After waiting for an X-ray (Mum, spaced out on painkillers, lying on a trolley in a corridor; me sitting on the floor because there’s nowhere else to go), we find out she’s cracked a bone that I can’t remember the name of, and they put her in a temporary cast.
I call the taxi firm, expecting someone else to turn up – but it’s the same driver. He helps Mum-and-crutches into the car, pushing the seat back as far as it’ll go so her leg can stick out and not get damaged. I sit wedged behind him, the smell of lemon car freshener mixing with the whiff of stale smoke from his clothes making me feel even more carsick than normal.
‘D’you want a hand inside, darlin’?’
He hoists Mum up. She pulls down her top, which has rucked up, and wobbles slightly on the unfamiliar crutches. This is going to take some getting used to. I’m already working out how best to clear a space for her to get to the sitting room, and thinking about where she’s going to be most comfortable sleeping.
‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, Holly?’ Mum’s voice sounds fuzzy round the edges with pain, and painkillers.
I nod. We always are.
By the time I get her inside, tell her to stand still for a moment while I clear a path so her crutches don’t slip on a heap of magazines and send her hurtling to the floor with a second broken ankle, I’m already mentally calculating how early I can get up to do my revision.
I plonk Mum on the sofa, grab armfuls of magazines and papers, and shove them on top of the sideboard. The coffee table is still piled up with stuff, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe if I get up early enough, I could sort it a bit before school.
‘Holly?’ Mum looks up at me. She’s got shadows under her eyes so dark they look like bruises.
I sit down carefully beside her on the sofa. ‘Uh-huh?’
‘Love you, honey.’
‘I know.’
‘The most.’
‘More than that.’
I bob sideways, nudging her with my shoulder. We’ve always said it, ever since I can remember. She might be tired and frazzled and a bit broken, but she’s the only mum I’ve got.
CHAPTER FOUR
There’s a brief moment of calm after my alarm goes off before I remember what’s happened. I’m about to get dressed for school as usual, tiptoeing so I don’t wake Mum up, when I suddenly remember. She’s not lying under the duvet in a heap. She’s downstairs on the sofa with her leg propped up on cushions.
I shrug on my dressing gown and make my way downstairs through the teetering piles of stuff. A plastic-clad magazine slips down the stairs in front of me, sliding to a halt when it hits the wall at the bottom, joining several others that have had the same fate. None of them have been opened – it’s a music magazine she subscribed to at some point, but they’re months out of date now, and have never been read. I bend down to push them into a stack so at least they’re out of the way and—
‘AAAARGH!’
‘Holly?’
I jump back, heart pounding, and sit on the stairs, shaking both hands rapidly.
‘What’s going on?’ There’s a thump and a muttered curse. ‘This is impossible,’ I hear her saying. A second later, there’s a clattering, and another thud.
‘Spider,’ I say, recoiling and bum-shuffling up another step.
Not just any spider, either. One with a proper body and sturdy, I-mean-business hairy legs. My back squirms at the thought of it sitting there waiting to get me.
‘I’d love to help,’ Mum says . . . and I remember again.
I slither down the stairs, and edge my body sideways round the newel post as if my life depends on it, which it quite possibly does, given that the house has been invaded by flesh-eating tarantulas.
Her crutches have fallen down, one in one direction, and the other under the coffee table. I can see straight away that this is going to be way harder than it would normally be, because our house is so full of crap that I have no idea how she’s going to get from A to B without falling over something and breaking her other ankle.
‘I’ll get you some tea.’
Before I go to the kitchen, I put a couple of cushions on the coffee table (shoving a load of stuff off to one side to clear a space) so she can prop her leg up.
‘Can you get me some painkillers as well? I can’t believe they’re expecting me to deal with this with just a couple of ibuprofen.’
By the time I’ve found some microwave porridge hiding in the back of the cupboard, sorted out tea, cleared a path to the downstairs loo, helped her on to her crutches, and got her back through to the sitting room, I realize there’s no way I’m going to make the school bus. Throwing on my clothes, I remember that – to top it all – I haven’t done any revision for the science test.
I’m going to have to walk, and I’m going to be late.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she says.
‘I’ve made you a flask of coffee, and there’s some oatcakes in the tin.’ I put it down on the table in front of her. ‘I’ll just go in for the test this morning, then tell them I’ve got a hospital appointment this afternoon.’
Mum looks up at me and pushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. For a moment I think she’s going to tell me that, no, I need to stay at school, and not to worry, she’ll sort something out. But then I watch as her face seems to flatten somehow, and the blank, emotionless expression is back.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’ I lean down and give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later. It’ll be fine.’
I know it’s not my job to make her feel better. I’m not even completely sure when the roles were reversed. I haven’t got time to think about it now anyway – the bus has gone, and the streets have that weird emptiness they have in the between time before school starts. Lateness hangs in the air. I walk as fast as I can, breaking into a jog now and then.
‘You’re late.’
Predictably, because this is me we’re talking about, I can’t just sneak in through the school office, make up an excuse and head to class. Instead I walk straight into Mrs Lennox, the head teacher. I tower over her, but she’s still terrifying. I try to think of an excuse.
‘I –’
‘Is that the best you’ve got?’ She shakes her head, lips set in a tight line. ‘This isn’t the first time, Holly. I think we need to have a little chat with your head of year about what’s going on.’
‘My . . .’ I scrabble around for an excuse. ‘My rabbit escaped.’
She raises her eyebrows slightly and tilts her head to one side. ‘Is that so?’
I nod. ‘And we live near the road, and I was worried she’d get out of the garden.’
Her eyes raise skywards. She’s not convinced.
‘Why don’t you join me at the end of the day, and we’ll discuss this. Three thirty, my office.’
I nod my head obediently.
‘Now get to class. Haven’t you got a test this morning?’
Talking to her has made me even later. By the time I get to class, everyone’s at their desk, heads down, in total silence, working through their test papers. I can’t even remember what we’re supposed to have learned. I push the handle down carefully, hoping it won’t squeak too loudly.
Everyone looks up as I open the door. Mr Gregory tuts.
‘Not a word, please.’ He puts a finger to his lips.
Allie, the girl who sometimes shares the same table as me at lunch, looks up, catches my eye and grins.
After class, she catches up with me, tapping me on the shoulder.
‘Hey. D’you want to come and hang out at break with me and Rio?’
I look at her and suppress the urge to check around to make sure she’s not talking to someone else.
We get a coffee from the vending machine – it’s vile, and tastes more of hot plastic and sugar than anything else, but our lunch tokens cover the cost of it, so it’s essentially free – and we go and sit on the wall underneath the library corner, shaded by the trees.
/> ‘Bad morning?’ She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at me sideways before checking her phone.
‘Something like that.’
‘I can’t wait for this bloody term to be over.’
‘What’s this?’
There’s a thud as Rio launches his bag over the wall and sits down between us. He reaches across and takes Allie’s coffee before she has a chance to object.
‘Gerroff!’
She grabs it back, but not before he’s taken a huge swig.
‘That is spectacularly disgusting coffee.’
‘I rescued Holly. She’s had a bad morning.’
Rio nods. He scuffs the toe of his shoe in the gravel, tracing a circle. ‘This place is hellish.’
We spend the rest of break talking about Allie’s plan to spend as much of the summer in Edinburgh as she can. Rio’s dad – who I always assumed was some sort of hippy farmer – is actually an artist, and he sells his work at a gallery in town. It’s weird, because I don’t really know them, but it’s quite comfortable sitting there listening to them rambling away. When the bell rings, Rio and I walk up to geography together, and I watch Lauren – standing alone, waiting outside her maths class – giving me a curious look and a half-wave as we walk by. It feels good not to be the one hovering on the edges for a moment.
One late mark, a run-in with the head teacher, a completely failed test and a lecture about taking my responsibilities seriously now I’m in S5, and I’m heading back to the office.
‘If you want time off for a hospital visit, you’re supposed to produce a letter,’ says the woman behind the glass of the reception desk.
‘I’ve left it at home.’
‘No letter, no hospital,’ she begins.
I think of Mum lying in the house, and my stomach clenches in panic.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
She shakes her head disapprovingly. ‘This time, I’ll let you go. But I want that letter in tomorrow, OK?’
I nod, hitching my bag over my shoulder. I’ll work out the details later.
It’s not until I’m home, helping Mum to the loo – she’s waited all morning because she couldn’t face trying to get there alone – that I remember I’m supposed to see Mrs Lennox after school.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ve just made it home when I get a text.
Are you en route? C
It takes a second for me to work out who C is, and why an unfamiliar number is texting me. And then I go cold. This is officially the Day from Hell. Not only have I screwed up the test, been late for school, missed a summons by the head teacher, but now I’m sitting in a onesie on the couch when I’m supposed to be at the pool signing the forms for the swimming assistant training course. Shit. Cressi’s going to kill me.
I look across at Mum, who is dozing on the sofa, her head leaning against a floral-patterned cushion. Her face is pale, and even though she’s sleeping, she still looks like she’s in pain. Wake her and tell her I’m going on the bus, or make an excuse? (Another excuse?)
She shifts slightly, and I watch her forehead crease. I can’t leave her.
I’m sorry – Mum is sick, I type, and look at it for a second.
Then I look at the jumble of stuff on the floor and the piles of stuff lining the edges of the room and think of the gigantic spider that’s living in the hall under the mountains of everything. And I delete it.
I’m sorry – I got sick.
My phone buzzes as I go to put it down on the arm of the chair.
:) No probs. Will drop form in later.
Shit.
CHAPTER SIX
I sit waiting for the doorbell to ring.
Cressi’s seen the house before, and she’s cheerfully unfazed by the total chaos. She makes her way into the hall, brandishing the forms I need to fill in, a pen in one hand.
‘Let’s just sort this out.’ She lifts up a pile of washing and moves it off the table in the hall to make a space for the paper to go. A cardboard box full of goggles (‘Are you going into business?’) topples over as she does so, and they spill all over the bags of stuff that are lying on the floor. ‘What’s this? Washing?’
I can feel my cheeks stinging pink with second-hand embarrassment. ‘Stuff for the charity shop.’
‘I’ll take that, shall I?’ She scoops it up capably and hands me the pen. ‘Just need your date of birth, that sort of thing – fill it in there, and I’ll get it sorted with the office staff . . . Fiona out?’ She peers along the narrow hall.
I lower my voice in the hope it’ll be catching. ‘No – she’s sleeping.’
‘Already?’ She looks at the clock in the hall. ‘Half seven’s a bit early for an early night, isn’t it?’
I don’t say anything. I just fill in the form and hand her back the pen.
‘Holly?’ I hear Mum’s voice as I’m turning to open the door and shoo Cressi back out into the pale evening sunshine.
‘Aha,’ says Cressi, and before I can stop her she’s dodged the assault course of random stuff that silts up the hall and headed to the sitting room.
‘How’re things?’ I hear her saying in her cheerful, no-nonsense way. And then, ‘My goodness, we have been in the wars.’
Mum says something I can’t catch, and I’m surprised to hear them both laughing.
‘Stick the kettle on, Holly,’ she calls through. ‘I want to hear the whole story about what’s going on.’
An hour later, we’ve been organized by Cressi. She’s tried her best to get us to come and stay in her cottage – Phil, her husband, is away with work, and there’s plenty of room – but Mum is determined she’s staying put.
‘Well,’ Cressi says, and her usual brisk tones are softer and kinder than usual. ‘Maybe if you’re sure you want to stay here, you’ll let me and Holly sort the place out a bit?’
Mum sighs and rolls her eyes. ‘It’s fine the way it is.’
‘Fiona –’ Cressi pulls a face – ‘on what planet is this fine?’
She puts a hand on a stack of books, which is balancing on top of a pile of black bin bags, which are stuffed full of . . . I don’t even remember what they’re stuffed with, come to think of it, they’ve been there so long. I look at the room through her eyes for a second, and I realize that we can’t carry on like this.
‘I’ll help,’ I say.
Mum doesn’t look particularly happy about it, but she’s stuck – literally – so there’s nothing she can do. Maybe breaking her ankle is the best thing that could have happened to her, in a weird sort of way.
Cressi’s house smells of log fires, even in summer. And the lemony scent of the geraniums on the windowsills. And faintly of dogs. The cottage has been there for more than a century, and it sits, square and solid, in a patch of garden, which is full of tumbling flowers and strange structures made of bamboo poles with sweet peas climbing up them.
‘Bin bags,’ she says, dumping them in my outstretched arms. ‘Bleach, IKEA bags for recycling stuff, kitchen spray.’ She plonks them on me – I’m standing in her kitchen while she thinks aloud.
‘Are you sure you want to do this now?’ I look at the clock. ‘It’s quarter past eight.’
‘Do you have something better to do?’
I shake my head.
‘Right.’ Cressi gives a decisive nod. ‘Then we’ll get started. To be honest I hadn’t realized how bad the place had become.’ She beckons for me to follow her outside.
Until the last few weeks, when she had reached the point when she was spending most of her time in bed, Mum had always managed to head Cressi off at the pass, meeting her for a coffee in town, or joining her for a walk to the woods with the dogs. We haven’t had anyone round for ages, come to think of it. Lauren used to turn up now and then, but she’s got her own life now, and I just hover round the edges of it at school.
‘Saw that chap you were chatting to in the pool today.’ Cressi looks at me sideways, pulling the boot of the car open.
I dump the armful
of cleaning stuff in, on top of a dog-hair-matted blanket and a pile of old boots, and make a non-committal noise. At least I hope that’s how it sounds. Inside I’m dying to ask her more.
‘I think he was hoping you’d be around. He looked like he was keeping an eye out for someone.’
I feel a swooping sensation in my knees. I think I’m probably blushing.
‘Anyway,’ she says, slamming the boot shut and brushing down her trousers in a brisk sort of manner, ‘I told him you’d be around sooner rather than later.’
Oh my God. Now it’s a thing. It’s real.
‘Come on,’ Cressi says, beckoning me back into the house for a moment.
I look around her kitchen at the shiny metal range cooker and the matching tea towel and oven gloves hanging neatly on shiny aluminium pegs. Even the dogs’ bed looks plump and comfortably inviting, and I half wish I could just persuade Mum to come and stay here until her leg is better. I wonder what it’d be like to live in a house where everything is tidy and finished and done. And I’m wondering, too, why Cressi doesn’t mind the way our house looks. But I don’t know how to ask.
She closes the dogs in the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of my reflection and realize that Mum’s not the only one with dark shadows under her eyes.
The other day at school, I was pulled out of class so Mr Taylor could ask if everything was OK at home, Holly, because we’re not trying to intrude, we just want to make sure, and we’ve noticed you’ve been a bit late with your last two pieces of homework, and . . .
It’s midnight by the time Cressi and I stop clearing up. It’s not immaculate, but it’s better than it was. There’s a clear trail to the downstairs loo, the kitchen surfaces have nothing on them, the towels have been sorted out and stacked in the airing cupboard (well, on one shelf . . . the other one is jammed with emergency loo roll and seven boxes of bleach, which probably shouldn’t be in there in the first place).
My Box-Shaped Heart Page 3
