Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Four

by Amanda Martin

  Claire felt drained and defeated, as if she’d been wrangling in a Board Meeting for two hours, rather than wandering with a six-year-old for twenty minutes. In desperation she gazed round the site, longing for something safe to distract Sky’s inquisitive mind. She caught sight of a sign and her heart lifted.

  “Oh look, Sky: A Penny Arcade, why don’t we go there?”

  “What’s an arcade?”

  Claire thought about the rare visits to Uncle Jim when she was Sky’s age. He would take his nephew and nieces to the amusement arcades, a bag of tuppences hanging heavy in their pockets, gleaming highlights in their eyes knowing their parents would definitely not approve. They would gorge themselves on candy floss and stand at the machines for hours, feet welded to the sticky floor, the smell of cigarette smoke in their nostrils from Uncle Jim's rolling tobacco.

  With her mind and heart full of happy memories, Claire shone a sparkling grin at Sky.

  “You’re in for a real treat.”

  ***

  FIFTEEN

  “Sky? Wake up, poppet. We’re here.”

  Claire looked over to the passenger seat, surprised to see her niece still slumped asleep against her seatbelt. Reaching over, she gently shook the little girl by the shoulder and was shocked to feel hot skin beneath her hand. Claire released her seat belt and leaned over to look at Sky’s face. The perfect pixie features were pale, with two spots of colour in the cheeks like Aunt Sally. Not that she would know who Aunt Sally was, of course. With a shaking hand, Claire felt Sky’s forehead, although she knew the girl was ill by the heat radiating from her as if she were a mug of hot coffee.

  Damn: A sick child is all I need. What do I know about caring for sick children? She looked across the hostel car park at the residential brick building of Sheringham YHA. After all the beautiful places I’ve stayed in for one night wishing it could have been longer, I couldn’t have picked an uglier hostel to spend a few days in with a poorly child. Where’s the rolling green lawn, the gothic manor, the roaring open fire? I should have taken her back to the Peak District with me – I knew Norfolk was a bad idea. No wonder they don’t have a picture of the hostel on the YHA site.

  For the first time since she arrived at Berwick Upon Tweed a month earlier, Claire didn’t want to even enter the hostel in front of her, never mind spend two or three days there. What the hell am I going to do? I can’t take a sick child in there, it looks horrible. But I’m not going to find anywhere else on Easter Sunday.

  She pulled out her iPad, then remembered Sky had flattened the battery playing games in the car. Getting her phone instead, Claire checked which hostel they were booked into after this one. Wells-next-the-sea. I wonder if they’ve had any cancellations and can fit us in early? Can’t hurt to ask.

  Claire sat with the phone in one hand, the other resting against Sky’s arm, whether to provide comfort or monitor temperature she wasn’t sure. The phone connected after the third ring.

  “Wells YHA, Peter speaking.”

  “Ah, hello. My name’s Claire, I’m booked in with my niece in a few days–”

  “Claire, hello. You’re on my list to call.”

  “Oh God, there isn’t a problem with the room is there?” Panic fluttered in Claire’s stomach. Staying in the horrible building in front of her for two or three nights would be bad enough, without having Wells cancelled as well.

  “Not at all, I always call beforehand, to ensure our guests know what to expect.”

  “Oh.” Claire wasn’t sure how to respond. She hadn’t heard of a YHA manager doing that before. “Well, I was actually calling to see if you had any space for us earlier than next week? Like from tonight?”

  She heard the man on the phone suck air in through his teeth. I knew it. It’s Easter Sunday, of course they’ll be full. I seem to remember it’s a tiny hostel anyway. There was silence on the line and Claire hoped it was because he was checking on the computer rather than doubled over, laughing at her naivety.

  “Hello? Claire? I think you may be in luck. We had a couple leave early and I think they were due to stay tonight and tomorrow. I’m not sure about the following day – I believe you were due to join us on Wednesday night?”

  Claire nodded then realised how stupid that was. “Uh-huh,” she acknowledged. “I guess we can always come back to Sheringham for that night if you can’t fit us in.”

  “It’s a private room we have available – en-suite –” Claire exhaled in relief. “–but it is £49 a night. I hope that’s okay?”

  I could get a hotel room with breakfast for that! But I guess beggars can’t be choosers and at least I tick one more place off the list. More importantly I don’t have to stay here. She looked at the uninspiring building outside the window, shivering at some inexplicable vibe.

  “We’ll take it. My niece is poorly and I need somewhere nice for us to stay.”

  “Oh dear, how old is she?”

  “She’s only six.”

  “Poor mite. Bring her to us; we’ll help you take care of her. Do you have Calpol?”

  Claire had no idea what that was, but wasn't about to admit it.

  “Er, no. I don’t.”

  “Not to worry, I’m sure we’ve got some or someone staying here will have some – help little one sleep. We’ve also got a stack of Disney DVDs she can watch in the lounge if she’s up to it. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

  As she hung up the phone Claire felt for the first time in her life that a guardian angel might be looking out for her. Glancing over at the flushed cheeks of her still-sleeping niece, she thought privately that she might just need one.

  ***

  SIXTEEN

  Claire sat watching the moody green fairy flit across the screen with a growing sense of unease. Her face was dark with doubt as she looked down at the hot bundle snuggled against her on the sofa, hoping to see the girl's eyes closed. They weren't. Sky’s feverish gaze was fixed to the small television, watching as Tinkerbell threw a jealous tantrum at Peter Pan's flirtatious behaviour.

  I don't remember this movie being so misogynistic. Look at those stupid mermaids vying for Peter's attention. They can swim under water for heaven's sake, what do they need to fight over a man for? I wish I knew how much a girl of six understands? This is meant to be kids' entertainment but it's no better than putting Eastenders on - all jealousy and revenge and evil bastards.

  She went through the other movie choices and mentally reviewed their suitability as bedtime material. Bambi? No, now is not the time to discuss mothers dying. Claire shivered. Little Mermaid: all about a girl who gives up her voice to be with the one she loves. Not a great role model. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White: Both wait to be rescued by a handsome prince. Silly girls. Aladdin? Man uses lies and trickery to win the girl. I think not.

  She sighed, feeling as if some childhood dream had been wrenched away. What did I watch? The Rescuers? That was about mice, no sappy princesses there. Watership Down? I suppose that was a bit dark and spooky. Better than these though: These movies are not helping little girls grow up to fend for themselves.

  She spotted one she hadn't seen before. Tangled. Ah Rapunzel. I wonder if this is the one with the frying pan. Claire waved the box where Sky could see it and the girl perked up.

  “Yes, that one, put that one on.” She threw a scornful glance at the television, where Peter Pan and the Lost Boys were pretending to be Red Indians while Wendy stood grumpily by.

  "This movie is stupid. That silly fairy needs to grow up and Wendy needs to smile more.”

  Claire looked down, shocked, at her niece’s sharp invective. Maybe I don't need to worry about her after all.

  ***

  SEVENTEEN

  Claire reached for her phone and blinked until she could focus on the time. 4.07am.

  “Urgh, seriously? Surely it must be morning already?” Her voice, made rough by dryness, sounded strange in the silence. She felt around until her hand clasped the bottle of water by the bed. Once
the sand-paper in her throat was soothed, she rolled over and slid a hand onto Sky’s brow. It burned. The girl’s hair was matted and damp with sweat and Claire resisted the urge to find her hair brush and restore the bird’s nest back to its normal glossy mane. Tangled hair is the least of my worries.

  Rolling back over, she felt on the bedside table for the in-ear thermometer the woman in the room next door had lent her for the night. I have no idea why someone brings a piece of kit like this on holiday, but I’m extremely grateful. Taking care not to wake Sky, Claire slid the thermometer into her niece’s ear and pressed the button. The green light flashed bright in the near-dark and the beep – signalling the reading was ready – echoed loudly.

  Sky twisted her head away and coughed. Claire held her breath, praying she would go back to sleep. The girl shifted restlessly, kicking at the sheet wrapped around her legs. At last she was still and Claire felt able to shine her phone at the thermometer to take a reading. 38.8C. She knew from reading the NHS website that anything over 39 was cause for concern. Claire sank back against the pillows and tried to think. Her own head felt muggy. Please don’t let me get sick too.

  A quick calculation informed her she could give Sky more Calpol if she wanted. But that would mean waking her up, even with the handy syringe the lovely lady with the baby had lent her. My first stop tomorrow is to a chemist. There’s obviously a reason why mothers carry such a well-stocked first aid kit with them. I wonder why Ruth didn’t provide one? A mental image of the last time she saw her sister flashed into her head.

  Poor Ruth, she wasn’t thinking much of anything. Besides, I don’t suppose they venture more than ten miles from home. From what I can gather she and Sky have never been on holiday. Shifting up, so she could sit against the headboard, Claire thought that was probably wise: Travelling with children was nerve-wracking and Ruth was a nervous parent at the best of times.

  Something stabbed deep beneath Claire’s ribcage, like cramp. She analysed the pain and realised it was guilt. They probably couldn’t afford to go on holiday, from what Sky has told me. I never realised things were so tough. Her planned trip to the Maldives seemed like an unholy extravagance. When this is over, and Ruth is better, I’m going to take my sister and niece somewhere nice. Warm and Sunny. Five-star. Room service. She looked at the sleeping child. Medics. Baby sitters. A fully-stocked bar.

  ***

  EIGHTEEN

  The sound of knocking dragged Claire from deep slumber.

  “Just a minute.”

  She rubbed sleep from her eyes and swung her feet out of bed, glad sharing with Sky had ensured she’d worn her pyjamas. As she reached the door, Claire wondered who came knocking in a hostel where she knew no one. Maybe the baby’s mother wants the thermometer back. I guess people with babies get up early.

  Unlocking the door, Claire peered round and met the cheery gaze of Peter, the hostel manager.

  “Good morning, I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He frowned, but it didn’t diminish his smile for long: a mere cloud scudding past the sun.

  “Er, I guess. What time is it?” Claire brushed her hair back from her face, dreading to think what she must look like.

  “It’s just gone ten o’clock. Sorry to disturb you. The lady next door is leaving today and wondered if she could have the thermometer back? There’s a Pharmacy in town where you ought to be able to purchase one, should you wish.”

  Claire nodded and turned to retrieve the device. She handed it into Peter’s waiting grasp, unable to find any words.

  “How is little one this morning?” He peered instinctively past Claire into the room, then seemed to realise how intrusive that was and averted his gaze.

  Swallowing in an attempt to moisten her parched throat, Claire gave a shrug. “It was a long night.”

  Peter nodded and Claire wondered if he had children. Maybe this night-time experience was some parenting rite of passage that all had to endure. Her head pounded as if she was the wrong side of a heavy night. How do parents do it? At least I get to give her back after a fortnight.

  “If you need something to entertain little one today, they have Easter activities at Holkham Hall. Face painting, Easter egg hunt, that kind of thing.”

  A tiny voice called out from the ragged pile of covers on the bed. “Will the Easter Bunny be there with my eggs?”

  Claire laughed. “You seem brighter, Sky. Would you like to see the Easter Bunny?” Please let there be a bloody bunny.

  “Say Cheese, Sky: let me take a photo for your Mummy.”

  Sky leant against the brown rabbit in the Victorian gown and shone a wide smile. Her eyes glittered with latent fever and Claire hoped whoever was under the bunny costume didn’t catch her niece’s germs. Surely there are enough cold viruses wandering round at an event like this?

  Claire looked around at the painted faces of happy children; the egg-shy game; the clusters of families eating ice cream, and felt a strange sense of belonging. Normally she’d run a hundred miles from such an event. Especially on April Fool’s Day. I guess I’m the fool today, shaking hands with a giant bunny and wandering around with a sick girl whose face is covered with painted tulips.

  As Sky skipped over and hugged Claire’s legs, before showing off the chocolate egg in her hand, Claire felt a smile stretch her tired face. She yawned, then laughed as Sky yawned too.

  “Let’s go find the coffee shop. Auntie Claire needs some caffeine.”

  ***

  NINETEEN

  Sky looked up from the game she was playing on Claire’s phone and tilted her head like a sparrow. “Auntie Claire, will you help me with my homework?”

  Claire looked over at her niece in surprise. “Homework, at your age? I don’t think I had homework until I went to secondary school. What would I have been? Eleven?”

  Sky looked blankly at Claire. “We get reading and spelling and sums. Not during the holidays though.”

  With a flush of guilt Claire realised she was relieved not to have to teach spelling. Without Spellcheck I wouldn’t have a clue. Why bother sending your child to school if you have to teach them when they get home?

  “So, what homework do you have for the holiday? Your Mummy didn’t say.”

  “I forgot to tell her. I have it here.” Sky pulled her bag onto the bed and rifled through the contents, eventually retrieving a crumpled sheet of A4 paper.

  Claire took it and smoothed the creases out before reading the contents.

  For your Easter Homework please choose one of the following two options.

  1. Build an Easter Garden. Research which flowers grow well in pots and tubs using the internet and non-fiction books. Read about the Easter Story, including the events leading from Palm Sunday to the Resurrection and consider the symbolism of ‘growing things’ at Easter time to represent new life.

  2. Write a story using your imagination. Plan it with a story mountain so you know it has at least five parts to it (beginning, build up, problem, resolution, ending). Try to start each part of your story in a different way (action, description, speech). Maybe try to rewrite a traditional Fairy Tale. Don’t forget capital letters and full stops (some of you are also using paragraphs, commas and speech marks).

  Claire closed her mouth and gazed at the sheet. What the..? She’s SIX. I don’t even know the Easter Story from Palm Sunday. Never mind how we’re going to grow an Easter garden and carry it around in a Skoda. And what the hell’s a story mountain? Inhaling deeply through her nose, Claire looked up at the guileless gaze of the pixie girl sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her mind felt foggy, like it did when Carl plonked an unexpected project on her desk or moved a deadline.

  “Er. Okay. Which, um, which one did you fancy doing, Sky?” Not the garden, not the garden, not the garden.

  The pixie face split wide in a smile. “I thought we could write a story. You do writing for your job: I’ve seen you.”

  “I don’t write fiction, sweetheart, but I’m happy to help you write your story.” It
is her homework: I just have to facilitate it. I hope her imagination is better than mine. And she knows what a story mountain is. I think Google might become my friend. She sat on the end of the bed, the homework sheet hanging from her hand.

  “Can I do the fairy tale thing? I thought of a story. What if a Fairy Godmother got hiccups or kept sneezing and it made her magic go wonky? What if she tried to turn the frog into a prince and turned herself into a frog instead?”

  Sky giggled and bounced up and down on the bed. “Then she wouldn’t be able to do any magic because she couldn’t hold her wand. Or maybe she could hold it in her mouth but then she’d sneeze again. Or hiccup. And become, um, a butterfly. Yes. No. She could become a pumpkin. No, a bird. A magpie. And she could…”

  Claire listened to Sky’s imagination spilling out into the monochrome hostel room, filling it with colour and life. If I had ideas like that I would have more followers on my blog. Or I wouldn’t have to be here at all: I’d have made Director without jumping through Carl’s stupid hoops.

  Thinking about Carl’s involvement in her current situation made Claire’s temples ache. It’s probably time I came to a decision about Carl and his stupid assignment. She looked at Sky, scrabbling through her bag to retrieve a blue workbook and sparkly pink pencil case.

  First things first. Carl can wait. I have to help the next Roald Dahl create a masterpiece.

  ***

  TWENTY

  Claire looked down at the painstakingly formed words, written in pencil in the lined workbook. It didn’t look like much. With a glance at her niece’s eager expression, Claire swallowed her apprehension and began reading.