“Whee! We’re going to see the ducks, Summer! What do the ducks say? Quack, quack!”
I enjoy chatting to Summer as we go. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m just havering, and she laughs and burbles gleefully.
The Cumbrae ferry is just about to leave and we stop at the pier to watch the cars, cyclists and foot passengers boarding. I smile because I’ll be on it with Gran soon. Raucous seagulls wheel and swoop overhead, hoping to grab any discarded food. “Rats with wings,” my mum calls them. She has a real thing about rodents.
One particularly cheeky seagull swoops down, big and grey and hungry. It launches itself at the queue of people and snatches a sandwich right out of a wee girl’s outstretched hand.
“Sno’ fair!” she wails. “That burd’s nicked ma piece!”
“Did you see that, Summer?” I ask. “Did you see what the naughty birdie did?”
Summer grins at me, her baby teeth white in her grubby wee face, but I don’t know if she understands what I’m saying.
Summer and I watch the foot passengers handing over their tickets and walking down the slope to the ferry. Many of them are pushing bikes. I wish I was going with them. When everyone’s aboard, the big metal door rises and traps the cars inside. Most of the passengers head upstairs to enjoy the fresh sea breeze. I want to be up there too.
It’s a warm, sunny afternoon and I’m too hot in my black hoodie and joggers. Summer looks fried. Her chubby cheeks are going bright pink so I unzip her anorak, trying to cool her down. I immediately wish I’d put a clean dress on her before we left. Her t-shirt is stained and grubby and her face is in dire need of a wash. Still, she’s smiling cheerily and waving her toy lion at everyone she passes, and is clearly delighted to be outside.
“Look at the big boat, Summer!” I say, pointing at the ferry as it glides away from the pier and out into the firth. “It’s going across the sea! Wave bye-bye!”
Summer waves enthusiastically at the ferry. I tell her that one day I’ll take her on it and we’ll go to Millport together.
Jenna would be making puking noises, but I don’t care what Jenna thinks at the moment. I’m enjoying being out with my little sister. At least she doesn’t think I’m a sanctimonious little creep and a goody two shoes. Summer thinks I’m the bee’s knees.
“Let’s go and see the ducks now. They will be getting hungry, won’t they? Remember what the ducks say?”
I look at Summer expectantly, but she just grins, and waves her lion about madly. Maybe Gran’s right about the developmental delay.
I push the buggy on to the promenade and walk past the big brash amusement arcade and the line of bleeping grabber machines where I won Summer’s lion. The Italian flags outside Nardini’s café are flapping in the sea breeze and people are sitting on the little terrace outside drinking coffee and enjoying their ice creams. I would love to stop there and have an enormous fudge sundae, but I am totally skint so that’s out of the question. I wouldn’t have minded a sugary doughnut from the wee stand on the prom either. My stomach is rumbling.
We carry on along the promenade, zigzagging past dog walkers and day-trippers. I am heading for the boating pond, near the RNLI lifeboat station. Summer loves to feed the ducks. I can feel the bread I had grabbed from the bread bin, all squashed and crumbly in my pocket.
“Lily!”
I jump, and whirl round, anxiously. No, no, no. The voice can’t have followed me here. The voice doesn’t happen outside my house. Despite the sunshine, a chill seeps into my bones. Goosebumps appear on my arms.
“Lily! I’m over here!”
Rowan is calling and waving at me from the sea wall.
I am hit by a wave of relief and embarrassment at having jumped out of my skin. Maybe it’s me who has post-traumatic stress disorder and not Jenna. I’m tense, nervous, not sleeping well (that might be because Bronx snores) and I’m hearing voices. These are not good signs. I’ve googled all those symptoms on Jenna’s laptop, which wasn’t a great plan. It’s too easy to convince yourself you are dying of some rare and ghastly disease. Plus, if Jenna catches me using her computer, she’ll kill me. All in all, googling is not the healthy option.
Rowan Forrest has a sweet, round, freckled face with big, sparkly hazel eyes. Her brown curls are blowing in the wind and she’s dressed in cute denim cut-offs and a bright yellow t-shirt. I feel suddenly self-conscious about my own lank, unwashed hair and old grey joggers. But she looks so smiley that I can’t help smiling straight back. Rowan is the loveliest person in the world and it’s a criminal offence to feel jealous of her.
“Hi Lily!” she calls again and I wheel the pushchair towards her, both of us grinning and waving as if we’re reunited after years apart, instead of having seen each other on Friday at school.
“Wow, you’re getting to be a big girl,” she says, smiling at Summer, who gazes back a bit warily. “Hi Summer!”
Rowan has her dog with her, a big, soppy black Labrador who slaps my legs with his wagging tail as he tries to clamber into the pushchair beside Summer.
“Get down, Finn!” Rowan yells and tugs at his lead. Finn ignores her and Summer shrieks with laughter as he licks the dirt from her face. This can’t be hygienic, I think, so I tug too until Finn concedes defeat.
Rowan and I walk together towards the boating pond, though I struggle to keep up with her as Finn drags her along the promenade.
“Finn, leave those people alone!” she yells at regular intervals. “Finn, don’t eat that boy’s ice cream! Finn, stop rolling in that mess!”
Walking a dog is exhausting. A baby in a pushchair is a lot less bother.
“Finn, slow down!” shouts Rowan, as Finn yanks at the lead and drags her towards the beach. “Oh, Finn, don’t pee there! People sit on that wall!”
It’s hard to have a proper conversation with Rowan when Finn’s around. I change my mind about getting a dog of my own when I grow up. Maybe I will just stick with cats. They don’t pee against walls.
The crowds of day-trippers thin as we move away from the ice-cream stands and noisy bumper cars on the front. This is my favourite part of the town. The Firth of Clyde is sparkling in the sunlight, with white-sailed yachts bobbing in the waves and seagulls wheeling in the clear blue sky. I love living by the sea, even in winter when wild, frothy waves crash over the sea wall and the sky is concrete grey.
“Look at the sea, Summer! It’s all glittery!” I shout over the buzz of a jet ski.
Today you can see for miles. I can see Arran’s hills in the distance and, much further away, humpbacked Ailsa Craig. The Isle of Cumbrae is only a mile across the water.
“I’m going to swim across to Cumbrae one day,” I tell Rowan. “It looks easy, doesn’t it?”
“You’d better wear a wet suit then,” she laughs. “Or you’ll get hypothermia and have to be rescued by the coastguard. Don’t be fooled by its lovely blue colour – the water’s freezing!”
At the boating pond, I let Summer out of the buggy and we feed the ducks with the crumbly remains of the stale slice of bread. Summer runs around the pond’s edge, with Rowan and me chasing behind her.
“Quack, quack!” she burbles. “Look, look. Quack!”
See, Gran, I think triumphantly. She can speak when she has something to say.
Summer is so happy and excited about being out in the Big Wide World that I make her a silent promise that I will take her out more often. Maybe next time I will bring the boys as well. They could do with some fresh air.
“Doggie woof!” she shouts gleefully, and toddles over to give Finn a cuddle. “Ducks quack!” she yells, and spins round to walk towards the ducks in the pond. I can’t believe she has been hiding so many words in her head all this time.
“Your wee sister is so cute, Lily,” says Rowan. “I wish I had a baby sister. You’re so lucky.”
I feel a glow of pride, which lasts only until Summer trips over on a concrete paving stone and bangs her knee. She starts to wail and refuses to be comforted, mak
ing herself rigid in my arms and shrieking, tears spurting from her eyes and her nose running with snot.
I hurriedly stuff her, still howling, back into the pushchair and say that maybe I’d better get home.
Rowan kneels down in front of the pushchair, facing my screaming sister. I hope Summer doesn’t aim a kick straight into her face. I can imagine what Rowan’s mum would say about me if I went and let my sister give her a black eye.
“Summer, if you stop making that awful noise, I’ll buy you an ice cream. Would you like that?” she says calmly.
The bribe works like magic. Summer might not say much, but she understands exactly what’s being said to her. She stops crying, grins and pumps her arms up and down excitedly, waving her lion by its fluorescent pink mane.
“Gimme!” she shouts. She seems to be getting more vocal by the minute. “Gimme ice cleam!”
So we walk back along the front a little way. I promise I’ll pay Rowan back as she buys a cone for Summer and another for me. I try and coax a thank you from Summer before I hand over her cone, but she looks mutinous and I decide not to risk another screaming match.
We sit on the pebbly beach and I lick the melting ice cream as it drips down my hands. Finn chases seagulls and Summer sits happily stacking stones and then knocking them over. She is a sticky mess of ice cream, dirt and snot. Gran would have a fit if she saw her in this state.
“So, how’s your weekend been?” I ask Rowan, keeping my voice light. I’m desperate to blurt out that I am being haunted by a ghostly voice and that today in the hall cupboard the voice had called me by name, but you can’t really just come out with that kind of stuff can you?
For one thing, I know how concerned and upset she would be. She would want me to tell my mum. She would demand that I see a doctor. She would probably tell her mum too, and I already know how her mum feels about me and my family.
“Oh, great thanks,” Rowan replies, as I knew she would. I have given the same answer to that question many times, but I have often been telling a lie. Rowan doesn’t have to, she wouldn’t even understand why you might want to lie about your feelings.
“Euan’s home from uni for the holidays, but he says he is going to go backpacking all summer, so I won’t see much of him, I don’t think. Dad says he should stay home and get a summer job. What about you, Lily? Are you and Jenna going to Millport again?”
I stare across the water and try to imagine myself there, safe from ghostly voices and screeching sisters.
“I’m going with Gran in the last week of term,” I tell her. “Jenna doesn’t want to come this time.”
“Oh no! Does that mean you’ll miss the Leavers’ Dance?” Rowan asks, frowning.
“Yeah, but you know I’m not that bothered about it,” I say. ‘Not that bothered’ hardly covers how I feel about the ghastly prospect of a school dance… wearing a second-hand dress, dancing awkwardly in an overheated hall. Total nightmare. Rowan will be fine – she’s got loads of other friends besides me and David.
“It won’t be nearly as much fun without you there,” she sighs. “So Jenna’s not going on holiday, huh?” she adds, swiftly changing the subject. “Won’t you be bored or lonely?”
“Nope,” I reply. “I’m going to have the best time. Ever.”
But as I speak, I realise with a start that there is someone else here, standing beside us on the pebbles and sand. I start to shiver, even though it’s really warm. I can’t see a ghostly figure or anything, but I can feel a shadow, as if a cloud has drifted across the sun. The voice whispers suddenly and insistently in my ear.
“Lily, did you say something?” it says. “Is that you, Lily?”
I shudder with shock and distress. The voice has followed me. I can’t get away from it. I can feel my face crumpling and tears start to fall. Rowan hugs me, totally bewildered, as I begin to sob.
“What’s wrong, Lily? Do you not want to go on holiday with your gran?” she asks anxiously. “Is it because you’ll miss the dance? Please don’t cry, Lil.”
I shake my head.
“I do want to go to Millport. And I really don’t care about missing the dance,” I say in a trembling, muffled voice.
“Well, why are you crying? Please tell me. What’s the matter, Lily?”
But how can I tell her what’s wrong? How can I tell her that I’m being haunted?
I make a feeble excuse about having a headache, grab hold of Summer, fasten her into her pushchair and hurry home, afraid that if I tell my best friend the truth, she’ll think I’ve gone crazy.
Chapter 4
Reasons I’m not happy today:
I am still being stalked by a disembodied voice.
I have to wear repulsive pink cast-offs that don’t even fit properly, and have ruffles.
I worry a lot that my step-dad will come back.
When I finally get home, I am half blinded by tears and swelteringly hot from running while pushing a buggy. I fling the front door open, leave Summer asleep in her pushchair in the hall and run upstairs.
Mum is in her bedroom, brushing her hair, getting ready for her Sunday evening shift at the café. I enter before I have time to talk myself out of it.
“Mum, I’m scared,” I blurt out. But then I can’t think what to say next. I’m really afraid that she’ll think I’m going mad. I already think I’m going mad.
Mum looks really upset when she sees me. I catch sight of myself in the mirror propped on the chest of drawers and I can see why. My face, which can’t have been one hundred per cent clean, is streaked with tears. My eyes are red and swollen and my hair is damp with sweat. There are dribbles of ice cream down my front. I am not a pretty sight.
“Come here, sweetheart,” says Mum. “Come and tell me what’s wrong.”
Mum draws me towards her and we sit together on the bed. Mum’s bed is unmade and strewn with her clothes. She likes to wear long, floaty cotton skirts with black leggings and lots of scarves. She thinks she looks romantic but sometimes she just looks odd.
Summer’s cot, an untidy jumble of soft toys and blankets, stands in one corner of the room and a huge old-fashioned wardrobe stands against the wall. There is hardly room to move.
“I’m just scared,” I say pathetically, cuddling up to her as if I was Summer.
“It’s ok, Lily, I understand,” Mum says quietly, arm tight round my shoulders. “It was a scary, upsetting time and of course you’re not over it yet. But he’s gone, I promise you.”
She’s talking about my step-dad. She thinks I’m afraid he’ll come back. I suppose that does worry me sometimes, but he isn’t my main problem at the moment, not by a mile.
“Your step-father isn’t allowed to come within a five mile radius of Largs, Lily. We will never see him again. I’m just so, so sorry I brought him into your lives in the first place.”
I’m sorry she ever met him, and sometimes I’m angry too. It was a bad five years, and five years is nearly half of my life. Living with an alcoholic is a horrible thing that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. (Not that I have a worst enemy. I avoid conflict at all costs, and will always apologise first, even when it clearly isn’t my fault. Basically, I’m the world’s biggest wimp.)
Anyway, back to the part I didn’t really want to talk about.
My step-dad was unpredictable. Sometimes he would just drink himself into a stupor and fall asleep, snoring and ugly, on the couch. But other times, completely without warning, he would fly into violent, terrifying drunken rages. He would jerk around like an out-of-control robot, limbs flailing and voice thick and slurred. Ornaments would smash, plates would get thrown, ugly words spat at whoever got in his way. Personally I think Mum should have flung him out long, long before she did.
It was the worst, scariest, saddest night of all, the night Mum called the police and they came and arrested my step-dad. Mum was in hysterics, Jenna was screaming blue murder, I was sobbing and terrified. But it was also one of the best nights I can remember. After all the drama
was over, we all piled, tearful and shattered, into Mum’s bed and snuggled under her duvet with mugs of hot chocolate while she cuddled us tight and told us he would never be back. Jenna and I had avoided Mum’s bedroom for five years, because that was his territory. It felt so lovely to be back.
And we all lived happily ever after.
Well, not quite; this isn’t a fairy story. But when he’d gone, we could breathe freely again. Sure, we had to move into a smaller, rented house, which can be a nightmare, and we are always short of money, but the joys of breathing freely should not be underestimated.
“You know Lily, I don’t say thanks to you often enough. You are such a big help to me and the wee ones and you never complain. What would we all do without our Lil?” asks Mum. There are tears in her eyes.
I sit there with my mum, enjoying the hug, and not wanting to spoil things by telling the truth. And the truth is that this isn’t about my step-dad. This is new. Still scary, but much weirder. I am crying because the voice followed me out of the house and down to the seafront. I am afraid that I will never be free of the voice and I will never breathe freely again.
***
The doorbell rings and Mum jumps up, wipes her eyes and goes downstairs to answer it. I hear her opening the front door and then closing it quietly behind her. She has gone outside to talk privately to whoever is there. I guess that it’s Gran and that Mum is outside now explaining that Jenna doesn’t want to come on holiday to Millport with her this year. I’m pretty sure that won’t go down well.
Sure enough, I hear my gran’s loud, strident voice and bury my head under Mum’s duvet. I don’t feel up to coping with Gran, especially if she’s on the rampage.
“Lily!” she yells. “Jenna! Come here, girls, please!”
I run upstairs to the bathroom and give my face a quick wash. I stick my tongue out at my red-eyed reflection and remind myself that I am a strong person. Rowan is always telling me that. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much. She is completely honest and always says what she feels, like Anne of Green Gables, and unlike me. If Rowan tells you something about yourself, you’re sure it must be true.
The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean Page 3
