by FJ Campbell
Beth shuddered at the thought.
Livvy said, ‘I feel sorry for him, he’s been living in Weatherbury village all his life. His mum and dad worked there—’
‘Worked, past tense? Why not any more? Thought you said his dad was the groundsman?’
‘Yes, but did I not tell you this? I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. I must be getting sloppy. Milo’s mum was our music teacher, but she died two years ago last spring. It was so sad. She was lovely, she was my fave teacher, and then she got ill with cancer, and she died.’
Beth swallowed a lump in her throat. She remembered Milo all right: with his face up close to hers, a sprinkling of freckles on his nose, the sweat on the line of his upper lip, the blond stubble on his jaw. She had liked the way he’d smelt, a boy-sweat smell, it had taken her by surprise and she’d realised she’d never been that close to a boy before. And his smile was so adorable – she hadn’t been able to resist smiling back at him.
Livvy interrupted her thoughts. ‘And now his dad has gone all bizarre, you know?’
‘Not really. How d’you mean, bizarre?’ Beth liked Livvy, but she was often baffled by her unique turn of phrase.
‘He hardly turns up to work any more – I heard some of the other ground staff talking about it. I asked Milo and he said he’s ill. A lot. When he is there, he’s like a zombie, and once I saw him down by the grass tennis courts, just staring off into the woods, so I said hello and he was crying. Bizarre. And what’s even bizarrer—’
‘More bizarre.’
Livvy pulled a face. ‘Yes, that. When Mrs West died, that’s exactly how Milo was. I mean, he didn’t disappear, he was still at school, but all that summer, if you talked to him he just blanked you. Stared off into space. He screwed up big time with his GCSEs, even though he’s no thicko. Unlike moi. He’s OK now, he’s really brave; I expect Mr West will muddle through too.’
But Beth thought that Livvy didn’t look convinced. ‘Do you really think Milo’s OK?’
‘Yes, maybe, not sure. He seems better these days. Why do you ask?’
Beth breathed in and out. ‘I just think, you know, he’s this great hulking rugby player and he looks so tough and… I dunno, strong. And then you talk to him and he’s actually really sensitive and… his eyes. He just looks a bit lost. Like a lost puppy.’
‘Yeah? I think that might be something else.’
Beth frowned and thought about the way he had looked at her after he’d fallen off the ladder, his hair crushed down on one side like a huge, messy child woken from a deep sleep; how his big, brown hand had trembled as he held hers when they sat together on the tree stump. She had been so silly with him, unkind really, flirting with him a bit. Or a lot? She felt bad about it now, but what could she do? Should she write to him, or ask Livvy if she had his phone number? But what good would that do? No, it was best to let it go. He would leave Weatherbury Hall and she would start the following term and they’d never even meet again.
*
Beth didn’t see Livvy again for a while. James’ publishers kept calling with updates about the biography and it was becoming clear that there would be more money than they had ever dreamed of. Anne put down a deposit on a house in a better part of town and they moved in just before Easter. The new house was away from the estate and there were only a few weeks to go until Beth would be finished with the comp. They were going away in the summer holidays, somewhere swish, the three of them, and there were new clothes in her wardrobe for once, and she could buy all the books she wanted. The future, with money, glowed in her mind with so much promise: escape, freedom, fun, never-ending skies to be discovered, everything hers for the taking. So all in all, she had to convince herself less and less that it had been a seriously bad decision to let James write the book.
*
At the start of the summer term, Livvy called her in tears.
‘It’s Milo,’ she said, and Beth heard a great sob at the other end of the phone.
‘Who?’ Oh, Milo West, she thought. ‘What? What is it?’ Livvy sounded so upset, and a dread feeling crept into Beth’s mind. Surely Milo wasn’t…
‘His dad. His dad committed suicide.’
Beth’s first thought was, Thank God. But what kind of a thought was that? Milo’s dad had committed suicide? She couldn’t bear the thought of what Milo must be going through. She managed to stammer, ‘How is he?’
‘He’s dead, Beth. Did you not hear?’
Beth waited until Livvy’s howls had calmed into sniffling. ‘No, I mean, how’s Milo?’
‘Oh. I see. He’s a mess. Totally flaking out. We’ve had a massive lecture about it from our housemistress. Apparently, Mr West disappeared on the anniversary of Mrs West’s death. Two days later, they found his… body up on a hill near the school; he’d taken pills.’
‘Who? Who found him?’ Beth felt sick.
‘Some random hiker. He – Mr West, not the hiker – left a letter, saying he couldn’t cope.’
‘Couldn’t cope? What the hell?’ After the initial shock, Beth felt only anger that he could have done something so monumentally selfish. ‘How could he do that – leave Milo alone in the world? What kind of a shite father was he?’
‘He was depressed. Desperate. No one saw it coming, but he hasn’t been right since his wife died.’
‘Still. How will Milo… what will he do now? Does he have any other family?’
‘Nope, I asked Mrs Toms. He’s all alone now. He’s seventeen, so he doesn’t have to go into care, he can live independently. He’s boarding this term; they’ve given him a room in Casterbridge House so he’s not living by himself during exams. After that, he’s got his parents’ house to live in.’
‘Shit.’ Something else occurred to Beth. ‘Never mind the Weatherbury Hall school fees – how can he afford to go to school at all? Surely he’ll have to get a job?’
‘Gosh, hadn’t thought of that. I’ll have to ask him.’
‘No, don’t. Don’t bother him. Poor Milo. Last thing he needs, after all this, is for you to give him the third degree.’
Beth said goodbye to Livvy, having arranged to meet after exams were finished. She thought about Milo a lot that summer, about what a nightmare his life had turned into, and whether he was going to be able to ‘muddle through’ all over again, or not. Before term ended, she made a decision, discussed it with James and Anne, checked her fat bank account, and dialled the number for the headmaster’s office at Weatherbury Hall.
‘Mr Toms? It’s Beth Atkinson here.’
‘Beth?’ His voice sounded strained. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I… um. I heard about Milo. Milo West. Mr West,’ she gabbled.
‘Yes. Very unfortunate. A sad business.’
‘I… it’s about Milo…’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
She took a deep breath. ‘I want him to have my scholarship.’
More silence.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I want him to have my scholarship.’
‘Excuse me, sorry, do I understand you correctly – you are not taking up the scholarship? You’re not coming to Weatherbury Hall?’
‘No, Mr Toms, that’s not what I meant. I would still like to come to Weatherbury Hall – very much. I just don’t want – I mean, I don’t need – the scholarship any more. I’ll pay the fees. Would it be possible… is it allowed… can Milo have the scholarship?’
‘Goodness gracious. Have you considered this fully?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Are your parents – your guardian – is your aunt aware of this?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I am.’
There was a whoosh of breath on the line. Beth was expecting complications and objections but to her surprise, Mr Toms said, ‘Wonderful. Marvellous. Yes. What a simply… I can’t tell you… just a moment, please…’
She waited.
‘I can’t tell you how much
this will mean to Milo, and how much it means to me. Milo is a very deserving young man who, as you are aware, has suffered enormously in the last few years. You are doing a remarkable thing, Beth.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. I’d like to clear this with the board of governors immediately, and then notify Milo as soon as possible. Goodbye, Beth, I look forward to seeing you in September. And Beth?’
‘Yes, Mr Toms?’
‘We were right to award you that scholarship.’
CHAPTER 3
Milo had spent every waking moment of the summer term revising for his GCSEs, never allowing himself to think about his mum or his dad, only leaving his desk to eat in the dining hall or go for a run in the woods. Even at night, in his new room, he pushed them out of his head. He listened instead to the noises of the boarding house that kept him wide awake – creaking floorboards, flushing toilets, faint voices in the hallways. And the strange smells too, of damp socks and furniture polish and sweat. He stared at the walls of his small room, bare except for his revision timetable, a photo of his mum and dad and a poster of Winona Ryder that Guy had lent him. His new home. But it didn’t feel like home. Nothing felt like anything. He was a robot, a ‘Milo Machine’ according to Guy, the only person who could raise a faint smile on Milo’s face. Others tried: Mrs Toms insisted he ate dinner with her and the headmaster once a week, and she fussed about whether he was eating enough and worried that he’d lost some weight.
And then, out of nowhere, Elizabeth Atkinson. Again. The girl in the red coat, the girl who had told him to forget about her. Milo was stunned by what she had done for him. She liked him; or at least, she didn’t hate him; or at the very least, she didn’t mind him. That was something. And what was more than something: he could stay at The Island. He could keep his room in Casterbridge House, and the cottage for weekends and the holidays. He would still have Guy and his other friends from the rugby team. But he wouldn’t be captain next year – Mr Toms had explained with regret that the captaincy had been given to an upper-sixth-former, Justin Ravensdale, when they’d thought Milo was leaving Weatherbury Hall. Milo accepted it with good grace; it seemed churlish to do otherwise.
At last, GCSEs finished and the whole summer stretched before him. It would be lonely without his mum and dad, but after that he’d be back at school again, all thanks to Elizabeth. When he thought about her and how he’d chased after her, it almost made him laugh, it was so – what was the word she’d used? – absurd. She was way out of his league, as she’d proved beyond all doubt by not only being spectacularly hot, but also a winner of scholarships, so minted that she could pay her own way through the sixth form, and philanthropic to boot. What a girl.
He, on the other hand, wasn’t ever going to get a girl like that. He refused to feel sorry for himself, but her charitable act marked out the difference between them: I have everything, so here, have it; I don’t need it, but you do. He had been reduced to nothing, that was the brutal truth about his dad’s suicide that he had to face up to. And not just financially. His dad was supposed to have looked after him, at least until he turned eighteen or left school. But he hadn’t managed it. Milo had meant nothing to him. There was a void where his mum used to be and Milo could never fill it; he was invisible, not special enough to his dad, who hadn’t been able to summon up even a speck of love for him.
He didn’t want to talk about it, not with anyone. How would that conversation even go?
Milo West: ‘I believe I am so irrelevant to the human race that my own father topped himself rather than spend any time with me.’
Guy Revel: ‘Wow that is an epic headfuck. Want to watch TV?’
And if Milo said it out loud, it would make it worse, more real. He didn’t know much, but he knew this: whatever had happened to him up until now was over. As of now everything was up to him; he had to ignore the ache again, make sure he didn’t let it do to him what it had done to his dad. He had to swallow his pride and accept charity. He had to fight, or everything would turn to shit. No self-pity. No sob stories. Starting now.
*
After Speech Day, the pupils were taken home from The Island by their parents, cheerfully discussing their summer plans: holidays to the Med, the Cayman Islands, Hong Kong, sailing, surfing, parties at their parents’ beach houses. Milo wasn’t going anywhere this summer – he needed every day of the holidays to earn money to live on. The new groundsman had given him a month’s work and he had picked up two weeks at Melchester Racecourse, as a waiter and barman. The restaurant and bar manager had turned a blind eye to the fact that he was not yet eighteen – he looked so much older, nobody would question it. Milo accepted Mrs Toms’ offer of driving lessons, and they practised on the miles of school driveway until he passed his test. She also insisted on showing him how to cook a few basic recipes. He thought, with immense gratitude, She’s teaching me how to survive.
Melchester Racecourse was thirty miles from The Island. Milo knew the way there because it was close to Melchester hospital, where his mum had spent the last few weeks of her life in the Macmillan Ward. Milo borrowed Mrs Toms’ battered old Ford Fiesta for the two weeks, while she and Mr Toms were on holiday. He had to be at work at eight o’clock every morning and worked until midnight, clearing up after the guests in the bars and hospitality marquees had gone home. It was loud, hot and busy in the marquees, and the days were long and tedious, but it was well paid.
On the final Friday of the races, Milo was working in the champagne marquee, when Livvy and a group of friends he didn’t know sat at a table at the far end of the tent. Milo went over to take their order.
‘Hi, Livvy,’ he said quietly, pad poised.
‘Milo,’ she squeaked, and stood up to hug him. She was already drunk, and so was everyone else at the table, their cheeks flushed and their eyes glittering.
‘Who’s your friend, Livs?’ asked a red-faced boy with floppy blond hair and a posh voice.
‘Everyone, this is Milo. He’s at my school. And he’s here too. He’s everywhere.’ She collapsed into giggles and sat down as he took their orders.
‘I say, Miles, you couldn’t sneak us a couple of bottles of champers on the q.t. could you?’ asked Floppy. ‘I’m seriously low on funds at the moment.’
‘Milo. No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’
Behind Floppy’s back, Livvy was mouthing Tosser at him as Milo tried to keep a straight face.
‘I’ll just… get these drinks. Bye.’
He brought the bottles and glasses to the table and listened as he poured.
Someone was asking Livvy, ‘Is that other school friend of yours coming? Beth?’
Milo kept his eyes on what he was doing.
Livvy answered, ‘Yes, supposedly, but she’s late as usual.’
‘Oh goody, she’s not spoken for, is she? Didn’t you say there was some fellow at your school who was mad for her?’
Milo flicked up his eyes to meet Livvy’s and his hand slipped as he twisted the next bottle. The cork banged out and hit the ceiling of the marquee, champagne fizzing out of the bottle and soaking his trousers.
‘Shit. Sorry.’ Milo hoped his boss hadn’t seen: the waiters were bollocked if they wasted the champagne. Only the punters were allowed to spray it around. He wiped his hands on his shirt and grinned ruefully at Livvy, who was giggling again.
*
Elizabeth arrived after lunch and Milo hardly recognised her. She looked more confident and grown-up, in a white sundress with a green-and-pink flower pattern. She must have been on holiday; her long legs and slim arms were tanned. At each table she passed, Milo saw heads turning: lazy, drunken smiles from the men; whispers and nudges from the women. Milo steeled himself and kept his eyes focused on the work he was supposed to be doing: uncorking bottle after bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her joining in with the raucous behaviour of the group at her table. That was where she belonged now, with that sort of person. Flo
ppy was trying his best to get off with her, filling up her glass and draping his arm over the back of her chair. Once, she glanced over to Milo and he thought she smiled at him. Apart from that she ignored him. So he took the hint and kept his distance.
Later that night, when the marquees and bars were closing, Livvy and Elizabeth’s group were still hanging around. Milo kept an eye on them as he cleared the glasses, bottles and plastic cups from his area. It seemed that the game was to be moved on from every area of the racecourse until the whole place was shut down. By that time the staff were thoroughly annoyed with these obnoxious poshos, and Milo was told to get them to clear off, since he knew them.
Without bothering to deny it, he wandered over, his mind scrambling at the thought of finally speaking to Elizabeth after all this time, and after what she’d done for him. The group had finally decided to leave – there were about six of them left now, gathered around a new, shiny jeep, discussing who was going to drive them to Livvy’s place for the next party. One of them leant his hand on the bonnet of the car and was sick on the ground. Jesus, thought Milo, she can’t possibly get into a car with one of these cretins driving.
‘Hey, do you lot need me to call you a taxi?’
‘No thanks, Milo,’ said Livvy, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Beth’s driving – she’s an accomplished automobilist. One of her many talents.’
Milo watched in alarm as Floppy gripped Elizabeth’s arm to guide her to the jeep door. He seriously doubted that she could drive; she wasn’t even seventeen yet, so she didn’t have a licence, and she couldn’t even walk in a straight line. She was staring at Floppy’s hand and then she looked at Milo – was that a flicker of anxiety in her eyes?
He tried to give her a meaningful look. She didn’t react. He shook his head quickly, so only she could see. He was frightened now, and angry – if Floppy took one more step towards the jeep, he’d have to rugby-tackle him. He gestured to her to come over.
‘What’s up, Milo West?’ she drawled. But she loosened herself from the boy’s grip and walked towards him. Her face was half scared, half defiant. ‘Don’t bloody lecture me, it’s just a dare. Can’t resist a dare.’