Mum snorts loudly and says, “Mr. Spicer wouldn’t give you a detention for being late just the once.”
Actually he would, he’s that mean, but all the parents think he’s wonderful because he wears a suit.
“So what have you really been up to, Alexandra?” and she stares at me with this totally suspicious look.
“Nothing, Mum, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just because I’m stuck here at home all day,” she starts ranting on, “doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want and come in all hours.”
She’s riffling through cupboards and the fridge, still leaning on her crutches, but she does seem more steady on her feet. “We seem to have gone through an awful lot of food this week.”
“Lots of people keep coming around, don’t they?” I say, quickly hiding my face as I open a can of dog food for Trudy. But I can feel myself getting all hot and bothered so I try to change the subject. “Do you know Steven Goddard’s mum?”
“Mmm, she does coffee mornings,” says Mum, absently staring at the last few slices of bread. “Charity stuff, for refugees I think, or is it the homeless?”
She’s going through the fridge again and she pulls out a full pack of bacon and the sausages. “Well, I suppose we won’t starve.”
“What’s she like?” I ask, still bending over Trudy’s dish.
“Val Goddard? Total nutcase,” says Mum. “Always campaigning for something and you wouldn’t think it—all those smart little suits and her leather briefcase. She’s a personal adviser in a bank, you know.”
So I’m not the only one who judges by appearances.
And then she cracks a smile, about the first one I’ve seen this millennium, and says, “It’s nice having people drop in.” For a second it feels a bit like the old times when Mum and me just used to have fun together. When did things begin to change? It’s like everything has sneaked up on us, Dad running off and leaving us like welfare cases and then Grandpa dying. I didn’t realize how old he really was, I thought he’d just go on forever. And then Mum breaking her leg and going completely horrible.
And now my big fat secret is hanging in the air between us, like a bloated belly. I hate all the lies and taking food without asking, even though I actually pay for stuff around here these days, well, I give Mum eight pounds a week. But I know she’s been getting Bert to help her with benefit forms so we must be really short of money. I feel like Oliver Twist, on the verge of being thrown in the workhouse. Grandpa never claimed any benefits, did he?
But Mum is a tad more cheerful when other people are around. She loved all the attention from Bert and Kevin and Kim and even the police.
“We’ll just have to invite more people over then, won’t we?” I grin, and I give her a hug for the first time in ages. And it’s so scary. She feels like a midget in my arms. It’s as though I’ve grown taller, like I’m sitting on an elephant or something and I’ve outgrown my own mum and the cottage. My whole life. When did that happen?
Mum clings to me for a minute and I smell her Passion Fruit facial scrub from the Body Shop, which I always give her at Christmas.
Then she pulls away and snaps, “I don’t know what you’re up to, my girl, but if you get another detention I’ll ground you.”
I feel myself beginning to get all angry and upset again but I manage to persuade myself to keep calm. I need to keep Mum happy at the moment until things are sorted out with our man.
So I say, “Sorry, look, why don’t you go online and do some shopping? Fill up the fridge in case we have some more unexpected visitors, and I’ll make dinner?”
“I suppose so,” she grumbles, and she stomps off into the living room on her crutches. Our computer’s on a desk next to the TV. I use it for my homework and Mum uses it mainly to email Uncle Peter in New York.
I hear the computer booting up and call out, “Order some hummus and pita bread.”
“Ooh, going all healthy on me now.” Mum laughs. “Anything else you fancy?”
“Loads of bread and cheese, then we can make everyone sandwiches, right?”
She doesn’t say anything but I can hear her tapping away furiously so I relax and put on the sausages.
“We had hummus and pita bread every day at home,” Samir had said on the beach, when he was remembering all about his life in Iraq, the life he misses so much it’s turned him to ice. “And in our garden we didn’t have roses and apple trees. We had orange trees and one lemon tree.”
“Wow,” I said. “Fresh oranges every day.”
“Only in winter,” said Samir. “But the best was the red watermelon. I used to help my mum bring it home from the Shorjah market. I always moaned about going shopping with her. I wanted to go out and play with Daoud. I’d give anything to be able to go shopping with my mum again.”
It was another one of those tricky moments, so I said, “Do you get snow in Iraq?”
“No. I’ve never seen snow,” he said. “But you wouldn’t stand the heat in summer. It gets up to fifty degrees or more, even. You’d go mad.”
“Didn’t you have air-conditioning?”
Samir throws me a scornful look. “Of course. But the best times were when we were allowed to sleep on the roof, like my grandparents always did before air-conditioning. Me and Naazim used to lie awake all night counting stars. Some people keep pigeons on their roofs in bamboo cages and you would hear them cooing all night.”
“Bit like camping.”
“Except you don’t need a tent, it’s so hot.”
“You see the best stars on cold winter nights here. But you couldn’t sleep on the beach in winter,” I said.
“I wouldn’t sleep on a British beach in summer!” Samir laughed.
Sleeping on the roof—they must have flat roofs in Baghdad—seeing all the stars, listening to the pigeons, eating red watermelon made me want to jump on a plane and see for myself.
“It sounds amazing. I’d love to sleep out on the roof. Maybe the school will organize a trip when everything settles down.”
“People have tried sleeping on their roofs again. The air-conditioning keeps shutting off because the electricity supply is so bad. But it’s very dangerous. Uncle Sayeed said the neighbor’s little girl was killed by a stray bullet coming across the roof last summer. She was only four.”
There was a long pause and I didn’t know what to say. But then Samir said, “Sometimes I think we will never go home.”
But never is a long time, Grandpa used to say.
I’ve laid the table properly for once. I’m sick of crouching in front of the telly, well, I’m sick of the telly really. I’m just about to call Mum into the kitchen for dinner when the house phone goes. I go to answer it but Mum has already picked up. It could be Kim because my cell phone is dead and maybe she’s got some news from Steven, so I go into the living room, but as soon as Mum sees me she clicks off and turns back quickly to the computer.
But not before I’ve seen this dead guilty look on her face. So I’m not the only one hiding stuff in this house, am I?
27. More Pants
I can’t face Chaz the next morning; it feels like I’m betraying Mohammed and Samir just walking into his stinking shop. So I skip my paper route and instead decide to go and take Mohammed breakfast early. It was so cold last night, there was ice on the inside of my window when I woke up, so what must it be like in the hut?
Mum is still asleep so Trudy and me manage to sneak out of the house with all the supplies. Poor Trudy has hardly had a decent walk since Saturday; I swear if she could speak she’d be on the phone to the Humane Society about me. It’s very cold outside and barely daylight. The Island is so mysterious this early on a winter morning. Sometimes, walking out with Grandpa, who always got up at six, we’d tramp right along the inlet to the sand flats beyond the yacht club. All the oystercatchers and gulls and Brent geese out hunting for food, not a boat on the water. It can feel like the far end of the world out there sometimes. So lonely when the fog is real
ly thick, even quite scary, especially now without Grandpa.
It makes me think about how Mohammed must have felt when they threw him into the sea in the fog. The water was so cold and deep and he wouldn’t have been able to see the shore. It must have been completely terrifying and he must have felt so alone and so helpless.
I’m thinking all these thoughts and jogging down the road when a small blue van pulls up on the other side. The driver gives a honk and I look across. It says Blacks and Son Medical Supplies in red lettering on the side of the van. I’m thinking maybe it’s someone who’s lost when the driver gets out.
Oh my God! It’s Dad!
And all I can think about is the armful of supplies I’ve got for my asylum seeker. My knees go weak with terror. We’re finished now. But Dad’s here. After all this time.
I don’t know what to do. I really just want to run across the road and fling my arms around him, but also I want to yell at him, “Where have you been for like two years?!”
I just stand there shifting the load in my arms and it’s Trudy who breaks the ice, rushing over and snuffling around his feet.
He bends down and gives her a pat saying, “Good girl, you know who I am, don’t you, old girl?” Then he straightens and says, “How about a hug, Alix?”
Bad timing, Dad. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I have to keep our secret from him, don’t I?
Dad crosses over and puts his arms around me and all the packs of sandwiches and the flask of coffee and the hot-water bottle, which fortunately is hidden in a carrier bag because that would look totally weird, and I’m sort of suffocated with all this stuff pushing into my chest as Dad gives me an elephant type of hug. But he smells the same—Lynx aftershave and the sweat from his armpits, and his bony old arms feel the same and it’s so good to see him. Just not exactly at this moment.
I pull away after a minute and say awkwardly, “What are you doing here?”
“Your mum called me,” he says as though that happens like every day.
What? Mum has his phone number! And she’s been ringing him behind my back! That’s why she looked so shifty yesterday.
“She said she didn’t know how to get hold of you,” I say. So who’s lying now, I can’t help thinking.
Dad shrugs but at least he looks a bit embarrassed. “Well, she should have told you. Anyway, we haven’t been in touch that much. It’s a bit difficult with Gloria.”
What’s she got to do with it? But I don’t say anything, I don’t trust myself to speak.
Then he says, “Your mum rang because she’s worried about you. She thinks you’re running wild. Is it a boy, Ali?” I let out a snort and think, Wish it was that simple. But you know how it is with me. I forget the silent button.
Dad is staring at me and then he notices that I’m not exactly carrying a load of schoolbooks.
“What’s all this stuff?” he says, and he’s eyeing me really suspiciously.
As I stare back I see that his hair is beginning to go gray at the sides like Kevin’s, Kim’s dad. It’s still quite dark on top and Dad’s cut it really short, which makes his ears stick out. But he’s still got the same old pointy nose. When I was little I used to call him Pinocchio and he called me Snow White because I could eat four apples in one evening.
“It’s just my school lunch,” I say lamely. At least I’m wearing my uniform, but I have to get away from him before he asks too many questions even though he’s only just turned up again.
“Look, Dad,” I say nervously, “I’m going to be late and . . .” but I don’t get time to finish.
Dad’s cell phone starts ringing out the tune to LA Law. We used to watch that together. He flips it open and frowns.
“It’s my boss,” he says, and then he talks into the phone in a bored voice. “Yeah, yeah, I’m nearly at the hospital . . .”
What hospital? There isn’t one on the Island. And is that a good way to speak to your boss?
“. . . no, there was an accident on the highway . . . no worries, I’ll be there in five,” and he flips off.
“Gotta go, doll. Ring me and we’ll go bowling in our pants, eh?” And he shoves a piece of paper in my hand, gets back in the van and roars off.
What the hell is going on? I want to yell after him.
Dad hadn’t really disappeared; Mum knew where he was all along and he wasn’t even that far away! And now, when it suits her, she’s decided to get him over to have a go at me. Just because she can’t be bothered herself. Too wrapped up in her leg.
All the times I begged her to find him and she just shrugged as if it didn’t matter and went off to write her stupid poetry.
I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as I watch the van swerve around the bend. What if I don’t see him again for another two years? I look at the paper; it’s just a cell phone number, no address or even a note or anything.
Why should I ring him? I can’t bring myself to throw the paper away, so I shove it in my jacket pocket and stumble off, my cheeks wet with tears.
It feels weird going to the hut on my own. I almost turn back. I wish Kim or Samir or even Trumpet Steven was here. I don’t know what to say to Mohammed on my own. I hope he doesn’t notice I’ve been crying. But Mohammed seems to take it all in his stride, emptying his old water bottle out the window and collecting all the rubbish in one bag for me to take home.
“Zank you, Aleex,” he keeps saying. “Food and coffee is very good.”
If he’s seen my red eyes he’s not saying anything. How do I explain I’m crying over seeing my dad when he probably won’t ever see his family again? Like Samir. But somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Have you started on the antibiotics?” I ask, and Mohammed nods.
So maybe he’ll start to get better, I’m thinking, and then he can move on. My life just got mega complicated with Dad showing up like that and it’s going to be harder and harder to keep all this hushed up.
“Do you learn Arabic in school?” Mohammed asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“No. French and German.”
“I teach you,” he says. “Tell Samir shukran, it mean ‘thank you.’ It will be surprise.”
I repeat shukran about a hundred times until Mohammed is satisfied and then I give him an old Casio digital watch I found at the back of one of my drawers. He’s delighted and keeps saying shukran and pressing the button, which lights up the dial in fluorescent green.
I tell him I’ll be back about four with Samir, and then dash home to drop Trudy off and catch the bus to school.
I get to class just as the buzzer sounds and then I get my first piece of luck of the day. Spicer is off sick and Miss Redding, the sobbing student teacher, is taking our class roll call. So I won’t get into more trouble for cutting detention last night. Yay!
Lindy’s already got her claws into the student teacher so no one notices me, except Kim, as I slip into the seat next to her.
I’m just about to tell her about Dad showing up when she whispers, “Steven’s skipping school!”
Her eyes are staring into mine without blinking.
28. Speaking Arabic
Well, that must be a first, I’m thinking, and I’m really quite shocked.
“He’s told his mum his chest hurts again and she’s let him stay home. He’s searching the Internet right now for refugee organizations,” says Kim, and she still hasn’t blinked.
Trumpet Steven playing hooky? Unbelievable. But I realize this is a big moment for Kim and say nothing. I try not to think much either, just in case.
Samir is excluded today and somehow it feels really weird without him. But it’s Lindy I’m after, she betrayed us and she’s not going to get away with it. At lunchtime I go looking for her.
“Watch out for her disgusting nail,” says Kim as she hurries to keep up with me, but right now I don’t care.
I find Lindy in the toilets and call out, “You told Terrence, didn’t you?”
“You what?” says Lind
y in a bored voice but I can see she’s unfurling the nail.
“Leave it, Ali,” says Kim, pulling at my sleeve, but I can’t. It’s been going around and around in my head, driving me crazy.
“He turned up on the beach with Gaz and threatened us with a knife. You couldn’t keep it secret, could you? You had to tell Terrence about the hut. You set him on Samir just like a dog,” I snarl at Lindy.
She’s sorting out her gross hair in the mirror and pouting her lips like she’s some sort of supermodel. I feel the anger and irritation rising and I’m about to start on her again when she says, “I told him nothing. I don’t care about Two Percent or his so-called cousin.”
“So why was Terrence all the way down Hayling Island yesterday?” And I feel like slapping her smug face but Kim’s got me almost in a half nelson by now.
Lindy shrugs. “He’s got to go somewhere, the police move him on from town,” she says as she walks toward the door. “You need to get a life instead of hanging around with even more losers.”
Kim has band practice all afternoon until about six, so I walk out the gates after school on my own with Lindy’s words still going around in my head. I want to yell into her face, “I had a life, a perfectly good life, and then my dad skipped off, my grandpa died, my mum broke her leg and a completely illegal person turned up on my beach.”
I haven’t been to marathon training for a week and the coach has given up leaving messages on my cell phone. The last one said, 1 more chance.
I really miss training, but even if I win, I don’t need to get interviewed in the local paper anymore. Dad hasn’t disappeared and I’ve got his number, not that I ever want to speak to him again.
I don’t want to go home right now because if I do I expect I’ll just have another fight with Mum, so I decide to go around to Samir’s flat. We can go on the bus to the Island together to see Mohammed.
I ring the bell and have to wait a minute or two while Samir runs down. When he opens the door he says quickly, “Don’t ask about the photos,” which is a weird sort of welcome. Then he races up the narrow flight of stairs ahead of me and into the flat, which smells all warm and spicy.
Hidden Page 12
