Passion Flower

by Jean Ure

  I said, “Your patience is running out.”

  “Right! My patience is running out. He’ll understand.”

  “I don’t think I like that lady,” said the Afterthought, as Ms Devine went on her way.

  I said that when we had first met her I had wondered if she might perhaps be Dad’s girlfriend, but now I didn’t think she was.

  “She might have been,” said the Afterthought. “And then Dad might have decided he didn’t want her any more, and that’s what’s made her angry.”

  I said, “Mm… maybe.” But I had a feeling it was something more than that.

  When Dad came home that afternoon, I gave him Ms Devine’s message.

  “Wretched woman,” said Dad. He didn’t sound particularly bothered.

  “Have you thrown her over?” said the Afterthought.

  “Have I what?” said Dad.

  “Thrown her over … you know! Junked her. Given her the elbow… jilted her.”

  I have no idea how the Afterthought knows these expressions. Dad gave a loud barking laugh and said, “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “She sounds like she’s mad at you,” said the Afterthought.

  “Oh! Well.” Dad shrugged.

  I said, “Did you ever pay her the rent that she wanted?”

  “Not yet,” said Dad. “I haven’t had a chance, she’s been away.”

  “I think she’s there now,” I said. I’d heard her playing music earlier on. “Maybe if you gave her the rent it would make her happy.”

  “Oh, she can wait!” said Dad. “She’s not short of a bob or two. Let’s go out and eat, I’ve had a hard day.”

  It seemed that Dad was back in the money, which meant he must have been working. I tried asking him where, so that I could tell Ms Devine if she stopped us again, but he just waved a hand and said, “Here and there, round and about… where shall we go for dinner?”

  * * *

  We all stayed home next day. I was still scared to go out in case I bumped into Zed, Dad said he didn’t have any more work to do just at the moment, and the Afterthought was worried about Titch. She said that he had to have his injections. The lady up the road had said he had to. If he didn’t have his injections, he would catch some horrible disease and die.

  “We’ve got to get them done, Dad!”

  Dad said we would get them done later, when he had a bit more money.

  “But he’ll catch something!” wailed the Afterthought.

  “He won’t catch anything,” said Dad. “How can he catch anything when he doesn’t go out? Where’s he going to catch it from?”

  That reminded me of something else. “He needs more litter,” I said. “His litter tray’s practically empty.”

  “Yes, and he needs more food, as well,” said the Afterthought.

  I was beginning to see what Mum meant, about looking after a cat. Titch was only tiny, but he had to eat every day, and he had to have litter, and sooner or later, when he was bigger, he would have to have his injections.

  Dad grumbled, but he agreed that I could go up the road and get some cat food. He said, however, that litter was a luxury, and we should go into the garden and dig up some earth.

  “While I’m getting the cat food,” I said, “should I get something for us?”

  Dad said yes, but not to go mad. He gave me a £5 note and told me to “spend it sensibly”

  “Dinner and lunch?” I said. “Or are we going out again?”

  “Just get what you can,” said Dad. “See how far you can stretch it.”

  Well! Quite honestly, £5 doesn’t stretch all that far. In fact it stretches hardly any way at all. I had to keep adding up in my head as I went round the shelves. One tin of kitten food, one loaf of bread – tin of baked beans – apples! Tomato soup. Cheese. Crisps. Phew! I even got 2p change!

  I went racing home with my bag of groceries, thinking that I had done really well and that Mum would have been proud of me. I had managed to buy enough food for three people, not to mention a kitten, and it was all healthy.

  “Look!” I laid it out, on the table. Dad just grunted. I thought that he seemed preoccupied, like his thoughts were elsewhere. “We can have baked beans for lunch, with apples. Then crisps in the afternoon, if we get hungry. Then for dinner we can have soup followed by bread and cheese.” I sat back, triumphantly.

  “It’s all veggie,” said the Afterthought.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “So what?”

  “Why couldn’t you have got a TV dinner, or something?”

  “‘Cos TV dinners cost more and in any case they’re junk” I said.

  “So’s crisps,” said the Afterthought. “Mum wouldn’t let us eat crisps all the time! We had crisps yesterday.”

  “Well, you have to eat something,” I said. It was difficult trying to plan a balanced diet without any proper cooking facilities.

  “Could have got frankfurters,” said the Afterthought.

  I said, “Frankfurters are dead pig. You want to eat dead pig?”

  She sniffed.

  “Just shut up whingeing,” I said.

  “Could have got sardines!”

  “Could have got all sorts of things if we could cook!”

  Still she went on whingeing. “I don’t like baked beans. I don’t like tomato soup. Why can’t we go out again? Dad, let’s go out again!”

  “Not tonight,” said Dad. “we’re staying in tonight.”

  “We could go on the pier, we could go to that place we went to before, we c —”

  “I said, not tonight,” said Dad. “We’re staying in tonight.”

  “Couldn’t we even get a takeaway?”

  “Samantha, I am not made of money,” said Dad.

  The Afterthought subsided. She went off, muttering to herself, to open a tin for Titch. Titch pranced after her, his tail in the air. He was happy, at any rate. I did think it rather odd that Dad should have enough money to take us out for a meal one day, and the next day claim to be broke. Well, “not made of money” He had obviously been made of money yesterday. What had happened to it all? I thought perhaps he was saving it to give to Ms Devine; it was the only thing that made any sense. But then, at six o’clock, just as I was thinking we ought to eat our soup and bread and cheese, there was a knock at the door and Dad went, like, help, help, hide me! and fled into the bedroom.

  “If that’s her from upstairs,” he said, “tell her I’m out. Tell her I won’t be back till late. Tell her I’ll pay her the rent tomorrow morning!”

  He grabbed the Afterthought and pulled her in with him; in case, I suppose, she gave the game away. Feeling distinctly nervous, I opened the door. Ms Devine was standing there. She looked pretty angry.

  “I should like to speak to your father,” she said.

  “I’m s-sorry.” I gulped down a golf ball that seemed to have lodged in my throat. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he? Do you know?”

  I said, “N-no. I’m s-sorry, I don’t.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  I gulped at a second golf ball. I am not actually terribly good at telling lies. It’s not so much that I think it’s wrong, though of course it is wrong – well, usually. It’s just that I get all embarrassed and tongue-tied. I would be absolutely useless if I ever had to take a lie detector test.

  “He won’t be b-back till 1-1-late,” I said. “But he s-said to t-tell you… he’ll pay you the rent tomorrow!”

  “Oh. Will he?” She was peering past my shoulder, trying to see if she could catch me out.

  “He will!” I said. “He will! Tomorrow m-morning. He said!”

  “He’d better,” said Ms Devine. “Or else! Just make sure he gets the message.”

  With that, she swished back up the steps. I could tell that she had “had it up to here” as Mum would say. Meaning, if she’d had a frying pan to hand, she would most probably have thrown it. Dad gets you like that. I shouldn’t be surprised if there aren’t people all over E
ngland that would like to throw frying pans at him. Except why stop at England? People all over the world. All wanting to throw frying pans. I would quite like to have thrown one myself, if there had been one around, though I think, probably, I was more anxious than cross. Dad had gone and upset Ms Devine! He obviously owed her loads and loads of rent, and didn’t have enough money to pay it. I had visions of the police coming round and arresting him. Of me and the Afterthought – and Titch – being thrown on to the street, without any money to get back home.

  “Dad!” I rushed across to the bedroom. “That was Ms Devine! She said to tell you that you’d better pay the rent, or —”

  “Or what?” squeaked the Afterthought.

  “Or else!” I said.

  “Or else?” The Afterthought’s voice had gone all quavery. “What does she mean?”

  “She means she’s going to kick up,” said Dad. “The woman is a menace! She obviously has a very small, grasping mind. Well, there’s only one thing for it… the time has come to move on. Don’t worry!” He held up a hand. “I’ve been expecting it. I have it all under control. Everything taken care of, no need to panic. Life’s a big adventure, eh?”

  He grinned, and chucked me under the chin. I smiled, uncertainly.

  “Are we going somewhere?” said the Afterthought.

  “Later,” said Dad. “When it’s dark. Let’s eat first. Come along, mother!” He pushed me back into the other room. “Where’s our din-dins?”

  I remember that evening as being very strange. After we’d eaten dinner, we all settled down to watch television, like nothing was any different from usual. I kept trying to find out from Dad what he was planning to do, where he was planning to take us, but he just shook his head and said, “It’ll all work out, don’t worry.” But I couldn’t help worrying! At one point Dad said, “You did bring your passports, didn’t you?”

  “Dad, we’re not going abroad!” I said. He’d originally told us to bring them in case we might make a trip over to France. Mum had said, “You’ll be lucky!” and up until now Dad hadn’t mentioned anything more about it. “We’re not going to France?” I said.

  “Oh, just a day trip, maybe,” said Dad. “I don’t know, I haven’t decided. But we’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Because of her upstairs?” said the Afterthought.

  “Not just her,” said Dad. “She’s nothing. She’s rubbish! I can handle her. But there are… other people. Bad people. People that have got it in for me.”

  “You mean, like they’re… after you?” I quavered.

  “After me,” said Dad. “Yes! But don’t worry! They’ll never find us. I’ve got it all in hand. Big adventure, eh?”

  This time, I only managed half a smile, just crimping my mouth at the corners. I wished I could ring Mum! I asked Dad again for her number, but he said, “Stephanie, for heaven’s sake! Now is not the time.”

  “Dad, please,” I said.

  “Stephanie, did you hear what I said? Now is not the time!”

  “But, D —”

  “STEPHANIE!”

  Dad never shouted at us. Never. So I knew at once that this was serious. It made me even more desperate to ring Mum, but I didn’t dare ask him again.

  “Steph, I’m sorry,” said Dad. “I didn’t mean to be cross, sweetheart! But you must understand that there’s a time and place for everything, and now is quite definitely not the time to go bothering your mum. What could she do, over there in Spain? You’d just worry her half out of her mind. No! Let’s get ourselves settled first.”

  “Settled w-where?” I said.

  Dad tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “Secret venue. Trust me! I’ve got it all worked out.”

  Far from making me feel better, this just made me feel worse. Since when did Dad ever have anything all worked out?

  “When are we going?” said the Afterthought.

  “When I say and not before,” said Dad. “The less you know, the better.”

  “Why?” said the Afterthought.

  “Because I say so, that’s why!”

  “Is it so we won’t be able to tell them anything if they catch us?”

  “If who catch us?” I said.

  “The people that are after us!”

  “No one’s after you,” said Dad. “It’s me they’ve got it in for, not you. Now just sit down and keep quiet. Read a book, or something. Watch the telly!”

  We watched television right through till nearly midnight. The Afterthought had long since fallen asleep, curled into a corner of the sofa with Titch. I was too worried to sleep. I didn’t quite know what was going on, but whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t anything good. When Dad said people were after him, I didn’t think he meant people with frying pans, and I didn’t think they were after him simply because he had got up their noses. I remembered the day he had shown us his wad, a great fistful of money. I couldn’t help wondering where it had all come from – and where it had all gone. I didn’t think Dad would have stolen it; I didn’t think he was a thief. But it was very peculiar how he could have all that money one day, and none the next. What could he be doing with it?

  And then I thought of Mum’s cooker money, and the way Dad had lost it all on the horses. I thought of the time he had taken us out for a champagne dinner, when he had won money on the horses. And I knew, I just knew, with horrible certainty, that Dad hadn’t been going to work all those times, he’d been going to the race track, or to the betting office, and now he had done something really stupid and upset some really bad people, and they were coming after him, and we were all in danger. Big adventure, eh? But I don’t think I’m a very adventurous sort of person, because all I wanted was to be back at home with Mum, safe and sound in Nottingham.

  At midnight, Dad switched off the telly and said, “Right, girls! This is it… time to go. Wake up, sleeping beauty!”

  He told us both to pack all our stuff and make ready to leave. The Afterthought was worried about Titch.

  “He hasn’t got a carrying case!”

  Dad said not to bother about a carrying case, just put him in the car and keep an eye on him, but the Afterthought wouldn’t. She said it wasn’t safe, he could escape and get run over. Dad made impatient clicking noises with his tongue, but the Afterthought can be stubborn. When she digs her heels in, there’s no moving her. Dad knew this. He said, “Oh, for God’s sake!” and snatched up a cardboard box that we had once brought groceries home in. “Punch some holes in this and shove him inside. And be quick about it!”

  But the Afterthought wouldn’t be hurried; not where her precious kitten was concerned. I can’t say I blame her. I helped her make some air holes, and settle Titch inside, and then we bound it round with a belt to make it secure. Dad, who was fretting and fuming at the door, said, “All right, all right, that’ll do! Let’s get moving.”

  He told us to go up the steps “like little mice” and open the car “as quiet as can be” He practically threw us into the back, all higgledy-piggledy with our bags and packages. He said we’d stop when we got out of town and transfer stuff to the boot.

  “There’s no time right now. We have to get away!”

  “We’re not going to run out of petrol, are we?” I said.

  “No, we’re not,” said Dad. “Don’t be cheeky!”

  I wasn’t being; I was genuinely frightened. I imagined all the bad people coming after us in fast cars, with guns, and us suddenly grinding to a halt as we had before. But this time, it seemed, Dad was prepared. He had obviously been planning his getaway and had filled up the tank in readiness.

  “I told you… trust me! I know what I’m doing.”

  I wished I could believe him. I wished I could speak to Mum! But I couldn’t, and there was nothing I could do.

  We drove and drove, all through the night. The Afterthought went to sleep again, and after a bit I slept, too. I’d meant to stay awake and watch where we were going, but in the end I couldn’t stop my eyes from closing. When I opened them a
gain, it was just getting light.

  “Are we here?” said the Afterthought.

  “We’re here,” said Dad. “Now, I want you to be very quiet or we’ll wake people up. Just remember, it’s still early. OK?”

  We nodded.

  “OK! Grab your stuff and let’s get you indoors.”

  We staggered out of the car and followed Dad up some steps to a block of flats. I wanted to ask where we were, but I didn’t get a chance. Dad had pressed the intercom and a man’s voice was crackling at us. “Daniel? That you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” said Dad.

  There was the sound of a buzzer, and Dad pushed the door open and shepherded us through, into an entrance hall. There was a lift, but Dad took us up the stairs. At the top of the first flight a man was waiting for us. I have tried and tried to remember what he looked like, but I only just saw him the once; and, besides, everything was so weird and confusing, and I was still half asleep from the drive.

  The man asked Dad if everything had gone OK, and Dad said yes, fine. He said he would just get me and the Afterthought bedded down, then go and see to the car, but the man said to give him the keys and he would see to it. I don’t know what he meant by “see to it” but it didn’t seem to be there any more after that. Not as far as I could tell, though I really couldn’t tell very much.

  We didn’t go out again for the next few days.

  WE LIVED IN this one room. It was a bedroom, and at least it had a double bed, which was something to be thankful for. Me and the Afterthought shared the bed; I don’t know where Dad slept, but I think it was on the sofa, outside, because once when I went to the bathroom I saw the cushions all rumpled, and a dent in one of them like a head had been lying there.

  The only times Dad would let us leave the bedroom were if we needed to go to the loo, and then we had to ask him first. I think he wanted to make sure that we didn’t bump into anyone. We weren’t ever allowed into the rest of the flat – in case, I suppose, we poked around and saw something we shouldn’t, like a name and address, or telephone number, or something – so we never got to see the man again. The one who’d met us on the stairs.