Silence Is Goldfish

by Annabel Pitcher

  The doorbell chimes and for once Gran hears it.

  “Tess! Everyone’s worried sick about you,” she says when she answers the door. “Where have you been?” Gran is as white as her hair. I hold out the biscuits, wanting to make amends, but she doesn’t take them. “Your dad’s been on the telephone. Your school called to say you’d disappeared. You’ve caused a lot of upset.” I hold out the milk too. “Come on in. I’ll let your dad know you’re here.”

  Gran goes into the kitchen to make the call. I enter the living room. The fire is overpowering, a wall of heat, but I move closer to it, determined to dust the ornaments on the mantelpiece, to do something nice for Gran to make up for the stress I’ve caused. With my sleeve, I polish as many animals as possible before she returns—a horse, three birds, two pigs, and the lion—then drop onto the sofa as she shuffles through the door.

  “He’s on his way,” she says, lowering herself into a rocking chair. “He’s relieved you’re safe, but truancy, Tess? He isn’t happy about that, and I can’t say I blame him.” Gran’s never been angry with me before. I can’t stand the disapproval in her eyes. “What is going on with you?”

  “Where do I begin?” Mr. Goldfish asks, heaving himself out of my pocket, his voice weak but determined. “She convinced herself that a teacher was her dad and then she kissed a boy even though he could have been her brother, and then—” I push him back down as Gran points at a photo on the windowsill. A tiny blond toddler peers out of a silver frame with big bright eyes that can’t wait to see what the world has to offer.

  “I assume that little tot is still inside you somewhere. We don’t lose the people we once were, Tess.” She glances at another picture. “Believe it or not, I’m still that girl on her wedding day.” I can just about make out two black-and-white figures in front of a village hall. Gran and Grandpa look like ghosts. Happy ghosts, but ghosts all the same. “We had a buffet. Chicken legs. Pie. All the lot. The guests brought along a dish to cut back on costs. No point frittering your money away for one day. Just look at Aunt Susan and that ridiculous Mark she married, spending thousands on a fairy-tale wedding, only to get divorced two years later.”

  Gran crosses her ankles and rocks herself quickly. She seems agitated, not like herself at all. “How much did Susan say the cake cost? Eight hundred pounds? Far too much. It was too expensive to enjoy! Susan went green when that Archie, the Wilsons’ boy, dropped half a slice and his brother mashed it to a pulp with his toy car. I know what Susan was thinking. Ten pounds. That piece cost me ten pounds.”

  Her glasses catch the light of the fire as she shakes her head. “I don’t know, Tess. It used to be keeping up with the Joneses. Now it’s keeping up with those Beckhams. I mean, honestly—Aunt Susan and Mark sitting at the reception on a pair of thrones? He’s an accountant, for heaven’s sake. What was he playing at? The world’s gone bonkers.” The chair squeaks as she rocks herself even faster. “I feel sorry for you all. You think you’ve got it better nowadays? I’m telling you—you don’t. Yes, there were fewer choices when I was young, but people knew where they stood, at least. They had a role. A purpose. Time to commit to things—jobs and family and community. Now there’s too much choice. People try to have it all, and they end up with less. Funny that.”

  She goes quiet for a few seconds, the chair creaking more gently. “Like your dad, Tess, having that nervous breakdown in his twenties.” I sit up sharply because no one’s ever said anything about this before. “Working all the time, audition after audition after audition. I’ll be happy when I’ve made it, he always used to say. Made it where? That’s what I asked him once. He couldn’t answer, but he’s still doing it, isn’t he? Still running around trying to prove himself. Well, I blame his parents for that. He can never do anything to impress them, his dad in particular. That’s all your dad wants, really. A bit of praise from his own father. Tragic.”

  It is tragic. I think it before I’m aware of it, this wave of sympathy washing over me for the man with the half-empty wall and the scotch-taped skull and the need to exaggerate about everything he’s ever done. Another wave crashes over me as I remember something else, a conversation in the car park outside the Methodist church in Didsbury. Can you imagine if he had been in the audience? Or my dad, for that matter, if he’d said yes to those tickets? It would have been even more humiliating than it already was. Jack invited his dad to the play, and his dad said no.

  Jack is many things, but he isn’t neglectful.

  “The opposite, you could say,” Mr. Goldfish mutters. “Supportive in an overly pushy, annoyingly in-your-face kind of way.”

  “He does love you, Tess,” Gran says, watching me closely. “Whatever you might think, his heart is in the right place.”

  I want to believe it, but it’s hard when I know what I know, when I’ve read what I’ve read.

  “He is irritating sometimes, always trying so hard to be more than he is.” I nod, glad Gran understands. “But you’re irritating too,” she goes on as my head freezes, “trying so hard to be less. This isn’t you, dear. These clothes. This silence. It’s the denial of you. And it’s getting a little bit silly.”

  Someone knocks loudly on the front door. Gran climbs to her feet and hobbles stiffly across the living room, past the porcelain ornaments shining on the mantelpiece.

  “You might not be a lion, Tess. That’s fine. Neither am I. But we’re still cats, aren’t we? Just because we don’t roar, doesn’t mean we have to be silent.”

  I throw my bag onto the backseat then climb into the front, waiting for the explosion that absolutely is coming. I skipped school today, and definitely Jack will have a lot to say about that. I’m ready for the showdown. Craving it, almost. I want Jack to shout, to prove me right, or wrong, or whatever it is. I want him to scream the words from the blog, over and over again. More than that though, I want him to say that he’s sorry, that he takes them all back, every single one of those six hundred and seventeen words because he never meant them in the first place.

  But Jack just drives.

  When we pull up outside our house, Jedi appears in the window—ears pricked, tongue hanging out—delighted to see both of us. We smile at him and almost, but not quite, at each other, sharing yet another okay moment that makes no sense in the grand scheme of things.

  “Tess.”

  Jack’s voice is gruff, urgent, totally at odds with his fading grin. He turns to look at me, his seat belt pulling tight across his chest like he needs to be strapped in for the turbulence that’s about to hit. I harden myself, getting ready for his criticism and his outrage and his lecture about school that no doubt will go on for hours.

  “I’m here, okay. Ready to hear, if you ever want to talk.”

  That’s all he says for thirty seconds or so, pretty much the quietest and most remarkable half a minute in the history of the universe.

  “I know I’m not always the best at listening, but I’ll try. I really will. What your mum said, Tess, about your silence being a protest. It doesn’t have to be like this. You can talk about whatever it is that’s making you angry,” he says, not quite daring to meet my eyes—but then he does, fully. “Your old man is big enough to take it. Okay?”

  He pats my leg then shoots out of the car, busying himself in the trunk. I grab my schoolbag off the backseat, my phone slipping out under the passenger seat. I lean down to get it, and there, hidden in the shadows, are three copies of Jack’s script, not given to Mr. Darling or Nana the dog at all.

  “These are for you, by the way,” Jack says, opening my door. I sit up quickly, pretending I haven’t seen the scripts. He hands me a plastic bag. “Socks. Matching socks. I thought you could do with some new ones.”

  47

  I barely sleep all weekend, unable to relax as I pace up and down my room, trying to work out how to act in front of Miss Gilbert and Mr. Richardson on Monday. When it finally arrives, my eyes are puffy, my shoulders tight.

  “I’m going to blow it,” I tell Mr
. Goldfish when Mum drops me off in the parking lot that looks gloomier than usual, shrouded in mist. “My face feels weird. They’re going to take one look at it and think I’ve blabbed.”

  “You still could.”

  “You heard what Mr. Richardson said. He’ll tell Mum about the phone.”

  “That’s blackmail, Tess.”

  “Yeah, and it’s working.”

  “See you in a bit, then.” Mum sighs. She’s taken the morning off work to attend a meeting with Mrs. Austin to discuss the consequences of my truancy. That’s the phrase Mrs. Austin used on the phone, and the one Mum has been repeating for two days solid.

  “Be prepared for the fact that the consequences of your truancy might be fairly severe, Tess,” she said over breakfast on Sunday morning, picking up a slice of toast. “We just have to hope that Mrs. Austin’s in a lenient mood, though I don’t suppose that’s very likely. The poor woman has to be seen to be doing something. She can’t let students get away with walking out of school in the middle of the day. What sort of precedent would that set?” She points the toast at me. “Truancy, Tess? Skipping class? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Leave it, Hels,” Jack said, carrying two bowls of porridge to the table. He put one in front of me and I huddled round it, breathing in the creamy warmth. “We don’t know the details.”

  Mum put the toast back down again. “What?”

  “Maybe Tess had her reasons.”

  “Oh, don’t give me all that.” Mum made a beak out of her hand that she opened and closed at the side of her head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Yes. And I’ve listened.” He grabbed the bird and held it tight so it couldn’t peck his fingers. “Obviously she shouldn’t have done it, but I don’t think Tess would have run out of school without good reason, that’s all I’m saying.” Mum’s expression was an odd mixture of irritation and surprise at this man who didn’t sound like Jack, or look like him either. He was smaller, somehow, his manner more serious, less brash. For some reason I thought of a peacock with a closed-up tail. “She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

  I was ready then, actually, and I’m ready now. I look back into the car.

  “What is it?” Mum asks. If you mention this to anyone, I’ll call your parents and tell them I caught you trying to steal my phone. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Tess? “Go on, now. I’ll see you at nine thirty.”

  I make my way to the art wing—via the bathroom I don’t really need, stopping at a vending machine even though I’m not hungry, and pausing at my locker to drop off a French textbook that actually I’m more than capable of carrying around. It kills five minutes, and I get to practice my innocent expression so it’s ready for Miss Gilbert and Mr. Richardson. I stick my head in my locker.

  “How about this face? Or this one? No, this one.”

  “All good.” Mr. Goldfish sounds sleepy, lying on the textbook, fins tucked behind his head.

  “You’re not even looking.”

  He scrabbles around. “I am. I am, I am,” he lies and then he laughs, which turns into a violent cough, his pale light flickering as he gasps for breath.

  “No!” I grab him and give him a shake, tapping his back with my fingers. “No! Please!” His light is fading and his breath is rasping and his eyes are clouding over. I whack his back. His light returns, but it’s faint, barely shining in the darkness. “Are you okay?”

  “Just do the face again.” Neither of us wants to consider the answer to that particular question. No doubt about it, he’s getting weaker. “Just do the face again.” I do as he asks, exaggerating it to make him smile, even though nothing whatsoever about the situation is funny.

  “Tess, I owe you a thank-you.” I pull my head out of my locker to see Isabel, grinning broadly. “Seriously, Tess. Thank you.” She hurries over to me, cello bouncing at her side. I am so happy to see it, I almost yank it out of her hand and play a song myself. Instead, I pull her into a hug.

  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I say with my arms, squeezing her tightly.

  “Oh, Tess. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course you’re forgiven,” Mr. Goldfish mumbles. “Don’t worry about—” but I turn him off gently because actually this moment belongs to Isabel and me. We step back and look at each other.

  “You, in the cafeteria! Blimey, Tess.” She starts to laugh. “Total respect. I mean, it was insane, but in the best possible way, like in The Return of the King—film not book—when Merry and Pippin break rank in the Battle of the Black Gate, charging at the orcs before Aragorn has even moved.” She acts it out, roaring with a sword held high above her head. I drink in the sight of her off-kilter ponytail swinging madly as she swipes at an orc.

  She’s mental, all right.

  “You’re mental, Tess,” she says, and that makes me smile because we are symbiotic creatures, let’s be clear about that. “But it worked, didn’t it? I haven’t seen any copies around school this morning, and I came in early to check. There’s nothing in the bathrooms, or the hallways, or anything. You totally saved the day.”

  I take the notepad out of my bag. She clutches it to her chest then holds it out, admiring the job I did to patch up the front cover with the tape in the supply cupboard. Where I heard that conversation. And saw that kiss.

  “What’s wrong?” Isabel whispers. “What’s going on?” I can’t tell her—I can’t tell anyone—but it helps to have my friend by my side as I walk to the art wing to face Miss Gilbert.

  A substitute teacher is sitting behind her desk, a woman with gray hair and a dull brown suit and absolutely no lunar sparkle. Weak with relief, I sink onto my stool. Miss Gilbert isn’t here, so maybe Mr. Richardson has decided to skip as well. Maybe they’re together, checked in to a hotel, a DO NOT DISTURB sign swinging from the handle.

  When homeroom is over, I head outside to get to my geography classroom. There’s a clearing in the fog, as if the day is slipping off its black cloak. Definitely the outlook seems more positive, a hint of sun in the sky. Mr. Richardson might have run away. Or he might have realized the error of his ways, resigning from his post, deciding to recommit to his wife and son, vowing to stay away from Miss Gilbert and all women, actually, until the end of time.

  I take my seat in Geography. There’s only half an hour until the meeting with Mrs. Austin. I’ll accept my punishment, whatever it is, and I’ll try hard, refocusing on school. Mr. Holdsworth will be back after Christmas, so even if Mr. Richardson hasn’t done the honorable thing and left of his own accord, things will soon return to normal. I feel a little calmer, so I don’t jump when there’s a cough in the corner of the room.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need a quick word with Tess.”

  “Right you are. No problem at all. Go on, Tess,” Mr. Hughes says, pointing a pen at Mr. Richardson, who’s smiling benignly, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to stand. “You don’t need her for long, do you?”

  “Five minutes,” Mr. Richardson replies. “That’s all it should take.”

  48

  He’s a teacher so I have no choice but to follow. It takes forever to move across the room, like it seems about three miles long with hundreds of tables and chairs to maneuver around, not that I’m complaining. I would take this endless trudging if it meant I didn’t have to speak to Mr. Richardson.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hughes,” he calls, leading me into a hallway that’s eerily deserted. He makes quite sure the door is closed behind us, that there is no one around before he starts to speak.

  “Tess.” He has no right to say my name and I bristle. “It’s good to see you back in school. I was worried when you ran off like that.” I can hear it now, how manipulative he is. “You were upset, weren’t you? I’m not sure why.” He nods—up and down, up and down—in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “We understand each other, don’t we? We’re still on that same wavelength?” He touches my arm and my skin buzzes like an electric fence. “I just wanted to make quite sure of it this mor
ning.”

  I snatch my arm away and his head jolts back in surprise.

  “Don’t be like that, Tess. I’m simply double-checking that you didn’t see anything untoward on Friday. That’s all I need to know, really. Clarify that, and you’re free to go.” He waits for some sort of response. “Your silence, Tess.” He sighs, still treading carefully, like definitely he thinks he can work his way around me with a bit of clever footwork. “It’s problematic in these sorts of situations, is it not? Or then again, I suppose it has its uses. If you can’t speak, well, let’s just say that the problem is solved.”

  My lips open but no sound comes out.

  “Precisely.” He smiles at my frustration. “Clearly there’s nothing to be concerned about here. We can forget about Friday. Go back to how things were before. Put it behind us.” He nods on my behalf. “Yes, definitely. You’re a good student, Tess. That’s what everyone seems to think and we want to keep it that way, don’t we? I would hate for certain things to get out. Certain things such as the fact that I caught you with my phone. Hiding in Miss Gilbert’s supply cupboard. Riffling through my bag,” he says as my stomach drops. “I know you looked inside my wallet, Tess. I don’t know why you did it, but that hardly matters. All it would take is me complaining to Mrs. Austin that some money of mine has gone missing, and you would probably be expelled. We don’t want it to come to that, do we?”

  It’s a rhetorical question because he doesn’t expect me to answer. He doesn’t expect anything of me at all, nodding again as if the problem is solved.