushed her shoulder-length blonde hair that had once been so soft and pretty, and applied some lipstick. She looked almost as she had before Joe’s disappearance, but the constant binging on alcohol had taken its toll on her skin. It was sallow and dry, and her cheeks were hollow smudges where she hadn't eaten properly for months.
“Well, come on then,” she cried, chivvying them in to the room. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you two. I hope I’m not going to have to put up with you sulking all day just because there isn’t much money around. You know I’m finding it hard to make ends meet lately. If that bastard of a father of yours would send me some money for your upkeep...” She trailed off when she saw their faces. Kate spoke up quickly to avoid an upset. “No, Mum. It’s nothing like that. Happy Christmas.”
She went across to Angie and kissed her cheek, her lips brushing the paper-thin skin tightly covering a prominent cheekbone. Angie seemed pleased. “That’s a bit more like it. And what about my youngest? Can’t she find a kiss for her mum on Christmas Day then?”
Emma got up reluctantly and strolled towards Angie, half-heartedly kissing her cheek. She had the urge to wipe her mouth on her sleeve afterwards but managed to resist the temptation. If the choice had been hers she wouldn’t have kissed her mother at all and she resented the obligation.
“Right then,” Angie said, satisfied. “Here are your presents.”
She handed Emma a flat, square parcel, and to Kate gave a small round package, both badly wrapped in cheap Christmas paper. Angie nudged Emma saying, “It’s an umbrella, Emma. Very difficult to disguise.” Emma quickly pulled the paper from her gift and gasped with delight. “Mum,” she squealed. “How did you know?”
“How did I know, she says. How would I not know? Your bedroom has got so many David Essex posters taped onto the wall you can’t even see the wallpaper. Mind you, it’s probably just as well. Anything would be an improvement. Which song d’you like best, Emma?” Emma began to sing in a loud voice. “Hold Me Close Don’t Let Me Go...Oh No.”
“All right, all right,” said Angie, wincing and holding her hand up to halt Emma’s piercing voice. “Put the cat out someone. I think we’ve had enough of that.” Emma looked hurt.
Angie then turned her attention to Kate who had waited until Emma had finished enjoying her gift. “Open it girl. We’re waiting.” The discarded paper revealed a black velveteen pouch with a little tasselled cord tied in a bow at the top. Kate pulled the cord and tipped the contents out onto her lap. It was a gold-coloured chain-belt that Kate had seen in a small boutique in Willowbridge High Street and had coveted for weeks. She remembered telling Emma about it but hadn’t said anything to Angie. There had been no reason to.
“Oh, Mum,” she cried. “I can’t believe it.” She smiled at Angie. “Thank you.”
Angie got up from her chair, rubbing her hands together in a washing motion that Kate and Emma recognised. It meant she felt agitated and when she felt agitated she would look in her stash-place for a bottle. A wave of hot, skin prickling fear washed over Kate. Emma swallowed hard and looked quickly over to her sister, pleading with her eyes to do something.
“Wait a minute, Mum,” said Kate. “We haven’t given you your presents yet. Emma, go up to my bedroom. I put Mum’s presents in the old bureau.” Emma looked puzzled. She knew nothing of this. Kate waved her away telling her to get a move on and then made nervous small talk with Angie to stop her thinking about the wine bottle.
Emma went into Kate’s bedroom as she’d asked. Sure enough in her old bureau were two small presents, beautifully gift wrapped in gold and green gilt paper and decorated with gold ribbons. “Oh, Kate,” she sighed. “Why do you bother with her?”
She rushed downstairs clutching the presents and gave them to Kate so she could give them to Angie herself. She didn’t want to give her mother anything and would have loved to tell Angie they weren’t her idea and wanted no part of it. Kate placed the presents in her mother’s lap. Angie took them without a word. Clearly, she hadn’t expected anything from them and she seemed wrong-footed by the gesture, unsure of how to react.
“Aren’t you going to open them?” Emma asked her curtly. Kate snatched a quick look at her sister, frowning.
“Of course I am,” Angie answered quickly. “Just seems a shame to spoil all this lovely wrapping paper and ribbons that’s all.”
She tore the paper from the gifts. Kate had bought her a beautiful pink silk scarf threaded with silver and gold and a small bottle of Estee Lauder’s ‘Youth Dew’, Angie’s favourite perfume. She said nothing.
“Are they all right, Mum?” asked Kate. “I can always change them if...”
“No, they’re fine. Lovely, thanks.” She swiftly cleared the wrapping paper away. “I’m going to get the dinner on the table. It’ll be about twenty minutes. You two stay here out of the way. I’ll do it. You just enjoy yourselves. Emma, get that record onto the player. I want to hear what I’ve paid out for.”
Angie went into the kitchen and Emma and Kate sat together on the settee. “That was close.” Emma nodded. “Yeah. Where did you get the money from for the presents? I didn’t think we had any spare money.”
“Mrs. Clancy at the end of the road needed someone to look after her kids last month when her regular sitter let her down. She works at Butterfield's factory and she was desperate. Her boss told her she would lose her job if she took any more time off for the kids. It was a bit of luck really.” Emma nodded then glanced thoughtfully about the room.
“Something on your mind, Emma?” murmured Kate as she settled back onto the sofa. She closed her eyes to ease her aching head, still pounding from yesterday. Emma looked glum. “It’s nothing really. It’s just that Mum didn’t seem too pleased did she? With the presents you bought her.” Kate sat forward and shrugged. “Y’know how Mum is right now. Maybe she was really pleased but didn’t know how to show it.”
“God, will you stop making excuses for her,” hissed Emma. She paused, thinking. “I know what it was. It was because you did something really nice for her. She do
esn’t want you to do things like that because it means she has to be nice back. She thinks you’ve got the upper-hand now. You’d better be careful, Katie. She’ll have you again as soon as she can.” They both went quiet.
“I wonder how Dad is.”
“Why are you worrying? I don’t care how he is.”
“You don’t mean that,” Kate said softly. “I know you miss him as much as I do.”
Emma made a face at her – her chin jutted forward in anger. “Do you need me to spell it out for you, Miss Know-All? I don’t miss him, not one inch. Him and his bloody poems. What the hell did they mean anyway? I never understood what he was jabbering on about. Neither did Mum. Where is he for God’s sake? It’s Christmas Day and he’s not here. My own father can’t even be bothered to turn up for Christmas Day. It was always the best day of the year, but not anymore. It’s the worst.”
Emma swallowed, trying to steady her voice, her fists clenched into tight balls of frustration and hurt. “He obviously couldn’t care less about me so I don’t give a damn about him, no sir. That’s the one and only thing Mum and I agree on. He’s a bastard and I hope he’s really miserable.” She got up and strutted across to the record player. “Like we are when Mum’s drunk, which is most of the time.”
She placed her new record on the turntable and began dancing around the room, the sounds from the record player eclipsing everything else. Her anger faded away as quickly as it had erupted and Kate was glad of the diversion. She wanted to forget it all, even if it was just for one day.
Chapter 4
“I don’t want to go back to school.”
“Why not?”
“I just hate it. Don’t you?”
“No. It means I get away from home and Mum. I even get a rest from little Miss Know-All.”
“I like Kate.”
“Do yer? That’s nice.”
“We all thought she’d be Head Girl this year.”
“Yeah, well. She doesn’t come from the right family.”
“What kind of family does she come from?”
“An un-family.”
When Emma arrived at the gates of Willowbridge Comprehensive School she paid little attention to the gathering of pupils standing just inside the driveway. They were always there, using a small area of tarmac for socialising in the only way they knew how. She pushed her way through the crowd, the smell of cigarette smoke and nicotine floating around her as she reached its centre.
Usually, Emma would have been one of these illicit smokers enjoying the first cigarette of the day, but Angie had found the packet of cigarettes Emma had stolen from the newsagents and had smoked them. The other kids didn’t take kindly to someone if they asked for a cigarette and didn’t have any to offer in return.
The pleasure for Emma came not just from smoking. Standing among the others; taking part as they laughed together and sharing jokes gave her a feeling of acceptance by her fellow smokers. Instead of feeling like an outcast with a problem she became one of them, mirroring their moves and offering cigarettes to the others. They all wore the same badge of honour – bright yellow fingers.
The approval she felt from her smoking school-mates compensated for any guilt she felt. The closeness between them enabled her to feel part of the central core of the school community, misfits who had one thing in common – they just didn’t care what anyone else thought of them. This was something that appealed deeply to Emma. Only she knew the utter shame she felt about Angie’s drinking and the fact that Joe had abandoned her. She knew her mates couldn’t care less what was happening in her family. These were experiences that unknown to her many of them shared, but she wasn’t interested. She was equally indifferent to them.
Today as on any other, boys and girls stood in groups all with one hand carefully cupped so the cigarettes they held could not be seen. The tell-tale spirals drifted upwards, and exhaled smoke mixed with the cold breath of a winter’s morning floated all around them. The morning ritual concluded abruptly when a voice rang out from the middle of the mingling children. “Watch out, it’s Gilmore.”
The group scattered like startled pigeons and a scruffy lad pushed Emma roughly to one side as the throng of boys and girls fractured and dispersed in all directions. In the confusion she stood her ground. She had no reason to run away. Without warning an escaping smoker pushed a tatty, half-empty packet of cigarettes into her hand. She stared down at the offending packet looking confused. Glancing up to search for the owner her eyes met with the advancing teacher. He stopped in front of her, hands on hips, feet slightly apart, sighing impatiently. Looking down again at the offending cigarette packet her predicament slowly dawned on her. “They don’t belong to me, sir,” she said, raising her eyes slowly to meet his. “They’re not mine.”
Tom Gilmore, a tall well-built man in his early forties bent down towards her and chuckled. “Then who do they belong to?” Emma didn’t answer. Gilmore wearily straightened his back and cast his eyes momentarily to the heavens. Here was another of mummy’s little angels who’d never touched a cigarette in her life. “Right. Emma McGuire isn’t it?” The real offenders huddled together on the scruffy grass verge lining the tarmac driveway to the school building. They whispered to each other and joked between themselves. A raucous laugh rang out. These kids were rough, inherently street wise and knew how to look after themselves.
“Come on,” said the teacher directing Emma to follow him. He strode resolutely up the driveway to the school with Emma following morosely behind, trying to ignore the catcalls and derisory whistles from the crowd of children at the gates. She followed him to the front hall where he showed her to the brown vinyl chairs put outside the office for visitors. “You’d better give me those,” he said, holding out his hand for the cigarettes. “And don’t count on getting them back.”
He disappeared into the office and Emma could hear the low murmur of voices as they discussed her. The school secretary, whose desk was immediately outside the office, eyed her with impatience. Seconds later Tom Gilmore opened the office door and beckoned Emma towards him.
The office was brightly lit and painted in a cheerful lemon-yellow. Pictures of wild flora and fauna were attractively grouped around the walls. Barbara Forsyth, the headmistress, was sitting at a large oak desk where a varied array of text books and other school paraphernalia littered the green leather top. At fifty-five years of age she had taught all her adult life, and was used to the dramas and intrigues of school life. Her face was framed with iron-grey hair cut into a short, unfussy style and streaked smartly with white. Her tanned, leathery skin showed the effects of the sun whilst participating in her beloved hill-walking. She often said that it was the perfect antidote to the closeted world of school life. Her soft brown eyes, furrowed with deep lines at the corners observed Emma with great interest. “Why do you smoke, Emma?” she asked the girl gently.
“They weren’t my cigarettes, Mrs. Forsyth. I don’t smoke,” she lied.
The headmistress raised her eyebrows in surprise, then looked pointedly at Emma’s nicotine-stained fingers. Emma fidgeted with her hands feeling uncomfortable under the headmistress’ gaze then tried to arrange her fingers in her lap so the obvious yellow stains that were ingrained into her skin wouldn’t show.
“Mr. Gilmore found you holding a packet of cigarettes on the school premises. Why would you have cigarettes in your possession if you don’t smoke?”
Emma looked down at her tightly folded hands as Mrs. Forsyth waited for her answer but none was forthcoming. The headmistress rose from her chair and with her back to Emma looked out of the window onto the school grounds. She paused for a time before speaking. “I don’t approve of pupils smoking on the school premises, Emma. I would rather they didn’t smoke at all but I know that many of the children who attend this school do. When they do it out of school hours there is little I can do about it, although it pains me to see them behave so disrespectfully and irresponsibly when they’re wearing their school uniform. I’m sure it
gives the school a bad name not generally deserved. However when these children are in my school there’s a great deal I can do.”
She turned from the window and faced a worried Emma. “I hear many fairy-tales from pupils of all ages every day. They make the brothers Grimm look like amateurs. You say you don’t smoke but all the evidence points to the fact that you do. I think I should have a word with your parents. I'm afraid your smoking on the school premises means I can suspend you, but I don’t want to do that without speaking to your parents first.”
Emma was frantic. She stood up quickly and knocked over her chair. She had to stop what was happening and fast. No way was Forsyth going to speak to Angie. “No,” she cried. “You can’t do that. I was telling the truth. Honestly. Please don’t get my mum involved. She’s not well. You can cane me if you like. Yes, that’s it. Cane me. Get it over and done with. Now.”
“Please calm down, Emma. I have no intention of caning you. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because when someone is being punished for something it’s what happens isn’t it? They get hit. And I’d rather you do that than have you upset my mum. She’s really unwell. You wouldn’t want to make her worse, would you? It wouldn’t be right to worry her.”
The headmistress walked round to the front of her desk and straightened Emma’s chair, gently encouraging the distressed girl to sit. Quietly observing Emma she rang her secretary. “What class is Kate McGuire in this morning?” Waiting as the secretary checked, her eyes remained on Emma. “Will you get a message to her tutor? I’d like Kate to come to the office right away please.”
By the time Kate arrived at the office Emma was crying. Mrs. Forsyth had sat with her quietly, offering no comfort or asking questions. When Kate saw Emma crouched in the chair she ran to her, stooping to put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Emma? What's the matter?” Emma turned towards Kate and buried her face into her shoulder. “She wants to see Mum,” she whispered. Kate got to her feet, anxiously tugging the sleeves of her blazer. “Has Emma done something wrong?”
A Dish of Stones Page 3