The Summer of Telling Tales

by Laura Summers

  The more I read, the more I learnt. Quilts weren’t just made by people with time on their hands; they were a way of communicating stuff that couldn’t be said out loud. Wives sewed insults about their domineering husbands, and servants dished the dirt on the masters and mistresses. There were political messages, love letters, even rude jokes.

  There were ‘freedom quilts’ too. American slaves used to send secret messages to each other by stitching symbols onto their quilts. Then they’d hang them out of windows or on washing lines and other escaping slaves would know there was a safe house or help waiting for them.

  Back home, I got to thinking that maybe Gran was sending Mum more than just a load of patches of fabric sewn together. Maybe she was sending a coded message. So when Dad wasn’t here, I’d take out the pieces of torn quilt and check to see if there were any mysterious symbols that I could translate. I never found anything.

  But then something dawned on me. Every single scrap of the quilt had belonged to either Gran, Grandad, Mum or Auntie Anna, and all had been cut from clothes they’d once worn, so each piece had a story to it. I realised then that Gran’s quilt was full of tales that Ellie and I aren’t allowed to hear any more. And that was Gran’s secret message. She was telling us not to forget.

  So I started to mend the quilt, piece by piece, when Dad was out. I had to be careful and sew only a strip or two at a time just in case he came home unexpectedly. Once I got so involved there were pieces strewn all over my bedroom floor and I only just bundled them all away before he came in.

  Eventually, after a few weeks, it was all sewn back together; not as neatly as Gran’s work, because she was a professional seamstress when she was younger, but I learnt as I stitched and didn’t do a bad job in the end. I still didn’t dare show Mum the quilt but from then on I started making my own clothes, buying stuff from charity shops, chopping and mixing and sewing bits back together, and adding ribbon, beads or lace to create new dresses that I know Gran would have loved too.

  She died a few months later. At the funeral Mum couldn’t stop crying. Dad spoke to the vicar after the service and told him Gran would be sadly missed. The vicar patted his arm and whispered comforting words. We didn’t go to Auntie Anna’s afterwards with everyone else. Dad said Mum was too upset and needed to go home. When we got back, she made dinner and he watched a documentary about golden eagles.

  I fold the quilt, put it back in the brown paper carrier, then carefully place it inside my canvas bag under my violin case.

  Not much room left now.

  I wrap my shell earrings and necklace in the pieces of dress I’m making, then gently cram that down one side of the bag and Gran’s old wooden needlework box packed with all my sewing stuff down the other.

  Must have paper and a couple of pens for my lists.

  They go in last. I change into my favourite long flowery dress, the one Dad says makes me look like a bag lady, then pull my chunky raspberry-coloured jumper over the top for warmth. I glance at the piece of paper sellotaped to the inside of the wardrobe door, listing all the violin music and scales I’m practising at the moment.

  ‘Ellie. Grace. We’ve got to leave now,’ Mum calls softly from downstairs.

  I throw my uniform into the wardrobe, tuck my purse into my dress pocket and grab my bag.

  I take one final glance around my bedroom, with its heavy brass-trimmed furniture and those horrible, stiff, navy blue curtains, then hurry out.

  Chapter 5

  Ellie

  Mum’s car is in the garage. She’s allowed to use it for emergencies and on Fridays for the food shopping. On Saturday mornings, she gives Dad all the receipts and change, then the next Friday morning, after he’s had the time to check it all through, he gives her enough money to buy everything for the following week. Because he’s the one earning the wage, he says he should be the one who decides how it’s spent.

  About two years ago, Auntie Anna got Mum an interview for a part-time job in a florist’s so she could have her own money but when Dad found out where she’d been, and that she’d got the job, he hit the roof and said he didn’t work all hours so his wife could go out like a skivvy.

  Later that night, I could still hear their voices in the kitchen, arguing. It was scary so I got out of bed and went down, pretending I wanted a glass of water just to make them stop, but it didn’t work. In the morning Mum had a cut just above her eye, which was all swollen up. She said she’d banged it on one of the kitchen cupboard doors but she wouldn’t look at me. Dad put his arm around her and gave her a big bear hug and said it was a shame that Old Clumsy Klutz couldn’t go anywhere looking like that.

  She rang the shop manager and said she was sorry but she wouldn’t be coming. The next Saturday, when her eye was almost healed up, Dad took us all out for the day to a theme park. It was the best day ever. He was really nice to Mum and bought Grace and me birthstone bracelets, ice creams and cute soft toys even though I told him we were much too old for them. He bought Mum a beautiful necklace with metallic beads on a heavy chain which she said was lovely. She doesn’t wear it often in case it gets broken.

  I went on every single ride at least three times with Dad and I couldn’t stop laughing when we went down the log flume, even though we got totally soaked. I even went on the death ride and felt so proud and happy when Dad told me I’d got some guts, and I giggled like mad when he joked that he’d just lost all his.

  When we got home, everything was great, except we didn’t see Auntie Anna any more, even though Mum promised she wouldn’t ever try getting another job. Dad smiled and said, ‘That’s my girl,’ and for some reason I thought everything was going to be all right from then on, but I was just a kid in those days and didn’t know anything.

  Mum’s busy loading the suitcase and our sleeping bags into the boot when we go into the garage. My bag is really heavy and it’s hard work trying to heave it onto the back seat before she can see. Grace spots it wriggling slightly, shoots me a glance and I know that she knows.

  ‘He’d better keep quiet,’ she whispers, helping me lower the bag carefully onto the floor, out of sight.

  ‘He always sleeps in the car,’ I whisper back, hoping and praying that tonight won’t be any different.

  ‘One of you in the front one in the back,’ says Mum, gently closing the boot of the car. ‘And no arguments, eh?’

  Grace gives me another look and smiles as she climbs in the front passenger seat. I get in the back, secretly reach my hand down into my bag and gently stroke the soft, warm, furry body inside.

  Five minutes later, we’re turning out of our driveway and heading up our road. It’s raining now. In another hour’s time, Dad will be home, expecting homemade steak and onion pie on the table. But there won’t be any pie and there won’t be any us. I start to giggle. I don’t know why but I can’t stop, even though I know it’s not the slightest bit funny. I look back at our house as we drive around the corner and get a tight feeling in my chest. I can’t help blurting out, ‘What’s Dad going to say?’

  Mum is gripping the steering wheel tightly and doesn’t take her eyes off the road.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ellie,’ she says quietly. ‘We’ll be so far away we won’t hear him.’

  Chapter 6

  Grace

  Is this a dream? Or one of Ellie’s fantasies? Any minute now Mum’s going to spin the car around and say, ‘OK, the adventure’s over, we’ve gone far enough – better get home now.’

  But she doesn’t. We drive on and the rush hour traffic builds. I have to keep calm. Make a list or two.

  OK.

  Black cat (lucky).

  Traffic Warden (grumpy).

  Pizza delivery boy (spotty).

  Men digging hole (mucky).

  See. It works. Everything’s going to be all right.

  Man up telegraph pole (dodgy).

  Woman in chicken costume handing out leaflets (weird).

  Old lady with pram and —

  Ellie’s compla
ining that she’s feeling carsick.

  ‘I’ll stop and you can swap with Grace and sit in the front,’ Mum tells her, but she won’t.

  Mum stops anyway, we need petrol. As she fills up the car, I wonder whether she’s got the money to pay for it. It’s only Thursday today and Dad doesn’t give her anything until tomorrow.

  I look out of the window and watch the petrol pump until the numbers on the dial finally grind to a halt. Mum catches my eye as she clicks the pump nozzle back into its slot. She’s not wearing her usual dangly pearl earrings or the big gold locket that Gran gave her for her twenty-first birthday.

  She disappears into the petrol station to pay and Ellie opens her canvas bag. A sleepy Bruno pokes his nose out, yawns and sniffs the air, deciding he can smell food. Suddenly he’s wriggling out of the bag and scrabbling his way into the front of the car.

  ‘Grace, do something!’ Ellie orders, as if I can perform miracles. ‘Stop him!’

  But Mum’s already coming back and Bruno’s determined to get his face inside the carrier bag at my feet. I rescue the bag but it’s too late to even think about hiding him again.

  ‘Oh Grace!’ says Mum as she gets back into the driver’s seat. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  I look down and grip the plastic bag tighter. I can feel my lips clamping firmly together.

  ‘Grace, talk to me!’ Mum urges. ‘Please.’

  My eyes meet hers but I can’t speak, I can’t say a single word. The silence cuts me like a knife.

  She looks away and shakes her head sadly.

  ‘It wasn’t her, it was me,’ Ellie blurts out.

  ‘But I told you we couldn’t take him.’

  ‘It’ll be all right Mum. I’ll look after him. Promise. I brought some tins of dog food and his bowl and lead. It’s all here in my bag.’

  Mum sits, staring out of the car window, biting her lip. She touches her throat where her locket chain should be, gives a little sigh and rubs the skin below her bruises, as if the locket might magically appear.

  ‘Mum, please . . .’ Ellie pleads.

  As if he understands the situation, Bruno climbs from my lap onto Mum’s and starts licking her face.

  ‘Ow! Bruno, stop it!’ she protests, but she’s half smiling now, even though tears are rolling down her cheeks. Bruno’s confused and licks harder, his nose wrinkling slightly at the salty taste on his tongue.

  ‘OK. OK. Good boy, Bruno,’ Mum says, finally unable to resist patting him. ‘Ellie, I told you no, but he’s with us now so he’ll have to stay.’

  She ushers him into the back of the car next to Ellie, who buries her face in his fur and hugs him like a long lost friend. We drive off, taking the motorway turning, heading west.

  So why did Mum take off her locket and earrings? She never takes them off. Why would she pack them?

  And then it hits me. I realise exactly what she’s done; she’s sold them to raise some money. And for the first time it really sinks in.

  We’re not going back.

  Chapter 7

  Ellie

  As we drive down the motorway, Mum asks Grace to take out some of the sandwiches she’s packed. They’re cheese with homemade mango pickle, my favourite. The bread is fresh and crumbly and I suddenly realise I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime and I’m starving. I take a tiny but careful nibble out of the sandwich. I’m not feeling sick any more but I’m worried I might drop crumbs everywhere. Then I remember that Dad isn’t going to inspect the car and see them, so I relax and tuck in.

  ‘There’s some cake too,’ Mum says as I start on my second sandwich. Grace reaches into the bag again, and like a magician pulls out two slabs of Mum’s delicious toffee and banana cake. As she hands me one, I can’t help noticing the time on her watch.

  Grace has seen it too. She stiffens and the colour slowly drains out of her face. She glances up at me then turns around and sits motionless, her piece of cake lying uneaten on her lap. And I know what’s going through her mind because it’s going through mine too. Dad is coming through the front door right this minute.

  The house is always quiet and spotlessly tidy when he arrives home, so today won’t be any different. He’ll put down his briefcase and won’t even notice we’re not there – not at first. He’ll shake out the creases then carefully hang up his coat in the hall cupboard before going into the kitchen. No Mum. He’ll sniff. No steak and onion pie in the oven. Maybe he’ll flick up the hem of the tablecloth and peer under the kitchen table. No Bruno. He’ll be puzzled now. Suspicious even. He’ll rub his beard with the tips of his fingers then go into the living room. There’ll be no homework laid out on the table. No Grace. No Ellie. No Mum. He’ll frown, then storm upstairs and check each room. No one. His eyes will be hard now and his lips clamped together in that grim expression he has when he’s just about to lose it.

  My heart beats faster. I glance at Grace. Three beads of sweat sit on her white forehead. She’s breathing deeply and swallowing hard. She hasn’t touched the cake on her lap.

  ‘Mum . . . I think Grace is going to be sick.’

  Mum turns and looks at her.

  ‘Oh no, Grace . . . not now!’ There’s panic in Mum’s voice. We’re on the motorway. She can’t pull over. ‘Open the window. Get some fresh air . . . Grace, you’re never car sick!’ But Grace isn’t listening. She grabs an empty carrier bag and throws up into it.

  The smell is horrible but we have to drive on until we reach the next exit. Mum pulls off and stops the car as soon as she can. We all get out and stand on the grass verge. Mum tells Grace to take some deep breaths and gives her some water to drink while I let Bruno out of the car. He’s excited after being cooped up for so long and thinks we’ve arrived but he runs straight into the road.

  ‘Bruno!’ I yell as I chase after him. A dark grey car comes round the corner, heading straight towards me. My heart misses a beat.

  Remember, I’ll always find you out, Ellie. Always. If you tell tales – you won’t get away with it. Ever. Dad’s threat from last night rings in my ears.

  Mum’s yelling at me to get out of the road but I don’t move. I can’t. It’s him. He’s come to get us. He slams on the brakes and screeches to a halt inches away from me.

  ‘Ellie!’ Mum shouts. She grabs hold of my arm and Bruno’s collar and drags us back to the side of the road. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s Dad!’ I tell her, too frightened to look.

  I can hear him opening the window and shouting at me. But his voice is different, high pitched and not at all like it normally is. When I finally pluck up courage and look, I realise it’s not Dad after all. It’s not even a man with a beard; it’s a woman with short grey hair. I start giggling again. In fact, it’s so funny I just can’t stop laughing. I suck in big mouthfuls of air and it feels good to let out the weird shrieking noise from deep inside me, even though it makes the woman who isn’t Dad crosser.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Mum calls to her as Grace takes Bruno. ‘Sorry. Our dog ran off and . . .’

  The woman shakes her head, mutters something and drives away, and now Mum’s holding my arms, telling me to stop, calm down – I could have been run over, why on earth did I just stand there – but all I can think about is that it’s not Dad. It’s not him. He hasn’t found us. Gradually the giggles subside and I’m left with a tired, empty feeling and a bad stitch, like I’ve been running for too long.

  Mum hugs me, then we get into the car and drive back onto the motorway. It goes on forever and ever and there’s nothing to look at but the tail- or headlights of other cars and lorries. She turns on the radio but no one’s listening so she flicks it off and we drive on in silence. Grace closes her eyes but I think she’s just pretending to be asleep. There are fewer cars now and it’s getting late.

  ‘Try to sleep if you can,’ Mum whispers over her shoulder to me.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Mum? We can’t ju
st drive for ever.’

  ‘We won’t. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re there.’

  It’s dark outside, my eyes feel heavy, and although I know I won’t be able to sleep, it gets harder and harder to keep them open. Bruno snuggles closer to me and gives a yawn.

  Chapter 8

  Grace

  The last thing I expect to see when I wake up is a sparkling green-blue sea but here it is, shimmering magically away right in front of me, picture postcard beautiful but frighteningly close. The water’s choppy, and waves with frothy peaks break onto the sandy beach below us and crash onto rocks out to sea. The sun’s shining but the wind’s strong and from time to time it shakes our car with powerful gusts as it blows cotton wool clouds across the sky. We’re the only car in the car park – and it seems as if we’ve driven to the edge of the world and stopped, just in time.

  I glance at Mum fast asleep next to me, with her cheek resting on her hand and a faint frown creasing the delicate skin between her eyebrows. The bruise on her neck looks painful and sore. My unzipped sleeping bag is spread over us but it’s slipping off her, so I gently lift it and carefully lay it back over her again. She stirs like a little child, gives a gentle groan, but doesn’t wake.

  On the back seat, Ellie’s curled up with Bruno, both snuggled under her sleeping bag, just the tops of their heads showing. Bruno’s making the funny little growly noises he often makes in his sleep, and judging by the twitching of his nose, is probably dreaming about chasing rabbits. It’s seven a.m. and there’s no one around. A flock of seagulls swoops overhead, filling the air with their deafening squawking. Bruno wakes up and barks excitedly, which instantly wakes Mum and Ellie.

  ‘Are we here?’ asks Ellie, sitting up sleepily. She peers out of the car window, her mouth open in disbelief. ‘Oh my . . .’ Her voice trails off and she stares at the shimmering sea as if it’s a mirage.