Love from Lexie

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘Sorry, Marley, I have plans already …’

  He rakes a hand through his fringe and his blue eyes blaze at me.

  ‘What exactly do I have to do to get a date with you, Lexie Lawlor?’ he huffs. ‘Sunday then? Can I see you on Sunday?’

  My heart is racing. A date? I can’t work out if I’m happy or sad or just plain terrified. My feelings are all churned up, a tangle of anxiety and anger. Until a week ago, I barely knew Marley Hayes … I am beginning to wonder if things were better that way.

  ‘Sunday, Lexie?’ he repeats. ‘Please?’

  ‘Come on, Lexie!’ Bex yells from along the street. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘That girl is bugging me,’ Marley says.

  ‘She’s just looking out for me,’ I tell him. ‘Yes … maybe Sunday – that’d be cool.’

  ‘Maybe Sunday?’ he echoes. ‘Lexie, you are breaking my heart. Definitely Sunday, OK? Four o’clock outside the Leaping Llama?’

  ‘I’ll see you then!’

  I pull away from him and run after the others, and Marley calls after me to say he’ll see me soon, that he’ll be thinking about me.

  ‘I think I have a date,’ I say under my breath as I catch up with Happi, Bex and Jake. ‘A date … how did that happen?’

  ‘Cupid’s arrow,’ Happi says, nudging me gently as we walk. ‘You did the right thing, calling him out, not letting him change your plans. He’s a good-looking boy, but he’s too used to having things his own way. Don’t let him take you for granted.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I promise.

  ‘He has a bad rep with girls,’ Jake chips in. ‘You probably know that, right?’

  ‘He’s dated dozens of girls and dumped them all,’ Bex reminds me. ‘Plus, he’s always fighting; it’s like a death wish. Today he got beaten up by one of the sixth-formers – guy reckoned Marley’d been flirting with his girlfriend. He’s trouble, Lexie – just sayin’ …’

  Flirting with a sixth-former’s girlfriend? My heart sinks and my cheeks burn with shame. Does he like me, or is this just some kind of game to Marley? I can’t work it out at all.

  ‘I know,’ I say miserably. ‘Look, it’s probably not an actual date. He’ll just want to talk about the band and stuff, like last time. I’m not interested in him that way, honest.’

  I am interested in him that way, sadly. I can’t help myself.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Bex says, exasperated. Happi just links an arm through mine and we head into the park. Ten minutes later, we’re eating ice-cream cones by the lake, watching a family of swans drift about on the mirror-still water.

  Talk turns to the library crisis again, and this time I’m glad of the distraction.

  ‘We can’t let them win,’ Jake says. ‘I’ll write a letter, like you said, and get my mum and sisters to do one too …’

  ‘I’m making a Twitter account right now,’ Happi says, glancing up from her phone. ‘I can sort an Instagram and a Facebook page too when I come over tomorrow.’

  ‘Should we plan a protest?’ I wonder. ‘Occupy the library and refuse to move? Chain ourselves to the railings? How do these things work?’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Bex says. ‘We need to contact the Millford Gazette and the radio, get the whole town talking about it …’

  Happi frowns. ‘The thing is … we all use the library, but not everyone does. A lot of people are like Marley and Dylan, they just don’t get why it’s such a big deal. The petitions have got everyone talking at school, but it’s not all pro library. Some people think libraries are old-fashioned, that we don’t need them because we have e-readers and the internet –’

  ‘Idiots,’ Bex snaps.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jake argues. ‘But we have to convince people, don’t we? Labelling them idiots might not be the best way to do it!’

  ‘OK,’ Bex says. ‘Point taken. We have to show people that libraries matter!’

  I nod. ‘Yes … if we could actually get people into the libraries … let them see for themselves? We could go into primary schools and talk to the kids, get their teachers to bring them along to listen to a story and sign up for a library card.’

  ‘Good one,’ Happi agrees. ‘And maybe if our protest was actually a really cool event and not just chaining ourselves to railings … well, it could pull people in, change their minds. Change the council’s mind, even!’

  We all love this idea, though we’re not quite sure how to make it work. It doesn’t really matter for now; we have the bones of a plan, and the rest will fall into place in time.

  Bex tries approaching passers-by for signatures for the petition, but walking up to total strangers is not as easy as getting the kids at school to sign, especially when they’re signing a dog-eared exercise book and not an official petition. A mum with two small children adds her name, as do an elderly couple, but most people blank Bex, and one old lady shrieks as if she is trying to steal her handbag.

  I guess being accosted by a turquoise-haired teen with a pierced nose might be slightly alarming if you don’t actually know Bex. Possibly even if you do.

  ‘We need flyers,’ Jake says. ‘And proper printed petitions on a clipboard. We need to get people interested, because Happi’s right. Not everyone cares.’

  ‘Not everyone’s into books,’ I say. ‘But libraries are about much more than that … like for us, with our band practice. I’ve been trying all day to think of somewhere we can practise for free and not get on anyone’s nerves, but I can’t. It needs to be big enough, so it can’t just be a kitchen or a garden shed, and church halls and studio spaces will charge us. I hope this doesn’t sink the Lost & Found before we’ve got properly started …’

  Jake grins. ‘About that. I might know somewhere that could work. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I haven’t sounded it out yet … but we could take a look tomorrow – see what you think?’

  I blink. ‘That’s fantastic! Sure!’

  ‘Where is it?’ Bex wants to know.

  ‘It’s in the garden of the place where I live,’ Jake says. ‘Greystones. Big Gothic house looking out on the park – fancy wrought-iron gates and a huge great garden, plus all kinds of outbuildings and places that might just be perfect for us!’

  ‘Greystones?’ I echo. ‘Wow! That would be awesome!’

  I gaze across the park, my eyes coming to rest on a distant rooftop with ornate chimneys and masses of ivy clinging to the brickwork. Little leaded windows tucked into the eaves look down over the park, and through a stand of tall trees, newly in leaf, I glimpse a balcony and the purple haze of a climbing wisteria.

  Everyone in Millford knows Greystones, but I’ve never met anyone who actually lives there before. The place is mysterious, romantic. Local legend says that it’s some kind of modern-day hippy commune, and it is also home to Millford’s one and only sort of celeb, a mad lady artist whose paintings sell for a fortune and hang in prestigious galleries all round the world.

  And Mum had loved it, of course … the two of us would build up stories about the place, imagine what it might be like to live there. My breath catches a little at the memory and when my vision blurs a little I turn away, smiling harder.

  15

  Greystones

  The Friday-evening edition of the Millford Gazette is full of the news that five local libraries will close to enable money to be focused on a central hub in town. ‘Libraries have failed to change with the times,’ a councillor is quoted as saying. ‘Our local libraries are outdated, their buildings unfit for use. Library usage is falling nationally – we need to move forward, with vision and innovation, into the future.’

  Bex slams her fist down on the table, swears under her breath. I can see she wants to throw something at the wall: the chilli sauce bottle, a plate of vegetable korma, an ear-splitting roar of disgust. She grits her teeth and scowls at the newspaper.

  ‘Channel that anger,’ Mandy says gently. ‘Get smart, and turn it into an energy to fight against the thing that’s h
urting you …’

  ‘It’s lies,’ I say, indignant. ‘They’re twisting words to make it look like libraries have no place any more. Library usage is only falling because so many have already been closed!’

  Jon nods. ‘Make sure you have an answer for every question, every piece of misinformation,’ he tells me. ‘Then channel that anger, like Mandy says, and fight back … but gently, fairly!’

  Somehow, overnight, I have written a song. Maybe it’s only half a song, without the music, or maybe it’s a poem, I don’t know for sure, but it’s something. I couldn’t sleep. So many worries and questions were whirling around in my head, stuff about the library, about Marley, about the band. I went over and over the piece in the paper with its lies and twisted truths, over and over Mandy and Jon’s advice. Channel the anger and fight back … gently, fairly.

  I opened my eyes in the darkness, determined. I’ve lost so much already in this life … I am not willing to lose more, not without a fight. I put the light on and started to write. I love the way the words and feelings transformed from a tangled ache of anxiety and fear into something beautiful, powerful.

  Songwriting, it seems, is a kind of magic.

  I wanted to text Marley straight away, send him the lyrics and see if he could add his own variety of magic to the words and bring it all to life, but he hasn’t texted me and there’s no way I’m making the first move. The song will have to wait until Sunday.

  On Saturday afternoon, after a few back-and-forth texts, Happi, Bex, Jake and I set off for Greystones, cutting across the far corner of the park. I can’t help crossing my fingers as the house comes into view again beyond the stand of trees that edge the park. This would be such a cool place to practise, and easy for everyone to get to.

  ‘It’s right by the disused railway line that runs past the park, isn’t it?’ Bex asks. ‘Used to be one of my favourite boltholes if I was running away. Nobody really comes along there except for the occasional dog walker. You can see where the train tracks used to be, but it’s all overgrown now.’

  ‘Why were you running away?’ Jake asks, curious.

  Bex shrugs. ‘It’s just what I did when stuff went wrong,’ she says. ‘My stepdad was getting violent? I ran away. Mum drinking again? I ran away. By the time I came to live with Mandy and Jon, it was just my way of coping with anger. In trouble at school, row about a messy bedroom, no strawberry yoghurt at breakfast … easy. Just do a runner.’

  ‘She was the queen of running away,’ Happi tells him. ‘But she’s a reformed character now.’

  ‘I got bored,’ Bex says. ‘And I realized I was lucky to have Mandy and Jon, lucky to have Lexie – even you lot. Anyway … whatever. From what I’ve seen and heard, Greystones is some sort of hippy commune – am I right?’

  Jake grins. ‘Well, sort of. There are a few artists and craftspeople living there in a co-operative sort of way. It’s not your average place, and there are some weird old vehicles and outbuildings in the grounds … including something that might work for us, if they’d let us use it …’

  ‘And might they?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jake says. ‘It belongs to Louisa Winter. She’s quite old and eccentric …’

  ‘And famous,’ I chip in. ‘She’s an artist or something, right?’

  ‘She is,’ Jake says. ‘But back when she was a teenager she was also a model in New York and knew loads of awesome people. Andy Warhol did a series of screen prints of her eating an ice lolly, and a poet called Leonard Cohen wrote a song about her – and there’s even a photo of her on the back of Bob Dylan’s motorbike in 1965 …’

  ‘Wow,’ Bex says. ‘1960s New York, Warhol and Cohen and Dylan – how did I not know this?’

  ‘Wow,’ I echo, trying to look suitably impressed. I’ve heard of Bob Dylan, of course, and make a mental note to look the others up; Louisa Winter’s life sounds amazing, even if it did include people I’ve never heard of.

  Jake leads us along a quiet, curving cul-de-sac with big houses dotted along one side and a wedge of ground that is half public tennis courts and half allotments on the other. I can hear birdsong and the gentle thwack-thwack of a tennis game … It’s one of those strange roads that makes you feel you’ve stepped back in time.

  Halfway along, there are the big black wrought-iron gates Jake mentioned. He lifts the latch and pushes the gate open a crack, and we file in, feet crunching on gravel.

  ‘What if someone sees us?’ Happi says anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t we ask first?’

  ‘I live here,’ Jake reminds us. ‘At least, I live in one of the flats in the west wing of the house, with my mum and my two little sisters and stepdad. He’s lived here for ten years, but we only moved in at the end of last summer. Before that we lived in Chinatown in London, among other places. This is a kind of paradise compared to some of the flats we’ve had …’

  He frowns, as if brushing off the memory, and I try for a moment to imagine what his story might be. Jake, Romy, Sasha, Soumia, Lee, George, Sami – even Marley and Dylan – all have stories to tell, and so far I’ve only seen the tiniest glimpses. Like me, they probably have secrets hidden, struggles concealed, challenges they have to face every day.

  I wonder if Marley is actually right, if we are all lost in our own particular way. I push the thought of Marley away.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jake is saying. ‘C’mon …’

  We veer off along a footpath that winds through long grass filled with forget-me-nots and daisies, passing an ancient caravan parked against the ivy-clad wall, the door open to reveal a ginger cat basking in a bright patch of afternoon sun. Further over there’s a big canvas yurt with a pointy roof and a crooked chimney poking out at one side, and I can see some sheds and a long wooden hut with a roof completely covered in solar panels.

  ‘A woman called Willow lives in the caravan,’ Jake says. ‘And Laurel and Jack live in the hut – he makes lutes and mandolins and she’s an artist. When we moved here we lived in the yurt for a bit until the new flat was ready, but a guy called Mitch lives in it now …’

  ‘You lived in the yurt?’ I ask, wide-eyed.

  ‘You and your mum and your stepdad and your two sisters?’ Happi checks. ‘Five of you?’

  Jake shrugs. ‘It’s bigger than it looks … and it was only for a few months. We were in the flat by Christmas. Everyone here is a bit … different. People helped out, made sure we were OK.’

  I think back to Jake’s first few months at school and remember a quiet boy in crumpled uniform. Why hadn’t I noticed, checked he was OK? Bex would have called it interfering, Happi would have called it a rescue, but maybe it would have been friendship, pure and simple?

  ‘So, my stepdad is the handyman,’ Jake goes on. ‘He teaches t’ai chi too … and Mum is learning aromatherapy massage. She can get thirty pounds an hour for that at the posh spa hotel on the edge of town … more if she has her own place.’

  It feels as if we’ve stepped out of the real world with its grumpy teachers and maths tests and sour-faced men in suits. Greystones is a place where time stands still, where people do things differently.

  I think of Mum with a sudden ache of regret. She would have loved it here, loved to have seen beyond the tall fence into the secret garden of the house we both once dreamed about.

  I bend to pick up a fallen leaf, soft and green and supple. My fingers trace its ribs, its serrated edges, while the others walk on ahead, just out of sight through the trees.

  16

  Off the Rails

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  ‘This is it,’ Jake is saying. ‘It’s quite big and nobody uses it …’

  ‘Sheesh, Jake!’ Bex exclaims, breaking the silence. ‘This I did not expect!’

  On the other side of the trees, beyond the house, there’s a wild, overgrown corner of garden with a strange, narrow, elongated shed shunted up against the wall. The shed is made of maroon and cream metal sheeting with varnished wooden struts and a weirdly curving roof. It seems to be raised
a few feet off the ground, and two sets of handmade wooden steps lead up to side doors at either end.

  My eyes struggle to make sense of it.

  ‘Oh, my,’ I breathe. ‘It’s … it’s an actual train!’

  We are looking up at an ancient railway carriage, the kind you might see in an old Agatha Christie movie – Murder on the Orient Express, maybe. The carriage is huge and, though it’s grimy from who knows how many winters of rain and snow and there’s a little rust specked across the maroon metal sheeting, it still looks elegant. Some kind of climbing plant is clinging to the side and sneaking its way in and out of a cracked window and up towards the roof.

  ‘It’s epic, Jake,’ I say. ‘I love it!’

  Everyone is talking at once then, asking if we can look inside, if we could seriously use it as a practice space, how it even got here in the first place. Jake reminds us that the disused railway track runs alongside the grounds. Apparently, when that line was closed back in the sixties and lots of old rolling stock was scrapped or sold off, Louisa Winter’s father bought the old railway carriage and had it hauled into the grounds of Greystones. He had the inside converted so his daughter could use it as a base when she was home from New York or London or Paris, so her wild-child partying wouldn’t bother anyone up at the big house.

  Rescuing a railway carriage … that’s pretty amazing.

  I try to picture the scene … a waif-like model in an A-line minidress leaning out of the railway-carriage window to greet her arty, poetic, pop-star friends when they came to stay.

  Jake bounds up the steps and unlocks the door, and we crowd behind him, eager to see inside. The carriage is dark and musty, the windows grey with dust and veiled with spider’s webs, but we can see what an incredible space it is. We step out of the little hallway and into a long room lined with built-in red velvet sofas faded to a dusty pink, a kitchenette kitted out with a tiny pink electric cooker and matching sink.

  Jake picks up a 1960s copy of Vogue from the coffee table, opening it to a glossy spread featuring a long-limbed girl with huge, kohl-rimmed eyes, her long, fox-red curls flying out behind her as she rides an old-fashioned bicycle through a rose garden. Another shot shows her feeding swans on a lake, and in another she sits on the steps of a bandstand, eating an ice-cream cone while an old-fashioned brass band in military uniform play behind her.