‘Sorry, Gracey, yes. Nearly ready.’
When the photocopier had hummed into life and Grace was folding the printed pages and stacking them in boxes, Mum said to Roger, ‘I’ve been looking at wedding venues around the county. I think we could easily compete, with a bit of investment.’
‘Weddings?’ Roger’s attention was now on the spreadsheet on his screen. ‘Hmm. We’re nowhere near smart enough. We’d have to spend a fortune on the dining room, for a start.’
‘We needn’t use the dining room. We’d hire a marquee and have it out on the lawn for the whole summer. Look, here’s a local company.’ Mum passed over her phone. ‘See? Swags, chandeliers, pillars of flowers. And we’d use specialist caterers.’
Roger frowned. ‘Toilets?’
‘We’d hire posh loos too. Seriously, Roger, this place is exactly what people want for their weddings, don’t you think? Just imagine the photo opportunities.’
‘Don’t ask me.’ He handed the phone back. ‘I’m the last person to know what people want for weddings.’
‘Out of paper,’ Grace said as the humming stopped. She wondered at Roger’s tone; he sounded dismissive, even annoyed. Her mother opened a new packet and fanned out the sheets before stacking them in the tray.
‘You could get some costings, I suppose,’ Roger said reluctantly, eyes on his screen again. ‘Put it to the Trustees if you like. But I know what they’ll say. It’s not what the Flambards Trust was set up for, to be just another wedding venue.’
‘But if it helps keep the place alive?’
Roger only shrugged; the discussion was over.
‘We’ll do one more box, Grace,’ Mum said.
Sally brought the bike round for Grace, who had to demonstrate two circuits of the yard before her mother was convinced that she could ride safely to Marsh House and back. But there was no disputing that the new routine would be easier – Grace coming and going as she pleased, with no need to ask for lifts.
On Monday afternoon she cycled over to ride, and found Plum already in the stable. Jamie came down to the yard and leaned on the half-door to chat while she saddled and bridled the pony.
‘Why don’t you come too?’ she asked, nodding at Sirius, who was pacing up and down the orchard fence. He didn’t like being left on his own.
‘You must be joking! I’m not riding that man-eater. You can see the mood he’s in.’
‘But Charlie said you’d exercise him.’
‘I know she did. But I’m not going to. I’d rather keep my arms and legs intact.’ He stopped, horrified, hearing what he’d said.
Grace looked away. She could have said Oh, forget it. People said things like that all the time, without thinking: Put your best foot forward, stand on your own two feet. And wouldn’t it be worse if Jamie hadn’t stopped to think?
‘You’re saying you’d lie down in front of a bulldozer but you won’t get up on your sister’s horse?’ she said, just to fill the awkward gap while Jamie stood red-faced. ‘I’d ride him. I wouldn’t be scared.’
She wasn’t sure that was true, and didn’t know why she was saying it.
‘That’s only cos you don’t know enough. You’d be on the ground in no time. He can stay out in the field, or if Charlie wants him exercised she can get one of her horsey friends to do it. I’ll walk with you if you want, but not today. I’m going to Chelmsford.’
‘What for?’
He hesitated, then, ‘Meeting someone from school.’
‘Is Marcus going too?’
It was her turn to feel her face glow with heat as she thought of the text she had sent Marie-Louise this morning: Guess what? I think Marcus and Jamie might be gay. To her surprise, Marie-Louise hadn’t responded, saying only: Let’s Skype later. Something to tell you.
‘No,’ Jamie said. ‘He’s helping his dad today.’
Only when Jamie had left on his bike, and she was riding Plum across the fields, did she realize that it must have been him who brought the pony in to the stable and brushed her over, ready for riding. She hadn’t even said thank you, and felt bad now for being prickly.
Having worked at the weekend, her mother had taken today off and driven to Hackney to do more packing up and to look for possible flats to rent. ‘You can come too, if you like,’ she had said, but Grace had chosen not to. That was before she knew both boys would be busy elsewhere, and Roger and Irina were occupied with a newly arrived photography group and a replacement tutor who’d been found at short notice and had to be shown around.
Returning to Flambards she took the bike – her bike, as she was already thinking of it after just a few days – round to the store beside the barn where it was kept. While she was closing the door, Adrian’s white van pulled into the yard and Marcus jumped down from the passenger side and went into the cottage with Flash, not seeing her. A moment later Sally came round the corner from the drive. Preferring to avoid Adrian, Grace was about to walk on past when Sally called out to ask how she was getting on with the bike.
‘Fine, thanks! It’s great to have it.’
‘That was such a lovely evening with you and your mum.’ Sally seemed to want to talk; Grace’s eyes flicked warily to Adrian, who had been fiddling with something on the dashboard and now got slowly out.
Sally went to him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Hello, my love! Grace is here, look.’
This must be one of Adrian’s better days; there had been nothing in Marcus’s manner to suggest that he and his dad were at odds with each other. Adrian’s eyes came slowly round to meet Grace’s, and she saw again that startled flare of recognition before he recovered himself and gave her a quick nod. ‘All right there?’
Like the first time, she was puzzled; even a little scared. What did Adrian see when he looked at her – or think he saw?
Sally stood close to him, her hand resting on his arm; she didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘Your mum’s still out, is she?’ she said to Grace. ‘D’you want to come in with us till she gets back? Marcus is here.’
‘Um, no, I’m all right, thanks.’
The words were out before she’d really decided. Going up to the Hayloft, curiosity made her wish she’d agreed. But she knew it would have been awkward. There was something so careful, so deliberate, about the way Sally behaved with Adrian – like the way she’d been at the dinner table, as if he might explode, or crumble into bits. Anyway, Marcus probably wouldn’t want her there, and she didn’t blame him.
Her mother didn’t return until nearly seven, bringing a ready meal to heat up for dinner and looking pleased with herself.
‘Success! I’ve found us a flat!’
Oh.
Only now did Grace realize that she’d been hoping the search would be in vain, which was stupid – they’d have to live somewhere.
‘Only the third one I looked at. I think it’ll suit us just fine,’ her mother said. ‘It’s within walking distance of school, in a quiet side street. No parking, that’s a drawback – but it’s good for buses, so maybe I won’t keep the car once we’ve moved all our stuff in.’
‘But, Mum!’ It seemed to Grace that her mother had overlooked something screamingly obvious. ‘If we haven’t got a car, how will we get here? We’ll come back sometimes, won’t we?’
‘Mm, yes.’ Mum sounded as if she’d only just thought of that. ‘Fair point. But let me show you the flat. Here it is, on Rightmove.’ She held out her phone. ‘See, it’s the upstairs floor of a house. Main room, kitchen, bathroom. And two bedrooms. This one can be yours, at the back.’
Grace looked. ‘It’s a bit pink!’
‘It’s completely pink. It’s a ten-year-old girl’s room at the moment. Pink sparkly things wherever you look. Even the books on the shelf are pink and sparkly.’
‘What can you see from the windows?’
‘Well, nothing much. The street, at the front. Behind, from your bedroom, you look down on a tiny garden. But that belongs to the ground-floor flat.’
‘So we won’t h
ave a garden?’
‘No, but it’s not as if we’ve got time for gardening, is it? We never did much before – the garden was full of weeds. And the park’s not much farther than from our old house. The kitchen and bathroom are really good – look. Newly fitted. And we can paint your bedroom. It doesn’t have to stay pink.’
Grace looked away. ‘When do we move in?’
‘I haven’t done the paperwork yet, or paid a deposit. But I hope to get that done this week. Then we can move in at the beginning of September, just before term starts. I’ve booked another day off next week to finish packing up the house.’
Already August was almost half over. Grace remembered how long the summer holidays had seemed when viewed from the end of July, when she’d felt reluctant to be here; now the time was being eaten up more quickly than she could keep track. She didn’t want to think about term starting, but it had been creeping nearer while she wasn’t looking. She imagined herself in the pink bedroom, looking out at a small square of garden that wasn’t even theirs, with maybe someone’s dustbin and a washing line, and nothing but houses and streets.
No riding, no Plum, no otters or bats … just a London street, and a walk to the park if she wanted to see trees and grass, maybe the odd duck or pigeon. Flambards, and Christina with it, would fade from her life.
Just as important: there’d be no Marcus or Jamie. Would they come and visit her? Come to London by train, or get Roger or Ian to drive them? She couldn’t imagine that. Even if they did, it wouldn’t be the same.
Could she get used to all that?
Perhaps Mum was right. It had been a mistake to come here.
When they’d cleared up after their meal, Mum went over to the house to see if Roger was still there, wanting to tell him the news. Grace turned on Mum’s laptop for her Skype talk with Marie-Louise. She would describe the pink sparkly bedroom, making it funny. Marie-Louise would commiserate, and would love coming up with ideas to transform it. She’d soon be back from Paris, and they could fix a date for her visit to Flambards. And Marie-Louise had something to tell her too, she remembered.
From the moment Marie-Louise’s face came up on the screen, Grace knew that the something wasn’t going to be good news. But Marie-Louise didn’t come out with it straight away. Instead she talked without much enthusiasm about a visit to her cousins in Ētretat and a picnic on the cliffs. She wasn’t quite looking at Grace, and she kept twiddling a long strand of hair she’d pulled over her shoulder, corkscrewing it round her finger, the way she did in lessons at school when she was concentrating hard. Or unhappy.
‘What’s up, M-L? What did you want to tell me?’
Marie-Louise looked directly at Grace for the first time, her eyes shiny with tears. ‘Grace, it’s awful! I don’t even know how to say.’ Her mouth twisted, then the words burst out of her: ‘We’re not coming back. We’re staying here in Paris.’
‘You mean till the end of the holidays?’ Grace’s voice was flat with disappointment. ‘There won’t be time to come here for a visit?’
A pause, then: ‘It’s worse than that … much worse. We’re not coming back to London at all. We’re going to live here in Paris.’
There was a beat of silence while Grace struggled to understand.
‘Not – no! You can’t mean that!’
‘I wish I didn’t.’ There was a sob in Marie-Louise’s voice.
‘But why?’
‘Papa’s company is closing the Canary Wharf office, moving everything back to Paris. It’s because of that stupid Brexit.’ Breg-zeet, she said: Marie-Louise always sounded more French when she was in France.
‘But – your parents – they can’t do that!’
‘I’m sorry, Grace, so sorry! It’s all settled. They’ve already enrolled me in a school here. But I don’t want to go there! I’ll hate it. I’ll miss you so much …’
‘Oh, M-L, how awful.’ Grace couldn’t take it in. ‘How will you …’
‘Maman and Papa say now is better, before I start in Year Ten. It means I shall take the International Baccalaureate, instead of GCSEs. But Grace, we must always be friends. Always I will be your friend. Will you promise to be mine?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Always. I promise, no matter what!’
But making promises made it seem final, settled, unchangeable. Well, it was unchangeable. Adult stuff about jobs and flats had made sure of that.
So much had changed in a few minutes. They talked for a bit longer, but nothing seemed worth mentioning. They agreed to talk again soon, and ended the call.
She sat staring at nothing, her head whirling.
No, no! No Marie-Louise? School without her? Weekends without her? It was unimaginable. She didn’t want to imagine.
Marie-Louise had been part of her life since Year Five. She had sounded very French then, newly arrived from Paris with her family. Gradually Grace had drifted away from the other two girls she was friendly with, Anisha and Scarlett, and towards Marie-Louise, who in spite of being new had an easy confidence and self-possession.
Marie-Louise was special; Grace saw that from the start. It was as if they were destined to be best friends, and she felt lucky that Marie-Louise wanted that too.
She could still clearly recall the first afternoon, when they’d shared a table for art. They were making cut-paper collages, following the examples by Matisse their teacher had displayed around the classroom. It was too easy; an infant could do it. All they had to do was cut out shapes in bright colours and stick them down randomly. But Marie-Louise had applied herself to the task with the fierce concentration that Grace soon learned was typical of her. She cut and arranged, stood back to look, huffed at herself, started again, and ended up with a collage that looked very like one of Matisse’s, but was also her own.
‘You must come and visit me in Paris,’ Marie-Louise had said just now. ‘I made Maman and Papa promise me that. I want to show you all my favourite places.’
But a short visit would be no substitute for seeing her every day – for sitting next to her in class, eating lunch together, going to each other’s homes, helping each other with homework, talking about the books they were reading, making plans, often just being silly together.
Grace’s eyes filled with tears. She closed the laptop with a slam, and went downstairs and out.
The beauty of the evening only made things worse. The sky was streaked pink and gold, the sun going down in a blaze over the farm buildings and trees. She heard the crooning of woodpigeons somewhere nearby, and the scream of swifts as they whizzed overhead, impossibly high. Jamie had told her that the swifts would be leaving any day now, for warmer climates: they were late to arrive, he said, and early to leave. In the house the evening meal would be over; people were coming down through the stable yard in twos and threes, heading for the meadow or the lake. It was a photography course this week, and most of them had big cameras slung round their necks. ‘Mind, for really sharp results you need a macro lens,’ one of them was saying.
Grace’s head was thrumming. She stood at the gate, leaning her arms on the top bar.
No. No. I can’t do it.
The thought of returning to school without Marie-Louise made her shrink up inside. It felt like the worst thing that could happen – the worst thing.
When they first moved up to Westfields she had dreaded being put in different tutor groups, but luckily they were together, and had been inseparable for the last three years. With no Marie-Louise she wouldn’t be friendless – there was Carrie, and Jenna, and Luke – but Marie-Louise was her greatest confidante and support. Always, and especially since It. Teachers were always going on about minorities and how important it was to show consideration, understanding, awareness. They usually meant race and religion and colour, and all the LGBT stuff; disability too, and mental health. There were other students with disabilities, but Grace was the only amputee in the whole school. She was in a minority of one.
And without Marie-Louise to be with her, stand up fo
r her, make it seem normal … how could she face it?
Lately, Marie-Louise had been sending photos of trendy-looking women with prosthetic limbs or running blades that seemed like fashion accessories. ‘See? You don’t have to hide your leg, or be ashamed, or feel you’re less of a person. You say, This is me. Here I am. These girls look amazing, don’t they?’
Sharing things with Marie-Louise was a habit. Since being here, whenever she saw or did something new she looked forward to texting Marie-Louise, or telling her on Skype, or taking a photo to send her. Often she found herself hearing what Marie-Louise would say, as if her voice was always there, ready to speak into her ear.
‘What now?’ she asked miserably, aloud, and Marie-Louise’s voice said, We’ll still be friends. We promised, didn’t we?
But what if Marie-Louise went silent? What if she asked a question and there was no reply? Marie-Louise would soon make new friends – she was witty and clever and resourceful, quick to fit in anywhere. Not that Grace wanted her to be unhappy at her new school …
She just wanted things to stay the same. To be back as they were. That was a familiar feeling, because of It, and just as hopeless.
You’ll forget me.
I won’t.
You say that now. Things will change. They always do.
Grace hadn’t so much as texted Carrie or Jenna or Luke since coming to Flambards. They’d be hanging out together, maybe talking about her. Or more likely not giving her a thought. If so, she couldn’t complain, as she’d hardly thought about them, either.
Aimlessly she wandered up to the house, round the back way to the garden, where she stopped abruptly at the sight of Roger sitting on a bench by himself, smoking a cigarette. She’d never seen him do that before. He didn’t notice her and she was struck by his expression: serious, downcast, gazing at nothing. He took a drag and slowly, as if sighing, exhaled smoke that hung in the air. When he did look up and see her, he made as if to hide the cigarette, and gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘Caught red-handed! I don’t smoke very often these days. Disgusting habit. Tell me off if you like – your mum would, for sure.’ He looked at her more closely. ‘Hey! What’s up?’
The Key to Flambards Page 12
