by Hilary McKay
Ruby sounded so forlorn that Beth reached out a friendly arm to hug her.
“I told my mum about the scholarship that they said you could get,” she mentioned.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘How amazing! What a lucky, lucky, lucky girl!’ ”
Long ago, when Ruby had first heard of the scholarship, there had been a moment like the crackle of a spark. A cliff-edge tingle of thrill and panic. Until common sense combined with fear had saved her, pulled her back from the brink of the unknown and into the friendly world again.
Now, for a moment, Ruby found herself looking over the edge once more.
“Did you tell your mum I wasn’t going to go?” she asked.
“Yes.” Beth nodded. “And Juliet, who was listening as usual (she listens to everything), said, ‘She’s mad. I’d go.’ (Juliet’s not afraid of anything),” explained Beth, apologetically.
“No,” agreed Ruby, and sighed. It had been terribly difficult that week to sit through lesson after lesson showing never a flicker of interest. To ask no questions, and give no answers. To explain, without flinching, to teacher after teacher that she no longer did homework, not ever, for any reason, not even if they put her in detention (but they did not seem to put her in detention. They nodded, understandingly, as if they had been warned not to fuss). Ruby noticed their knowing smiles and felt uncomfortable, as if she had been caught cheating.
At home the uncomfortable, cheating feeling was even worse.
“Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby!” her four grandparents had greeted her on the first day of term. “How was school?”
“Boring,” said the new, cheating Ruby, slamming down her bag.
“What?” they demanded, astonished. “All of it?”
“Yes. Useless. Every single class.”
“Every single class! Whatever were they? May we see your schedule?”
“I didn’t bother to copy it down.”
“Didn’t bother?” they asked, and a swift look of surprise passed among them. “Well!”
“Loads of people don’t bother copying it down,” said Ruby truthfully. “They just ask their friends what’s next.”
“What a happy-go-lucky approach!” said the grandparents. “We must be getting old! Never mind! Any news of the academy scholarship?”
“Oh, that?” asked Ruby (still the awful new pretend Ruby) and nearly added, “Don’t think that’s going to happen!”
Just in time Ruby came to her senses. It would do no good making remarks like that, she realized. Not just because if she did the grandparents would immediately ask more questions but also because it would make them very sad. Better, thought Ruby, who was very fond of her grandparents, to say as little as possible to worry them and then just quietly fail the scholarship at the end of the year. So she picked up her schoolbag, stooped to hug Wizard the cat, and said, feeling much more like herself again, “The beginning of term’s always boring, you know.”
“Bound to be,” her grandparents agreed, sounding very relieved. “It’s always the same until things get up and running. They’ll have things organized and your after-school clubs going soon.”
Ruby could have howled. She had forgotten the afternoon clubs. And how could she go to them, uncooperative nonstudent that she had now become? Chess Challenge. Eco Watchers. Page Turners, Drama Group, and Science Team. There was one for every day of the week. That meant every day there would be an hour at least when she was not expected at home and could not be at school.
What’ll I do? she wondered. When all those things start up again. What will I do with all those hours?
It soon became a problem. Ruby tried the town library, but that was no good. Quite apart from the fact that she had disposed of her library card, it nearly always contained at least one grandparent. She found herself playing hide-and-seek around the bookshelves and getting very odd looks from librarians.
Friends’ houses were no use, either. Beth’s contained the inquisitive and persistent Juliet, always underfoot with questions and opinions. Alison’s had never been welcoming. Caddy’s had, until Caddy’s father took charge, and then it became almost as bad as Alison’s. Ruby had worried about the after-school hours for days and still had not found an answer. Now, walking home with Beth and Caddy, she spoke her problem aloud: “I need somewhere to go that isn’t home.”
Beth understood at once.
“So do I,” she said.
Caddy, who was tagging along, sometimes listening, sometimes lagging behind with Alison and Dingbat, was surprised to hear Beth say that.
“Why?” she asked.
Beth hesitated. She did not know how to explain that home, and especially the kitchen of home at the end of a hungry school day, was full of temptations greater than anything the Normans ever had to resist. Her Norman dieting was a private thing, and she had a very strong feeling that her friends would not approve.
“Because Juliet is such a pest?” guessed Ruby.
“She is a bit,” admitted Beth, glad of this explanation.
“But you’ve got somewhere to go, Beth,” said Caddy. “Treacle’s stable.”
“I know, but I can’t go there. I have to go straight home to let Juliet in. I’ve got the house key, and if I’m even a minute or two late she acts like she’s about to die of starvation on the doorstep. And then I’m supposed to keep an eye on her until Mum gets home.”
“What would she do if you didn’t?”
“I don’t suppose she’d do anything. She just watches telly and eats sandwiches. And crisps. And cereal and biscuits and apples and lumps of cheese. And bananas. And if there’s anything left over in the fridge, like cold roast potatoes or sausages or . . .”
Beth stopped abruptly, realizing that her reply had turned into a menu.
“I’d rather be at Treacle’s,” she said, pushing away her hungry thoughts for a moment. “I worry about him being on his own so much. Only Juliet won’t come. She’s too lazy, and she says she’s too hungry, and she’s not allowed to eat in the stable because of germs.”
“Well, I know what!” said Caddy. “We could all go back with you and take turns keeping an eye on Juliet. You and me and Ruby and Alison. Then you needn’t be there all the time, Beth. I should like a place to go that wasn’t home as well, and Treacle’s would be lovely. And in between, I wouldn’t mind watching Jools chew up apples and things, would you, Ruby?”
Ruby shook her head. It seemed a wonderful solution to her. “It would be nice,” she said wistfully. “We could bring things to read.”
“Would you really not mind helping with Jools?” asked Beth. “Because if you wouldn’t, it would be perfect. What about Alison?”
Alison was now far behind, sauntering along beside Dingbat, looking almost as if she was enjoying herself.
“We’ll ask her when she catches up!” said Caddy. “Look at poor old Dingbat! He’s trying really hard!”
Dingbat had been trying really hard ever since they left school. All week he had been toiling to make Alison understand what she was missing. This afternoon he was showing how useful he could be, carrying the excess baggage of all his admirers: art projects, PE kits, lunch boxes, and jackets. He bore his burdens well, more like a camel than a donkey, rising above them with no noticeable distress and a good deal of complacence. He swayed a little, but he did not stagger; in fact, he begged for more.
“Ali, Ali, Ali, Ali! I’ve got everyone else’s junk! Why not let me take yours, too?”
“In your dreams, Ding,” said Alison, quite amiably for Alison. “Besides, you’d fall over.”
“Ali, come to the cinema tomorrow afternoon with me and the others,” said Dingbat. “Come on, Ali! Say you will! Say you will!”
“I’d rather die,” said Alison. “Saturday-afternoon cinema is full of smelly little kids. Their mums dump them there while they go round the shops.”
“You can sit between Caddy and me. We’ll protect you from the little kids!”
“And th
e floor is always knee deep in popcorn and drink cartons . . .”
“I’ll clear you a little path and you needn’t look down! Come on, Ali! We need you, Ali! You ask the others if you don’t believe me. Oy! Caddy, Ruby, Beth!”
They turned round and waved, but then turned back and became deep in conversation.
“They’re scared you’re going to make them carry their stuff,” said Alison.
“I wouldn’t do that!” protested Dingbat. “I’ve got it all balanced! Hey, you three, slow down!”
“They’re going faster,” said Alison, laughing.
“Oh well, I don’t care,” said Dingbat. “Say you’ll come tomorrow, Ali! I need you, Ali! I really do! Caddy is cute. And Ruby’s amazing. She’s brainy, just like me! And Beth is sweet! She’s really special! But . . .”
“I’m glad you like my friends,” snapped Alison, suddenly freezingly aloof.
“But what about gorgeous, Ali?” demanded Dingbat, refusing to be frozen, letting fall his burdens, spreading his arms wide, taking up the whole pavement. “What about gorgeous, Ali? I haven’t got a gorgeous, Ali! Not a totally, perfectly gorgeous! Look! I’ve dropped everything for you!”
So he had. Jackets, bags, and lunch boxes.
Everything.
“That won’t work,” said Alison, and jumped over everything and ran to catch up with Caddy and Ruby and Beth.
Caddy and her friends looked doubtfully back at Dingbat, all alone now.
“Is he all right?” wondered Beth.
“Who cares?” asked Alison.
“I’ll go back and get our stuff,” said Caddy. “Come with me, Ruby, Beth! And then we’ll tell Alison about Treacle’s!”
“Treacle’s?” asked Alison, when they came panting back. “What’s so special about Treacle’s?”
“Treacle’s,” Caddy and Ruby and Beth explained, “is just what we’ve been needing. Somewhere to go that isn’t home.”
Chapter Fourteen
MANAGING
CADDY SAID, “WHEN I HAVE A HOUSE I WON’T BOTHER WITH furniture from shops. I’ll just have straw bales and hay bales in every room.”
“What?” asked Alison. “A hay bathroom? A hay fridge? A hay stove?”
“You can have a hay stove,” remarked Ruby. “They’re called hay boxes. There was an old book I read once, about some children who lived in a barn. They cooked in a hay box.”
“Did they use a hay loo?” inquired Alison.
“In old books people never go to the loo,” said Ruby, “so probably not. Anyway, I only remember the hay box. I always wanted to try one out.”
“Not here!” said Beth hastily. “You can get awful tummy bugs, eating in stables. We can’t have food here. Not even biscuits or sweets or anything like that. Or crisps or choc or sandwiches . . .”
“Okay,” said Ruby, surprised at her intensity.
“Or fruit even, unless maybe an apple for Treacle. Or a carrot or two. He shouldn’t really have bread. I’m going to stop bringing it for him except for a bit of brown sometimes. But—”
“Beth, we’ve got it!” interrupted Alison. “No food! We’ve understood. Stop going on! Relax and admire the furniture!”
“It is good,” admitted Beth. “It smells lovely too.”
On Saturday afternoon they had abandoned Dingbat and the cinema plans and spent the time transforming the storage half of Treacle’s shed into a home. Now the corrugated-iron walls were lined with golden straw bales, stacked like giant Lego blocks. Hay bales made sofas and chairs and beds, and even a hay bale dressing table for Alison. Ruby had a bookshelf that she filled immediately. Behind was a secret cupboard for Beth.
“I’ve got to have one place where Juliet doesn’t come poking,” she said, explaining it to her friends.
“What do you need, Caddy?” they asked when the dressing table and the bookshelf and the cupboard were complete.
“I just need to be here,” said Caddy. “It feels safe here.”
“Safe from what?”
Safe from the genie, thought Caddy.
The last week at home had been awful. There had been a trip to the hospital, when Eve, wild-eyed from lack of sleep, seemed to have forgotten the outside world. She had asked, “Are you managing?” and “Caddy, are you managing?” and “What about Saffron and Indigo? Are they really managing?” and said, “I spend the nights wondering, how are they all managing . . .”
“Eve! For goodness’ sake!” Bill snapped at last.
“Be nice to my mummy!” Indigo had said, turning on him with a fury that shocked them all.
“I apologize, Eve,” Bill told her humbly. “I’m very tired.”
Eve said of course he was, no wonder. “Poor darling Daddy,” she said, with her arms around Indigo, and then got out her sketchbook and showed them pictures she had drawn of the baby in the plastic box. They were drawings of a baby not visible to anyone but Eve, with dark eyes and curly toes and no need for tubes and monitors and masks to ensure that it did not forget to breathe.
Saffy said, “They’re pretend pictures.”
“They’re lovely,” said Caddy.
“Lovely,” echoed Indigo, but he looked at them, and then very doubtfully at the hunched and ancient original and turned away.
“They’ll be good for if she gets dead,” said Saffron cheerfully. “Because then we’ll forget what she really looked like and we can pretend they are true.”
“Thank you, Saffron,” said Bill, and marched off to the coffee machine down the corridor.
“Daddy,” said Saffron, “is in a very, very, very big mood! Isn’t he, Indy?”
“Don’t tell Mummy that!” said Indigo.
“Because of his London lady . . .”
“Oh, yes!” cried Indigo, suddenly happy. “Yes, tell Mummy that!”
“I am!” Saffron began to speak very quickly, her eyes on the door in case her father came back. “Daddy is in a very big mood because yesterday Caddy answered the phone and it was his friend from London. That London lady who always telephones. And she said, ‘Please can I speak to Bill Casson?’ and Caddy said, ‘Yes, I’ll fetch him,’ and she went to fetch him so I had the phone and I said, ‘You might have to wait a very long time,’ and she said, ‘Oh dear, why would that be?’ and I said, ‘Because I know where he is.’ So then she said, ‘Then could you fetch him, please?’ and I said, ‘No.’ So she got very ratty and said, ‘Where on earth is the man?’ and I said, ‘He’s in the bathroom doing splashers.’ ‘What?’ she said. So I said, ‘Splashers!’ ‘What?’ she said, so I shouted, ‘SPLASHERS!’ and then suddenly she said, ‘Oh! That’s all I needed to know,’ and she didn’t stay any longer and Daddy said, ‘Good Lord in Heaven knows how much that call cost me. I can never look her in the face again,’ and it’s not fair because now he won’t let any of us answer the phone . . .”
“But,” interrupted Indigo, who was suddenly flat on his back on the floor, prostrated by laughter, “it’s really good, Mummy, because when one of us says, ‘Where’s Daddy?’ (and someone is always saying ‘Where’s Daddy?’), the other one says, ‘He’s in the bathroom doin’ . . . doin’ . . .’ you say it, Saffy!”
“Splashers!” shrieked Saffron, collapsing into such giggles on top of him that even Caddy and Eve had to join in.
“What’s the joke?” demanded Bill, returning with the coffee. Luckily he could not understand the words that Saffron and Indigo hiccupped from the floor, and Eve was too kind to enlighten him, while Caddy was too wary. She knew her father’s patience with the inanities of little children had almost completely run out.
Saffron and Indigo, limp with silliness, took a lot of getting home that afternoon. By the time they were there, Bill was cross again.
I ought to help more, thought Caddy, in bed that night. The trouble was, helping aggravated Bill so much. Whatever Caddy did, vacuuming or tidying-things-under-sofa or (her favorite job) scooping out the velvet-soft ashes from beneath the grate of the fire, her father would appear and
say plaintively, “Caddy darling, the dust! The noise! And really, is this the right time?” When, to cut down on dust, Caddy tried vacuuming the ashes from the grate, and vacuumed up a still hot-ember, things became very bad indeed. The ember had smoldered for hours in the vacuum cleaner bag while everyone was out. Caddy’s father came home to find all the smoke alarms going off and a hideous smell of hot plastic. “No more cleaning, thank you, Caddy,” he had told her very firmly.
“I could cook, then,” she offered. “I can cook. Eggs and pasta and things.”
“That’s a very sweet offer,” said Bill, busy on the phone to John Lewis, ordering a new vacuum cleaner.
“So shall I, then?”
“Suppose you leave it to your poor old dad? Eggs and pasta! I think I can manage something a bit more exciting than that.”
“But eggs and pasta keep you alive,” pointed out Caddy. “They’d do! Saffron and Indigo would eat them!”
“They’d get scurvy,” said Bill.
“They could have orange juice.”
“Caddy, Caddy, Caddy, you never give up!” said her father.
“I help Mum,” said Caddy.
“Mummy’s different,” said Bill.
She certainly was. She did not own any cashmere sweaters, for one thing. Caddy accidentally added one to the armload of grubby socks and school uniforms she scooped up from beside Saffron’s and Indigo’s beds and piled in the washing machine. The socks and things came out beautifully but the sweater . . .
“Was cashmere,” said Bill. “Was,” and dropped it in the bin with the vacuum cleaner.
“I think,” he told Caddy, “we should each of us stick to doing the things we do best.”
“What do you think I do best?” asked Caddy.
“Look pretty,” said her father, and Caddy, who loved him so much, nevertheless found herself behaving very badly indeed. Sloshing plates and cups about recklessly in the sink. Rinsing them with floods of cold water. Dropping them in handfuls on the draining board. Slamming out of the kitchen, leaving the plug hole blocked with tea bags and the tap running as hard as possible.
