‘Wonder why Stan calls them Maids?’ Grace asks. ‘They don’t look like maids or even people at all.’
‘He’s obviously bonkers,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Let’s face it, his café’s pretty weird with all that junk.’ Another idea pops into my head. ‘Or maybe . . . it’s his wife who’s doolally and he calls them Maids because that’s what she thinks they are. And it’s all her stuff in the café, and she keeps collecting more and more and he’s got to stop her but she won’t listen, and they’re drowning in junk, so he ends up locking her up at home, like Mr Rochester’s wife in Jane Eyre . . . except they’re both older and a lot more wrinkly and they don’t have an attic, just a dormer bungalow with a little bedroom upstairs . . .’
As usual, Grace isn’t listening. She’s gently touching the tallest stone, tracing its rough surface with her fingers. She gives a shiver.
‘What’s going to happen, Ellie?’ she asks suddenly.
‘What d’you mean? Is she going to creep out one night and torch the café or something?’
‘No! To us. Mum, you and me.’
I think for a moment before I reply. Why should only stories have happy endings? It’s not fair. I want one too. ‘We’re going to start a brand new life and it’s going to be fan-flipping-tastic.’ I tell her. ‘Grace, no one knows us here. We can be anyone we want now.’
‘But what about Dad? What if he finds us?’
I don’t want to think about this. ‘How could he?’ I reply nervously. ‘He doesn’t even know where we are.’
Grace pulls a face but doesn’t say anything. Suddenly neither of us feels like exploring any more so we head back to the caravan, passing the lady in the red coat. She’s carrying a notebook and a camera but she doesn’t look like she’s on holiday – more like she’s working.
‘Settled in OK?’ she asks, smiling at us.
‘Yes thanks,’ I say, trying not to look at her suspiciously.
‘By the way, tell your mum she’s an amazing violinist —’
‘Oh, that was Grace,’ I blurt out without thinking.
The woman turns to her and says, ‘You’re very talented. How long have you been learning?’
Grace stares at her nervously and doesn’t reply. There’s an awkward silence. I have to say something or else we’ll both look weird. If she’s a private detective or something, hired by Dad, I’ve already pooped it.
‘About four years,’ I say warily.
The lady looks bemused but then smiles at us both.
‘Well, it was wonderful to hear you play. It helped me think – cleared my mind. I was totally stuck on my next chapter and after you’d finished I suddenly knew exactly what to write.’
‘You’re a writer?’ I say, surprised. ‘You don’t look like one.’
‘Sorry . . . So, what do writers look like?’
‘Don’t know. Never met one before.’ I don’t tell her she looks much too ordinary. Scruffy even. I also don’t tell her that I wanted to be a writer once – but a glamorous, rich one, in clicky heels and smart clothes, not a bit like her.
‘I’m researching my next book – making notes and planning everything out at the moment.’
‘What’s it about?’ I ask.
‘Myths and legends from around the country.’
‘Any vampires in it?’
‘Um, not so far . . .’ She clocks my disappointment. ‘But plenty of other gory stuff though. Stan’s been a great help. Knows all the folklore around here.’
‘He told us to try and count the stones.’
‘And me. In fact, I’ve counted them every day, and never made the same number twice in a row . . . Hopeless!’
‘We did too.’
‘Well, that’s the beauty of the Maids, apparently – just when you think you’ve got them pegged, something happens and the story changes. I’ve been here two weeks and I’m still not sure what to make of them – except a couple are definitely a little loose in the ground.’
‘I bet someone’s moving them around,’ I say. ‘In the dead of night.’
‘Maybe,’ she replies with a laugh. ‘I’m sure a touch of mystery’s good for the tourist trade. I noticed they’re selling glow-in-the-dark stone circles down in the gift shop, yesterday.’
‘But why are they called Maids?’ I ask.
‘The main legend, and there are loads, says they were young girls, turned to stone by a thunderbolt. Bit harsh though, don’t you think, just for dancing on a Sunday?’ She shakes her head and smiles. ‘Well, better get some work done. I’m Susan by the way. Susan Grey.’ She turns to Grace. ‘I’ll be listening out, so feel free to play that fiddle whenever you like. And you never know, maybe you’ll wake them up and they’ll start dancing again,’ she adds with a nod to the stones.
Grace smiles politely and we carry on down the path until we reach the caravan field. Thoughts of Dad creep back into my head so I try to distract myself by imagining people I’ve never met – dancing maids, Stan’s mad wife . . . and my grandad hijacking that tractor to get Mum to her exam on time. If only he was still alive now, I think, he could help us. I give a little sigh. He isn’t here. We’re on our own so we’ve just got to help ourselves.
Suddenly, a half-formed idea starts to whirl around my head. On impulse, I tell Grace that I’m just popping back to the beach for a few minutes and then run off before she can tell me not to. I reach the café and peep inside. It’s lunchtime now and busy. Plucking up courage, I push open the door.
‘You again?’ says Stan abruptly, dumping down plates of sausage and chips in front of two customers and then hurrying back to get two more.
‘Excuse me,’ a woman calls from a nearby table, ‘We ordered some pasties —’
‘Won’t be a moment,’ Stan replies. He looks flustered now. ‘Can’t chat,’ he snaps as he passes me. ‘If I don’t get four pasties and a bowl of chips on that table, there’s going to be mayhem.’
‘You need some help,’ I say, seizing the moment and following him back to the counter. He takes out the pasties from the fridge.
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘Mum’s looking for a job.’
‘Thought you were on holiday?’ He hurriedly drops some uncooked chips into a pan full of bubbling hot fat.
‘Well . . . We are . . . but . . .’
Stan stops what he’s doing and looks me in the eye, which is pretty scary, but I don’t flinch, even though I’m wondering whether trying to get Mum a job here is actually the most sensible idea in the world considering how grumpy he is, let alone the fact he has a mad wife locked away.
‘It’s sort of complicated,’ I tell him, taking the plunge, ‘but she’s a great cook and you need some help so why don’t you give her a try?’
‘So what does she say about this grand plan of yours?’ asks Stan.
‘She’d jump at it,’ I lie. ‘In fact, she was just saying last week how she’d love to run a café like this . . .‘
Years of hiding stuff about home and Dad have made me a pretty convincing liar. I’m not proud of it but it’s about the only thing I’m good at.
Three more customers come in and sit down at a table that needs clearing. They look at the dirty crockery and one of them mumbles something about going somewhere else.
‘Be with you in a tick,’ Stan calls to them.
‘You could spend more time with Daphne if Mum was here,’ I add, carefully watching his reaction.
He pulls a face then says gruffly, ‘OK. Tell your mum to pop up here at five. We’ll talk then.’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘I’m not promising anything, mind.’
‘I know. Thanks. Bye then . . .’
He nods, then hurriedly serves up the pasties and chips as I whizz towards the door.
‘Oh . . . we counted the stones . . .’ I tell him.
‘And?’
‘Fifteen?’
Stan gives a short laugh.
‘Sixteen?’ I say.
He
shakes his head. ‘Pah!’ he tuts.
Chapter 12
Grace
When Ellie tells me her plan, I give her a whole list of reasons why it’s a bad idea, but as usual, she goes all out, determined to convince Mum.
‘It’s totally perfect!’ she protests. ‘You help in the café and Stan lets us live in the caravan for free. What could be better?’
‘Life doesn’t work like that Ellie,’ Mum tells her with a frown as she wipes the little bathroom window with a damp cloth. ‘It’s far too simple. Besides I don’t know the first thing about running a café. What if I mess up or burn the place down? Let’s face it: I’d be useless.’
That’s what Dad used to say all the time. ‘You’re useless, Karin,’ he’d insist, whether she was doing her hair or making a cup of tea. ‘Utterly useless. A complete waste of space.’ She could never do anything right. He’s drummed this into her so many times I think she believes it now.
‘Course you won’t be useless,’ Ellie insists.
Mum shakes her head but Ellie doesn’t give up.
‘Stan wants to spend more time with Daphne. You’ll be helping him out.’
A little later we sit down at the tiny table in the caravan, and eat the last of the sandwiches. They’re soggy and sad but apart from a bit of Mum’s cake, some cereal and a few tins of soup, it’s all the food we’ve got left. Mum says she’s doesn’t want any and cuts the cake into two pieces.
‘Why don’t we just go and see Stan?’ Ellie asks. ‘Then you can talk it over with him.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to face him sooner or later to tell him we only have the money to pay for a few more nights, so I might as well get it over and done with,’ she says. ‘But I’m not working in that café . . . so just stop going on about it. Please.’
I don’t say ‘I told you so’ to Ellie because I know she’s only trying to help. And the thing is, now I’ve had time to think about it, Ellie’s right for once; it would be the perfect job for Mum. She’s spent years at home cooking and cleaning and waiting on Dad, making sure everything was exactly right so he didn’t have any reason to get cross with her. Not that it helped. He still lost his temper all the time. Behind his back, Mum used to make excuses for him – like he worked too hard – but even as a kid I didn’t believe her, especially when she’d blame herself. Sometimes I wonder if he got angry because she did everything so beautifully. He liked it much better when he had to come to her rescue or he could put her right on something or just let rip and have a go at her.
The more I think about it, the more I want Mum to have this job. I don’t eat my piece of cake but wrap it carefully in a paper serviette and tuck it in my pocket when no one’s looking. At five to five we leave Bruno in the caravan, lock the door and walk along the path through the dunes to the café on the beach.
There are no customers now and Stan’s busy washing up.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Ellie asks as we step through the door. I throw her a look but she chucks it back at me.
‘Make yourself at home,’ says Stan, glaring at her from under his fierce bushy eyebrows, but his sarcasm is wasted as Ellie makes a beeline for the kettle.
Nervously, Mum starts to explain that we won’t be staying in the caravan for long after all.
‘So you don’t want a job now?’ asks Stan impatiently.
‘We . . . um . . . we’re not sure we can afford —’
‘So a job would come in handy then?’
‘Well – yes, but —’
‘You worked in a café before?’
‘No.’
‘Cooking and hygiene qualifications?’
‘No.’
‘Any references then – from a previous employer?’
Mum doesn’t even bother answering. She stares down uncomfortably at the floor, the same way she used to when Dad lectured her on her cooking or told her what a bad parent she was, not like his mum and dad.
Stan shakes his head. ‘I’ve got enough problems on my plate. Bill can’t tell the difference between a courgette and a baguette, but he’s my brother and at least I can rely on him.’
Mum looks embarrassed and starts to get up. ‘I’m sorry. We’d better go —’
‘You can’t. Tea’s ready,’ says Ellie, quickly putting two mugs in front of Stan and Mum.
‘Have this first,’ says Stan gruffly, ‘and don’t mind me. It’s not personal.’
Reluctantly, she sits down again. I quickly unwrap the piece of cake from my jacket pocket and place it carefully on a clean plate. It’s a little squashed but I carry it over to Stan and place it on the table in front of him. Ellie catches on and looks at me hopefully.
‘Mum made this,’ she tells Stan. ‘Banana and toffee, but she can make all sorts, and pies and pasties and anything really. She’s the most fantastic cook in the world —’
‘Ellie, don’t tell tales —’
‘Well, you are! You just don’t know it.’
Stan shakes his head, looking at each of us in turn before picking up the piece of cake, inspecting it carefully then taking a large bite. We watch him as he slowly chews then swallows. He takes another bite, then another, and another, until the last crumb is gone. Then he sits quietly for a moment.
‘We open at eight for cooked breakfasts until twelve then we do lunches. We serve morning coffees and afternoon teas. We shut at five – nine on Saturdays,’ he says finally.
Mum nods politely, glancing at the door, wanting to go.
‘So I’ll see you at ten to eight tomorrow then.’
‘I’ve got the job?’ asks Mum, surprised.
‘I’d be an idiot if I didn’t take you on. Even Daphne didn’t used to cook as good as this.’
Ellie turns round and lets out a silent ‘Yes!’ and I can’t help grinning.
‘I told you!’ she says jubilantly.
Stan shows Mum round the kitchen and explains if she works four days every week, her wages will cover the rent for the caravan and there’ll be money over.
‘You’ll have to make some homemade cakes and pasties, though,’ he orders. ‘Daphne used to handle all that but I’m buying in stuff now and it’s not always very good.’
‘Right,’ says Mum, still looking stunned. ‘Ten to eight tomorrow then.’
Chapter 13
Ellie
‘Do I look OK?’ asks Mum, nervously smoothing the creases in her white blouse. She’s carefully wound a silk scarf around her neck and tied the ends in a little bow so her bruise can’t be seen.
‘Perfect,’ I tell her, although to be honest there are dark shadows under her eyes and she looks as if she hasn’t slept for a month. While she’s working at the café today, we’re going to walk into town, about half a mile away. She holds out Grace’s twenty-pound note and a shopping list and tells us to hunt around for the cheapest prices. Grace nods at me as she takes the list, so I put the money carefully in my jacket pocket and zip it up.
‘Good luck,’ I say as Mum goes. ‘Not that you’ll need it,’ I add quickly. She gives a nervous smile and waves as she hurries across the field towards the beach path.
Half an hour later, Grace, Bruno and I set off. We follow the road from the site entrance down into the town. The place is busy because there’s a big market set up in the car park by the harbour. At the very end there’s a stall selling handmade earrings and Grace spends ages looking at them all. I’m bored to bits so I wander back through the crowd, past the other stalls until I come to one crammed with hair accessories, brushes, combs and even a few packets of hair dye. I pick up one, looking at the picture on the front. The pretty-looking girl is smiling and her long bouncy hair is a glamorous bright blond, exactly how I’ve always wanted mine to be.
‘Just two fifty today’ says the man behind the stall.
I glance around and see Grace with her back to me, still looking at the jewellery. About two months ago some woman stopped us as we were coming out of a clothes shop and asked Grace if she’d ever thought of
being a model, said she was a talent scout for some big agency. Course Grace didn’t reply but when I said I’d definitely be interested, the woman just shook her head, smiled and said I wasn’t quite what they were looking for. Flipping cheek.
I look at the packet again. Seeing me hesitate, the man winks.
‘A pound for you, darling – you’d look amazing with hair that colour.’
Spending just one pound isn’t going to hurt, I convince myself. Not to look amazing. And everything in the market is so cheap we’ll have plenty of money for the food Mum wants us to buy.
‘OK,’ I say, unzipping my purse and offering the man Grace’s twenty-pound note. Suddenly, I spot her heading my way so I hurriedly take the change, stuff it in a pocket then tuck the packet of hair dye under my jacket so she won’t see it.
I wing my way back through the crowd to meet her, then we head over to the fruit and veg stall. We get everything Mum’s put on the list and Grace adds it up as we go.
‘Eleven pounds thirty-five,’ she whispers to me but then as I reach into my pocket to pay, I realise to my horror that I’ve only got four pound coins. Both the ten and five pound notes have vanished.
‘They must have fallen out,’ I tell Grace, desperately.
Grace looks at me confused, and feeling guilty, I explain that I’ve spent a pound and lost most of the change. We have to give back half the stuff, annoying the stallholder, who curses at us under his breath. We retrace my steps to try and find the missing money but there’s no sign of it.
Grace won’t speak to me all the way home, even when one of the thin plastic bags holding the loose potatoes splits. They roll into the road and a couple of cars drive past, squashing some of them to pulp. When the coast is clear, I hold onto Bruno while she scrabbles about, rescuing what she can.
‘I didn’t mean to lose all that money,’ I say miserably, as we step into the caravan a few minutes later.
She still doesn’t reply, but heads into our little bedroom.
‘I said I’m sorry!’ I say, following her in. ‘You don’t have to blank me out too,’ I add, getting cross now at her silence, ‘cos let’s face it, if you stop talking to me you might as well super-glue your lips together, like this.’ I purse my lips together making a silly fish face but she doesn’t react. ‘And then one day when you do want to say something, and you unstick them, you won’t remember how to talk any more. You’ll open your mouth and a load of gobbledy-gook will fly out.’
The Summer of Telling Tales Page 4
