Indigo Blue

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Thanks.’ Aisha chews thoughtfully. ‘He likes you, though.’

  ‘Did I ask him to?’

  ‘No-o. It’s just hard for Jo, that’s all’

  ‘Look, it’s hard for me too,’ I say. ‘I have enough problems without Jo going all funny on me. I’ve been best mates with her since we were in Reception class. Then, lately, everything’s been going pear-shaped.’

  Aisha looks away, biting her lip.

  ‘Do you think it’s my fault, some of this?’ she asks in a tiny voice.

  ‘Ten out of ten,’ I say.

  There’s a long, long silence. I kick the gravel around at my feet and feel mean, but Aisha isn’t stupid. She must know how I feel about her.

  ‘It’s not been a great year for me either,’ she says eventually. ‘Moving here, starting a new school in the middle of term. I know you and Jo aren’t exactly over the moon to have me hanging around, but… I had to try. I like you, both of you. I just wanted a chance.’

  I scuff my shoes some more, feeling spiteful and selfish. I try, just as an experiment, to see things from Aisha’s point of view.

  ‘I’m not trying to steal Jo from you,’ she says.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I promise. I didn’t mean to stir things up. If you want me to get lost, I will.’

  I look at Aisha and she tries to smile. I do too. Neither of us do very well.

  The bell rings.

  ‘So…’ Aisha says.

  ‘So… I dunno, Aisha. Maybe I’ll just get used to you.’

  ‘Maybe you will.’

  Maybe pigs will fly.

  *

  When I get home, Misti’s crying and Mum’s got that creased, anxious expression again, like the day she stressed out thinking Max had followed me home. I chuck down my bag and give Misti a cuddle.

  ‘Aw, she’s all wet, Mum,’ I say, wrinkling my nose. ‘That’s why she’s crying.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  So I change Misti’s nappy and wipe her legs with a flannel, dry them off and drag on clean tights. She’s still grizzly, though.

  ‘What’s up, poppet? Want a biscuit?’

  There’s nothing left in the biscuit tin, so I make a peanut butter sandwich and Misti wolfs it down.

  ‘Did you have any lunch?’ I ask Mum, frowning.

  ‘Lunch? Oh, no. I wasn’t hungry.’

  I look around. The blue carpet hasn’t been hoovered, the bathroom’s flooded from one of Misti’s doll-washing games, the sink is full of last night’s washing up.

  ‘Mum, are you feeling OK?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Is it teatime? Do you want something to eat?’

  We make macaroni because there’s loads of dried pasta on the shelf, but there’s no milk or cheese so we can’t have sauce. Mum opens a tin of tomatoes instead. It tastes pretty boring, but we eat it anyway. Then Mum curls up in one of the grotty brown chairs and her face goes all sad and closed again.

  I tie a tea towel round Misti’s waist and stand her on a kitchen chair, and we wash up. Misti sloshes the water around and makes mountains of bubbles, whooping and squealing, and I chip away at yesterday’s frying pan with a wedge of scourer, then attack the pasta pan and the stack of plates.

  I try teaching Misti the pickpocket song, and after a while we’re belting it out full blast as we scrub and rinse and dry. I have to swab the kitchen floor with a used bath towel, to soak up the floods, then I move on and do the same in the bathroom, hauling a dozen badly mauled teddies out of the bath and lining them up near the leccy fire to dry.

  Misti’s soaked again by then, but at least it’s only washing-up water this time. I change her nappy again and put her into her jammies. She’s squealing for a story, so I read Sleeping Beauty from the big book of fairy tales, and before I get to the handsome prince part she’s fast asleep, her fair hair spread out across the pillow.

  ‘OK, Mum?’ I ask as I come back through, but she’s definitely not OK. ‘Want to help me with my lines? It’s the audition tomorrow.’

  She doesn’t even hear me.

  ‘Mum, are you feeling ill? D’you need a herb tea or an aspirin or something?’

  She shakes her head, and though it’s hard to tell in this light because of the blue scarf draped over the standard lamp, I think she’s been crying.

  ‘Mum? Shall I get someone? The landlady, or Mr Turner from upstairs?’ My voice is all wobbly and frightened now. I know something’s wrong, but I don’t know what to do.

  ‘Mum, I’m going to ring Jane. Or Gran. Have you got some change? Where’s the address book?’

  I’m flicking through the blue velvet notebook when Mum gets to her feet, raking a hand through her tangled hair.

  ‘Indie… look, I’m sorry. I’m OK, really. It’s just – I had a bit of a shock today. I was going to the park with Misti when I saw Max’s van. It just scared me. Silly, really. It was probably just coincidence.’

  I bite my lip. ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I still think we should ring Jane. She’ll know what to do.’

  Mum pulls her jacket on, dredges the pockets for change. ‘I’ll do it, love, you stay here with Misti. I won’t be long.’

  She slips out of the door and I’m alone in the flat. It feels very empty, very silent. The leccy fire makes a clicking sound; the floorboards creak as I creep to the bedroom door to check Misti’s still sleeping. The phone box is down on the corner, near the shop. Mum won’t be long.

  I look at my watch. Two minutes.

  Why can’t we have a phone here? I know the answer to that. No money, not till Mum gets herself a part-time job. Why can’t we have a mobile? Same reason, plus Mum has this theory they’re bad for you.

  If you ask me, hanging around in a dingy basement flat with creaking floorboards and a clicking fire is bad for you too. Six minutes. She’ll be there now. Hope it’s empty, that she doesn’t have to wait.

  I sit down in the brown armchair. Maybe the fire is clicking because the powercard is running out. The lights seem to flicker. Hurry up!

  Eleven minutes. There must be a queue. This was a bad idea, like pretty much every idea I’ve had lately. Twelve minutes.

  I hunt around, looking for where Mum keeps the spare powercard. Not in the kitchen drawer, not on the bookcase. Not in her blue suede handbag, where there’s a picture of me and Misti and Max, taken at Christmas. We all look so happy. We were happy, that day.

  Twenty minutes.

  It hits me.

  Max. Max is out there, and he’s seen her. Maybe she’s had to run, hide, duck down a side street. Maybe Max has caught her, and they’re talking, shouting, fighting.

  Maybe…

  ‘OK, love?’

  I look at my watch. Mum’s been gone nearly half an hour, and I’m so glad she’s back I fling myself into her arms, shaking.

  ‘Mum, I thought…’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, Indie. It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m sorry I was so long.’

  ‘Did you call Jane? Is she coming over?’

  Mum frowns as she shrugs off her jacket.

  Jane? No, I didn’t ring Jane. I rang Max. And it’s OK, Indie, because he’s not mad at us and he’s not following us or anything. It was just a coincidence, like I said. He understands that we need some space if we’re going to work this thing out. It’s OK, Indie. Every thing will be OK now.’

  We’re out of breakfast cereal and milk, but Mum’s still sleeping and I don’t want to wake her. I make a jam sandwich instead.

  It’s audition day.

  At school, everyone is talking about the play and Buzz Bielinski sits with a straight face and a false white beard right through registration, so it’s not hard to guess he’s hoping to be Fagin.

  Jo is even scarier, with her hair all piled up into a bun, a ton of slides and loads of curly tendrils all round her ears and neck. She’s tried out every make-up tip the teen mags have to offer – two-tone clashing eyeshadow, blusher, lipgloss and
half a tub of body glitter in a vaguely cheekbone-like location.

  ‘What’s with the make-up?’ I whisper while Miss McDougall sorts out the school dinner numbers.

  Jo looks cross. ‘Du-ur,’ she says. ‘Actresses have to wear make-up, don’t they, because of all the stage lights? Besides, I want to attract Miss McDougall’s attention.’

  She’s done that all right, judging by the withering glances she’s getting. Buzz, Shane and Iqbal are looking too, and there’s a whole load of giggling coming from their corner. Jo sends them a few flirty glances, subtle as a flying brick.

  Thoughtful as ever, Miss McDougall has devised an Oliver!-themed spelling test to get us in the mood for the audition.

  ‘Orphanage,’ she says crisply, and everyone gets scribbling. ‘Gruel.’

  Then, gliding to a halt beside me and Jo, she adds in a whisper, ‘Wash it off, Miss Ashton. Now.’

  Jo turns crimson, which looks quite scary with the mauve and yellow eyeshadow and the glittery bits. But she doesn’t argue. She stumbles to her feet and makes for the door.

  ‘Pickpocket,’ Miss McDougall booms out as the door clicks shut behind Jo. ‘Punishment.’

  We’re lined up outside the hall, ready for the auditions, before Jo reappears. Her face is pink and scrubbed, her eyes red-rimmed and her lips set into a cold, thin line.

  ‘She’s a cow’, Jo hisses into my ear as Miss McDougall tells us to sit in our groups and read our lines until called to audition. ‘I hate her.’

  I squeeze her arm in sympathy.

  The auditions are brilliant. Mr Lennon comes into the hall to help with the casting, and Kai’s mum, who works part-time for the theatre in town, is there too. My tummy’s all butterflies.

  Melanie Curtis keeps getting her lines wrong, and she can’t remember the words of the song. Buzz, Shane and Iqbal are so good that Carrie Naughton asks for their autographs. Kelly Murphy and her group have worked out a dance routine for the pickpocket song.

  ‘Wish we’d thought of that,’ Aisha says, but Jo’s still fuming, scowling down at her script.

  ‘Don’t let her get to you,’ I say. ‘You’ll be brilliant, I know you will.’

  ‘Aisha Patel, Jo Ashton and Indigo Collins, are you ready?’

  ‘Go, girl,’ I whisper to Jo.

  ‘I’ll show her,’ she says under her breath. And she does. Jo reads every line loud and clear. She doesn’t stumble, she doesn’t pause, and she even remembers to wave her arm around for emphasis like we agreed.

  Miss McDougall nods, writing something down on a clipboard. She asks Aisha and me to read a chunk of script again, then it’s time to sing, just one verse each, with Mr Lennon on piano to help with the tune. Aisha sings in a sad, clear voice, and I notice the other kids go quiet and watch. My turn. I imagine I’m Dodger, the cheeky pickpocket lad, singing, and put as much fun as I can into it all. I’m grinning all over my face as the piano dies away, and there’s a couple of wolf whistles from the back of the hall that make Jo frown.

  Her turn. She sings like she reads, loud and clear, but she’s off-tune and her voice cracks and wobbles. I catch a glance between Miss McDougall and Mr Lennon, and I know it’s not good news for Jo.

  After lunch, Mr Lennon comes into class to announce the results. Buzz gets Fagin, Shane gets Dodger and Kai gets Bill Sykes. As Mr Lennon announces that Kelly Murphy gets the part of Nancy, I feel Jo stiffen in the seat beside me. I try to send her a not-fair look, but she’s hiding her face in her hands. I hope she’s not crying.

  ‘Because it’s such a tough part, we’ve decided to pick two actors to share the title role,’ Mr Lennon says. ‘We’ll run the play for two nights, with a different Oliver on each.’

  Iqbal? Kevin Parker? Who’s left?

  ‘Well done to our two stars, Aisha Patel and Indigo Collins…’

  There’s a roar of approval and more whistling and cheering from Shane’s corner, and Aisha and I are looking at each other in shock, delight and horror. I want this part, I realize, more than I ever wanted anything. I want it so I can escape from damp basements and soggy little sisters and a mum who suddenly thinks it’s a great idea to ring her ex and get chatting when we’ve all spent the last two weeks hiding from him.

  Then I look at Jo, her face pale and her lip quivering, with hurt or with anger, I can’t tell.

  I don’t want this part.

  I want my best friend back, because I know, surer than anything I’ve ever known, that I’ve lost her. Maybe for good.

  Mum’s not well. She stays in bed all Saturday, curled up and crying, and I can’t find any money for milk or bread or cheese or cereal. When I ask, Mum says she’ll sort it, but she doesn’t.

  ‘Mu-um,’ I say, and I can’t help it if there’s no sympathy or understanding in my voice. I can’t help it if I sound hacked off and angry, because I am.

  ‘We need money, Mum,’ I say. ‘Come on, there has to be some cash, somewhere. I need to buy stuff. Misti needs to eat. I need to eat. And if you’re not going to talk to me, not going to look after us, then I need to ring Jane, because I’m scared.’

  My voice has risen to a high-pitched, tantrum-style whine.

  ‘DO something, Mum!’ I scream. I want to chuck Mum’s mug of stone-cold coffee across the flat. I want to shake her, slap her, wake her up.

  My mum is sick and I’m shouting at her, scaring her, scaring Misti. I’m a spoilt, selfish brat. I feel awful.

  I sink down on the edge of the single bed, shaking. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

  Mum just looks at me, her eyes wide, her lips quivering.

  ‘Me too,’ she says. Then she hugs me tight and the tears come again, making a wet patch on my top.

  Misti and I play with play dough and teddies all day, and I heat a tin of tomato soup at lunchtime, but Mum won’t eat any and Misti’s still hungry. I can’t ring Jane because I haven’t any money, and it’s too far to walk to her place, even if I knew the way from here. I’d have to take Misti and I’d have to leave Mum, and neither option sounds great.

  In the end, I hear Ian Turner’s red Fiat scrunch up the driveway and I run out and tell him Mum’s not well, and ask if he has a phone I can use.

  ‘Course you can,’ Ian says, taking me up the steps to the big front door of number 33, across the dingy hallway that smells of polish and up the creaking staircase. ‘There’s a nasty flu bug going round at work. Loads of people off. Is that what’s up with Anna?’

  ‘Probably,’ I say vaguely. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Ian’s flat is tucked into the roof of the house, and though it’s small, it’s messy and bright and it doesn’t smell of damp. He points to the phone and I dial Jane’s number shakily.

  She’s there. Relief floods through me and I’m babbling about Mum being ill and Misti being hungry and Jane says she’ll be with us in half an hour, hang on, keep smiling.

  When I replace the receiver, Ian Turner comes out of the kitchen with a box packed with Lemsip, milk, cheese, bread, oranges, Jaffa Cakes and chocolate.

  ‘Emergency rations,’ he says, smiling, and even though I know Mum’ll be cross, I let him follow me down the creaky stairs and round to the back.

  Misti’s sitting on the steps, wailing like her heart will break, and I scoop her up and breathe in her baby-powder smell and the scent of the cheap shampoo we’re all using these days.

  Inside, Mum is up, looking pale and sad and beautiful, her blue Chinese wrap tied round her, fair hair falling in limp corkscrew curls around her shoulders.

  ‘Mr Turner… you really shouldn’t have. You’re very, very kind.’

  She collapses into one of the brown armchairs and holds her arms out for Misti.

  ‘No problem.’ Ian Turner looks for the kettle, fills it and switches it on. He produces a Lemsip sachet and shakes the powder into a clean mug. ‘Flu is a rotten thing, especially at this time of year. You have to just give in to it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t seem to have much choice…’ Mum shrugs and leans
back in the chair. Misti’s quiet now, sitting on her lap, possibly because Ian’s given her a Jaffa Cake.

  ‘Jane’s coming,’ I say to Mum. ‘I rang her.’

  ‘I see,’ Mum says. ‘Well, help is at hand, Mr Turner. Thank you for everything, and don’t worry, I’ll replace the food as soon as I’m up and about…’

  ‘No, no, I won’t even miss it,’ he says. ‘Really, I don’t eat much, living alone. If you like, I could stick around, fix you all a bite to eat…’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Turner. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ian,’ he says. ‘We’re neighbours, after all.’

  ‘Ian.’

  He smiles and nods and backs away, letting himself out of the flat.

  ‘Indie…’ Mum starts, but I interrupt.

  ‘I know, I know, but what was I supposed to do? No money, no food, and you just keep on crying… We’re hungry, Mum. I had to ring Jane, and how else was I meant to do it? What d’you expect?’

  Mum leans forward in the armchair, so that her hair screens her face. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Mum – look, just drink the medicine, OK?’ I tell her. ‘You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she says into Misti’s blonde curls. ‘I won’t, Indie, because it’s not flu, and this won’t cure it. Nothing will.’

  The doorbell shrills, and Misti squirms free of Mum’s hug and tumbles over to the door with me.

  ‘Jane, Jane, Jane!’ she squeals as I open the door and Jane bustles in, carrying a huge, flat box smelling gorgeously of pizza. We fall on the food like we haven’t eaten for a week, except for Mum, who picks up a slice and stares at it like she’s trying to identify an alien species.

  ‘Hey, come on, Anna, you have to eat,’ Jane says. She prods at the untouched Lemsip, still warm, and frowns. ‘We have to get you better. This’ll help.’

  ‘It’s not flu,’ I say.

  ‘Oh? What is it?’

  A fat tear rolls down Mum’s cheek.

  Jane shoves her pizza to one side and grabs Misti’s tartan blanket from the floor. She drapes it gently round Mum’s shoulders and settles her back in the brown armchair, facing the fire.

  ‘Come on, Anna, love, you know he’s not worth it,’ she says softly, and then Mum’s sobbing, howling, drawing in big gulps of air. Misti looks up, stricken, and starts to cry too. My hands are shaking, and my mouth feels like sawdust.