‘Oh Jude, no need for that,’ Miss Lloyd beams. ‘But thank you!’
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘I have to go now – Grandad will be waiting.’
‘Of course – the wedding!’ Miss Lloyd says. ‘Come on, let’s get you downstairs … and well done again!’
We walk down the concrete stairs and push through the double doors, out into the cool evening air. No Grandad.
‘I can wait with you,’ Miss Lloyd says. ‘No trouble.’
‘There’s no need,’ I tell her. ‘Grandad’s meeting me at quarter to six, and it’s still only twenty to – no need to worry.’
‘Well, if you’re sure … I might just catch the music shop. They’re open till six on a Friday!’ Miss Lloyd pats my arm proudly, winks and walks briskly away.
I check my watch. Five forty-two. I scan the crowded pavements, still glowing with the adrenalin buzz of the exam. Grandad knows exactly where we’re meeting – I pointed it out from the bus last week. Plenty of time.
‘Jude!’ Mum is weaving along the busy pavement, in and out of the shoppers, with her red shoes and her pink leather jacket and Toto loping ahead of her on the lead. In spite of everything, my heart soars. She’s come to see how I did.
‘Mum! I didn’t expect to see you here! It went well, I think. A few little mistakes, but apart from that …’
‘What?’ Mum looks puzzled. ‘Oh. The exam. Well, that’s good. Come on, then, Jude, we can’t hang about all night …’
She hooks an arm through mine and tries to pull me forward, but I shake her off. ‘No, Mum, I’m waiting for Grandad, remember?’ I say. ‘We’re going to the station.’
Mum laughs, shaking her head. ‘No, no, change of plan,’ she says. ‘Dad couldn’t make it, so I said I’d take you. Now, let’s get going!’ She marches off along the crowded pavement, leaving me to run along behind.
‘Why couldn’t Grandad make it?’ I demand. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened, he just asked if I’d do it,’ she says. ‘Come on!’
My head is buzzing. Why did Grandad ask Mum to do it? Isn’t he feeling well? Or Gran, maybe? Grandad wouldn’t ask Mum to help out if he could help it, not the way she is right now.
‘Is Gran sick?’ I ask. ‘Or Grandad? Tell me!’
‘Everybody’s fine,’ Mum insists. ‘Honestly, Jude! Just hurry!’
We cut down through the subway and up again on to the path that leads to the station. Toto stops to pee in a flower bed set out with tulips and daffodils arranged in straight lines, but Mum yanks him onwards.
Just see me on to the train,’ I tell her. ‘You don’t have to come to Birmingham – I can manage the change fine. If I get confused, I’ll ask someone.’
‘It’s all arranged.’
‘You can’t take Toto on the train!’ I argue, clutching at straws.
‘You can,’ Mum tells me. ‘It’s not a problem. I know what I’m doing!’
I wish I believed that. We sweep into the station with twenty minutes to spare. ‘Look after the dog,’ Mum says. ‘I need a ticket.’
‘You’ve got one, haven’t you?’ I say ‘Grandad’s one. What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve forgotten it, haven’t I?’ Mum snaps. ‘Wait there.’
I sink down on to a bench, Toto at my feet, while Mum joins the long queue. People swarm through the turnstiles, tired, coats flapping, briefcases and carrier bags swinging, home from work. Others guard their suitcases, studying the departures board, or choose a magazine for their journey.
A group of boys move away from the front of the ticket queue, gliding gracefully across the shiny marble floor of the station concourse, hockey sticks in hand. It’s Brendan, Carter and a bunch of other kids from school – the street hockey team – and they’re on Rollerblades. They swoop and skid through the crowd of commuters, laughing and shouting and batting a squashed-up Coke can back and forth between them.
‘Oy, lads!’
A couple of station officials run forward, trying to break up the Coke-can game, but the bladers are too quick, too clever. They shoot forward, tickets ready, and disappear through the ticket barriers on to the platform. All except Carter.
The officials have cornered him somewhere near the magazine stall, backing him up against the wall. A small crowd of onlookers watch, amused. I can’t hear what the station officials are saying, but it’s obviously some kind of warning. Carter is trying to argue, but the officials stay stern. Finally, he bends down, pulls off his Rollerblades and flings them down on to the shiny marble floor in a temper.
They slide off in different directions, one right into the path of a fresh batch of commuters. A suited businessman stops short, blinks at the Rollerblade, then kicks it out of his way. It comes to a halt at my feet. Toto sniffs at it, suspiciously, then backs off.
The station officials have finished with Carter, and he’s looking around, crestfallen, for his blades. He picks one up, scans the station concourse and finally sees me, sitting quietly with an Afghan hound and a Rollerblade at my feet.
‘Jude,’ he says, pink-faced. ‘Please tell me you didn’t see that.’
‘See what?’
‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’ he asks, stricken. ‘You saw everything. Why am I such an idiot?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
‘Just my luck,’ he says, flopping down on to the bench beside me. Toto, not known for his manners, starts snuffling at Carter’s socks.
‘Hey,’ he protests. ‘They were clean on yesterday!’
‘This is Toto,’ I explain.
‘Hi, Toto.’ He offers his hand for Toto to sniff, and is rewarded with a swift lick. ‘Look, he likes me! Clever dog. Looks like I’ve missed my train, now, anyway. We had a match fixed up out in Canley – good job I was only the reserve.’
‘Have you ever thought of trying a different hobby?’ I ask. ‘One you’re actually good at?’
Carter looks puzzled. ‘Where’s the challenge in that?’
‘Just a thought,’ I say.
Carter shrugs. ‘Wasn’t it your piano exam today?’
‘Yup. It went OK.’
‘’Course it did! You practise all the time! Too much, probably. You should practise less and hang out with me, it’d give your playing a bit of edge.’
‘You think?’
‘I think. Definitely.’ His hazel eyes twinkle.
‘You need to practise all the time to get good at something,’ I tell him.
‘I know,’ Carter says. ‘All I’m saying is, practise something different. Practise hanging out with me. Like you say, we’d get pretty good at it, eventually.’
‘Hanging out is not a skill,’ I argue. ‘You just do it.’
‘So just do it!’
I roll my eyes, exasperated. Carter takes out a half-eaten chocolate bar. He offers me a bit, scoffs the rest, then scribbles something in pencil on the back of the wrapper and hands it to me.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, squinting at the six numbers scrawled across the chocolate-stained paper.
‘In case you want to call me over the weekend,’ Carter says carelessly. ‘Practise hanging out. Or whatever.’
‘Whatever,’ I laugh, pocketing the crumpled chocolate wrapper. Mum has left the ticket queue and is making for the magazine stall, her red shoes making a clickety-click sound on the cool marble floor.
‘So. Where are you going?’ Carter wants to know. ‘Tea out in Birmingham, as a treat? Front-row tickets for a symphony orchestra? Cruft’s dog show?’
I think about Kristina Kowalski, mystery girl, only child, cold, sharp-tongued Barbie-clone. Then I think of her last night, crawling through a hedge on her hands and knees, twigs in her hair, looking for a lost brother. We’re a little bit the same, Kristina and me. We edit the truth, keep stuff hidden, awkward stuff, embarrassing stuff. We’re trying to be normal, ordinary, average, terrified someone will find out different.
What’s the point? Suddenly, it all seems like way too
much effort.
I sigh. ‘I’m going to Scotland for my dad’s wedding.’
Carter opens his eyes wide. ‘What, your dad who had the weird Elvis New Year party?’ he says, frowning.
‘He’s marrying his girlfriend,’ I explain. ‘Victoria. She was the one in the black beehive wig. They’re – um – kind of carrying on the Elvis theme.’
‘Seriously?’ Carter asks. ‘An Elvis wedding? No way!’
‘Way,’ I tell him.
‘Cool!’ he breathes. ‘Are you a bridesmaid, then? You’ll have to show me the photos!’
‘There’ll be no photos,’ I say sternly. ‘And you are not to tell anyone at school about this. OK?’
Carter just shakes his head and laughs, and tells me his lips are sealed, for now at least. What’s it worth, he wants to know, to keep it that way? In the distance, Mum approaches, clutching a carrier bag of supplies. Toto jumps up, tail wagging, as she reaches us.
‘Ready, Jude?’ she asks, and I’m certain that only I can hear the slight slur as she speaks. We stand up, and I can sense Carter clocking the pink leather jacket, the too-short skirt, the orange-blonde hair with months of roots showing. He’ll be breathing in the scent of face-powder and hairspray, the smouldering ciggy, missing the faint, sweet smell of whisky. I hope.
‘Who’s this then, Jude?’ Mum asks, brightly. ‘Boyfriend, is it?’
Carter’s grin is wider than his face.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I snap. ‘Mum, this is Kevin Carter, from school. Carter, this is my mum.’
‘Hello, Mrs Reilly.’ He beams, offering a hand for Mum to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you at last!’
There’s a crackling, muffled announcement on the tannoy, and I look at my watch. ‘Mum, quick, that’s our train!’
We sprint for the ticket barriers, hurtle across the platform, a muddle of school bag, red stilettos, skittering Afghan hound. ‘See you Monday!’ Carter shouts, but I don’t have time to reply.
The guard bundles us into the last open doorway before slamming it shut behind us and blowing the whistle. We fall into the nearest empty seats, Toto curling up at our feet.
Mum dumps her bag down on the table. It’s the big pink one, not the little shoulder bag, and it looks surprisingly full. She starts unpacking magazines, sandwiches, chocolate, water, cans of pop. There’s enough to keep a small army fed and entertained. I frown.
‘You’re only coming with me as far as Birmingham,’ I say.
Mum laughs, and the sound is like glass breaking, a thin, splintering sound, yet musical.
‘Oh no, Jude,’ she says. ‘Is that what you thought? No, I’m coming with you. All the way to Gretna Green.’
We’ve done the Birmingham change and we’ve been on the Carlisle train for ages. I’ve tried praying for snow on the line, engine trouble, signal failure, earthquake. Nothing happens. We stop at Lancaster, and I think about making a run for it, but hey, Mum would probably carry on without me.
If I had a mobile phone, I could call home, speak to Grandad, find out what is going on. I could call Dad and Victoria, tell them, warn them. I could do something.
Toto knows I’m upset, and rests his head in my lap. I feed him slivers of ham from my sandwich, crusts, crisps, squares of chocolate. I stroke his silky, crimped ears while Mum sips mini-bottles of wine from the buffet car and flicks at her silver lighter, trying to get it to fire up and light her ciggy.
‘Think I need a new one,’ she grumbles. ‘It’s useless, this.’
The lighter flares up suddenly, igniting her ciggy and almost setting her fringe alight. ‘Stupid thing!’ she moans.
The man across the aisle leans over and tells her that smoking is not allowed on any part of the train. Mum tells him to mind his own business, but she puts the ciggy out anyway after a couple of puffs.
‘I’m not bothered, anyway,’ she says. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Why are you doing this, Mum?’ I ask her. ‘What will Dad and Victoria think?’
‘Who cares?’ Mum snaps. ‘It’s a free country. I can go wherever I want.’
‘But why would you want to go to Dad and Victoria’s wedding?’
Mum just smiles, drains her plastic glass and leans her head back against the headrest.
Sadly, there are no earthquakes and the train rolls into Carlisle dead on time. We grab our stuff and spill out on to the platform, and Toto lifts his leg and pees against the train.
Dad and Victoria are waiting on the platform, faces creased with anxiety. Dad is wearing his black fringy catsuit and Victoria is turning heads in a turquoise minidress.
‘Jude!’ Dad yells. ‘Jude, over here! We’ve been worried sick.’ He wraps me in a quick, rhinestone-studded hug. ‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ he whispers. ‘She’s drinking again, isn’t she? What a nightmare. Why on earth didn’t you say something, Jude?’
‘Dunno,’ I say.
I stayed silent because that way I could pretend it wasn’t happening, and also because I didn’t want the worry, the shame of it all to seep out, spoiling Dad and Victoria’s special time.
‘Oh, Jude,’ Dad says.
Then he looks at Mum, and his face hardens. ‘Rose,’ he says. ‘What the hell is going on?’
She tries to flounce straight past, but Dad catches her arm and pulls her round. It’s like pulling the string on a party popper – she explodes, just as loud, just as colourful. She’s shouting at Dad, swearing at him, telling him to leave her alone. Victoria puts an arm around me gently, pulling me and Toto to one side.
‘Sorry Victoria,’ I mutter. ‘I tried to stop her!’
‘Jude, it’s not your fault! It’ll be OK, you’ll see.’
Right now, though, I don’t think that anything will ever be OK again.
‘Don’t you ever think of anyone except yourself?’ Dad is shouting. ‘Twelve years on, and you’re still playing games, still telling lies. It’s pathetic, Rose!’
‘I’m not playing games!’ she argues.
‘No?’ Dad says coldly ‘Patrick called us at the hotel. You told him the exam venue had changed, left him standing on his own outside a deserted church hall in Earlsdon! He waited an hour, Rose, before he realized you’d just spun him a line. He’s been worried sick!’
A clump of people have stopped to watch the row. They seem to think it’s some kind of performance art or street theatre.
‘What are you staring at?’ Mum shouts at them, and they grab their bags and hurry away. I wish I could do that.
‘I wanted to bring Jude up to Scotland,’ she flings at Dad. ‘Is that so bad? She’s my daughter!’
‘So act like a mother, then!’ Dad snaps. ‘Act like a daughter! You can’t just go telling lies and changing plans and scaring everybody half to death. Don’t you realize that?’
‘I’ll call Dad,’ Mum says, grudgingly. ‘I was going to, obviously.’
‘Obviously. What are you doing here, Rose? It was all over between us years ago, you know that. What’s this all about?’
Mum just laughs. ‘You think it’s all about you, don’t you?’ she says. ‘You think I’ve come all this way to stop you from marrying that … that … bank clerk. Don’t flatter yourself, Bobby! You’re history.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ Dad persists.
‘I told you,’ Mum says coldly. ‘I’m looking after my daughter. You expected her to travel up here alone, in the middle of the night? I don’t think so!’
‘We had it all arranged,’ Dad protests. ‘Patrick was taking her as far as Birmingham, we were meeting her here …’
‘And anything could have happened in between!’ Mum rages. ‘She’s only thirteen, for heaven’s sake! What kind of a father are you?’
Dad looks embarrassed, guilty. ‘Well, it wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but …’
‘Look, Bobby,’ Mum says in a martyred tone. ‘I thought I was doing everyone a favour – looking after Jude. I’m not interested in your wedding. Tomorrow I’m planning to see an old frie
nd who lives up this way – Gina. I’ll stay out of your way, don’t worry. On Sunday morning, I’ll take Jude home.’
‘Gina?’ Dad frowns, glancing at me.
I shrug. I’ve never heard of her, either.
‘She used to work at the Irish Centre in Coventry, years ago,’ Mum snaps. ‘She moved to Scotland. Look, Bobby, I may not have gone about this the right way, but Dad’s been such an old fusspot lately, ever since …’
She trails off abruptly, unsure of whether my dad has been told about the police cell incident. ‘Well, anyway, I was only trying to do the right thing for Jude, OK? And have a little break for myself too. I didn’t mean to worry everyone!’
Dad sighs. ‘You’ll call Patrick?’ he says.
‘Of course. Look, I’ve misjudged things, I can see that, but I didn’t mean to upset anybody, really. I’m trying to help. Dad’s got enough on his plate looking after Mum without running around the country making sure Jude gets to your wedding – but when I suggested helping out, he got all huffy, so I told a little white lie about the exam venue to put him off the trail. I’m just trying to do my bit, honestly!’
By lying to everyone, worrying them all sick? Yeah, right.
Mum looks shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time – do the good mum/daughter thing and see Gina too. Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from the wedding. Trust me, it’s really not my scene.’
‘Well,’ Dad says. ‘I suppose. If you’d just explained …’
‘We were worried, that’s all,’ Victoria says.
Mum’s lip curls into a sneer, and she looks at Victoria as if she’s a large, unpleasant turquoise-coloured slug.
‘So,’ Mum says. ‘Where do we get the connection to Gretna Green?’
Dad rolls his eyes. ‘Rose, don’t be silly. We’re here to collect Jude – you may as well get a lift too.’
Mum looks unimpressed. ‘In a pink Cadillac? How embarrassing. I hate flash cars. Still, if it’s here …’
She snatches my hand and drags me up the stairs and over the bridge that leads to the exit, Toto lunging on ahead. Dad and Victoria trail along behind us, exasperated. Mum raises one unimpressed eyebrow at the pink Cadillac parked up behind the taxi rank, glinting and gleaming in the street lights.
Sundae Girl Page 11
