‘No problem,’ Joey promises. ‘Our lips are sealed.’
Just as the kittens finish feeding and settle down to sleep, there’s a sharp rap on the classroom door.
‘Miss Quinn?’ a stern voice calls. ‘Are you there?’
‘It’s McKenzie!’ Joey yelps. ‘Mr McKenzie, I mean.’
‘Stay here,’ Miss Quinn whispers. ‘And keep quiet.’
She swoops out of the stock cupboard, switching off the light and letting the door swing shut behind her. Joey and I crouch beside the kittens, trying to stay still and silent.
‘Ah, Miss Quinn, good, good,’ Mr McKenzie’s voice booms out. The classical music CD reaches an especially loud and rumbly bit, then gets cut off rudely in midstream.
‘We don’t need that, do we?’ Mr McKenzie barks. ‘Now, Miss Quinn, we have a new pupil starting school today, and I’m told that art is his best subject. Isn’t that right, Paul?’
There’s a grunt from outside the stockroom door, and Joey pinches my arm, hard. ‘It’s him!’ she hisses. ‘The new foster-kid, Paul!’
‘Miss Quinn will be taking you for art, and your first lesson is… ah, after break, in fact,’ Mr McKenzie rumbles on. ‘Miss Quinn is an excellent teacher – we’re very proud of our art department here at Kirklaggan.’
‘I think you also teach my daughter, Joey Donovan?’ a soft, familiar voice asks. Eva.
‘That’s right,’ Miss Quinn says.
‘Ah, yes, Josephine,’ Mr McKenzie cuts in. ‘A very bright girl, but there are some uniform issues I should like to discuss with you, Mrs Donovan. And attitude issues…’
Joey blows a loud raspberry which wakes the kittens up. They start mewling loudly perhaps hoping for more milk.
‘What’s that noise?’ Mr McKenzie demands. ‘Is it coming from the stock cupboard?’
‘That’ll be the central-heating pipes again,’ Miss Quinn says smoothly. ‘They’ve been making some dreadful noises lately.’
‘Oh? I’ll ask the janitor to look at them for you,’ Mr McKenzie tells her. ‘Well, that just about finishes the guided tour. Your class are at games right now, Paul, and the lesson is nearly over, so perhaps you’d better join them after break for art instead? You can stay here if you like, and show those sketchbooks to Miss Quinn.’
‘OK,’ a quiet voice says.
The art-room door creaks open, and we hear Mr McKenzie usher Eva out of the room, explaining that stripy socks and matching hair are not really part of the uniform code.
‘Phew,’ Joey breathes. ‘I thought he’d catch us for sure. We’d have been in serious trouble!’
‘And Miss Quinn too, for hiding us,’ I point out. ‘Cut the raspberries next time!’
We peer round the door. Miss Quinn is writing out a couple of late passes for us, magic slips of paper that will allow us to join our next class unchallenged. Paul Slater, the new boy, is on the other side of the classroom, looking out of the window. I can only see the back of him: tall and slim and somehow graceful-looking.
‘So, Paul,’ Miss Quinn calls over. ‘Art is your favourite subject, is it? What do you like best? We do clay work, textiles, graphics, 3-D, art history and, of course, drawing and painting.’
‘I like comic-book art,’ the boy says. His voice is surprisingly soft and gentle.
‘Do you? Excellent!’ Miss Quinn declares. ‘Shall I have a look at those sketchbooks, then?’
We edge up behind her as she leafs through three dog-eared books of cartoon sketches. The drawings are clean, clear, beautifully drawn, some in pencil, some in black ink, some in felt pen. They are streets ahead of anything I could do.
‘Hey, Paul, these are cool,’ Joey says. ‘Really.’
The boy turns, and I can see he has floppy, mid-brown hair that falls in messy waves round his face. His skin is pale and his eyes are a startling sea green.
‘Joey’ he says, smiling slightly. ‘Hi. What are you doing here?’
‘Ah, wouldn’t you like to know,’ Joey grins. ‘Can we tell him, Miss? Reckon he can keep a secret?’
‘Oh, I should think so.’
‘This is my best mate, Hannah Murray,’ Joey says with a sweep of her arm. ‘She lives just down the road from us. And you will never guess what we found this morning…’
There’s another peal of mewling from the stock cupboard, and I sprint in to check the kittens are OK. I decide they’re still hungry, and fill another ink-dropper with milk.
‘See?’ Joey is saying. ‘In the box, down there. Aren’t they gorgeous? Aren’t they cute? We found them in a bin behind the school kitchens, abandoned.’
Paul Slater kneels down and puts his hand out to stroke the kittens. His fingers are long and skinny, with raggedy nails that look like they’ve been chewed. The kittens wriggle and squirm beneath his touch, getting playful and cheeky.
‘Used to have a cat, back home,’ he says. ‘Long time ago.’
He looks up at me through a tangle of toffee-coloured hair. I look at his sea-green eyes, then back down at the mewling tortoiseshell kitten.
Is it possible to fall in love twice in one morning?
I think maybe it is.
CHAPTER 3
When the last bell goes, Joey and I sprint for the art room. Miss Quinn has the cardboard box ready with air holes poked through all round the top and flaps folded shut.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she asks us. ‘We could still call the animal shelter…’
‘There’s no need,’ Joey says firmly. ‘Hannah and I can do this, I promise.’
Miss Quinn sighs. ‘Take the ink-droppers, then. And remember, you need to buy baby milk – the powdered, formula stuff – and get them to a vet for a check-up. Take care.’
‘We will, Miss,’ I grin. ‘And thank you!’
We clatter down the stairs and out into the courtyard, walking briskly towards the main gates where the school buses are lined up. We get ambushed just outside the science block.
Josephine Donovan,’ Mr McKenzie says smugly. ‘I’ve been hoping to catch up with you. Lipstick – off.’
He wafts a tissue in front of her. Joey takes it and makes black kiss-prints all over it.
‘Tomorrow, Miss Donovan, we’ll have socks that match, and no stripes.’
‘Are stripes against the rules?’ Joey asks, wide-eyed and innocent. ‘I don’t remember it saying that in the school uniform leaflet…’
‘Well, it does,’ Mr McKenzie snaps. ‘At least, it will do soon. Plain socks. White, preferably. And this – this – blazer. It looks like you got it from a jumble sale.’
‘I did, sir,’ Joey chirps brightly. ‘And blazers are definitely in the uniform leaflet. Black blazer, with badge, it says.’
‘This is not the badge,’ McKenzie growls, fingering the Good Charlotte patch. ‘The whole thing is threadbare, and far too big for you. It’s disgusting.’
‘But, Mr McKenzie, I bought it specially!’
‘Sir, we need to go,’ I butt in, tugging gently at Joey’s sleeve. ‘Our bus will be leaving.’
Mr McKenzie shoots me a defeated look.
‘Plain, matching socks tomorrow,’ he warns. ‘No lipstick. And do something about that blazer. And the hair!’
We break into a run, and the kittens, slithering about in the box, start wailing loudly.
‘Hannah Murray!’ Mr McKenzie booms out behind us. ‘What have you got in that box?’
‘Did you hear something?’ Joey asks me, grabbing the box and taking the lead.
‘Nah,’ I puff. ‘Not a thing.’
We jump on to the bus just as the doors are closing, find the last empty seat and stash the kitten box out of sight on the floor. The school bus is so noisy, nobody can hear their mewling. They’ve survived a night in the dustbins and a stay in the art-room stock cupboard, and they’ll survive the racket of unruly schoolkids and the roar of the engine too. I hope.
By the time we’re out on the coast road, the bus is quieter – most of the kids have got off. Paul S
later moves up the bus and flops down in the seat opposite.
‘Kittens OK?’ he asks, his green eyes solemn.
I fish out the box, peer in through the lid. ‘They’re fine.’
‘Sure they are,’ Joey says with conviction. ‘We fed them again at lunchtime, and Miss Quinn gave them some more just before the bell. Just wait till Jed and Eva see them!’
‘They won’t mind?’ Paul asks.
‘No way. They’ll love it,’ Joey assures him. ‘You’re coming too, aren’t you, Hannah? Stay for tea, help the kittens settle in. Jed can drop you back.’
‘Sure. Cool.’
I wouldn’t miss out on the kittens’ first evening at Beachcomber Cottage for anything. The fact that Paul Slater will be there too is just an added bonus.
Joey takes out a mirror and starts to reapply black lippy a little shakily, and my brother, Kit, zigzags down the aisle and into the seat in front. He turns round to watch Joey, enjoying the view.
‘Kit, I’m going over to Joey’s for tea,’ I tell him. ‘Let Mum and Dad know, OK?’
‘S’pose,’ Kit shrugs. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘Nothing!’ the three of us chorus, a bit too quickly.
‘Kind of a noisy nothing,’ Kit says as a frenzy of squeaking and scratching starts up inside the box. ‘Is it hamsters?’
‘No,’ Joey grins. ‘You’ll never guess…’
‘He won’t have to, Joey.’ I sigh heavily. ‘You’re going to tell him, aren’t you?’
‘We can trust him, can’t we?’ she appeals. ‘He’s your brother!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Just tell,’ Kit grins. ‘What is it? A baby crocodile? A bunch of stolen mice from the science lab?’
Joey opens the lid a crack to show him.
‘Sheesh kebab!’ he says. ‘Kittens! Where d’you get them? What’re you gonna do with them?’
Joey gets up as the bus shudders to a halt. ‘We’re keeping them,’ she says. I’m taking them back to Beachcomber Cottage. Come and see. Stay and eat if you like. Right, Paul?’
‘Whatever,’ Paul shrugs.
‘Might just do that,’ Kit says, grinning. ‘Why not?’
I can think of plenty of reasons why not, but I can’t do a thing about it. We pile off on to the pavement, Kit in tow. In the corner shop, we buy baby-milk powder, plus a quarter of lemon-sherbet sweets to bribe Jed and Eva.
‘Not that they’ll need bribing,’ Joey says confidently. ‘The Donovan family specialize in rescuing things. Driftwood from the beach, rubbish from skips, assorted waifs and strays…’
Paul Slater frowns and hides behind his hair.
‘She doesn’t mean it,’ I say, falling into step beside him. ‘She’s just being funny. She and Mikey were waifs and strays once too.’
‘I don’t need to be rescued,’ Paul says roughly. ‘This is only a temporary placement. They always are. I’ve stayed in three or four different children’s homes too.’
I try to think of a way of asking how that feels, but I can’t get the words out. I think I’m scared of what he’ll say. When someone says troubled background, it conjures up an image of shaven heads, ciggies and biro-pen tattoos that say kill. Paul’s troubled background looks like a different kind.
I’m out of my depth.
‘How was school?’ I drop the question into the silence. ‘Think you’ll settle in?’
Paul Slater shrugs. ‘It’s OK, I guess. Kit was friendly. I sat with him in art, and at lunch.’
‘He’s a pest,’ I say. ‘Seriously bugging. But then, I’m his sister – I would think that.’
Paul looks at me through long, sooty lashes, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Lashes that long are wasted on a boy. You could practically sweep the floor with them.
‘You look alike,’ Paul considers. ‘Same dark hair, same wide eyes.’
I get a fluttery feeling in my tummy, like the sort of lurching sensation you get when you drive over a humpback bridge and just about lose your breakfast.
‘Hey you two,’ Joey calls back over her shoulder. ‘We’re thinking up names for the kittens. Any ideas?’
‘Scrappy Dusty and Scruff?’ Paul offers. ‘Because you found them in the dustbins, y’know?’
‘Not bad,’ Joey considers. ‘I was thinking, something like Kit, Kat and Koko!’
‘You want to name one of the kittens after my brother?’ I wail. Joey you can’t. No way.’
‘I was thinking more of the chocolate bar,’ Joey admits. ‘You love KitKats, Hannah. They’re your favourite.’
‘I know, but…’
‘OK,’ Joey shrugs. ‘Not Kit, Kat and Koko.’
We turn off the coast road and into the lane that leads down to Beachcomber Cottage. The breeze blowing up from the sea is bitingly cold, and the hedgerows are still shimmery with frost. I crunch over frozen puddles, my feet like slabs of ice.
‘Buffy, Willow and Spike?’ I suggest. ‘After the old TV reruns?’
‘Is that from the show with the vampires?’ Joey asks. ‘Don’t think I want vampire cats.’
‘I like Paul’s idea,’ Kit says. ‘I mean, they are dustbin kitties, aren’t they? You need a name that suggests junk, rubbish, decay.’
‘Yeuww.’ I grimace. ‘Why exactly?’
‘Well, just because,’ Kit shrugs with perfect boy-logic.
‘They are pretty yukky,’ Joey admits. ‘Full of fleas and scabs.’
We can see Beachcomber Cottage now, the slate roof dusted with icing-sugar frost, the windows bright, the chimney trailing plumes of wood smoke. We file in through the rickety gate, nailed together from driftwood branches, beneath the spindly driftwood garden arch where a climbing rose, blackened with cold, hangs on for dear life. The winding concrete path is embedded with shells and pebbles and edged with upturned wine bottles in blue and green.
Joey marches into the porch, jangling the wind chimes made from shells and seaglass and pieces of bleached-out driftwood twigs that look like the bones of small animals.
‘I’ve got it,’ Joey tells us, pushing open the door. ‘The names, I mean. What’s our favourite TV show?’
‘The Simpsons?’ I say.
‘Exactly.’
We head into the kitchen, where Jed is sitting at the scrubbed pine table, helping Mikey with some maths homework. Eva is at the Aga, stirring a vast pan of hearty soup. The kitchen is bright and warm and chaotic, like a farmhouse kitchen in a kids’ storybook.
‘Hi, Paul, kids,’ Jed says. ‘How did it go?’
‘OK,’ Paul shrugs. ‘No problems.’
‘Great,’ Eva grins. ‘It’s a friendly school – you’ll soon settle in.’
Paul looks sceptical, but nobody seems to notice except me.
Joey slaps the cardboard box down in the middle of the table. Inside, the kittens begin to squawk.
‘What’s in the box?’ asks Jed.
Joey unfolds the lid, and everyone peers in. The kittens blink fiercely in the bright light of the kitchen, looking lost and startled and hopelessly cute.
‘Meet Itchy Scratchy and Krusty’ Joey says.
CHAPTER 4
For years, we have been a gang of two, Joey and me. We hang out together at school, at each other’s houses, in the village, at the beach. Now, overnight, we are a gang of four.
Kit and Paul are always around. Wherever we go, they go too.
It’s good to walk into the lunch hall at school and see that they’ve saved us a space at their table. It’s good to sit in the cafe in Kirklaggan, sipping milkshakes and pretending we’re on some kind of double date when actually we’re not. It makes me feel grown-up; it makes me feel cool.
Mostly, we mooch around at Beachcomber Cottage, feeding the kittens, teasing them with a catnip mouse on a piece of string or a plastic ball with a bell inside it that jingles when it moves.
We take them to the vet and watch them disappear in a fog of white flea powder. They emerge pale and grey and slightly shocked. We learn that the t
ortoiseshell cat is female, the two tabbies male. Krusty, the scabby tortoiseshell, has an allergy to fleas, but that will clear up if we keep her bug-free. The vet says they are remarkably well considering their shaky start in life.
‘They’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘Well done, kids.’
The kittens grow round and sleek with regular feeds, and their fur grows silky and soft. They lose their fear and learn to trust us, licking our hands with sandpaper tongues, purring like tiny engines as we stroke their bellies, tickle their ears. They sleep in a basket Jed found in a skip, on a blanket made from crochet squares that Eva rescued from a long-gone jumble sale. Krusty stops living up to her name.
I plan ahead for a day when she will sleep on the end of my duvet at home, waking me up with an alarm-clock purr, but so far Mum isn’t keen on the idea. She is immune to kitten charm. She can only think of flea powder and worming tablets and cat-litter trays, and she is not impressed.
I’m working on it. Slowly.
At least I know Krusty’s safe at Joey’s – who wouldn’t be? Beachcomber Cottage is pure magic. It reminds me of the witch’s house in the fairy story where everything is made of gingerbread and sweeties, except that here everything is made of driftwood and junk, all transformed into a kind of crazy, weirdo beauty.
The worktops are made of vast slices of wood with the bark still showing along the edge, and the cupboards are cobbled together from what look like old fish boxes and seaworn planks with handles made from old brass spoons and forks, beaten and bent into shape. Oban fresh fish, one cupboard door reads. Portpatrick, says another.
We sit round the kitchen table, perched on weirdo chairs made from big, curving branches of weathered driftwood, eating warm scones with big curls of butter and jam made from brambles Joey and I picked last year, from the hedgerows along the lane.
Outside, Kit and Mikey are playing footy in the pool of light from the kitchen windows. Kit is always Celtic and Mikey is always Rangers. Somehow, Rangers always win.
‘Rangers are the champions!’ Mikey roars, coming in to grab a scone.
‘Nah,’ Kit tells him. ‘You’re just on a lucky streak. Celtic are the best: everyone knows that.’
Driftwood Page 2
