Straightaway, I knew it had to be the surprise. I jumped up and ran to the front door, and flung it open.
And then I nearly fainted.
I actually had to grab on to the side of the door, because I thought I was going to slide down to the floor if I didn’t. I could feel my face getting cold.
And Mam said, ‘Hi Liz,’ and smiled a bit nervously at me.
She looked pretty much the same as I remembered. Her hair was a bit longer, but still the same colour red. She hadn’t any new holes in her ears, but she was wearing a chunky orange cardigan I’d never seen, and grey jeans, and a silver bracelet that jangled when she lifted her arm to tuck her hair behind her ear.
And suddenly I really, really wanted Dad to be there.
And then finally, after about a million years, Mam stepped towards me, and at the same minute I moved towards her, and we met somewhere in the middle, and she still smelt the same, and I’m pretty sure she started crying a second before I did.
And she was saying something about missing me, and telling me she was sorry, so sorry, and I was saying nothing, just hanging on to her as if I’d never let her go.
And some time during the past year I’d managed to grow as tall as her. And I just kept hanging on and hanging on.
And when we managed to stop crying at last, when she was dabbing at my eyes with a tissue and telling me how pretty and grown-up I’d got, Dad appeared. He was quiet, but very polite. He invited Mam in, and we all sat down at the kitchen table, and Mam gave me a pink South Park t-shirt and a new box of watercolour paints.
She didn’t bring anything for Dad, which wasn’t surprising, but still a bit embarrassing. He didn’t seem to mind though. He made coffee, and Mam looked surprised when he gave me a cup, but she didn’t say anything.
After a bit of talking about nothing – the flight home, Granny Daly, the weather in San Francisco – Mam asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I looked at Dad, because it all felt a bit weird, but he just nodded and said he’d wash up and see me later.
Outside the house I looked for Mam’s red Clio, but the only car around was a green Micra. Mam told me she’d sold the Clio before she went away, and the Micra was just rented. I know it was only a car, but I felt a kind of stab when she said that – another bit of our old life that was gone forever.
I wondered if Marjorie was looking out as we walked past her driveway. I wondered if she’d seen Mam getting out of the green car.
It’s funny to think that Mam and Marjorie used to be pretty friendly, once upon a time.
Anyway, we walked to a little park about ten minutes from the house. Mam seemed a bit quiet on the way, so I told her about Bumble and Catherine Eggleston, and about secondary school, about Henry the pizza delivery boy, and about Ruth Wallace going into hospital for an operation on her legs, and about Dad’s disastrous birthday dinner. I didn’t talk about the things I really wanted to:
1. The milk attack
2. Chris Thompson
3. How to kiss boys properly.
And I certainly didn’t ask the questions I was dying to ask – how long she was staying around, and whether she was thinking about moving back to Ireland. I was afraid to ask, in case the answers weren’t the ones I wanted to hear.
When we’d walked about halfway round the park, Mam said, ‘Let’s sit for a minute,’ and when we’d found a bench near some bare-looking trees she took hold of both my hands and told me that she and Dad were going to get a divorce.
And even though it wasn’t such a big surprise, even though I’d pretty much stopped hoping that she’d ever come back home, even though I knew deep down that things could never be the same again, it still sounded horrible when she said it. Horrible and empty and – finished. As if a big sign saying ‘The End’ had suddenly appeared in front of us, like in the old films.
Except that it wasn’t a bit like that really, because in the old films people always lived happily ever after.
Luckily, there weren’t too many people around to see me crying again, just one old man on another bench who didn’t seem to notice, and a couple of little kids who stared at me until their mother called them over.
On the way back from the park, Mam answered the questions I’d been afraid to ask. First she told me she’s staying with Granny Daly for three days, which was all the time she could get off work. And then she told me, very gently, that she wasn’t planning to move back home for a while yet, but that maybe I could come out and visit her in the summer.
So I had to be happy with that. Funny that the thought of going to America doesn’t make me all excited like I thought it would. Maybe when she’s back there, it will.
When we got home, she collected her bag from the house, and then she and Dad said goodbye in that same sad, polite way, and I walked back out to the rented car with her.
She hugged me tightly, and whispered that she’d miss me so much, which of course started me crying all over again. I waved until the green car was out of sight, and she hooted the horn as she drove around the corner. I felt so alone, standing there on the path. So empty and alone.
And then I walked back into the house, and I could still smell Mam’s almondy smell in the hall, and Dad called out that he was in the sitting room, so I went in because I didn’t want to be alone.
We watched some old black-and-white movie on TV that had a lot of hats and singing in it, and we finished off Marjorie’s lemon cake, and afterwards Dad gave me €20 to buy myself something nice next time I was in town.
We didn’t talk about the divorce. What was there to say?
Seven o’clock, Wednesday, 19th January
Mam flew back to San Francisco today. It’s lashing rain outside.
Half past ten, Friday, 21st January.
Tonight I had my third date and my second kiss. This time it was a bit slower, and a bit better (the kiss, I mean). No onions this time, which helped. And no squashed noses.
Can’t say it knocked my socks off, though. I mean, it was nice, kind of, but not wildly exciting like it’s made out to be on TV and in the movies. Is that all just made up? Is everyone just pretending that kissing is fun? Is it a bit like the emperor’s clothes, with everyone thinking it’s a bit boring but afraid to say it out loud in case they’re wrong?
I wonder if Catherine and Bumble enjoy kissing. She’s probably an expert.
I just hope it gets a bit more interesting as we go along.
We got our new French penfriends at school – and guess what? Both Chloe and I got boys, so we don’t have to share. That’s the good news.
The not-so-good news is that they sent photos, and I have to say that they don’t look half as French as I thought they would.
Mine is a bit tubby, and he has really pink podgy cheeks and his ears stick out a bit. Chloe’s is slightly better – his eyes are blue, and his hair is dark and cut very short, and he’d probably look quite cool if it wasn’t for his nose, which hopefully he’ll grow into, and his crooked teeth. Don’t they know about braces in France?
My one’s name is Joel, which is OK, but Chloe’s is called Jean. I know it’s the French for John, but when you write it down it just looks girly.
Joel’s letter was full of mistakes. Here’s one bit:
‘My father she owns the library, and my mother rests in the home. Which singers you desire? I desire U2 and the Roling Stones. My anniversary is on December 10 – when is your? I play the rugby after school, he is a cool and funny game, isn’t it?’
See what I mean? At the end he wrote, ‘Excuse me my badly English’, which I thought was sweet. I’m sure my French was just as badly when I wrote to him, and I didn’t ask to be excused.
OK, I’m going to use the rest of this page for some kissing practice.
Afternoon, Sunday, 6th February.
Mid-term break in a few weeks. And guess what? Dad and I are going to Scotland for five days. And guess what else? Marjorie Maloney is coming with us.
I’m not too sure how I feel about
that. I mean, Dad did check with me before he asked her, and I did say OK, but still … it’s just that I’m fine with her living across the road from us, and I’m fairly OK about her going out with Dad most weekends, but I don’t see why she has to come on holidays with us too.
I know Dad is perfectly free to see whoever he likes, especially now, with the divorce and all, but still, I would REALLY prefer if it stayed just the two of us. We’re doing fine. Our cooking is improving, and we hardly ever run out of stuff now. We even buy brown bread sometimes, and I’m cutting down on the coffee. (Still eat far too much Ben & Jerry’s though.)
But I have to say that the Scottish trip sounds good. We’re flying into Edinburgh and then getting a train to the little village where we’ll be staying. Dad has booked a cottage that he says is over a hundred years old. I can go pony trekking if I want, and we can hire bikes, and there’s a restaurant right next door so we can eat out all the time – although I suppose I wouldn’t mind if Marjorie felt like cooking dinner once or twice, especially if she does that chocolate dessert thing again.
They just better not share a bedroom, that’s all I can say. That would not be OK at all.
Right, enough of that. The swimming classes are going great – we’ve started life-saving, and our coach Sandra says I’m a natural. We’ll be giving an exhibition before Easter, using real people instead of dummies. I can’t wait for Dad to see me in action.
Maybe someone will get into difficulties when I’m at the beach next summer, and I’ll be able to save them.
You’re probably wondering how the whole kissing thing is going. Well, we’re certainly doing lots of practising, and I suppose it’s OK … I mean, I don’t hate it or anything, and Chris is really sweet and funny, and I love his dimple.
And it’s nice to have a boyfriend. I know Chloe envies me.
I saw Bumble in town yesterday. He was on his own. He didn’t look particularly heartbroken, so I suppose he and Catherine are still together. I almost went over to talk to him, and then I didn’t. I don’t know why. He was looking in the window of a shoe shop.
I bet Catherine Eggleston doesn’t know what kind of shoes he likes.
I still miss him sometimes.
Twenty past six, Monday, 14th February.
I got my very first Valentine’s Day card today. I know it’s from Chris, although he keeps saying it isn’t. He says he doesn’t believe in sending cards, that they’re just a rip-off, and when we met yesterday he gave me a cute little furry penguin holding a pink heart, which he said was instead of a card.
But I know he sent the card as well.
I mean, it’s obvious it’s from him. It has a polar bear on the front, saying, ‘I can’t bear …’ and inside it says, ‘… being without you,’ so it has to be from Chris, doesn’t it? A polar bear to go with the penguin.
Of course, if Chris didn’t send it, maybe Henry Morrissey did. You know, the gorgeous pizza delivery guy. He knows my address from delivering the pizzas. I wouldn’t mind if he’d sent it.
Although I’m pretty sure it’s Chris really. But maybe I’ll pretend it isn’t, just for the heck of it.
A padded envelope arrived from San Francisco today. Inside there was a twenty-dollar note, a three-pack of gorgeous frilly knickers, and a pink furry hat that I wouldn’t be seen dead in. Maybe Ruth Wallace would like it. I’ll offer it to her next time I see her.
She’ll probably tell me to get stuffed.
Her cat’s name is Ginger. What a dorky name for a grey cat. I told her I call him Misty, which I think suits him much better, but she said Misty was just the kind of girly name she’d expect me to come up with – which was exactly what I expected her to say.
Which kind of made us quits.
She HATES Eminem. She says he’s rubbish, but she thinks Colin Farrell is magic. I can’t believe we agree on something.
She’s had sixteen operations on her legs so far. They think there’s a small chance that she’ll walk again. When she told me that, she looked a bit fierce, as if she was daring me to laugh.
But I didn’t laugh. I was trying to imagine how it must feel like, going into hospital before every operation, thinking ‘maybe this time I’ll walk out.’ Hoping with all your heart sixteen times that you’ll never have to sit in that awful wheelchair again, and being disappointed sixteen times.
No wonder she needed someone to be horrible to.
Half past seven, Monday, 28th February.
We had the best holiday ever in Scotland. It only rained for one day, and the rest of the time it was freezing but dry, and even sunny sometimes, so we bundled up and went pony trekking and cycling, and feeding lambs at the farm of the man who owns the cottages.
I ate haggis – which is a bit like a big round white pudding – and oatcakes, which I wasn’t mad about, and homemade fudge that was so delicious I ate far too much and felt sick for about three hours afterwards.
I wanted to try a deep-fried Mars bar, because a girl at school said she had one in Scotland, but we couldn’t find them anywhere. Just as well, probably.
My bedroom was tiny. It had a slanted ceiling so low that I could touch every part of it, and a little window just beside my bed. There was a really hairy donkey next door which heehawed at me over a stone wall every morning. I think he thought he was a rooster. I bought a disposable camera in the airport and took loads of photos of everything to show Chloe, including the donkey.
I’m seriously thinking about moving to Scotland when I grow up. I’m not sure about the accent though – it’s a bit hard to understand. And they have funny words for things, like ‘bairn’ for child and ‘oatmeal’ for porridge (which I didn’t have to eat, thank God) and one night Dad drank some whiskey called Sheep Dip, which I would have thought was the worst possible name for any kind of drink.
Nobody said ‘hoots mon’ at all, which was a bit disappointing. I suppose it’s like us saying ‘top of the morning’.
I missed Chloe’s birthday – it was on while I was away – so I brought her back a wine and green tartan scarf. She’s coming over on Saturday and we’re going to try baking the lemon cake Marjorie makes. Dad says he’s going into hiding, which he thinks is very funny. Poor Dad.
And I have to say that Marjorie was good fun really, not a bit like someone who was practising to be a stepmother. She took no notice of whether I brushed my teeth at bedtime, or how long I spent in the shower, and she didn’t worry about my eating enough fruit or fresh vegetables – all the stuff Mam would be thinking about.
Marjorie was more like a big sister, or an aunt, which was just fine by me.
And they didn’t share a bedroom. Dad slept on the couch that pulled out into a double bed in the sitting room, and Marjorie and I had the two bedrooms, so everything worked out perfectly in the end. Funny how you can worry about something that turns out to be nothing. I’m never going to worry again about things that haven’t happened, only about things that have.
Which means that I’m not going to worry about whether I get to San Francisco in the summer or not. I’m not going to worry that Mam hasn’t mentioned it since she got back.
After all, summer is still a long, long way away.
By the way, Chris is in another show at school. This time they’re doing Camelot, and he’s the knight Lancelot, who I always preferred to King Arthur. He says Bumble is playing a knight too, and he even has some lines on his own, which is nice.
It’ll be on just before Easter. Chloe and I will go to see them, of course. And maybe Ruth would like to come with us – I’ll ask her.
Wonder if Bumble’s still going out with Catherine. I suppose she’ll be in the show too. She’s probably planning to be a movie star when she leaves school. She certainly has the brains for it, ha ha.
Half eight, Friday, first week of March
I can’t believe that a whole year has gone by since I began to write in this diary. I’ve just read the first entry again, and it made me laugh – I’d completely forgotten abou
t throwing that bowl of porridge at Dad. What a kid I was then.
Not that we don’t still have rows every now and again. Last weekend he got mad at me for coming in after ten o’clock, when every other thirteen-year-old I know in the world is allowed out till at least half past ten on a Saturday night.
But the nice thing about Dad is that he never stays mad at you for long, not like some people who sulk for days. Chris Thompson has been sulking for four and a half days exactly.
Just because I happened to mention the gorgeous pizza guy to a few girls. Just as a joke – of course I wasn’t serious. Any normal person could see I was joking. But Chris was not amused. He asked me how I’d like it if he went around swooning over other girls – as if I was swooning over Henry. Some people are so childish.
And he keeps going on about that Valentine card, keeps saying I must know who sent it. I’m beginning to think that maybe he really didn’t send it after all. Maybe it really was Henry, although I’ve met him a few times since then and he doesn’t seem any different. He’s friendly and chatty, but he’s always been like that.
Bet he wouldn’t get all sulky, if I was kidding around with my friends.
Well, if Chris Thompson thinks I’m going to pick up the phone and apologise, he’s got another think coming.
I got another letter from France. Joel is obviously keen to learn English, and I must say he has a lot to learn. Here’s a bit of his last letter:
‘He is raining in Paris now. All the days raining, no sunshine. How is Irish climate? My papa is went in Toulouse in south of France for bussines, he must bargain with the books. The last days I had playing rugby with my freinds. Do you enjoy to play sport?’
Chloe isn’t having much better luck with Jean. He asked her if she was ‘going in cinema many’. We haven’t a clue what he meant.
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