Dad comes in holding one of those huge Toblerones he used to always bring me back from business trips. ‘Saw it in the airport last time I went through,’ he says and throws it onto my lap. ‘Forgot to give it to you.’
My heart’s still racing. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
He shoves his laptop aside and makes a big deal of settling back down. He lets the contestant on the TV answer a question, then he nudges me. ‘Give us a piece of your Toblerone.’
I break off three bits. ‘Mum?’
She looks at me and smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. I want so much to say, Dad’s fine, everything’s going to be okay. I want to show her the pdf.
But Mum shakes her head and looks back at the TV, and Dad elbows me and says, ‘See if you can fit a whole piece in your mouth.’
He slides one side of a piece into his mouth, then another, until the corners make his cheeks stick out.
On TV, the presenter is asking the contestant, who is so nervous he keeps laughing, Which country is the smallest country in Africa?
Dad shouts an answer through his Toblerone.
‘Which?’ I say.
He holds up two fingers. He’s picking Lesotho.
I shake my head, put a whole piece in my mouth and say, ‘The Gambia,’ but all that comes out is spit, so I hold up three fingers.
The guy on TV says, ‘Fifty-fifty, please.’ Ivory Coast and Senegal disappear.
‘Lesotho,’ Dad shouts again.
He’s wrong. It’s The Gambia. I learned it in school.
The nervous guy picks Lesotho. He loses fifteen thousand.
Dad shakes his head and I look at the laptop on the couch. I definitely deleted the pdf, didn’t I? But I did, I know I did . . .
Dad eats the whole piece of chocolate in one go like we used to do when I was a kid. He’s halfway through his coffee by the time I finally swallow the last of mine.
‘Too slow,’ he says. He leans back and rubs his belly. ‘Stuffed.’ And that lopsided smile is back on his face. The smile that matches ten in, ten out.
Then it’s quiet. No one says anything. Not even the guy on the TV. Because he’s thinking he doesn’t know the answer, and Dad’s thinking about The Old Mill, and Mum’s texting someone, and I’m thinking, So that’s what questionable becoming illegal looks like, so loud, I’m sure Dad’ll hear.
‘Think I’ll go read,’ I say.
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 17
The house is quiet when I wake up. I grab some juice and go to the conservatory to draw.
Last night I drew a picture of Dad’s lopsided grin. I had him sitting on a beach in Brazil, holding a cocktail, with the sea twinkling behind him.
Now I draw Hazel’s face, the moment she realized that Megan was making fun of her and she decided to read Megan’s blog to the boys. She knew what she was doing. And she enjoyed it.
But the more I draw, the more I see Megan’s grin when she was making fun of Hazel for liking Stephen. Which she only knew because she read her diary. We read her diary.
The thing is, I know Hazel deserves it in a way. But I don’t think it makes it right. Megan mocking Hazel was kind of like what Hazel is doing to Megan. And I laughed. I joined in.
On the other hand, Megan said she wanted to be sure of the truth. Now she’s sure. So she can stand up to Hazel, which is good. Or, seeing as Hazel will deny it, maybe Megan can just stop hanging around with her now. Which is fine by me. Although we might not have a choice because school starts soon. I groan at the idea of being stuck in a class with Hazel for the next six years. Hopefully we’ll take different subjects. She’d definitely take Music. I want to choose Art, though I know what Dad will say. But maybe if I told him that I want to get the highest marks in my exams so that I can get into a good course in university, and Art would be a sure bet, he’d let me. It’d help if I won the Young Artist of the Year this year.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Mum’s at the door.
I’ve about a million thoughts. I choose one. ‘I’m wondering if I could come first in the Young Artist of the Year Award this year.’
‘You’ve a better chance than most. When do they announce the theme?’
‘Soon,’ I say. ‘Actually, they might have done it already.’
‘Well, find out when they announce it. And if they haven’t announced it yet, draw one picture a day until they do.’
‘Deal.’
‘You can start today,’ she says, like me having a plan has cheered her up.
‘What are you doing today?’
Mum looks up at the ceiling and blows out air. ‘Your father’s accounts,’ she says like she’s saying, Getting a tooth out. Mum’s been doing his accounts since he set up his own company. She wanted to go back to work and he said, This way, you have a job and can still be at home with Lucy. It’s win-win.
I wonder are they talking to each other yet. Mum’s still staring at the ceiling with that going-to-the-dentist look. I don’t know if she’s worried about the accounts or Dad’s mood or both. ‘Everything will be okay now that he’s paid Mr Reynolds his ten million, Mum. He said it’ll only be a few days until he flips The Old Mill.’
Her eyes drop. Her head turns. She blinks.
I blink.
What did I just say? I wasn’t supposed to mention Mr Reynolds. Or the loan.
‘I mean, he’ll be less stressed now that he has the money from Sean, and when he flips The Old Mill, everything will be back to normal.’
She’s staring at me.
I concentrate on drawing until she goes back into the kitchen.
It’s almost lunchtime when Megan texts, which is the first I’ve heard from her since she ran out of the park yesterday.
Megan
New blog up!
She must be feeling better about Hazel if she’s written a blog!
Closing over my sketch pad, I go into the family room, turn on the computer and bring up her blog.
It’s called Penny Joins the Orchestra, and the more I read, the more the baby snakes inside me squirm and divide and multiply. Because she has used the information from Hazel’s diary.
In the blog, Penny falls in love with the First Chair violinist, but she accidently exposes the label on her super-padded bra to everyone and they all laugh at her.
It’s funny. But she’s doing it again. Using Hazel’s secrets to make fun of her in the same way Hazel bullies Megan, by pretending she’s not doing anything.
Back in the conservatory, I call her.
‘Well?’ she says after two rings. ‘You like it?’
She sounds happy. She sounds like her old self. And I almost don’t say what I’m thinking. Almost. ‘We shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Read her diary.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We should.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have written about it,’ I say.
There’s a pause, then, ‘Wait, what did you say to Hazel in the park yesterday?’ she says, as if I sided with Hazel or something.
‘I told her that she embarrassed you on purpose and to stop,’ I say.
‘Right, so what’s the problem?’
I watch a cat on the wall in the back garden, and I try to figure out what I want to say. ‘I understand how annoyed you are. Hazel’s horrible. But we were only supposed to find out for sure that it’s her trolling you. You weren’t supposed to use her private information on your blog.’
‘I didn’t. It’s fiction, inspired by reality. Like all my blogs.’
‘Megan, it’s different.’
Megan goes quiet for so long that I’m about to say, hello, when she speaks.
‘How about this, fact or fiction?’ she says. ‘Oh, God, poor Penny. You know they are laughing at you, not with you, right?’
‘Okay, I know, but—’
‘Or, this, Why doesn’t a friend tell you to stop trying so hard? Oh, yeah, duh, you’d need to actually have a friend first.’
I stay quie
t because Megan’s getting upset. And she has a point.
‘I mean, is that anonymous or personal?’ Megan says.
I watch the cat scale the wall and don’t reply.
‘It was also you that said I should do something,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ I finally say. ‘I know, it’s just . . . I don’t think it’s the right way.’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Say something to her.’
‘She’ll deny it. At least this way, if she puts up any more comments now, she’s really slagging herself. It might actually stop her.’
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she’s right. And maybe, once school starts, Hazel will just hang out with her orchestra friends and it’ll all be fine.
I look at Hazel’s face on the sketch pad. I remember how she twisted my words. Flicking the page over, my drawing from last night looks back at me. Dad’s lopsided grin.
On the other end of the line, Megan says, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing, just thinking.’
‘I mean, today,’ she says.
But I don’t want to see her. Not right now. I’m too confused.
‘I’m going to the gallery to see if they’ve any information on this year’s competition. I’ll call you later.’ I hang up before she can speak. I need to get some air. Shouting to Mum that I’m going to the gallery, I head outside and I’m passing Ms Cusack’s when I notice something.
Her door’s open.
Stepping closer, I can almost smell the cat pee, taste the mould.
Why is the door open? Did she leave it open for me? Is she inviting me to come in? I look around but there’s no one at the windows watching me.
She must be in there. I don’t think I want to meet her. Well, I kind of do but I kind of don’t. I mean, what if I go in there and she starts shrieking at me like she did to Dad? I step away from the door. But then I think of her notes. I hope you are reading as fast as I’m eating. She doesn’t sound crazy. Not completely crazy, anyway. And I think of the homeless man’s message in chalk. Spare a kind word.
I sigh. Why can’t I figure out what the right thing to do is? Maybe talking to her is the right thing.
And, to be honest, part of me wants to see for myself: the house, the artist, what it means to make the wrong decisions.
I could just say, hi. Thank her for the books. Ask her if she needs anything from the shops . . . Taking a deep breath, I knock on the door.
It swings wide.
And I can’t believe what I see.
CHAPTER 18
The furniture stands like art. Embroidered couches, golden curtains, lamps like velvet magicians’ hats.
There are newspapers. Yellowed. But they are framed and take up almost a whole wall.
And in the centre of it all is a grand staircase that rises and splits as it swoops left and right up to the first floor. A thick red carpet lines it.
It’s completely different to ours. No halls, no rooms, no doors. Just areas to sit or to read or to paint.
I can’t hear anything, except . . . openness. The house feels open, not shut away. I should turn. Go. But I can’t. I need to see. Because this is the last thing I ever expected.
Stepping gingerly onto the stairs, I reach out for the banisters. Solid mahogany.
I shouldn’t do this. But still I go up, step by step, as silently as I can, until I reach the top. Right now, more than anything in the world, I want to see her. Because this doesn’t look like the house of a penniless waster.
Upstairs, it’s a library. With more books than I’ve ever seen in my life. The walls are covered from floor to ceiling. There’s a sliding ladder, and wood and leather everywhere. Reading nooks are carved out of towers of novels. A deep couch to sit on and look at millions of words all bound up and waiting to be freed, like birds in a sanctuary.
This is a place that stores words. That loves them.
In the corners are spiral staircases that lead to the next floor. But I don’t dare go any further. Instead, I pad back down the stairs.
Where is she?
I should call out, say I’m here. No, I shouldn’t, I should leave.
The air is warm and lazy as if it carries old conversations. I move around the stairs into the main room. There are these masks on the walls . . . ancient newspapers everywhere . . . the top floors are rotten . . . I reach out and touch the base of the staircase, solid as a tree. Hanging on it, watching me from a framed canvas, is a man smoking a pipe with a face lined like streams running into a river.
Not masks. Portraits. And Dad’s wrong, the eyes don’t follow me, they see right through me. And all the lies I believed.
In one of the framed newspapers there’s a photograph of a woman. Her fist is raised and clenched. She’s protesting. I recognize her. She’s the woman from the painting in the attic.
And beneath the framed newspaper is a table with an unopened bottle of tawny port.
‘Lonely,’ I whisper. I shake my head as the word spins through the room before fading. ‘Witch. Spinster. Penniless. Crazy.’ Each word dissolves like a cold breath on a warm day. They lied. All of them. Dad and Oly and Mr Reynolds. They lied about a woman who lives alone and paints by herself and has never done anything to them.
But that’s a lie too, right? Because I think of Dad, drinking his beer and saying, I’d give her one point five million in the morning, and suddenly I know what happened. He came in here and tried to buy her house and she told him where to go. And when Oly called her wild, what he really meant was he couldn’t believe she’d value her home more than Dad’s money.
Something moves in the garden. I make no sound as I cross to the window.
I freeze.
It’s her.
It’s really her.
She’s standing with her back to me. Her long skirt flows in the wind but is pinched tight at the waist. Her hair is gathered in a huge bun on her head and long earrings almost touch her shoulders. She’s as still as a statue. She’s painting.
By her feet, the cat I saw on the wall earlier slinks along, his raised tail brushing off her skirt. She’s painting what she sees: her garden, bursting with leaves and flowers and bushes and birds. Her tall figure blocks my view of something so I step to the side.
There’s a tunnel. Through the bushes. It leads straight down to the back gate.
That’s how she comes and goes. It is so obvious, I’m stunned. I’ve probably even seen her before, outside. I just wasn’t looking for a tall, elegant woman.
She doesn’t use her front door. Which means she must have left it open for someone. Maybe it was for me. Maybe she wants to meet me.
Bending down now, she pets her cat. My heart races at the thought of her turning. Seeing me. Seeing through me.
Because I felt sorry for her. For being lonely and crazy. For making mistakes. For being an artist, a penniless painter.
Quietly, I turn, and the eyes of the portraits follow me as I go back to the door carrying the truth inside me.
I close it gently so she’ll never know I came into her home. Because maybe she did leave it open for me. But I don’t belong here.
CHAPTER 19
I’m like a pumpkin, carved up and empty, as I come away from Ms Cusack’s. All their lies. And I believed them.
How easily Dad told them. There I was, shaking like a kid in a witch’s house, like the truth had no right to get in his way.
And it’s not even the lies. It’s the way he spat them out. Waster. The way he laughed at her. Because she’s an artist.
Our front door is open. I didn’t leave it open. I walk over. And as I step up, I see Dad’s briefcase is thrown on the floor by the door and a layer of words, like smoke, hits me in the face.
‘Declan, you can’t do this!’ Mum’s shouting.
‘I’m this close to flipping The Old Mill, Alice. We’re talking days. And then I can bid on another that’s three times as big. So just calm down, okay?’
They are in the living room. I
step into the front hall next to the table.
‘Calm down?’ Mum says.
‘I’m handling it. Back off,’ Dad says.
‘And it’s not just the astonishing amount. It’s what you’ve done with it. Do you understand that?’ Mum says.
‘Oh, please, don’t start telling me how to—’
‘Misappropriating funds left, right and centre?’ Mum says. ‘What the hell are you thinking?’
I can hear Mum shaking from here. The walls vibrate with it.
Dad’s tone switches to the one that makes people back away slowly. ‘What the hell were you doing, snooping?’
‘Snooping? It’s my job,’ Mum says. ‘And don’t you dare do that!’
‘Do what, exactly?’ Dad says.
‘Change the subject,’ she says.
Through the gap, I see them. She’s beside the mantelpiece with her back against the wall. He’s in front of her so I can’t see his face. But hers is wide open.
‘You’ve gone too far, Declan,’ she says and he’s so close, he must feel her words on his face. ‘I won’t let you—’
‘Let me?’ His words pop like knuckles cracking. ‘Let me?’ His fist is clenched.
All the blood in my body drops to my feet. I steady myself on the hall table, making the vase on top of it wobble.
Mum tries to move back.
‘Declan—’ Mum doesn’t speak it, she breathes it.
‘Is that what you said? Say it again. Go on.’
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move.
His clenched hand is rising.
I do the only thing I can think of doing. I slap the vase to the floor.
It topples. It falls. Then CRASH! A thousand splinters fly through the hall.
There’s a second where the world freezes. Then Dad comes storming past me, and I see his face, all sliced up by lines of anger as deep as scars. He slams the front door behind him.
Mum doesn’t speak. She pushes herself off the wall and walks dead straight, then lowers herself onto a chair. Her breathing is broken, it comes in bursts.
I move up beside her.
The Words That Fly Between Us Page 9
