‘We worked together,’ Mum told me vaguely. ‘A long time ago. He was my boss. I thought it was serious; he clearly didn’t. There’s no sense in raking all this up again, Jake.’
‘What was his name?’ I asked.
She hadn’t wanted to tell me. She stalled and blustered and tried to wriggle out of it, but I said that this was my dad we were talking about, that I had a right to know.
‘His name was Greg,’ she admitted then. ‘Greg Tanberry.’
I wondered if everything else in those letters might be true too.
You might be my sister, I wrote back that time. But you won’t want a brother like me, trust me.
The fourth letter came with a train ticket that was valid for a month and an invitation to come and stay at Tanglewood House.
Let me know when you are planning to arrive, Honey had written. I still haven’t told the others about you, but they’re going to be so amazed to meet you, I promise!
Don’t hold your breath, I’d written back.
I used a drawing pin to skewer the train ticket to the wall, just above my fortune cookie prediction: ‘Soon life will become more interesting.’
I didn’t realize then just how true those words would be.
2
I try very hard to forget that fourth letter. OK, so finding out about my dad could be cool – I won’t say I’m not curious about him. I’m only human. I have questions. Do I look like him? Act like him? Does he have a fast car and a jet-set lifestyle?
I like to imagine he does, if only to liven up the grim reality of life in the flat above The Paper Dragon. Before the letters, I barely gave my real dad a thought; now I am intrigued. Does he ever think about me? Maybe not, and if he does he probably doesn’t imagine me on my knees in a bathroom where the walls are flecked with mould and the flooring has an ominous crack that squeaks whenever I lean on it, washing my favourite jeans in the bath with washing-up liquid.
It’s not a regular hobby of mine, but our washing machine broke six months ago and today we don’t have cash for the launderette, and I happen to want my jeans for tomorrow. I am meeting my friends, Harry and Mitch, to see if we can get into a gig for a band called The Thrash Penguins. Harry’s big brother is in it, so he might be able to convince the doorman to sneak us on to the guest list, and Harry says there will be loads of cool girls there.
I swish the jeans around again. There’s a big soy-sauce stain on one leg from yesterday’s shift at The Paper Dragon, where a wodge of leftover chicken noodles spilled all over me as I was stacking the dishwasher. I am working part-time there, because it’s the summer holidays and I want to earn some cash. Mr Zhao is grumpy and doesn’t pay much, but it’s something.
The soy-sauce stain is stubborn, and I have to use the nail brush and loads of washing-up liquid just to get it to fade a little bit. Once the jeans are looking better, I make the most of the soapy water by dumping the entire contents of the laundry basket into the bath and churning up the water to swirl everything around. The bath is filled with white foam and bubbles, with the occasional stripy sock drifting by.
‘Cookie!’ my littlest sister Isla yells from the living room. ‘Maisie’s being mean to me!’
‘I’m not!’ Maisie shouts back. ‘It’s Isla. She’s got my library book and she won’t give it back!’
It is typical of my sisters to embark on World War Three when I am up to my armpits in soapy water. They have a knack for knowing when you’ve taken your eye off the ball. Suddenly an unearthly roar erupts and Isla is howling and Maisie is yelling, and I sigh and abandon the bathtub-washing. Babysitting my little sisters is a full-time job; they tend to go stir-crazy stuck in the flat, but I’m working in half an hour and it’s too late to take them out now, even if I wanted to. Mum is working a long shift from midday to seven, but Gran will be here soon to keep an eye on the girls while I’m working.
‘Cook-eee!’ Maisie shrieks. ‘Do something!’
I stomp into the living room. Isla hurls her arms round my waist, sobbing, while Maisie holds up the disputed library book, which looks like it has been through a small explosion. Torn and crumpled pages are scattered about the living room.
‘Isla, no!’ I scold. ‘Library books are special – you can’t just rip them up when you get upset!’
‘It’s a stupid book!’ she protests.
‘It’s a broken one now,’ I point out, peeling her arms from round me. ‘How would you like it if Maisie did that to your books?’
Isla scowls. ‘I hate her,’ she says in a small, trembly voice.
‘Well, I hate her,’ Maisie counters. ‘She is so annoying! I was reading quietly, and now look what she’s done!’
‘I just wanted her to play with me!’ Isla sobs.
I sigh. Sometimes I think I might go for a career in world politics, because it seriously cannot be much tougher than keeping the peace between these two.
‘Nobody hates anybody,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘C’mon, both of you, wipe those eyes. How about I make some cheese on toast and put the Frozen DVD on? Now; are you going to say sorry to Maisie and pick up all this paper?’
Isla mutters a grudging apology and starts picking up the torn pages. I smooth one or two of them out to see if I can do a repair job with Sellotape, but there are too many big chunks missing. Anyone trying to read this particular copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory will have to invent most of the story as they go along.
We sit down together to eat cheese on toast, and my phone bleeps with a message from Gran to say that one of the underground lines has been closed and she’s running half an hour or so late.
No worries, I text back.
I’m due at work in five minutes, but if I leave the girls watching that Frozen DVD they’re likely to be spellbound for hours. I’ve just put the film into the player when I hear a squawk of joy from the bathroom; Isla, washing the crumbs from her fingers, has discovered the bath full of washing. Within minutes, she is dumping in two mangled Barbies and the rest of the washing-up liquid.
‘What’s all that?’ Maisie wants to know. ‘What were you trying to do?’
‘The washing,’ I say. ‘No cash for the launderette.’
‘It’s like something from a cartoon,’ she observes, as we watch Isla splashing gleefully. ‘Bubbles everywhere!’
‘Let her play for a bit,’ I say. ‘Watch her, and when she gets bored tell her that the Frozen DVD is all set to play – you just have to press the button. Gran will be here any minute, OK?’
‘OK,’ Maisie agrees.
‘Cool. Gotta run; will you be all right?’
Isla reaches over to her sister and dabs a blob of foam on to her nose, and the uneasy truce melts into giggles at last, and I slip away quietly while the two of them are flicking bubbles around. The bathroom will probably be a mess by the time Gran arrives, but at least it will be clean – and she can wring out my jeans and hang them over the bath to dry.
I run down the stairs and round to the restaurant. The kitchen is hot and steamy; Chang and Liu, the cooks, work at the speed of light, knives flashing, woks sizzling, pans bubbling, chatting the whole time.
I wave at them and grab a clean apron, glancing through the swing doors at the restaurant. It’s busy, as always, and Mum looks across and smiles at me. She is dressed in her work uniform, a black silk cheongsam dress with a mandarin collar and gold embroidered dragons and vines; as I watch, she sets down dishes of dessert on one of the central tables, chatting easily. Mum has totally turned things round for The Paper Dragon; Mr Zhao is always telling her she’s his lucky charm, but sometimes lately when I look at her she seems tired, even a little sad.
She works too hard, too many shifts; it’s taken her two years to pay off that loan and get us out of debt, but we’re still pretty skint. Life for Mum isn’t easy, I know.
‘Come on, Cookie,’ Mr Zhao says briskly, bustling into the kitchen to pick up two dishes of wonton soup. ‘Stop dreaming; start working!’
I l
oad the dishwasher, switch it on and turn my attention to the big pans and woks in the sink. Mum comes in carrying a trayful of dirty dishes; she dumps them down and moves on to the service area to pick up four plates of chow mein.
‘Jake?’ she says. ‘Any chance you can lend a hand out front for a minute? Mr Zhao is taking a phone call from the wholesaler and table six needs to be cleared.’
‘I’m on it,’ I say, straightening my apron and picking up a tray.
Table six is the central, circular table Mum was serving when I first arrived. The businessmen and women are chilled and mellow and happy now, chatting easily and sipping jasmine tea or glasses of wine. I put down my tray and begin to clear the dishes away, polite and smiling, but a little nervous.
Mr Zhao doesn’t like me to be out front too much. I am too young, too clueless, not smart enough. If I do need to help out, he prefers me to be invisible. I can see him at the back of the restaurant, chatting on his mobile, his eagle eyes watching me as I gather up the used napkins.
As I lean across to rescue an abandoned teaspoon, a drop of liquid plops on to the tablecloth. I frown, pick up a napkin and dab it away, but as I reach over another drop of water lands right in front of me.
‘What’s that, mate?’ one of the businessmen asks.
‘I don’t know …’
A third drop of water lands in the centre of the table, and in unison we all look upwards to where the drips are coming from.
The ceiling above us is stained dark, bulging down towards us horribly. It looks all wrong, terrifying somehow, like the time I broke my wrist when I was eight and one of the bones poked out under the skin in a very alarming way. As we watch, the ceiling seems to shudder. It quivers, and there’s a collective intake of breath from those gathered round the table.
‘Doesn’t look right, that,’ one of the men comments, which may well be the understatement of the year.
And then the bulging ceiling collapses, and a torrent of lukewarm water gushes down on to the table, drenching the diners, drenching me, smashing and soaking everything. People are screaming and swearing and yelling, leaping up, jumping back, asking what the heck is going on. The table is covered with soaked and splintered wood, mushy plaster and flakes of paint, scattered artfully among the knives and forks and overturned teacups. And then, as quickly as it began, the waterfall slows to a dribble.
I can see Mr Zhao at the back of the restaurant, his mouth agape, the mobile phone dropping from his hand. I can see Mum, frozen in time, her face a mask of horror as she surveys the carnage.
The last thing to fall from the gaping hole in the ceiling is a pair of waterlogged jeans, complete with a very faint soy-sauce stain on one leg.
Kill me now.
3
A silence falls, heavy and ominous, and after the silence comes uproar. Mr Zhao loses it big style. His face is a kind of mottled purple and his voice is like the bellow of an angry bull.
‘What have you done?’ he roars. ‘What. Have. You. Done?’
I am not sure that he actually requires an answer, but staying silent has never been my strong point.
‘I was washing stuff in the bath,’ I say, picking up the soaking jeans and trying for a smile. ‘There was a soy-sauce stain on my Levis –’
‘Washing stuff in the bath?’ Mr Zhao echoes. ‘The bath? What’s wrong with a washing machine, or the sink? What’s wrong with switching the taps off? What’s wrong with you, Jake Cooke?’
There are quite a few things wrong with me according to my school teachers, an inability to keep my mouth shut being one of them, but in the heat of the moment I somehow forget this.
‘Chill,’ I say brightly. ‘Look at it this way, you won’t have to mop the floor for a while.’
I can see Mum covering her face with one hand, distraught. I know that look. I’ve seen it too many times, and too late I realize that my cheap joke has made things worse.
‘You think this is funny?’ Mr Zhao bellows. ‘Your stupid trick has destroyed my restaurant, my livelihood – and you think it’s one big joke? Get out of my sight before I do something I’ll regret!’
I take a step backwards, my trainers squelching as I go, but the customers block my escape, and they’re angry now as well.
‘How can it be the kid’s fault?’ one dripping diner demands. ‘Your ceiling just fell down! I’ve got a good mind to call the environmental health.’
‘I’ll be sending you a bill for my jacket,’ another tells Mr Zhao. ‘This is disgraceful!’
Mr Zhao switches tone. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he pleads, trying to usher the drenched customers out. ‘I can assure you I will personally honour any dry-cleaning bills, and I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience. Your next meal is free, of course, on the house. Please do come back …’
But the customers are leaving, not just those who got wet but the others too, shaking their heads and pursing their lips, abandoning their food to take sneaky photos of the chaos with their mobiles.
Mum appears at my shoulder, white with shock. ‘Mr Zhao, listen –’ she begins, but our boss is way too angry for that.
‘Listen?’ he snarls. ‘Listen? No, you will listen to me, Alison Cooke. I should have known you were trouble the moment I set eyes on you – you and those good-for-nothing kids of yours. You’ve ruined me; ruined me! Get out of my sight!’
I lie awake all night on the top bunk, running through everything in my head until I think it will drive me mad. Why didn’t I take the plug out, empty the bath before I left? Why didn’t I wait for Gran, call down and say I’d be late for my shift? Why did I even care about those stupid jeans in the first place?
Last night Harry texted to call off our big night out anyway – his brother told him that the venue has a very strict over-18s admission code, and no amount of fake ID would convince them that the three of us are that old. So, yeah, all for nothing.
It turns out that Maisie and Isla had decided to tidy up the bathroom before Gran arrived. Maisie was rinsing my jeans when a pound coin dropped out of the pocket; the two of them dived for it, rescued it and abandoned the bath and the still-running taps to run down to the corner shop for a packet of Jammie Dodgers. On the way back they bumped into Gran, who took them to the park for a go on the swings. The three of them arrived back at the flat roughly ten minutes after the floor caved in. Sweet.
See, whichever way you look at it, it was my fault. I filled the bath and assumed that a heap of soapy bubbles and a Frozen DVD would do instead of a babysitter, even though I knew Gran was delayed. I even, somehow, left a pound coin in my jeans pocket; that was what sealed my fate.
Maybe Maisie was the one who switched the taps on, but she was only trying to help. I shouldn’t have left her in charge of Isla, especially not beside a bathtub full of water.
I fall asleep sometime after 5 a.m. and end up sleeping in; by the time I surface again, it’s almost midday and I can hear voices in the living room.
I creep to the door and press my ear against it, and there is the sound of my little sisters bickering gently in front of the TV and the much more alarming sound of Mum arguing with Mr Zhao.
‘You must not use the bathroom,’ he is saying. ‘No, no, no. I have covered the hole in the floor with a sheet of hardboard, but I cannot take responsibility for how safe it is. Keep the kids out of there. It’s a pity you didn’t do that yesterday!’
‘Mr Zhao, we have apologized over and over,’ Mum replies. ‘What more do you want, blood? And how do you expect me to keep the kids out of the bathroom? We have to wash!’
Mr Zhao mutters something about this not being a problem we’ll have to put up with for much longer, and I groan. It doesn’t sound as if he has forgiven us yet for yesterday’s bathroom tsunami. He mentions something about the restaurant being closed until the repairs can be made, about how it could be wise to move out sooner rather than later.
A cold wave of panic washes over me. Moving out? What does he mean?
I press my ear to the
door again.
‘Let’s face it,’ Mr Zhao is saying. ‘This flat is in no fit state for anyone to live in. It’s a disaster zone; a health hazard!’
I grit my teeth. The flat may be a disaster zone, but it’s also our home. Though probably not for much longer.
‘Give me a little bit of time,’ Mum is saying. ‘I’ll need to talk to the kids, explain what’s happening and we’ll need a few days to pack.’
I peer through the crack in the door and see Mr Zhao standing with his arms folded, his face like stone. This is his usual look, to be fair.
‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Zhao says gruffly. ‘It’s not as though I will be throwing you out on the streets, is it?’
‘We’ll move out a week on Saturday,’ Mum says, her shoulders drooping. ‘I’m sorry that it had to end like this.’
‘Me too,’ Mr Zhao says. ‘Me too, Alison Cooke.’
I bite down on my sleeve to stop myself from yelling abuse at our ex-landlord; I guess I have landed us all in enough trouble already. I didn’t think that things could actually get any worse, but, as usual, I was wrong.
It looks like we are being evicted.
It’s an all-time low, even for me.
4
Mr Zhao has draped orange hazard tape all round the bathroom; the place looks like some kind of crime scene. Which it probably is, from Mr Zhao’s point of view. I manage a makeshift wash at the sink, pull on yesterday’s trackies and a T-shirt and pad though to the living room. The carpet squelches beneath my bare feet as I drift across to the kitchenette and pour cornflakes and milk into a bowl.
Mum has the heating on full blast, so the place feels like a sauna; all the windows are open and my little sisters are watching kids’ TV in their bikinis.
Mum makes herself a mug of tea; she looks tired, frayed around the edges.
‘So,’ I say, trying for a chirpy tone. ‘When do we move?’
Fortune Cookie Page 2
