A Seven-Letter Word

by Kim Slater

  Mrs Adams pushes the box of books aside and walks over to them.

  ‘We’ve come to see if you’ve got any Shakespeare in, miss,’ Oliver says, and his mates titter and nudge each other.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you’re so keen to read the works of Shakespeare, Oliver.’ Mrs Adams gives him a tight smile. ‘Over on the far wall you’ll find a shelf full of plays and poetry. I’ll be watching.’

  My arms feel all itchy, like they’re crawling with insects. I rub at my skin and shuffle around in my seat.

  ‘Concentrate on the game,’ Maryam hisses. ‘Ignore those clowns.’

  I make a real effort to immerse myself in the letters and words and soon Oliver’s laughter and the antics of his friends fade away and out of my circle of attention.

  Maryam and I are level pegging on score all the way through and then, bam! She lays down B-L-A-Z-I-N-G, using the G I just played. Her Z lands on a double-letter square and the B on a triple-word score. Eighty-seven stinking points on one word.

  I look up at her and grin, waiting for her to crow. But Maryam isn’t looking at me and she isn’t grinning back.

  Her face looks tight and strange like she’s not sure what to do.

  A LIGHT BLUE SQUARE DOUBLES THE SCORE OF THE LETTER TILE PLACED ON IT.

  Maryam’s attention is focused on something behind me.

  Then I hear Oliver’s sneering voice. ‘Not bad for a girl. Especially a greasy headscarf girl, who stinks of curry.’

  Maryam smells sweet, like coconut. The wisps of hair that sometimes escape her headscarf are strong and shiny.

  I turn round to look for Mrs Adams but I can only see the back of her head in the storeroom, right over in the far corner of the library.

  ‘H-hey,’ I say, standing up. ‘D-don’t –’

  ‘D-don’t w-what, Finlay? C-come on, we haven’t got all d-day. Say what you m-mean.’

  Darren and Mitchell snigger.

  ‘W-well?’ Oliver says. ‘Tell you what, just say your name, then. Anybody can do that, right? Even a three-year-old can say their own name. Just say “My name is Finlay McIntosh”, and I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Ignore him, Finlay, they are not worth the effort.’ Maryam stands up and begins putting the lettered tiles back in the bag.

  ‘The effort to do what, Headscarf?’ Oliver snaps. ‘To say his name, to speak? Speaking is the most natural thing in the world, unless you’re an ignorant foreigner or a st-stammerer, that is.’

  ‘That’s right,’ adds Darren, pushing the board hard, so the tiles scatter across the table.

  I hear the storeroom door close and glance hopefully across the room but Mrs Adams is standing just outside the library now, talking to a student.

  ‘Can you smell something, F-Finlay? I suppose you must like that foreign stink, you spend all your time with her.’

  Oliver takes a step closer and Maryam’s whole body stiffens. Her usually lively brown eyes seem paler somehow and she doesn’t try to defend herself against Oliver’s nasty words. She just stares ahead, as if her mind has gone to another place.

  ‘What you hiding under that headscarf, anyway? You got a bomb tucked away under there?’ Oliver kicks out but Maryam steps back.

  ‘Blimey, I thought I heard something ticking,’ Darren says in a scared voice, and the three of them fall about laughing.

  ‘England is for the English,’ Oliver snarls.

  I see his arm begin to rise, his hand forms a claw shape and moves towards Maryam’s headscarf. I launch myself, throwing my full weight at him. He staggers sideways and falls, yelping as the corner of a table bites into his thigh muscle.

  Mrs Adams steps back into the library, just as I slam into Oliver.

  She strides over.

  Oliver wails and sinks to the floor, clutching his leg and writhing around in an Oscar-winning performance.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Mrs Adams says as she helps Oliver to his feet.

  ‘H-he w-was –’ I try to explain but my tongue feels all swollen and the words tuck themselves away under it.

  ‘Finlay just attacked him, miss,’ Mitchell blurts out. ‘For no reason.’

  ‘N-no h-he –’

  ‘We were just minding our own business, miss,’ Darren says, wide-eyed with innocence.

  Mrs Adams looks at me for a response but all my sentences have broken into tiny pieces in my mouth.

  ‘Maryam? What happened here?’

  I wait for her to speak up for us both. I wait for her to tell Mrs Adams about Oliver’s racist words and how aggressive he’s been. But she doesn’t answer.

  ‘Maryam? Can you tell me what just happened?’ Mrs Adams tries again.

  Maryam shakes her head.

  ‘Then I have no choice but to report this whole sorry incident to your Head of Year,’ Mrs Adams says to me, walking away. ‘Wait there, while I get a Violent Incident form.’

  ‘Told you I’d get you back for my arm.’ Oliver leans forward, his voice dropping low. ‘Let’s see them put you forward for the championships now, St-stutter Boy.’

  Mrs Adams summons a first-aider who suggests Oliver applies a cold compress to his leg, and he limps off, smirking when he passes me.

  Maryam – who always has an answer and always has something to say – is silent, as if she’s somehow folded-in on herself. I want to tell her I saw that Oliver was going to pull off her headscarf and I want to ask why she didn’t defend herself to Mrs Adams when she had the chance. But I can’t say any of it because my head is pounding and my scalp is crawling.

  I’ve got this urge to pace up and down, to scratch at my arms and legs. But I don’t. I sit still and silent, the same as Maryam, knotting and unknotting my fingers.

  Soon, Mr Homer, the Head of Year, appears. We follow him to his office and he moves chairs around so the three of us can sit in a small circle.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he says.

  Neither of us speaks.

  ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourselves,’ he says, glancing at Mrs Adams’s report. ‘Finlay, it says here you attacked Oliver Haywood. Why did you do that?’

  ‘H-he was g-gr—’

  ‘He was what? Giggling? Grabbing?’

  I tense up and the words all stick together, like a hairball under my tongue.

  ‘H-he was g-going t-to g-gr—’

  ‘Marion,’ Mr Homer interrupts. ‘Finlay’s having trouble, can you tell me what happened in the library?’

  ‘My name is Maryam,’ she says in a small voice.

  ‘What? Oh right, Maryam. Now what happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Maryam says.

  I look at her but she won’t meet my eyes.

  ‘Look, I know Oliver Haywood is no angel. If he upset you in any way, now is your chance to tell me.’

  ‘Oliver was going to pull off my headscarf,’ Maryam says, finally. ‘Finlay stopped him.’

  ‘Did Oliver actually touch you?’ Mr Homer pressed.

  ‘No . . . but –’

  ‘You can’t just go around barging into people on the strength they might do something, Finlay.’ Mr Homer frowns. ‘Oliver says he tried to chat to you both about Scrabble and that you got angry because he interrupted your game. If you’re prepared to apologize to Oliver, perhaps the three of you could make amends over a game of Scrabble and we can let it go, this time.’

  ‘I don’t want Oliver Haywood anywhere near me,’ Maryam says.

  Her voice is still quiet but her tone is defiant.

  ‘That’s really not a helpful attitude to have, Marion,’ Mr Homer says. ‘I know you’ve had problems previously at this school and reacted in an inappropriate manner. But from what I can gather, Oliver didn’t actually assault you, you just thought he might.’

  Maryam glances at me.

  ‘For your own sake, you must learn to fit in with the other students and try not to always expect the worst of people. Remember that integration works both ways, Marion.’

  Mr Homer g
lances at his watch.

  ‘Right, I’m on duty now so I’ve got to go back outside. So . . .’ He looks at us both in turn. ‘I suggest the pair of you take five minutes now to think long and hard about your behaviour before you go and apologize to Oliver. I’ll be checking with him tomorrow.’

  In seconds he has left the room and we’re left just looking at each other.

  I take a big gulp of air in and I fill it with words like Maryam showed me and I blow it out again.

  ‘I’ll-never-say-sorry-to-him.’

  The words tumble out in an uninterrupted stream. My mouth hangs open and I feel the colour drain from my face. I actually said the words without a hitch.

  Maryam’s fingers hang in mid-air, releasing the corner of the scarf she’s been twisting.

  ‘Wow,’ she whispers.

  IF TWO TRIPLE-WORD SQUARES ARE USED IN ONE WORD, THE TOTAL WORD VALUE SHOULD BE MULTIPLIED BY NINE TO ACHIEVE A FINAL SCORE.

  After school, I go to the Broadmarsh station and get a bus out of town to Bunny village.

  It takes about twenty minutes, and I spend practically every single one of them wondering if I’ve finally found the place that Mum has been living all this time. I always assumed Mum would live a long way from home, maybe in a different country, even. Who’d have thought she might have been living really close to us? So close, we’d never think to ever look there.

  My fingers rest against the smooth, cool surface of her photograph. I’d managed to save this one from Dad’s clearing-out rampage; little did I know he’d kept hundreds more.

  Perhaps Mum works at the Post Office and that could be the reason Dad has the number written down. When I walk in, she might be there, standing behind the counter checking a passport application or something.

  Using Maryam’s big-breath technique, maybe I could even speak to her without making myself look stupid.

  Today could be the best day of my life.

  I hop off the bus and start walking. I’m not sure where the Post Office is but the village is small, it can’t be a million miles away.

  I pass an old man, shuffling along with his shopping bag. Speaking to a stranger fills me with dread but I either get the words out somehow, or admit it’s been a wasted journey.

  I hold Mum’s photograph up. ‘Ex-ex-cuse m-me, I’m l-looking for this l-lady. Ha-have you s-seen her ar-around here?’

  The old man gives me a long look and takes the photo with a tremoring hand. He holds it far away and then up very close, squinting at it the whole time.

  ‘Nah,’ he says, handing it back to me. ‘Never seen her around here, mi duck. Sorry.’

  Just because the first person I’ve asked hasn’t seen Mum, it doesn’t really prove anything. The old man points out the Post Office, which is at bottom of the road, at the back of the Co-op. There are quite a few people in the supermarket but nobody being served at the Post Office counter.

  At the back of the counter are rows of shelves stacked with different-sized brown envelopes, packaging tape and felt-tip pens.

  A lady stands behind the glass partition. It isn’t Mum.

  ‘I-I’m l-looking f-for s-someone,’ I manage.

  I slide Mum’s photograph under the gap in the glass screen.

  The woman looks at me and then picks up the photo and studies it.

  ‘Are you the boy who tried to leave a message yesterday?’ she asks.

  I nod. She slides the photograph back to me and shakes her head.

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen this person.’

  I move quickly out of the shop, I need to get some fresh air. I walk up and down the main road in the village, calling at the pub, all the shops, and I even stop and ask a caretaker who is sweeping the schoolyard.

  Nobody has seen Mum. I don’t think she’s here.

  I sit on a bench on a small patch of grass near the bus stop and squeeze my eyes shut. I’m searching for a good thought, a little piece of hope, but I can’t seem to find anything.

  It feels like I’m in a big hall like the one at the Council House that has a really high, domed ceiling. When you shout, your voice echoes everywhere and fills the room, but within seconds it is gone.

  It feels like you just imagined it and it never really existed at all.

  Monday, 18 May

  Dear Mum,

  It’s funny, but it’s the little details that I hardly took any notice of when you were here that are the ones I miss the most. Like you singing to the radio and the way you’d set the table for breakfast each morning.

  My drawers were always full of clean socks and undies and an ironed school shirt would be hanging in my wardrobe each morning. These are the things I really miss.

  Not because they’re things I have to do for myself now but because they were the things that you did for me that showed you were still around, even if you’d gone out for the day or had to stay overnight somewhere with work. The house was still full of you.

  When we moved to this new house, I really missed my friends back home. And I missed you. If I concentrated really hard, I could just about remember the smell of your PERFUME [14], and hear you say, ‘Sometimes, Finlay, you’re better off acting happy even if you don’t feel it inside. You can get through the day, that way.’

  I wonder now, if the times you danced around the kitchen, you were just acting happy. And when you squealed with delight when I came up with a seven-letter word, were you just getting through?

  There are days when I can’t remember your smell or your voice, no matter how hard I try.

  Those are the days when it feels like you were never here at all.

  Love,

  Finlay x

  A DARK BLUE SQUARE TRIPLES THE VALUE OF THE LETTER TILE PLACED ON IT.

  After I’ve hidden my journal, I remember to delete the answerphone message from Mr Homer, informing Dad about the ‘incident’ with Oliver. I don’t want him refusing to go to Brighton again because he thinks I’ve got into trouble at school.

  Meeting up with Alex feels even more important after what happened in Bunny. I’d been so sure that the phone number from the newspaper cutting was going to lead me to Mum. This is not the way it was supposed to turn out.

  When I log on to the game site upstairs, Alex is waiting.

  Hey, he sends over. How’s your day been?

  Pretty rubbish, I send back.

  Why, what’s up?

  If I’m going to be mates with Alex, I have to trust him. Alex could be the first good friend I’ve had since I left my old school. Apart from Maryam, of course.

  Wanna talk about it? he sends again.

  Just trouble from some creep at school, I say, playing it down a bit.

  What’s his name . . . so I know to avoid him when I come to Nottingham?

  Oliver Haywood, I say. Hope you never have to meet him.

  Sometimes, people like that need teaching a lesson.

  Yeah, I type, grinning. You up for a game?

  Can’t. Tea ready in 15. Can chat for a bit though.

  Cool.

  So, have you got a decent secret to share then?

  Alex’s words flicker slightly in the message box, waiting for my reply. I feel like there’s a kind of pressure behind them. But I have to say something.

  OK, here’s a secret – I hate ice cream!! Hardly anyone knows that about me :-D

  Nothing back for a few minutes.

  Then Alex’s reply arrives.

  I mean a REAL secret, Finlay. One you care about – one that you haven’t told anyone else.

  My clammy hands fall away from the keyboard.

  I know I should log off, that’s what you’re supposed to do if you feel uncomfortable online. But I don’t want to offend Alex, there’s too much at stake.

  In the absence of knowing what to say, I go downstairs to get a mug of tea and a biscuit. When I get back, there’s another message blinking at me from the middle of the screen.

  OK, my turn first. Three years ago I found out my dad was having a fling
with the woman he worked with. And I didn’t tell my mum.

  Now I’m really lost for words. What do you say to something like that?

  My mum died a year later, he goes on. Made me feel like a proper traitor, you know?

  You shouldn’t feel bad, it wasn’t your fault, I type.

  Nothing for a minute or two and then he replies.

  I’ve never told anyone that before, Finlay.

  My tingly fingers hover above the keyboard. Alex must trust me completely to share something that personal.

  I haven’t got many mates. Spend most of my time in the house since Mum died, he continues. Embarrassing, right?

  I know how that feels. It’s amazing how much I have in common with Alex. Mum didn’t die, but since she went away, having mates is just a distant memory.

  It’s OK if you don’t want to share anything with me, I understand, he says.

  He must REALLY trust me to open up like he has and not expect anything back. My breathing has got faster, shallower. My hands feel a bit shaky but my fingers start to type. When I’ve finished, I send the message before I can change my mind.

  Here’s my secret, the one I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about. My mum left home two years ago, just disappeared. She never said goodbye and I still don’t know why she left.

  I wait for Alex’s shocked response but he stays quiet.

  I take a gulp of tea but it doesn’t help my dry mouth. Telling Alex my secret might make it easier to ask him about his stepmum. In a few minutes, if I ask the right questions, it might just be possible I have found my mum.

  THERE ARE FOUR DOUBLE-WORD SQUARES ON THE BOARD.

  Have you ever sat waiting for something for exactly seventy-two seconds?

  I mean just sat, staring into space. Not looking at your phone or reading, or listening to music. Just waiting.

  Trust me, seventy-two seconds can seem like an hour.

  Just as I convince myself I’ve offended Alex in some way, a message flashes up.

  Who says you’re not supposed to talk about it? Alex asks.