‘You could turn the heating up.’ Lou’s words came out slurred. For years she’d wondered how her voice would sound if it came back one day. Would it sound new and unused, out of sync with her old body? Would she still have her Scottish accent?
Nurse Thornhill stared at Lou. ‘Maybe you should go back to being quiet.’ She turned away and called for Nurse Heidi through the door.
Nurse Heidi’s footsteps in the corridor. And then her face at the door.
‘Morning, Mrs Moon,’ she said, her voice as light as a bird’s.
‘Heidi, I need you to take Mrs Moseley back to her room, please.’
Nurse Heidi slipped her arm under Mrs Moseley’s elbow and guided her as she shuffled down the corridor.
‘Now get dressed, chop, chop.’ Nurse Thornhill turned to Lou.
She slammed the door behind her and left Lou standing in her bra and knickers and tights.
Milo… I’m slipping…
Lou looked at the window, stars of ice on the inside of the glass panes, the cold creeping in.
I’m slipping away.
57
MILO
‘Time to wake up, Milo, or you’ll be late for school.’
Mum poked her head round the shed door. She smiled, walked in and kissed the top of his head.
‘Here’s your uniform – no time for a shower this morning, I’m afraid.’
She placed a clean shirt and clean underwear and clean socks along with his tie and his trousers and his jumper on the massage table.
Milo couldn’t remember the last time she’d laid out his clothes for him.
‘I’ve made some breakfast, but you might have to grab and run. Can’t have Mrs Harris complaining again.’ She gave him a wink.
He noticed that she had a new dress on and she was wearing make-up and she’d even painted her nails. He felt his whole body lighten. Things were going to be okay after all.
When she’d gone back to the house, he stretched and looked around the shed. And that’s when he saw some papers that didn’t look like Mum’s beauty leaflets or her holiday brochures or even the bills she tried to hide so he wouldn’t worry about their money problems.
He scanned the heading: Slipton Star Home Insurance
Dear Mrs Moon… the letter started.
The words twisted in front of Milo’s tired, fuzzy eyes. But there was one part he found easy to read: a section in bold, right at the bottom.
Our insurance inspectors have concluded that the fire which occurred on Saturday 1st of December does not come under your accidental home insurance policy. There is evidence that the fire was started deliberately. You will therefore not be receiving an insurance payment from Slipton Star Insurance.
Mum had said that the insurance would pay out for a new kitchen, that it was guaranteed.
Milo rubbed his eyes and focused on the next few lines:
Furthermore, due to clear evidence of interference, Slipton Star Insurance will be undertaking an independent fraud investigation.
Fraud. That meant cheating and lying and trying to get something for nothing. But the fire was an accident. All the insurance inspectors had to do was go and visit Gran and they’d see that she forgot things like that the tap was still running and that the lid wasn’t on the kettle so it boiled dry and that Great-Gramps was dead.
Gran wouldn’t set fire to the kitchen on purpose. Milo swallowed hard. Would she?
The morning of the fire came back to him. How he hadn’t heard the clatter of the pan, which meant that she was going to make her tea on the hob instead of the kettle, how, for the first time ever, it had taken him ages to realise there was a problem and that she needed him and that by the time he got down to her, the kitchen was already on fire.
He felt an ache in his chest and the ache got worse when he looked at his clothes all neatly folded up on the massage table. The Christmas Party, that’s when everything started to go wrong.
That’s when they found out about Dad’s Tart.
That’s when Milo nearly got run over and they had to go and see Dr Nolan who told him that his eyes didn’t work any more.
That’s when Mum stopped sleeping and started watching holiday programmes day and night and eating too many Hobnobs and getting rashes and losing all her customers.
That’s when Gran started shaking and forgetting things and talking about Inverary.
And that’s what led to the fire and Gran getting kicked out and going to that horrible nursing home with evil Nurse Thornhill and lechy Petros.
He’d wanted to believe Mum last night: that she was sorry, that she cared about him, that things were going to be okay. But she was probably lying again, just as she’d lied about the fire and Gran and the insurance.
He pulled on his uniform and ran out across the lawn and ducked round the back of the house so that Mum wouldn’t see him. The last thing he felt like doing was eating her stupid breakfast.
‘You’re late, Milo,’ Mrs Harris said as Milo crashed into a desk at the front of the class.
‘I don’t care,’ he mumbled under his breath.
Beside him, Nadja gasped.
Milo slumped into his seat.
‘What did you say, Milo?’
Through the pinhole Milo stared at Mrs Harris’s twisted yellow tooth.
‘He said he didn’t care,’ announced Stan.
Milo shut his eyes. Could this day get any worse?
‘Sorry,’ he blurted out. But he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry about anything any more.
‘Well, seeing as you’re in such a good mood today, Milo, why don’t you start us off.’
Mrs Harris sat in her chair behind her desk, got out her mark book and waited.
‘Start doing what?’
Nadja stared at him, her eyes wide. Laughter rolled in from the class behind him.
‘If you’d turned up on time, Milo, you’d know, wouldn’t you?’
He hated that, how teachers got bees in their bonnets when you did something to upset them and then found ways to punish you over and over.
‘Your special pet, Milo?’
All at once Milo’s body flooded with panic. He felt like he was being filled up with concrete like one of those craters in the middle of Slipton High Street, and now he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move and couldn’t get out of the way.
The Speaking and Listening presentation. The one that was meant to make up for his bad marks in English and Maths. He’d forgotten all about it.
‘Come on, Milo, get your notes out, we don’t have all day.’
Milo cleared his throat. ‘Could I have a word with you in private, Mrs Harris?’ he asked.
He wanted to explain to her that he hadn’t had time. With everything happening at home and at Forget Me Not, he’d got behind on his schoolwork. If she gave him until tomorrow, he could prepare tonight. Even she had to understand.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Milo. Just say what you’ve got to say out here.’
She was still punishing him for having been rude when he came in. He wished he could take the words back and start again.
‘I need a bit longer to prepare,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not an option.’
‘Or maybe I could… I could write an essay on the computer instead. I could make it twice as long as the talk. I’ll try really hard. It’s just that I haven’t had the time…’
Mrs Harris put her elbows on her desk and pressed her hands together like she was going to pray. Then she looked right at him and spoke really slowly.
‘It’s time you took responsibility for your learning, Milo. I can’t always be making exceptions – that wouldn’t be fair, now, would it?’
‘Good point,’ chipped in Stan.
‘Be quiet, Stanley,’ barked Mrs Harris, which made Milo feel one millimetre better about the mess he was in.
‘I’m sure you’ve got lots to say about your pet – just see this as an opportunity to learn some improvisation skills.
’
Nadja tilted her head to one side and looked at him with such sad eyes he thought she might cry. She was probably thinking about how worried she’d be if she had to give a talk without having prepared it.
Milo got up onto his feet and went to stand in front of the board.
He coughed and tried to focus his eyes, but all he could see through the pinhole was the blur of his classmates, and even then, only a small, select blur. He imagined all the ones he didn’t see smirking and pulling faces at him.
‘The thing is…’ Milo started. ‘The thing is that I don’t have a pet any more.’ A picture of Hamlet flashed in front of his eyes: he was sitting in his cage in the garage, his black ear and his white ear standing on end, his curly tail twitching, squealing as the smoke and the flames came in from the kitchen. If what the insurance letter said was true, if Gran started the fire on purpose, Hamlet could have died. If Milo hadn’t found the fire blanket and held it in front of him and got to Hamlet on time, he could have burnt to a crisp. And all because she wanted to go to some stupid nursing home. And who was looking after Hamlet now? Who’d make sure he didn’t get trapped in a fire or run over or chopped up and put into sausages?
Milo closed his eyes and gulped. He didn’t want to cry, not here.
‘What is it, Stan?’ Mrs Harris’s voice came in from the side.
Milo shifted his head. Stan had his hand up.
‘Are we allowed to ask questions?’
‘Not yet. Let Milo finish.’
‘I was just wondering how he managed to lose a pig.’
Milo clenched his fists. ‘You don’t understand. Hamlet… he… he…’ Milo stuttered. ‘He ran away from Forget Me Not.’
‘You took your pig to a nursing home?’ Stan let out a big belly laugh. Others joined in.
‘Be quiet, Stan. Remember that you’re being marked for your listening. Let Milo go on.’
But Milo couldn’t go on. The words stayed trapped in his throat, right under that big lump that had come up when he thought of Hamlet darting around the streets of Slipton all on his own.
He hung his head and dropped his shoulders and stared down at his feet.
‘Milo?’ Mrs Harris’s voice had softened a bit. ‘Milo?’ She stood up.
Milo walked slowly back to his desk and slumped down into his chair. He’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse, but it just had – worse than he’d ever thought possible.
58
TRIPI
Tripi watched Nurse Thornhill rub her lips together in the reflective surface of the oven door. She had gone a shade brighter today. Her hair looked whiter too, pulled back so tight he saw the pink of her skull. And she had swapped her white clogs for sharp, beige heels.
He thought back to Monday and how she’d worn those black clothes that drained the colour out of her face. She must be keeping secrets, he thought, like the rest of us. People do bad things when they are unhappy, that was what Tripi’s father taught him. He understood that unhappiness could be dangerous, he had seen it on the streets of Damascus and in Aleppo on that hot day in July when Ayishah disappeared behind the rubble. He had thought that sadness would creep under his skin and change him for ever too.
Nurse Thornhill’s starched uniform crackled as she walked. He hoped that she wouldn’t check the storeroom, which is where he’d been sleeping for the last few nights. Sandy had tried to persuade him to come and stay in the house, that she would make up a bed on the couch, but he thought he should stay here, near the old people.
Tripi carried the heavy pan of potatoes to the sink and emptied it into the colander. He felt her eyes watching him and his hands slipped. A pale potato rolled across the tiles. He wiped the steam off his brow, picked up the potato and took it over to the bin.
‘Back into the colander,’ she said.
‘But it is dirty.’ At The Four Seasons, the Head Chef had explained how tourists had delicate stomachs. Everything must be clean, he said. So our customers don’t get sick.
‘We can’t afford to be wasteful, Tahir,’ said Nurse Thornhill.
Tripi angled the camera phone in his pocket to make sure it caught those red lips. He already had a picture of the stockroom with all the cheap tinned food and of the locks on the outside of the old people’s doors; now he wanted to get Nurse Thornhill on film.
‘I’ll only be a few hours, Nurse Heidi’s in charge. Don’t forget, not too much meat, we’ve got plenty of potatoes.’
Tripi wondered what Nurse Thornhill would be eating at the dinner to which she’d been invited. He pictured her pushing fat forkfuls of steak through her red lips, gravy running down her chin.
Nurse Thornhill straightened up and pushed out her small bosom.
‘They might come in here tomorrow to take some pictures.’ She swept around the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s that sweet smell?’ Nurse Thornhill was twitching her nose like the rats that sniffed at the rubbish bins by the canal.
Tripi had got up early to make baklava. They were going to have a party after the awards ceremony, a double party to celebrate Nurse Thornhill’s departure and the engagement of Old Mrs Moon and Petros. The Lovely Sandy had brought over the brown sugar and honey and filo pastry and pistachios. Was it possible that the ingredients could make Tripi long for home and for Sandy at the same time?
I wish I could take you to my restaurant in Damascus, he had told her. I would make you a thousand dishes from my homeland.
She had blushed and sucked in her stomach. I’ll need to go on a diet first.
He had shaken his head. No diet, no diet. He did not want there to be any less of her.
She released her stomach.
Sandy explained that she and Milo had made up, that they were friends now and that everything was going to be better.
She smiled her Lovely Sandy smile. He’s ready to fight the powers of evil. Been through a lot, the little man, most of it my fault. But from now on, I’m going to be there for him.
And that made Tripi feel sad, because he could see how much Sandy wanted to be a good mother. And it also made him sad because it made him think of Ayishah and how much she had been through and that maybe if he had looked after her better, they would not have been separated.
He should never have given up looking for her. Two months, hundreds of kilometres, every refugee camp on the Turkish border, clutching the photograph that no one wanted to look at. They had seen too many pictures of missing children.
And then the thought had come to him: perhaps his clever, resourceful little sister, who could charm her way into anyone’s heart, had travelled through Europe on her own. She had her papers and she knew her destination: Buckingham Palace, London.
Every day of October, Tripi stood outside The Queen’s gates, scanning the faces of little girls with dark curly hair, looking for Ayishah’s brown eyes.
Soon his money ran out. Policemen stopped him in the street and asked to see his papers. And then the job advertisement at Forget Me Not, a small town called Slipton, a place where he could hide from the authorities.
But now there was hope, wasn’t there? Milo had said that this man, Al, had seen Ayishah on his television screen, that he was investigating. And then, like a sign from Allah, he had found his things: his sleeping bag and Ayishah’s red rucksack sitting by the bins outside MailOrderBrideMan’s house.
Miracles happen every day, Tripi.
Knowing that part of Ayishah was close to him again had allowed him to sleep well, despite the cold.
‘Tripi? I asked you about the smell?’
‘Perhaps it is the cleaning product. I have been scrubbing the surfaces, like you said.’ He held up the bottle and read the label: ‘Lavender and pine.’
‘I’d better go.’ She rubbed her lips together and brushed her hands down the smooth plane of her uniform.
Tripi took a breath. ‘Perhaps with the award money, you could buy some nice food for the clients, as a celebration?’
‘The money is for more
pressing things than food, Tahir.’
Like filling your purse, he thought. Nurse Thornhill would have done well out of the war in Syria, Tripi was sure of that – she would have charged the casualties for every bandage, for every bullet hole she stitched up.
Tripi knew that, for Milo’s plan to succeed, Nurse Thornhill had to win the prize: she had to go up on stage and collect the trophy and give her speech so that they could show the film. But oh, how he wanted her to – what was that phrase Mrs Moon had written on her pad the other day? Eat humble pie. He would like to see Nurse Thornhill eating so much humble pie that it made her vomit.
What Milo Saw Page 26
