“I think your Mr Blackthorn needs sorting out,” he said, grimly. “Would you like me to have a word with him?”
“No! Don’t!” My cheeks prickled with heat. “That would make him even worse!”
Dad did not look convinced.
“I won’t have some hoity-toity teacher picking on my daughter.”
He thought for a moment.
“Do you want to come for a drive?”
“Where to?”
“We’re going to pay your Mr Blackthorn a visit.”
“No, we can’t!”
“Don’t worry, he’s not going to see us.”
“Oh. Well, alright then.”
I left the rest of my corned beef sandwich uneaten and went and got in the van.
Mr Blackthorn only lived a few streets away, so we knew where to find his gaff. He drove a very distinctive BMW, much nicer than any of the motors in our neighbourhood.
“He might as well have painted an X on his house,” Dad said with a chuckle.
We pulled up outside and listened to some music while we watched the house.
After a bit, our patience was rewarded, as Mr Blackthorn himself came out.
“Dad, he’ll see us!”
“No, he won’t. Not with our lights off.”
We watched as Mr Blackthorn got into that shiny car of his and started the engine.
“Now what?”
“Now we follow him.”
It seemed awfully exciting, like in the films.
“But Dad, you’re letting him get away,” I objected, as Mr Blackthorn sped off.
“No, I ain’t. You watch.”
Mr Blackthorn’s car was already at the end of the road, about to turn into the main street. Dad lingered a moment longer, then set off after him. We carried on like that, staying well back, but always with our sights on Mr Blackthorn’s shiny BMW.
“Where do you think he’s going?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “Could be anybody’s guess.”
Mr Blackthorn drove to a pub some distance away. One I’d never seen before, called ‘The Admiral’. It had hanging baskets on the windowsills, and fairy lights strung up around the entranceway. The thud, thud, thud of pop music blasted from inside.
“Interesting,” said Dad, watching a group of women come out.
“Are we going to go inside?”
“No, let’s sit tight for a bit.”
He put on some music and opened a can. There wasn’t anything for me to drink, but I didn’t mind. It was fun staking out the place. I pretended we were detectives, working on a case.
“Wait here,” Dad said, once he’d finished his drink.
“Can’t I come?”
“No, Mr Blackthorn will recognise you. But I’ll bet he hasn’t a clue who I am.”
He wasn’t wrong there. Dad had never attended a parents’ evening in his life.
I waited anxiously as Dad walked into the pub. It was already dark out, and the darkness conjured up frightening images in my mind. I thought the car opposite blinked at me. It totally freaked me out. To steady my nerves, I turned up the radio, and sang along loudly with the music. I was relieved when Dad returned, grinning like a lizard.
“What happened?”
“I got what we came for.”
He pulled his prized polaroid camera out of his pocket.
“What’s that?”
“Evidence.”
I clicked through the pictures he had taken, but all I saw was Mr Blackthorn, playing darts with a mate.
I didn’t really get what he was talking about. Not till a bit later, when Mr Blackthorn and his mate come out of the pub and climbed into the Bimmer. Just before they drove off, I saw Mr Blackthorn lean in and give his mate a hug. No, not just a hug. He planted a kiss right on his smacker.
I giggled, but Dad kept snapping the whole time.
“What are they doing?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Dad said. “All you need to know is that your problems with Mr Blackthorn are over.”
3
Mr Blackthorn wasn’t in school on Monday. We had a supply teacher called Mrs Benedict. All she did was write stuff on the blackboard for us to copy down. It was mega boring, but at least she didn’t lob tennis balls.
Mr Blackthorn still wasn’t in on Tuesday. Or on Wednesday neither. Eventually, Mrs Wagner, the head called a meeting and announced that he had left for personal reasons.
“What personal reasons?” one of the parents demanded.
“I’m afraid it’s rather delicate. But rest assured, we will be recruiting a new teacher as soon as possible.”
I felt a little shock of guilt when I heard this but Dawn gave me a big thumbs up.
“Way to go!”
I smiled, but I still didn’t really understand how Dad had done it.
Dad was really pleased with himself when I told him.
“You see, Jody? You never let no one make a fool of you. Especially you, being a girl. You have to stand up to people, or they will walk all over you.”
I didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but I didn’t want Dad to think I was thick. He had a way about him when he talked. He would wave his arms about, and bang the table and everyone would stop and listen.
“I’ll be on my guard,” I told him.
Dad sat by the fire, plumes of smoke snaking from his pipe.
“Get us a beer, will you Jody Bear?”
“Course, Dad.”
“Alright love? You look cream crackered,” he said, when Mum got in a little later.
She dumped her bag down on the table and sank into the armchair, resting her huge bump.
“Oy, Mum, what’s for tea?” Sam asked.
“I’ve had a great idea,” said Dad. “Let’s go out for tea! Jody, go and put something nice on. Go on, Sam. Go and scrub up.”
We did not need telling twice. We charged up the stairs to our room.
“Race you,” Sam said, pulling off his school shirt.
I opened the wardrobe, and rattled through the hangers, searching for something that didn’t have a stain or a hole in it. I settled on my satin party dress. It was getting a bit small, but it still looked really smart. I slipped it on, and went to the bathroom to comb my hair in front of the mirror. Sam stood beside me, styling his hair. He made it all stand on end like a bog brush. He held it in place with some funky green gel that had stars in it.
“What you gawking at?” he said, when he caught me looking.
“Nothing.”
I pulled my black curls out of my eyes and clipped them in place with a Fergie bow, then I ran back downstairs, stoked to be first.
Mum was still sitting in the chair where we’d left her.
“What about you, Lovely? Aren’t you going to put your best dress on?” Dad said.
Mum smiled weakly. “I think I’ll go as I am. I don’t have the energy for those stairs.”
“I can bring you your dress if you want, Mum,” I offered.
“No, that’s OK. I doubt it will fit, anyway.”
Dad pulled a face I couldn’t read, and helped Mum into her coat. I noticed he didn’t feel the need to change. He was wearing the same old blue jeans and t-shirt he always wore, but I knew to keep my trap shut. The last thing I wanted was to ruin his happy mood. We all clambered into the van, and Dad drove us into town, stopping on the yellow lines outside Pizza Hut.
Dad made a big show of holding open the door for us all, almost wrestling with the waiter to take Mum’s coat.
“We’ll have one of your finest tables,” he said.
The waiter led us to a large round table in the corner. It was covered with cutlery, glasses and napkins. There were large, colourful menus in each place and in my excitement, I really did think we’d been given the best table. Dad ordered Hawaiian pizzas all round. Sam picked every bit of pineapple off his and hid it under his plate. I loved every bite of mine, sitting by the window, watching my classmates walk by.
Dad tal
ked excitedly the whole time.
“Did I tell you about the time I rescued the Queen from a burning building?”
He had, many times, but I was always happy to hear it again.
“Well, it was a really balmy summer, when a fire broke out in the kitchen of the palace…”
I tried not to mind the bits of pizza that showered from his gob as he spoke, or the water he spilled as he thumped the table with enthusiasm. Dad was definitely the fun parent. At one point, he swung his arm so high in the air that he accidentally whacked the waiter.
“God, sorry, mate! Don’t know my own strength sometimes!”
“That’s quite alright,” the waiter mumbled, but the moment he was gone, Dad collapsed in gales of laughter.
“Did you see his face? The pompous git!”
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and in the next instant, he clicked his fingers, summoning the poor waiter back to our table.
“We’ll have four of your biggest ice cream sundaes,” Dad said, his voice filling the room.
“Oh, not for me, thanks,” Mum said. “I really couldn’t…”
“Nonsense,” Dad said. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
The waiter looked in confusion from one to the other, but Mum just shook her head.
“She’ll have one anyway,” Dad said.
A bit later, the waiter reappeared with the biggest ice creams I’d ever seen, each one dripping with toffee sauce.
“Ain’t this a great time to be alive?” Dad said, as we all dug in.
“Aren’t you going to try it?” I asked Mum.
“Hmm, scrummy!”
I watched as she lifted the spoon to her mouth. But she didn’t have more than a couple of spoonfuls. It was a total waste of ice cream.
“Oy, Dad,” I called, as Sam and I got in from school the next day. “Do you want to hear the new song I learned?”
I had practiced it all the way home, despite Sam threatening to wallop me.
“Maybe later,” Dad said, poking the fire.
“Do you want to come outside and kick a ball around?” Sam asked. His legs jiggled about, as though he was incapable of standing still.
“Not now. Can’t you see I’m having a rest?”
Sam’s legs stopped jiggling for a moment. “Oh. Alright.”
Dad looked at Sam, frowning at the state of him.
“Tie your bleeding laces, will you? You’ll be a laughing stock if you go out like that.”
I sat down beside Dad and reached for the poker, but he swatted me away.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Of course, I am.”
I brought my recorder to my lips, but before I’d played more than the first few notes, Dad grabbed it out of my hands and tossed it across the room.
“Hey! I have to practice. I’ve got orchestra in the morning.”
“Then go and practice in your room.”
“It’s freezing cold up there!”
I stood up and picked up my recorder from where it had landed, under the table. I put it to my lips again and blew more softly than before.
Dad followed me, his face as sour as rhubarb.
“Stop it, Dad! You’re going to break it!”
He twisted it out of my hands and tried to snap it in two. I don’t know if he was serious or not, but I snatched it back and ran up the stairs.
“That was really mean!” I yelled from the banister.
Dad’s laugh rattled in my ears.
I stomped upstairs to my room, but I wasn’t in the mood to play anymore. Instead, I drew a picture of Dad getting pecked at by a flock of birds.
I thought Dad might come after me and say sorry or something. But instead, he fell asleep in his chair. No one even called me down for tea. I had to heat up some beans on toast for Sam and me.
Don’t get angry, get even. Wasn’t that what he always told me?
After tea, I went back to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were some cans of beer in a neat row at the bottom of the fridge. I picked one up and held it in my hand. It was cold and heavy. I fiddled with the tab, daring myself to open it.
Sam came in at that moment and I dropped the can into the sink.
“What are you up to?” he asked, opening a tin of custard.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
“Nothing.”
He looked me in the eyes, but I didn’t give anything away. Sam got a spoon out of the drawer and ate the custard straight from the tin, in large hungry mouthfuls. It dribbled down his chin and on to his football shirt. Mum was going to have to wash that.
I waited until he left, then I hid Dad’s beer behind the cleaning products under the sink. I opened the fridge and grabbed the remaining cans and stuffed them under the sink too. I felt all tingly as I skipped out of the kitchen. I knew what I had done was wrong, but it felt good.
I waited on tenterhooks for Dad to wake up from his kip, but when he did, he didn’t mention the beers. The evening passed, and he even came upstairs and tucked me into bed, telling me one of his spectacular stories. He didn’t say sorry for what he’d done, but apologies weren’t his style. I settled down to sleep expecting him to come barging up the stairs, demanding to know what I’d done with his precious beers. Strangely, he never did.
The next morning, I got up early and put them all back in the fridge, behind a large jar of pickled onions.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Sam murmured, as we set off for school. “He’s been really grumpy and serious. Do you think he’s ill?”
“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. Dad was big and strong and powerful. It wasn’t his place to get ill.
But he was different alright. I noticed it again that evening, when his racing programme ended, and he continued to stare at the screen, despite the fact that they were now showing a nature programme, which he hated.
Mum came up to my room later, when I was doing with my maths homework. The worksheets Mrs Benedict gave me were much easier than Mr Blackthorn’s, and if I was honest, I was a little bored.
“Dad’s feeling very sad at the moment,” she said, as she set her large behind down on my bed. She was so big she made the bed dip in the middle.
“Why?”
“Because he's lost his job.”
“But surely they’ll always need firemen?”
I couldn’t believe the unfairness of it. My dad loved being a fireman. It was part of who he was. He’d even been awarded a medal of honour once. It had been presented by the mayor.
“The council is making cuts. They want less people to do more work.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“I wish I knew.”
I tried not to notice the wetness on Mum’s cheek.
A few days later, Dad asked me and Sam if we wanted to come out in the van with him.
“Where are we going?”
“Les Purcell’s house.”
Sam and I looked at each other. Les was our local MP. I’d seen his face on the glossy leaflets they posted through the door.
“Why?”
“The cuts are all his fault, ain’t they?” Dad said, snatching up his keys. “They don’t affect him none. It really boils my piss, the way he lives up there in his swanky house, eating his dinner off a silver platter.”
We put our coats on, but not Dad. He often went about in a t-shirt, even in the winter. He never seemed to feel the cold. Perhaps he was protected by the thick hairs that sprouted from his arms and legs. He even had hair on his ears and on his belly. If I were that hairy, I would wear a coat to mask it. But Dad never worried about such things.
We walked out to the van, which was parked across our neighbour’s driveway. Sam nabbed the prized front seat, so I had to sit in the back. Neither of us did up our seatbelts. Dad didn’t either. I don’t think I ever saw him wear one. Not even on the motorway. He started the van and drove round the corner, past Mr Blackthorn’s old house. I’d heard his wife had thrown him out an
d he was living in another town now, though I still didn’t understand why.
Dad drove through increasingly posher neighbourhoods, until we came to one lined with Sycamore trees and beautiful manicured lawns. He parked the van outside the largest house of all. Really grand it was, with a Rolls Royce parked in the driveway.
Sam reached for the door handle.
“No, we’re not going to go inside,” Dad said.
“Are we going to sit here and watch?” I asked, remembering how we had watched Mr Blackthorn.
“That’s right.”
Dad switched on the radio, and we listened for a while, but nobody left the house or went inside.
“Does anyone need the toilet?” Dad asked, at length.
“No,” Sam said instantly.
“Go on then, Jody,” Dad said.
“Where?”
I couldn't see a toilet anywhere and there weren’t any bushes.
“On the Rolls. Go on!”
“Dad! I can’t do that! What if someone sees me?”
“Oh, go on. There’s no one about.”
“I really don’t want to.”
I folded my arms across my chest.
Sam sniggered and I glared at him.
“Remember how I helped you out with Mr Blackthorn? Don’t you think you owe me a favour?”
He looked at me with his large sorrowful eyes that crinkled around the edges. I met his gaze and it was like looking into the sun. I blinked and looked up at the big, grand house. I couldn’t see anyone at any of the windows.
“Don't watch.”
I climbed out of the van, shutting the door softly behind me. My cheeks blazed as I snuck up to the Rolls and crouched beside it. I lifted up my dress, but it was a very unnatural position to pee in and I got more over my shoes than on the car.
Why didn’t I climb up onto the bonnet?
I trudged back to the car, forgetting to shut it quietly. I couldn’t look at either of them. I kept my head down, wishing I could change into liquid form and sink down into my seat.
“You go, Sam.” Dad said. “It'll be easier for you.”
I turned away as Sam went up for his turn. Of course, Sam would be able to do it. Boys were designed for peeing on things. He returned looking all pleased with himself and Dad beamed with pride.
Cold Bath Lane Page 2
