by Adam Baron
‘What do you think my mum will choose?’
Veronique shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I think you’ll …’
‘Yes?’
‘Just have to ask her.’
And I knew that Veronique was right. I nodded and she smiled at me, before we both went over to her mum, who was dropping me home that day. She chatted like she normally did, asking about our day, Veronique answering while I just sat quietly in the back, until we stopped outside my house.
‘Thanks,’ I said, as I shut the car door behind me.
And I took a deep breath, staring at our front door, wondering just how I could ask Mum what she was going to do. I also wondered when I could ask her, when I could get her on her own. The house was always so busy! How would she even hear me above the Squeaky Chicks?
But the house wasn’t busy.
And there were no Squeaky Chicks.
Our front door was open, so I didn’t have to knock. I just pushed it and walked in – and was stunned. As stunned as I’d been by the burglary. It was quiet – really quiet. And the hallway was … empty. Not completely empty, but the shoe rack only had Mum’s shoes on, and my trainers. The coatrack was the same: no longer all humped over, but neat. Just our coats. Hers and mine. There was no toolbox underneath it. And, when I walked through to the living room, I stared at the sofa – back in the middle, not pushed up against the wall to make more space.
No.
And then I had a thought, and I spun round and ran up the stairs, though not to my room. I stood outside the boxroom, too scared to push the door open until I made myself.
And I saw that it was empty.
There were no mattresses on the floor. There were no leotards piled on the chest of drawers. And there was nothing hanging from the ceiling, or standing up on the shelves.
All of Mabel’s unicorns were gone.
I took a breath. And then another. There was a burning at the back of my eyes. I walked backwards on to the landing, in a bit of a daze, until I heard talking from downstairs. Mum. I went to see who she was talking to and saw her on the phone, in the kitchen. She looked serious. And determined. I watched as she took deep, measured breaths, before she closed her eyes and shook her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But that’s it. If you want to call us, you can. And you can come round too. I’d like that, though don’t think that you have to. We had some very good times together and we can remember those. But that’s enough. We don’t need to pretend that us being together is something that should really happen. Because it isn’t.’
Mum hesitated, and listened, until her face went all firm again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But that’s all I’ve got to say about it.’ And, without waiting for an answer, she hung up.
Which is when she saw me.
Mum’s eyes met mine. She walked forward and bent down to me. I thought she’d say something, but she didn’t: she just used her thumbs to push my tears away. And then she did something odd, which she hadn’t done for ages. I didn’t even know that she could still lift me up, but she did it, stepping back to hitch me up as my arms went round her neck. I thought she wanted a hug – but she didn’t. She started to move, me going backwards towards the front door and out of it. On the pavement Mum turned right, and I wondered where she was taking me.
I didn’t have to wonder for long.
Mum went up to Mr Fells’s door and tapped on it with her foot. What? Mr Fells was in prison. Everyone knew that. It was on the news.
But it wasn’t Mr Fells who opened the door.
It was Stephan.
‘Cym!’ he said. ‘Good to see you. Well, come in then, you two.’
And in we went, into what was, Stephan soon told me, his new house!
‘So you’re going to be …?’
‘Living next door,’ Mum said, setting me down on the floor.
‘And you’re …?’
‘Still together? Yes. Of course we are. It’s just that you were right. Our place is too small for us all.’
‘But what about the loft conversion?’
‘We’ll see about that. Meanwhile, Stephan’s going to live here and do it up.’
‘Sure am,’ Stephan said. ‘It’s a right old mess. Your mum and I are buying it!’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Mum said. ‘And in a while we’ll all move in together. Or we won’t. Not everyone has to do things the same way. Families …’
‘Families what?’
‘Don’t all have to look the same to be families, you know?’
And I did know. Certainly no other family looked like this one. But this family was great, and I was SO happy to be a part of it, in spite of missing Dad. Mum told me that he’d left.
‘He got a part in that film. Six months in France. He went this morning.’
‘Couldn’t he have waited to say goodbye?’
‘He didn’t have time, Cym. Apparently. But he said to give you this.’
Mum handed me an envelope and I opened it. Inside was a piece of paper.
IOU one trip to see Barcelona at the Nou Camp, love Dad x
I folded it back up and put it in my pocket – which is when Ellen came in. She said she wanted to show me her new room and I was about to follow her – but I couldn’t. Because, behind Ellen, was Mabel, whose eyes widened like stars.
‘Thimbeline!’ she screamed, before doing what Mabel ALWAYS does.
She charged.
Which really IS the end, apart from one last thing that you’re going to have to help me with. We’ve got a problem and we STILL haven’t solved it. Jess and Milly and I are friends now. Mum lets us talk on Zoom, and we’re going to visit them in a few weeks because Charlton are away at Brighton (the first match was a draw). I REALLY like them both, and I know they like me – but we just CANNOT decide. I mean, they think it should be them and I think it should be me.
So what do you think?
Who should get Mr Fluffy?
He’s not called Mr Goldy by the way. We’ve all agreed on that.
Mr Goldy is a RUBBISH name.
THE END
So, John Higgins, if you hadn’t cooked us supper then Kate would never have said what she did and a certain very important person would have vanished forever. So thanks!
Thanks also to the wonderful Naomi Delap, for marrying me and being a great first reader. Writers can suffer from having too much time on their hands, so thanks to Franklin, Viola and Frieda Baron for making sure that that fate never befalls me. You’re great. People ask me who Cymbeline is based on and I have to say he’s an amalgam of lots of people I know (but thanks Rafe Griffiths).
Thanks also to Cathryn Summerhayes and the great team at Curtis Brown. Parties again soon, please.
Parties too, please, HarperCollins, because you are epic at them, as well as at employing the most wonderful editor in Nick Lake. And it’s not just him. Samantha Stewart, Jane Tait, Jessica Dean, Jo-Anna Parkinson, Tanya Hougham and all the rest: you are Wonderful Things.
A final thanks to all the teachers and librarians who get in touch to tell me how much my books mean to the children who read them. You are essential beacons of light – for me, and for all writers for children.
Keep Reading …
Have you read Adam Baron’s bestselling novel Boy Underwater?
Cymbeline Igloo (yes, really!) has NEVER been swimming
Not ever. Not once.
But how hard can it be? He’s Googled front crawl and he’s found his dad’s old pair of trunks. He’s totally ready.
What he’s not ready for is the accident at the pool – or how it leads his mum to a sudden breakdown.
Now, with the help of friends old and new, Cymbeline must solve the mystery of why his mum never took him near water – and it will turn his whole life upside down …
‘A wonderful story, moving and funny’ – Ross Welford
Have you read Adam Baron’s bestselling novel You Won’t Believe This?
&n
bsp; From the author of bestselling debut Boy Underwater comes another moving, hilarious novel of friendship and family secrets, which shows that people are people, no matter where they’re from.
BOY UNDERWATER WAS SHORTLISTED FOR THE CARNEGIE AWARD, AND SELECTED AS WATERSTONES BOOK OF THE MONTH.
Books by Adam Baron
BOY UNDERWATER
YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS
THIS WONDERFUL THING
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