by Kim Slater
Maybe Alex and I could hang out sometimes on the weekends, after we’ve finally met up. I’m sure Dad would be fine if Alex wanted to stay over at ours, he’s desperate for me to have some mates.
I spend the morning in bed, watching old Star Wars DVDs. Darth Vader is my favourite character because James Earl Jones, who plays him, used to have such a bad stammer when he was a kid, he stopped talking altogether. He mostly just breathes heavily in Star Wars but he’s also the voice of Mufasa in The Lion King, which proves he finally got rid of his stutter. It can be done.
Every few minutes I check on my computer to see if Alex has logged in yet but his player icon is greyed out each time.
When I eventually get dressed and go downstairs, the silence is waiting for me. I stop thinking about stuff I can do while Dad’s away and focus on the one thing making me feel twitchy.
Why haven’t I heard anything from Alex?
To distract myself, I go up to Green’s Windmill. George Green was fourteen in 1807, when his dad built the windmill, and George used to work in it. He grew up to be a self-taught mathematical physicist and we learned at school that Green’s Theorem and Green’s Function are still used by scientists and engineers all over the world today.
The windmill is always busy on a weekend so I don’t bother going inside. I’ve seen it all loads of times and my favourite bit is the stone floor.
The sails need to turn in the wind to get the great spur wheel turning. All the other mechanisms have to engage to grind the grain into flour, which then drops down a chute into sacks on the floor below. Lots of things have to happen in sequence before the miller gets a bag of flour.
I’ll have to do lots of investigating to find out all the facts before I finally find my mum. If I get everything sorted and in the right order, it could happen. Even if the evidence seems a bit far-fetched.
I move to the far side of the windmill and look up. The big sails dwarf me but when I lean against the rough brickwork, I feel safe, like I belong here. I wonder if that’s how George Green felt. He’d have definitely walked all around here, exactly where I’m standing now, sorting stuff out for his dad.
Lugging bags of flour up and down all day when you’d rather be writing mathematical formulae sounds like a tough job. If it was 1807 now, I’d probably be friends with George, although it wouldn’t be much fun hanging around with someone who just wanted to do maths all day.
It’s nearly dark when I get back home and I’m hungry, so I make some toast, pour a glass of juice and take them back up to my room.
I force myself to wait ten minutes before turning on the computer. I make up this silly rule that says every minute I wait will increase the chance of Alex being there by five per cent. Maybe it’s not just nonsense because when I do log in, there is a green dot next to Alex’s ID icon.
What happened last night? I fire off right away.
Soz, computer crashed, he sends back.
But now it’s OK? He seems to be using his computer now, no problem.
Yep, stepmum is a computer whizz, even better than I am. Thought it was busted but she’s sorted it. And then: Webcam knackered so can’t Skype.
My heart tries to leap up into my mouth. My mum is an IT expert – brilliant at solving any computer problems we had in the house. Here’s my chance to ask him straight.
What’s her name?
There’s no response. Radio silence from Alex.
I watch his ID icon, expecting it to blink off any second. But it doesn’t. He stays online.
Parents have banned me from talking about family stuff online, Alex messages back. They’re REALLY private. Secretive, even. Like they’re trying to hide something.
Private. Secretive.
That doesn’t make sense, unless . . . unless Mum’s trying hard not to be found.
If it is Mum. I might be totally blowing this stuff up in my mind, but it feels like the stakes just got raised.
Sucks, I know, he says. But you’re secretive about your mum too. Maybe . . . no, it doesn’t matter.
Maybe what? I ask.
Maybe we can share a secret each. It will help us to trust each other.
I haven’t got any secrets, I say.
Everyone has secrets. He adds a little winking face icon to his message. Even things you might suppose nobody else is interested in.
When are you coming to Nottingham? I type quickly. That’s my secret! You asked where I lived and the answer is Nottingham.
Not a very exciting secret! Dunno, Dad keeps changing his work plans, Alex sends back.
It’s not the answer I was hoping for. He doesn’t even seem that interested.
Dad’s working in Manchester next week. Might be Nottingham the week after that, he types.
My heart sinks.
At first I was hoping to meet up with Alex just to hang out for a day as proper mates. But now I know his dad and stepmum might be trying to hide something, the idea that his stepmum could be Mum doesn’t feel as crazy any more.
My brain feels like it’s overheating.
Defo meet up tho, when I do come that way, Alex types. There’s a grinning icon next to his words.
I let out a long breath. I’m trying really hard not to scare Alex away by telling him my suspicions about his stepmum. He might write me off as a weirdo.
You got a coffee shop near to where you live? he asks.
Yep. One just down the road.
Cool, we can meet up there, he says. What branch is it?
It isn’t a chain coffee shop, so it hasn’t got a branch name.
It’s called Coffee ’n’ Cream, just at the bottom of Mundella Road. Anyone can tell you where that is, I say.
Is that just round the corner from you?
Yeah, my house is just at the top of the hill, I tell him.
I want Alex to visit. I’m certain he is who he says he is, despite Maryam’s suspicious mind. But I wonder what his face will look like when he realizes his new friend can’t string a sentence together.
OK, will defo let you know which day I’ll be coming, Alex says. Be thinking about a real secret to share, one worth knowing. Have to go now.
I sink into my chair, my mind whirling. The house is still and silent. I don’t know why it feels so different when Dad’s away. He’s always out working anyway.
When Alex knows which day he’s visiting, I’ll suggest we both bring photos of our families. Then I’ll know for sure about Mum without sounding like a crazy person. Or is it crazy enough to ask to see a photo of someone’s family?
I hear a noise downstairs, a sort of rattling. It sounds like it’s at the back of the house.
I look out of my bedroom window but I can’t see or hear anything. I wait a couple of minutes and just keep watch.
A train approaches, rumbling and whirring in the distance, before whooshing by in a blur of blue and yellow. The passengers’ faces light up for a second or two and I wonder if they can see the face of a boy at his bedroom window, looking back at them.
Then the train is gone and silence falls again.
Our patch of garden has thorny bushes all around the edge of it. Somebody could easily scramble across the railway tracks and hide in there, if they wanted to.
I’m still gazing down at the bottom of the garden when a quick movement catches my eye. I look down but whatever it was has gone.
It’s probably just next door’s cat . . . although the voice in my head says it moved more like a person.
I walk away from the window and on to the landing. The stairs are steep and narrow and the house is quite new so none of them creak.
I probably wouldn’t be able to hear anyone creeping upstairs, especially if I was asleep.
I don’t want to go to bed yet.
Saturday, 16 May
Dear Mum,
I don’t know why I went into Dad’s room. It’s been ages since I’ve been in there.
Actually, that first bit’s not strictly true. I’ve got a pretty good idea why I went in. I was lo
oking for something. I don’t know what, exactly. And I was feeling a bit creeped out by some noises I’d heard downstairs, if I’m honest.
Dad was never very good at cleaning when you were still here, Mum, but I don’t think he ever throws anything away at all now. Useless stuff is folded up in piles, stacked all around the edge of the room and halfway up the walls. Old magazines and your antique doll collection. Useless bits of wood he’s been given and even some of the old camping equipment that you’d put in the shed ready to throw out.
I didn’t realize Dad had brought all this stuff with him. He must’ve kept it up in the loft for ages before bringing it down. There are even some heaps of your old clothes, all folded up and looking a bit dusty.
I don’t know why he’s keeping all this stuff; soon he won’t be able to get in his bedroom at all. Sometimes I think Dad knows more than he lets on about why you walked out. I don’t have any EVIDENCE [14], it’s just a feeling I have.
You always used to tell me to trust my gut – that if I listened to my inner voice, I wouldn’t go far wrong. Dad used to laugh at that. He’d tell you to stop filling my head with mumbo-jumbo.
Since I’ve been talking to Alex online, I can’t push thoughts about you to the back of my mind any more. I used to believe Dad when he said it was for the best to forget everything about you. I used to think I had no choice.
But lately I’ve started feeling like there is a real chance of finding you. Maybe through the Scrabble championships, maybe through Alex – but the tiny spark of hope I used to bury deep in my chest feels like it’s grown into a little FLICKERING [20] flame.
I was in the room for just a few seconds when my eyes settled on that small wooden chest in the corner. You used to keep your paperwork in there, remember?
I walked over to it and I peeked inside the lid, expecting to see just an empty space, but the chest wasn’t empty at all. It was full, almost to the brim, of photographs.
I knelt down in front of it and I pulled out handful after handful of pictures that I never even knew existed, and I looked through every single one of them.
It was only when I got to the end that I realized my face was wet.
The photographs were all heaped up on the floor like a bonfire of happy memories that nobody but me cares about any more.
I pulled myself together and decided to put them all back. And that’s when I spotted a folded-up square of newspaper jammed in the bottom left-hand corner of the chest. It took ages to wiggle it free without tearing it.
The newspaper is dated a week after you left us. And there’s a scrawled phone number just under the SERRATED [9] edge at the top of the page.
At first I thought it was just a stupid travel article. But then I realized.
Bunny, Nottinghamshire.
That’s the place you were born, Mum.
And it’s only about fourteen miles from our house.
So this is what I’m thinking now: why would Dad go to the trouble of cutting out and keeping a newspaper report about somewhere so close to where we live? He said he’d piled all your stuff into the car and taken it down to the council tip. He told me he’d got rid of all the photographs of you, too.
It was all lies.
I copied the number down and put the newspaper back into the bottom of the chest. But when I started to pile the photographs back, it felt like I was pushing the memories of you away again, like a dark secret.
I don’t know what all this means yet. All I know is that I definitely found something SIGNIFICANT [17].
It’s just a feeling. But it’s all I’ve got and I’m holding on to it.
Love,
Finlay x
IF A PLAYER SUCCEEDS IN USING THEIR FULL RACK OF TILES – SEVEN LETTERS – THIS IS CALLED A ‘BINGO BONUS’.
Sunday
The next morning, I wake at 5.06 a.m.
Sunrises are worth getting up for, even if you wake up by mistake like I have.
The sky is streaked vivid orange and pink, like an artist drew it with a fine paintbrush. If I made a picture like that at school, Mrs Corner would say the colours need softening to make it more realistic. To get a good mark in Mrs Corner’s class, your picture has to match what she has in her head, not your own.
I’ve hardly slept at all but the weird thing is, the second my eyes snap open and I see that sky, I feel full of energy and determination.
The sun is completely risen now and hangs in the sky like a massive overripe blood orange, setting the walls of my bedroom on fire.
My mind has worked overtime all night and I’ve finally decided what my next move should be. But it’s far too early yet to take any action, so I decide to get up and have a shower.
As I step out of the tub and grab a fusty-smelling towel that’s been there for ages, I force myself to focus on the very important task I’ve set out to do this morning.
Dad has said so many times he doesn’t know where Mum is and that he wants to forget everything about her. So why save all her stuff and the photographs? Why hide an article about the village she was born, with a telephone number on it?
It looks like Dad has had a way of contacting her all this time.
While I eat breakfast, I take out the scrappy piece of paper from my jeans pocket and flatten it out on the table. Today could be the day I get to speak to Mum again.
At ten o’clock exactly, I take our cordless phone into the living room and I dial the number written down on the piece of paper.
Just as I think nobody is going to answer, I hear a voice – but in a flash, my hopes are dashed. It’s an answerphone.
‘Good morning, Bunny Post Office is now closed. We are open Monday to Friday nine until—’
Bunny Post Office? I don’t hear the rest of the recording until the words: ‘please leave a message after the tone.’
The machine beeps.
I take a breath.
‘I – I –’
The silence of the answer machine is almost worse than speaking to a real person.
‘C-c-could y-you pl—’
The words are bouncing against the roof of my mouth and back down my throat again, like an out of control ping-pong ball. I just want to know if Mum works there.
‘D-does Chr—’
I’m cut off by a continuous tone. The answerphone has decided I have had enough time to make my point.
I walk back into the kitchen and get a glass of water. I take a few deep breaths and then I punch in the numbers again.
I go through the same palaver and wait for the beep so I can start speaking.
‘C-could y-you tell m-me if Ch-Christa –’
Just say it, you idiot.
I open my mouth to try again but nothing comes out at all. Then I hear a sharp click and the continuous tone sounds, cutting me off again.
I bite my inside lip hard and a metallic taste fills my mouth. I feel like screaming but that won’t get me anywhere. So I try a third time, taking a deep breath . . . but the beep never comes. Instead, a toneless, robotic voice informs me, ‘Sorry, this voicemail is full. Please try again later.’
I snatch up the glass of water and throw it hard against the wall.
THE BINGO BONUS SCORE IS WORTH FIFTY POINTS, AND IS GIVEN IN ADDITION TO THE VALUE OF THE WORD PLAYED.
Monday
I found a note from Dad this morning, apologizing that he’d had to go out early on a job. Even though he was clattering around loud enough to wake the dead when he got back late last night, I was pleased he was home again and slept much better.
Double English to get through this morning . . . with Oliver . . . who finds it hilarious we’re covering speaking and listening skills.
‘Hear that, F-Finlay? You have to speak c-c-clearly,’ he hisses loudly from the back.
‘Quiet, please.’ Miss Bell scowls. ‘I want you all to think carefully about your class presentation. You can choose any subject you like.’
I copy down the presentation dates the teacher puts on the whiteboard
before meeting Maryam, as arranged, in the library.
‘So, how did it go?’ she asks.
I look at her.
‘The Skype session with the mysterious Alex?’
‘It d-didn’t w-work out,’ I say, untying my tile bag. ‘Alex’s w-we—, his w-we—’
The words stick fast but Maryam waits anyway. ‘His w-webc-cam –’
I slam the tile bag down and run my hand through my hair.
‘Try taking in a deep breath before you speak and then just say the words really quickly in one outbreath. She takes in a big gulp of air. ‘Just-say-the-words-quickly-with-no-gaps-like-this.’
It sounds like she’s pushing the words out whether they want to come or not.
I look at her.
‘Up to you.’ She shrugs. ‘Perhaps it is worth a try?’
I look around to check there is nobody sitting close to us. Mrs Adams is over in the far corner of the library, sorting through a box of newly delivered books.
I take a breath.
And I let it out again without speaking.
It’s not going to work. It’s easy for Maryam to demonstrate it because she hasn’t got a stammer.
I stick my hand in the tile bag and line my seven letters up on the tile rack.
Maryam does the same. She doesn’t look at me.
My turn first. I play E-X-A-M.
Maryam shakes her head.
‘Bad move,’ she mutters.
I wouldn’t call a score of twenty-six a bad move for my first word.
I clamp my mouth shut and pick four new tiles.
‘You need to save your power tiles until you can utilize them on a high-scoring square,’ she says. She wiggles her fingers at the board. ‘This? This is just a waste of your powerful letter X. Do you see that, Finlay?’
It’s just a stupid practice game, I don’t know why she’s making such a big deal about it.
‘Perhaps you are thinking I am causing some trouble over this,’ Maryam says. ‘But this is important. You must choose carefully when to use your power. This will get you results that can win.’
There’s a commotion over by the doors as Oliver and his friends enter the library. Oliver’s arm is no longer in a sling. He points over to us and says something behind his hand. They all laugh loudly.