I put down the cup.
‘It’s perfect.’
And then, for maybe the first time ever, I see Rev Cootes smile – and I realise that, putting aside the fact that he’s ancient and that he might be a serial killer, he’s actually quite handsome. A Clay kind of handsome.
‘Good.’ He pours himself a cup. ‘You’ve met our grandson?’
I nod. At last I’m going to find out what’s up with Clay.
‘We’re worried about him. Rosemary, especially. I thought that perhaps, being of a similar age, you might be able to help.’ Rev Cootes drops a second lump of sugar into his tea. ‘He has a modern condition that I am finding a little difficult to understand.’ He takes a sip of his tea.
I’m grateful to see that he doesn’t lift his little finger; at least I got that right. I send Mum a silent thank you.
‘A modern condition?’
He nods. ‘Clay has decided to stop eating.’
‘Oh.’
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never considered that a boy might get an eating disorder. But it all starts to make sense. How painfully thin Clay is, how grey his skin looks, the bags under his eyes, how he goes running all the time and keeps himself to himself. Apart from the stuff they taught us in PHSE, and finding out that a girl called Daisy, who was in my class a few years back, had to go and stay in a special hospital in London because she had to learn to eat again, I don’t know much about anorexia. And I don’t get why someone as cool and interesting as Clay would want to damage himself like that.
‘He’s in need of a friend or two.’ Rev Cootes looks out through a crack in the curtains. ‘I saw you talking to him the other day.’
He really is like Mum, spying on the world from inside his house.
‘Yes, we chatted.’
‘He needs to spend time with people his own age.’
It’s what Steph keeps saying about me. I mean, I spend time with Jake, obviously, but when I’m not with him I’m with Mum.
‘Maybe he’s happy the way he is,’ I say. And anyway, he’s got a new friend, I want to say – my best friend.
Rev Cootes shakes his head. ‘Clay isn’t happy.’
He puts down his cup, stares into it for a moment, and then stands up.
‘So it’s settled then,’ he says.
‘Erm—’ I haven’t got the foggiest what we’re meant to have settled.
‘You will be his friend,’ he says. As though being someone’s friend is as easy as picking up a pint of milk from the corner shop.
It hits me then that maybe Rev Cootes has never made a friend in his life.
‘I have your word?’
My word? Who even speaks like that any more?
‘Yes,’ I say, mainly because I don’t think I have a choice in the matter.
Rev Cootes walks into the hall and then stops and looks round. ‘What are you waiting for, Feather?’
With a bit of regret, I leave my cup of tea and follow him.
Clay’s room is so dark, I can’t see where he is. Maybe he left when I was talking to his granddad.
I look over my shoulder and watch Rev Cootes disappear down the hall. Then I turn back to the room.
‘Clay?’ I whisper.
The air smells of sleep.
I feel around for the light-switch.
‘Clay…’
I wonder whether Jake has been in here. I find the switch and flick it on.
‘Don’t.’ A mumble from the corner of the room.
Clay sits curled up on his bed, his hands over his eyes. It makes me think of Mum on her bad days.
‘Turn it off,’ he says.
I switch the light off again but push the door open a little more so that at least there’s enough light for me to see where I’m going.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, walking over to the bed.
He sniffs. ‘I’ve got flu.’
So that would explain why we haven’t seen him around school for the last few days. Only he doesn’t sound like he’s got flu, his voice is way too clear.
I go over and pull back the curtains and open the window: I’m not going to stay in this room talking to him in the dark, breathing in old air.
When I turn to face him, it’s like I’m seeing one of those famine victims from the news, all hollow cheeks and hollow eyes and jutting-out collarbones. I mean, he looked thin the first time I saw him, but now, I may as well be looking at a skeleton – a skeleton wearing PJs. Clay doesn’t have flu: he’s starving. Mum may be freakishly overweight, so overweight that she’s made herself ill, but her extra pounds have never shocked me as much as seeing Clay in front of me looking like a ghost.
‘You’ve been cooped up in here since Tuesday?’ I ask.
He nods.
I’m waiting for him to ask me what I’m doing here – and to ask me to leave – so I leap in and explain before he gets the chance:
‘Your grandfather asked me to come and say hello.’ I clear my throat. ‘Are you feeling better?’
He shrugs. And sniffs again.
‘It’s not just the flu, is it?’ I burst out, and then I regret it because calling someone a liar isn’t usually the best start to a relationship.
But he doesn’t get angry. Instead, he juts his chin towards his bedside table – I go over and find a handwritten letter covered in really neat, tight writing. The envelope has a NYC stamp on it.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I pick it up and start reading:
Dear Clay,
I hope that, with a bit of time and distance, you’ve had the chance to think about what you did and how your actions have consequences…
I suck in my breath. ‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your mum?’
He nods.
He gets off the bed and grabs the letter with his skin-and-bone fingers and shoves it under his pillow.
‘She likes to check in every now and then to make sure I remember how much I’ve disappointed her.’
Once again, like when we chatted by the Lido the other day, I want to ask him what he did that was so bad, only if he wanted me to know, he wouldn’t have snatched the letter away, would he?
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I say. Though I’m not so sure; I mean, she made her feelings pretty clear in that first line.
‘Oh, it’s true.’
I look around the room, at how dark and gloomy it is, at how Clay probably hasn’t been out for days.
‘You want to come round to mine?’
‘I thought your mum hated visitors.’
‘She does. But she’ll like you.’
For the first time since I came into his room, he smiles, a smile that makes me think of Rev Cootes when I said I liked his tea.
‘You sure?’ he asks.
‘As long as you promise not to take photos of her and sell them to the Newton News, or force her to eat salad, and as long as you don’t look at her like she’s an alien, just because she’s overweight—’
‘Damn, there go all my plans…’
I smile at him. ‘So, you coming then?’
He looks out through the window, his eyes so blue they’re transparent, and then he blinks. ‘Sure. Would you mind stepping out while I get changed?’
I feel myself blushing. ‘Of course.’
I go out into the hall. And as I wait I imagine him pulling off his T-shirt and his PJ bottoms. And then I picture his ribs sticking out and his stomach caving in rather than sticking out and his hipbones poking into the waistband of his boxers. And thinking of all those things gives me goosebumps, because when you’re that thin, your body starts to close down, just like it did with Daisy, that girl in Year 7.
He steps out of his room, pulling a hoodie over his head. Then he pushes his fingers through his hair and smiles. I wish I could do something to help him get better but I feel as clueless about how I’m meant to do that as I feel about how I’m meant to get Mum to a healthy weight.
‘Ready?’ I ask.
&
nbsp; He nods.
As we walk into the hall, I hear old-fashioned waltz-music, like one of the CDs Mum puts on. It’s crackly, like a vinyl. The door to the lounge is open just a crack and through it I see Rev Cootes sitting on his sofa, staring into space. He doesn’t look scary at all – he looks small and frail and alone.
‘Is he okay?’ I ask.
‘He misses Grandma.’
‘She died?’
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘It’s worse than that.’
I can’t think of anything worse than the person you love dying.
‘She’s in a nursing home. She’s got Alzheimer’s. When she stopped recognising who he was, he gave up visiting.’
‘He doesn’t visit her?’
‘It broke his heart, seeing how much she’d changed.’ His eyes go sad. ‘And she doesn’t recognise him any more.’
‘But he talks about her like—’
‘She’s still here?’
I nod.
‘It’s his way of coping. If he focuses on what she used to be, how she danced and painted, and how happy they were together, he doesn’t have to think about what she’s like now.’
‘He really doesn’t go to visit her?’
I can’t imagine loving someone that much and then cutting them out of my life completely.
‘I’ve been working on him. But you can’t force people to do things.’
It reminds me of what Clay said about Mum the other day and about what Mitch said too. But sometimes you have to force people to do the right thing, the thing that’s going to make them happy – that’s going to save them – don’t you?
17
Clay looks over his shoulder at the lounge door.
‘Your mum really spends all her time in there?’
Seeing it through Clay’s eyes, the room looks even smaller than usual.
‘Mum doesn’t like to move.’ I lower my voice: ‘Though it’s on my list of things to change. When Mum gets fitter, we’ll eat in the kitchen again.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Your list?’
‘Yes, my list.’
I know he’s thinking what he was thinking the other day at the Lido: that I’m forcing things. That I should just let her be. But he doesn’t get that that’s not an option for me.
As we stand at Mum’s door, Clay turns and looks at me.
‘Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?’
‘Definitely.’ I push open the door. ‘Mum…’ I walk in. ‘Mum – I want you to meet someone.’
Mum sits in her love seat, her eyes clamped shut. Snoring. Don’t be embarrassed, I tell myself. If Clay and I are going to be friends, he has to see Mum for who she is.
‘Mum,’ I say, louder this time. ‘It’s lunchtime.’
Mum jolts her head and snores louder. My cheeks are burning up so much, I must look like I’ve got sunburn.
‘She’ll wake up in a minute.’ I say to Clay. ‘She has lots of naps. It’s her medication, it makes her tired.’
I go and kneel beside her and stroke Mum’s arm.
‘It’s Clay – from next door.’
Mum’s eyes fly open. She stares right past me at Clay. The sunlight presses in behind him through the open door.
Mum blinks.
‘Is that you?’ she asks.
‘Mum?’
She sometimes gets a bit disoriented when she wakes up after a nap.
‘It’s me and Clay – Clay Cootes.’
Mum doesn’t take her eyes off him.
Clay smiles at Mum, steps forward to shake her hand. For a moment she just stares at him and doesn’t respond and I’m worried she’s going to be rude and not take his hand and blank him and that I’ll have to tell him to leave.
‘Mum…’
She blinks and finally holds out her hand. His fingers get lost in her big, fleshy palm.
‘Turns out Rev Cootes has a long-lost grandson he didn’t tell any of us about,’ I say.
‘You’re visiting your grandfather?’ Mum asks.
Clay smiles. ‘I’ll probably stay for a bit.’
I get that warm feeling at the pit of my stomach again. I’d like that, to have Clay around for good.
‘You don’t have a family to go back to?’ Mum asks.
I worry he’s going to be put out by her being so direct but he leaps right back in.
‘Mum’s basically disowned me.’ He clears his throat. ‘And I never met Dad.’
Hearing Clay say that makes me think of Jake and how he doesn’t have a dad around either. Maybe that’s why they get on so well.
‘I’m sure your mother loves you,’ Mum says.
‘Maybe.’
I hear the front door open. Dad comes into the lounge and looks from me to Clay to Mum, back to Clay. I don’t know whether it’s because it’s the first time I’ve brought a boy round who isn’t Jake, but Mum and Dad are being properly weird.
‘This is Clay from next door, Dad.’
Dad clicks back into the present.
‘Good to meet you, Clay,’ he says. ‘You staying for lunch?’
I freeze. We haven’t had a proper Sunday lunch together since New Year’s.
‘I’ve made a healthy roast chicken,’ he says. ‘I took inspiration from your cook book, Feather.’ He turns to Clay. ‘Want to help me set up?’
I shoot Dad a look. Asking Clay to prepare food? Can’t Dad see that that would be a crazy idea? But then I remember that it’s only an hour or so ago that I found out why Clay was so thin. Dad wouldn’t have the first clue about eating disorders.
‘You don’t have to…’ I whisper.
‘I’d love to,’ says Clay.
I stare at him and blink.
‘Let’s get to work then,’ Dad says. As he slaps him on the back, I can hear the dull thud echoing through Clay’s body.
Mum and I watch them go out into the hall.
I go over and open the curtains fully and then come back and sit on the armrest of Mum’s chair
‘I think he did something to upset his mum,’ I whisper. ‘Back in New York – that’s why she sent him away.’
I gather up Mum’s hair, slip it over her shoulders and tie it in a knot so it’s not in her way when she’s eating.
‘Be careful,’ Mum says.
‘Careful of what?’
‘He’s not right for you.’
I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said: he’s not right.’
And that makes me really mad. It’s not like I’m bringing boys round every two seconds – it’s not like I’ve ever even talked about liking boys. And all she has to say is Be careful? She doesn’t even know him.
In a moment, Dad and Clay are back with the fold-up table. They lift it into the room and press it up against Mum’s armchair. Without being asked, Clay goes to grab a chair from the kitchen. I carry in the food with Dad. Only one chicken. And no roast potatoes. Just piles of broccoli and carrots and peas. If I weren’t so worried about Clay, I’d be hugging Dad for finally making an effort to make Mum proper food.
Dad and I lever Mum up in her armchair so she’s sitting upright and then we sit down at the table with Clay.
Houdini pokes his head through the window and Dad reaches over and feeds him a bit of broccoli.
‘Houdini likes to join in our Sunday lunch,’ I explain to Clay.
I place a piece of white breast-meat on Mum’s plate.
‘You see, Mum, you can still eat chicken.’
Mum nods and smiles but I can tell she’s not impressed. The fatty, golden skin is the bit she likes best.
‘Help yourself, Clay,’ Dad says.
Clay empties a small spoonful of peas onto his plate.
Mum leans forward and pushes the roast chicken towards him. ‘George’s roast chickens are famous. Dig in.’
Clay’s cheeks flush pink.
I grab the serving dish and help myself to a leg. ‘Clay ate with Rev Cootes
before he came out,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s just joining us for the company, aren’t you, Clay?’
Clay nods, but goes even pinker.
From the way Dad looks at Clay, I know he’s thinking the same thing I thought when I first saw him: he looks like a ghost, a flesh-and-bone ghost.
‘You found the wishbone, Dad?’
Dad pulls the chicken meat from the bone.
‘It’s there,’ Mum says, spotting it under the brown skin.
Dad hands me the wishbone. I wipe it with a piece of kitchen roll and hold it out to Clay.
‘We take one side each and snap it and make a wish.’ I hold out the bone to Clay. ‘On the count of three.’
We lock eyes. He smiles. I screw my eyes shut, count to three, then we pull.
The bone snaps.
For a second, the room holds its breath.
There were so many wishes I wanted to make. The biggest, being that Clay will like me back. But I know that I can’t waste wishes on stuff like that right now, so I wished what I’ve wished every day since Mum went into hospital: I want Mum to live.
When I open my eyes, Clay’s still looking at me. I wonder what wish he made and I can’t help hoping it might be about me.
‘Keep it,’ I say, nodding to the half-wishbone in his hands. ‘As a souvenir.’
Clay puts the piece of bone into his pocket. He looks past me and his eyes go massive.
‘Wow!’ He points at the bookshelf. ‘Those yours, Feather?’
I look over at the books.
‘No, they’re Mum’s.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Boys’ adventure stories aren’t really my thing.’
Clay stands up and walks over to the books.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Clay,’ Mum calls over to him.
Dad puts his hand on Mum’s shoulder and I hear him whisper: ‘It’s okay, Josie.’
‘I have the whole collection of these back home.’ Clay reaches up for one of the books. ‘Mum used to read them to me every night – I never got sick of them. I didn’t know they existed over here.’ Clay pulls a book down.
‘Max’s Marvellous Adventures…’ He flicks through the pages and shakes his head. ‘Wow, this takes me back.’
I don’t know how she does it but somehow Mum gathers up enough strength to swing her body up out of her armchair. The table skids away from her. Clay’s plate falls to the floor and smashes. His peas roll over the floorboards.
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