by E. R. Murray
“Dunno. I’ll just go along with what everyone else wants.”
“It’s a toss-up between the British Museum in London and the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford for me. I’ve read about them so many times and they sound amazing. I think I’ll go for the British Museum. No! Pitt Rivers – they have shrunken heads and Samurai armour and everything. What do you think?”
I can’t help groaning. “Trust you to choose something sensible!”
“Have you got any better ideas?”
“Alton Towers or Disneyland Paris?” Places I’ve always dreamt of visiting but would never be able to afford – but I don’t really have the right to suggest anything. “No, you’re right, Pitt Rivers sounds good.”
“What’s up? You never give in so easily. You can tell me it’s none of my business…”
“It’s none of your business,” I cut in, smiling, knowing full well that Sarah won’t let this one go.
“You can’t let those bullies get to you. They won’t be on the trip and it’ll be good to be away from them for the day.”
Trust Sarah to think the best of things, to think the best of me. “It’s not just them…”
I open my mouth to confide in her about the bag, but then I think better of it – what if I lose her? After chasing Jack away, and most of the school gossiping about me, I can’t risk telling her. The timing has to be right.
“Let me guess… is it something to do with Jack?” asks Sarah.
I lose my cool and gasp. If Sarah and Jack start talking, they’ll figure out I’m the thief for sure. I’ll be an outcast for eternity.
“Ooh I’m right… Come on, tell me! How are things going? I’ve seen the way you two glance at each other across the room,” says Sarah, pulling a sickly, adoring face that makes my throat clench.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, trying to end the conversation.
“He fancies you.”
“Hates my guts more like.”
“How do you work that out, Sherlock? Is there something wrong with your eyes? He’s always avoiding you, then watching you when you’re not looking. It’s a sure sign…”
“Of how much he hates me. He’s avoiding me because I threw him out of our house.”
Sarah’s eyes threaten to pop out of her head. “Jack Whitman was in your house and you threw him out?”
She fakes a swoon, pretending to fall to the ground in a faint. Checking the street behind her is clear, Sarah lowers her voice to a whisper.
“Is that why Mad Dog’s after you?”
“Probably. That night we missed each other after school I bumped into Jack…”
“The night Mrs Snelling’s bag was stolen?”
“Yeah… He should have been hanging out with Maddy but changed his mind. Then he intervened the other day after you ran off… told them to stop and walked me home.”
Sarah winces at the reminder, but quickly gathers herself. “He saved you – a real-life knight in shining armour.”
“I don’t think Maddy sees it quite like that.”
“So what? Just cos she fancies him – it doesn’t mean she owns him. He’s obviously not interested in her.” Sarah gives a knowing smile. “And you know what that means, don’t you?”
“It means she won’t stop until she’s killed me. Great. I’m screwed.”
An uncomfortable silence edges its way between us. Sarah’s lost her mind. There’s no way Jack would be interested in me over Mad Dog. She might be a bitch, but she’s experienced. That’s what boys want.
As we venture out onto the open field, I check behind me every few steps, in case we’re being followed. Sarah tries to make me feel better by chatting.
“So, how did today go?” she asks.
I give her my best “are you kidding me?” look.
“That bad?”
“Let’s see… everyone sniggering at my hair, avoiding me like the plague, and me being in constant fear for my life – it was great! Best day ever!”
“It’s not like we were ever popular.”
The way she says it, I can’t help laughing.
“I know, but people wouldn’t even stand next to me in the dinner queue. You saw them – they were actually pushing others in front of them to get away from me.”
“Yeah, that sucked all right. But at least you got your dinner while it was hot. And if Maddy keeps being so blatant, maybe she’ll get her comeuppance.”
I know Sarah is doing her best, so I smile.
“As for your hair,” continues Sarah. “They’re just jealous because it’s gorgeous on you. You’ve got a nice face so you can carry it off.”
I take a sharp breath, my head spinning. That’s what Jack said, before we’d been disturbed by Hatty. Before I threw him out. I think of how he smelt – warm and spicy – and how he’d leaned in towards me…
“Liv?”
Sarah is holding me by the shoulder, staring into my face.
“Liv, can you hear me?”
“What? Yeah.”
“Did you get checked out at the docs?”
“No need. I’m fine.” I pull away and try to stomp ahead, even though the ground swells and sways, magnified one minute, distant the next.
“Are you sure? The gang – they could have done some real damage… we should get you checked out.”
“I’m fine! Just because your parents call the doctor over every little thing, doesn’t mean I have to,” I snap, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
There’s something clearly wrong with me. Why do I keep pushing people away?
An awful thought shoots through me like a thunderbolt: I’m turning out like Mam.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Attached by an Invisible Thread
I watch as the note travels along the dinner queue, skipping us out, and feel nausea rise each time someone reads it and giggles. No prizes for guessing who it’s about, but I can’t stick up for myself – one word from me and it’ll get back to Maddy – so I keep my head down and try to pretend I haven’t noticed. When it goes quiet, I don’t need to look up to know that Maddy’s here. It’s like the moment before a storm when the birds stop singing and seek shelter. Only, there’s nowhere for me to hide.
“Let’s get out of her way,” I say, sensing Sarah tense beside me.
Not long after we’re seated, Maddy arrives at our table, flanked by Lorna and Zadie. They slam their plates down and settle themselves for lunch.
“So, ginger pig, what’s on the menu today?” asks Maddy.
She reaches over with her fork and stabs at my plate, lifting off a huge slab of meat pie.
“Mmm – meat pie. Exactly what I was going to choose – but then I noticed that’s what you picked. So I chose the sausages. Knew you wouldn’t mind sharing.”
Zadie giggles.
“Here. Take it,” I say, pushing the plate towards Mad Dog. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
I don’t know where it comes from. I guess I’ve just had enough. Sarah stops eating and holds her fork mid-air. Mad Dog looks momentarily confused while Lorna and Zadie eye each other nervously. Recovering, Mad Dog leans in.
“Tough, are we?” She grabs me by the shoulder, pressing her thumb against my throat just enough to restrict my breathing. “I decide what happens around here, not you.”
As Mad Dog tightens her grip, I struggle for air. A cough from Lorna signals Mozzer’s arrival and Maddy releases me at just the right moment. Eyes narrowed, she watches as the head teacher does his rounds, waiting until a shout from the other side of the room diverts his attention so she can lean right up close to my face. The other girls lean forward too, as though attached by an invisible thread.
“You’re going to get it, ginger pig. The other day – that was nothing. I’ll get you properly – when you least expect it.”
Recovering my breath, I rest my hand on my chest and avert my gaze. I distract myself by thinking about the peanut-butter fudge recipe that’s waiting for me at home. Maddy wedges herself between me an
d Sarah, motioning with her head for Sarah to leave. Stalling, Sarah tries to catch my eye, but I purposely avoid her gaze.
“It’s OK – go,” I say, hanging my head as I listen to Sarah’s footsteps fade.
Mad Dog reaches under the table and grabs my wrist. She digs her nails in deep as Old Mozzer approaches.
“Everything all right, girls?” he asks.
“Yes, Mr Morrelly,” says Maddy, in a sickly-sweet voice.
My wrist is burning now where Maddy has her claws dug in, but I’m determined not to flinch.
“Olivia? Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to keep my face from screwing up with pain.
“Good, good.”
The head teacher strides off, arms clasped behind his back. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Mad Dog lets go.
“See? We run this place now, not him. When it comes to thieves, we’re in charge.”
I feel my thoughts spin out of control. She knows.
“Think you can steal Jack from me, ginger pig?” Mad Dog continues. “You’d better watch your back.”
Relieved it isn’t the bag we’re talking about, I fight the smile that threatens to spread across my face. Maddy stands, the other girls following. As a parting insult, she unscrews the salt pot and pours it all over my lunch. “Jack might say he likes your hair, but it’s only cos he feels sorry for you. It looks like shit.”
Now she has my interest. Jack likes my hair?
They’re only gone a couple of seconds when a gentle hand lands on my shoulder, making me spin round.
“Mrs Snelling! What are you doing back?”
Despite the cast on her foot, she looks as jolly as ever.
“Well now, that’s a nice greeting!” hollers Mrs Snelling. “If you must know, I thought I’d stop by and see how things were going. I’ll be back at work next week, and wanted to make sure the place was running smoothly.” She points at my ruined dinner. “It’s a good job I did! Come with me.”
Gobsmacked, I slowly rise and follow Mrs Snelling, aware of eyes turning my way. Not wanting to give them any satisfaction, I refuse to react. I act like this is completely normal and focus on Mrs Snelling’s back as she leads the way, limping past row upon row of lunch tables. If only she’d move a bit quicker.
In the kitchen, Mrs Snelling puts a replacement meal in front of me.
“Meat pie, wasn’t it?”
Around us, the other cooks continue to serve up lunches, remove hot trays from the oven, replace empty containers on the counter and stack dishes as high as the ceiling. Although I’ve lost my appetite, I suck in the scents of gravy, custard and baked apples. I see Mad Dog’s scowling face in the distance, but she can’t see me. Digging into the pie, I chew a small mouthful. It tastes better than before.
“Don’t you worry about the likes of her. Another few years and you’ll never have to see her ever again.”
Another few years? I nearly choke on a lump of pastry.
“Get through school and you can get out of here – keep away from those sorts. It’s them that give this area a bad name.”
I nod, wondering why Mrs Snelling has to be so nice. If only she knew the truth.
“So, how’s the cooking going?”
“Good,” I reply, pleased to change the subject. “I’ve made flapjacks, Eccles cakes and shortbread. And tomorrow I’m making fudge.”
Mrs Snelling’s eyes grow as round as cake tins. “And they’ve all worked first time?”
“More or less. The shortbread burned but everything else was fine.”
“A little tip with the shortbread… did you put it in the fridge?”
I rest my fork on my plate and shake my head.
“Leave it to sit in the fridge for half an hour before baking. It improves the texture.”
“I’ll try that next time,” I say.
I’ll try anything to make life a bit better.
“I also wanted to ask you something,” continues Mrs Snelling. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s about the robbery.”
Fear freezes the blood in my veins. Looking up, I try to relax my facial muscles. “Sure, go ahead.”
“I hear you’re friends with that Jack boy – the one who helped me.”
Mrs Snelling visibly shudders, remembering the incident, and my mouth turns dry as chalk.
“Yes. Well – kind of.”
“Do you know him well enough to know whether he’d be capable of it?”
I drop my fork with a clatter.
“Of what?”
“Well, Mr Snelling’s been onto me. Says it seems a bit coincidental that Jack happened to be there. And I do remember he had a rather large bag with him. Do you think he could have been involved? Helping me was a cover-up?”
Shaking my head emphatically, I clear my throat. I can’t let Jack get blamed for something I did.
“No way – I mean, Jack wouldn’t do that. He’s a good guy. He stuck up for me when I needed it,” I say, wishing I could go back in time and put everything right.
Mrs Snelling heaves a relieved sigh.
“Good – that’s what I thought. Please don’t repeat what I said. It’s just a silly idea that Mr Snelling got into his head, and it started niggling away at me. Stupid really. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
I shake my head, disgusted with myself. I should come clean. But I can’t.
“Thanks, dear. I knew you were a nice girl, someone I could count on. I don’t care about the bag or the money – there wasn’t much in there anyways – but my purse held an important photo.”
“A photo?” I picture the ginger lad with the big smile.
“Our son, Simon, was killed in a car crash four years ago, and I always carried our favourite photo – the one from his graduation – with me. I know it probably sounds silly to a young girl like you, but it felt like a bit of his memory was lost when that photo was stolen.”
Avoiding Mrs Snelling’s gaze, I gulp down the lump that has settled in my throat.
“Mr Snelling always warned me not to carry it around. He said I’d lose it. I guess it’s the last we’ll see of it now. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Turning away, Mrs Snelling reaches for a big helping of rhubarb crumble and custard. She sets the bowl down with tear-moistened eyes.
“Thanks, Liv, you’ve been very kind to a sentimental old fool. Now promise you won’t say a word about what I said? I’d feel terrible if it got out!”
Nodding, I force a tiny spoonful of pudding into my mouth. It feels like boulders as I swallow.
Peanut-Butter Fudge Chunks
Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey… A delicious fudge never fails to bring your sweetheart closer to you. If you’ve had a bitter row, sugar him up with this. If you’re all loved-up, make him melt with this crunchy, nutty delight. Trust me – have I lied to you yet?
INGREDIENTS
340 g/12 oz chocolate chips – as sweet as you like
340 g/12 oz crunchy peanut butter
415 ml/14 fl oz sweetened condensed milk
HOW TO MAKE THE MAGIC HAPPEN
1. Line a square pan (approx 8 in.) with waxed or parchment paper.
2. In a bowl placed over a pan of boiling water, melt the chocolate chips and peanut butter until they turn into gooey goodness.
3. Stir well to make sure there are no lumps – we want the only crunch to be the peanuts.
4. Add the milk and continue stirring until it’s smooth and golden.
5. Pour the mixture into the pan and refrigerate until chilled (make it at least 2 hours, if you can. I know – it’s tempting!).
6. When set, place fudge on a cutting board, remove waxed paper and cut into around forty delicious fudge squares.
Tip: Don’t worry about making the fudge squares perfect. After all, imperfections are a part of life. That’s what makes those we love special.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Placing It Carefully on the Spring-Loaded Donkey
As soon as I’m home, I race upstairs to my room. Pulling the bag out of my wardrobe, not even bothering to be careful, I rip it open and yank out the wallet. Gently opening the clasp, I search inside, feeling like anything but the kind girl Mrs Snelling believes me to be. As I pull the photo out for a closer look, Harriet’s voice floats up the stairs.
“Liv, your tea’s ready.”
“I’ll be right down.”
The lad smiling up at me is a bit older than Harriet. He’s wearing a mortarboard and has bright red hair and a smattering of freckles on his pale skin. He doesn’t resemble Mrs Snelling much, apart from the hair and the infectious grin. I guess he looks more like his dad.
“Liv! Your food is on the table. It’s getting cold.”
“I said I’d be right down.”
I try to imagine how Mrs Snelling must feel, but I can’t. I’ve never known anyone who has died. Dad isn’t around, but he’s not dead. As far as I know, he’s out there somewhere, living his life. A life without us. I try to ignore what that means – that our dad doesn’t want to know us. I guess he doesn’t realize how bad things are with Mam. Or maybe he does and it doesn’t make any difference.
Focusing back on the photo, I can’t believe that this person is dead. I try to imagine what it would be like if Mam or Harriet died. What would I do? Probably carry a photo with me, just like Mrs Snelling.
Simon’s eyes seem to stare at me accusingly, so I carefully return his picture to the purse and make a decision. I’ll sneak the photo back to Mrs Snelling and put things right without getting caught. But how?
“Liv! For God’s sake will you come and GET YOUR TEA!”
“I’m COMING!”
Racing down the stairs, I run straight into Harriet. She’s flustered and cross.
“I have better things to do than make tea for an ungrateful brat,” she snaps.
“Fine. Let me make my own tea then.” I sit down at the table in front of a plate of sausages, potato waffles and beans. “I’m a better cook than you anyway. You only make frozen muck.”
As I pick up my fork, smug look firmly in place, Harriet snatches my plate away.
