‘I’m going to need to drive you back in a bit,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I reply, sitting up too quickly, the blood rushing to my head as I grope for my abandoned flip-flops with my toes.
‘Before I do though,’ Dad says, his eyes focused on the snow globes above my head, ‘I need to talk to you about our plans for half term.’
‘I’ve been doing some research actually, Dad,’ I say. ‘And I really want to go to the Natural History Museum. They have this really cool wildlife photography exhibition on.’
Dad hesitates, raking his hands through his wiry, dirty-dishwater brown hair – pretty much the only physical trait I inherited from him. That’s when I know our annual October half-term trip to London – literally the only time I get Dad to myself – is officially off.
‘I’m really sorry, Rosebud, but we’re going to have to postpone,’ he says. ‘It’s mine and Mel’s anniversary in November, and you know what a special place Disney is for us’ – he nods up at the snow globes – ‘well, we thought it would be nice to do a trip with Izzy and, the thing is, half term is our only real option.’
‘But you’ve been to Disney loads of times.’
The mantelpiece downstairs is littered with photos of the three of them cuddling up to Mickey and Minnie in the Florida sunshine.
‘Not to the one in Paris.’
‘Right.’
‘I would have offered for you to come along too, but I know how you hate all that stuff.’ He glances up at the snow globes again and rolls his eyes. I can tell he’s trying to be conspiratorial with me, but I’m not in the mood to play along.
Dad reaches out and smooths down my slept-on hair. I just about resist the urge to slap his hand away. I’ll only be accused of ‘attitude’ again if I do.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘We’ll go another time …’
‘Whatever.’
Dad sighs. ‘Please don’t be a brat about this, Rosie.’
‘What about Izzy? She’s been behaving like a massive brat all day!’
‘It’s her birthday. And please don’t call her a brat.’
‘Why not? You just called me one. Or is it one rule for me and a different rule for Izzy? Or is that a stupid question?’
There’s an anger-charged pause. I can practically see it crackling in the air.
‘I’m not getting into this now,’ Dad says briskly. ‘Meet me downstairs in ten minutes. It’s time I dropped you home.’
I wait until he’s closed the door behind him before letting the furious tears fall.
7
‘Ro, is that you?’ Bonnie calls as I make my way through the kitchen.
Of course it is, I want to yell. Who else is it going to be?
‘Ro?’ Bonnie repeats in a slightly shriller tone.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ I yell back.
‘Can you come in here, please?’
I sigh. All I want to do is go upstairs, watch YouTube and stuff my face with the fat slice of birthday cake Melanie pressed into my hand as I was leaving.
‘Ro!’ Bonnie calls out again. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes!’ I shout back. ‘Just give me a second, will you?’
I pick my way through the kitchen and hallway and push open the living-room door.
‘Look what’s on,’ Bonnie says, her eyes shining. ‘Our favourite.’
I look at the TV. The opening credits of The Sound of Music are frozen on the screen.
‘It started a bit ago,’ Bonnie says. ‘So I put it on and paused it for you.’
‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood,’ I begin.
Bonnie’s face sags with disappointment.
‘It’s just that it’s quite a long film,’ I add.
‘It’s only half seven,’ Bonnie points out. ‘It’s not like you’ve got anything to get up for in the morning, is it? And I thought we could make a night of it and order Chinese or a pizza or something. Or I could nip out to the chippy?’
She looks so hopeful, her hands wedged under her thighs, her lips pressed together in anticipation of my answer.
I glance back at the TV. It’s ages since I last watched The Sound of Music. We have the DVD somewhere although I wouldn’t have a clue where to start looking for it. When I was little, we’d sing along with all the songs, Bonnie doing the Maria bits while I multi-tasked as all seven of the von Trapp children. Cue a jolt of nostalgia so potent it makes my eyes water.
‘Oh, go on,’ Bonnie says, her voice warm and encouraging. ‘It’s been ages since we watched telly together.’
I think of the article about the mother and daughter in Wales.
‘OK, then,’ I find myself saying. ‘Let’s get fish and chips though. It’s cheaper.’
‘Whatever you like,’ Bonnie says, jumping up out of her chair.
While she’s gone, I carve a space out for myself in front of Bonnie’s chair. As I push aside a heap of old newspapers, my eyes fall on this week’s TV magazine. The Sound of Music is circled in red pen. The start time was 3 p.m. Hours ago. Has Bonnie had the TV paused all this time? The thought makes me ache with sudden affection for her.
That’s the thing about Bonnie. One minute she can make you so angry you want to chuck something at her head, the next she’s breaking your heart.
She returns a few minutes later with a portion of cod and chips for us both, two slices each of thickly buttered bread, two battered sausages, two pickled onions, each almost the size of my fist, and two cans of fizzy drink. It’s far too much food but Bonnie seems so excited I bite my tongue and don’t comment on it.
‘Ready?’ she asks, once we’re settled with our food on our laps.
‘Ready.’
Bonnie presses play, and within seconds the room is flooded with the familiar score, making my heart swell.
Quickly, I’m sucked into the story I know so well, the chaotic living room with its bags and boxes and piles of rubbish slowly melting away. Although I can’t quite bring myself to sing along the way I used to, I can’t help but hum and tap my foot during the musical numbers.
As the von Trapp children warble ‘So Long, Farewell’, I set aside my tray and nestle into Bonnie’s legs. Behind me, Bonnie wipes her greasy fingers on a length of kitchen roll and loosens my hair from its long plait.
‘This OK?’ she whispers.
I nod.
Bonnie begins to play with my hair, the way she used to back in the days when we still watched television together on a nightly basis, raking her fingers through the length and massaging my scalp, somehow managing to be both firm and gentle at the same time. It’s been so long since it last happened, I feel like I’ve just stepped out of a time machine – back to when Bonnie and I were a team; back when she made every day an adventure. Like the day she woke me up before dawn and drove us to Alton Towers so we were there when the gates opened, or the time we made a den in the living room and spent the entire weekend huddled inside it, living off crisps and pick ’n’ mix. It feels like another life now, another Bonnie and Ro.
‘How was the party?’ Bonnie asks during one of the quieter scenes.
‘Fine,’ I say, my shoulders tensing slightly.
‘It’s just that you looked a bit upset when you first came in.’
‘Did I?’
I’m surprised Bonnie noticed. She seems to spend most of her time completely blind to everything around her, me included.
‘A bit, yes,’ she says. ‘Everything OK?’
I’m torn. Part of me wants to tell Bonnie about the cancelled half-term trip. I’m worried she’ll gloat about it though (Bonnie – one, Dad – nil). Another bigger part of me just wants to forget the whole thing.
‘It was just a bit full-on,’ I say eventually. ‘Lots of kids being loud and annoying … Which reminds me, I have cake. Do you want some?’
‘Did Melanie make it?’ Bonnie asks.
She says ‘Melanie’ in a spot-on imitation of Melanie’s voice. Even though she’s only met Melanie once, she has her babyish
delivery down perfectly and I can’t help but smile.
‘No. She ordered it online, I think. From somewhere fancy.’
‘I bet she did. Go on, then, let’s have a taste.’
I retrieve the piece of cake from my bag, unwrapping it from its napkin and passing half to Bonnie.
I take a bite of my piece. It’s annoyingly delicious – light and buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness.
‘What do you think?’ I ask.
‘Bloody horrible,’ Bonnie says. ‘You?’
‘Worst cake I’ve ever eaten.’
We burst out laughing, Bonnie’s husky guffaws blending with my bubbling giggles. It’s not especially funny, but laughing together feels so nice we keep the joke going for far longer than it really deserves. When it eventually dies out, Bonnie leans forward, looping her arms around my neck and kissing me on the top of my head, her breath warm and sugary. When she sits up, she leaves one hand resting on my right shoulder. After a few seconds, I reach up and place my left hand on top of hers. I hold on for the rest of the film, clinging onto the moment as tightly as I can.
8
The first few weeks of the summer holidays seem to last a lifetime. With no school to break up my day, the minutes creep by and the remaining weeks unfurl in front of me like an endless desert trek, the horizon bleak and unrelenting. Everyone knows the holidays are only worth getting excited about if you have friends and/or money, and I’m short on both. I try not to dwell on it – after all, there’s nothing I can do about either thing – but it’s hard not to feel down when there’s literally nothing to look forward to.
To make matters worse, it’s rained almost every day, confining me to the four walls of my bedroom or the local library. The only thing keeping me from going mad is the novelty of the new family new door.
It’s strange having people on the other side of the wall again. Terry was a creature of habit, spending the majority of his time in his living room, listening to Radio 4. The new family, although not especially noisy, are unpredictable in their movements, and for the first few days I’m thrown by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and doors slamming and toasters popping and a washing machine whirring.
I keep tabs on them as best I can, on high alert for any indication they might be about to lodge a complaint of some sort. They haven’t initiated any contact so far, but surely it’s only a matter of time before they get sick of living next door to us and express their dissatisfaction. Mostly, though, they keep themselves to themselves and barely give our house a second glance. I still can’t completely relax though, dedicating most of my available time to careful surveillance.
Two weeks in, I’ve pieced together the following details about our new neighbours:
1. Their surname is Hornby.
2. The younger boy is called Finn, the older boy Noah.
3. Mr Hornby drinks a lot of beer (Grolsch or Budweiser, according to the labels on the empty bottles in the communal recycling bin).
4. Mr Hornby sometimes goes out wearing a suit, always returning a few hours later, his tie loose, shoulders slumped. The rest of the time he watches football matches on a television set so huge you can probably see it from space.
5. They eat a lot of takeaways (mostly pizza, followed closely by Chinese, then Indian).
6. Noah occupies the room adjacent to mine (number 46 Arcadia Avenue has the exact same layout as number 48, only in mirror image).
7. Noah and his dad don’t get on.
‘Don’t you dare walk away from me while I’m talking to you!’ Mr Hornby is shouting.
‘I’ll do what I want,’ Noah yells back. His voice, although muffled, is raw with anger.
‘This is my house, and while you’re under my roof, what I say goes,’ Mr Hornby bellows.
His words are cut off by Noah slamming his bedroom door shut, so hard it makes my entire room shake.
It’s a predictably wet Friday afternoon and I’m in my bedroom watching an old episode of Blue Planet II on my battered laptop. I press pause, freezing a pod of bottlenose dolphins in mid-air, and scramble over to the wall. A few seconds later, the music kicks in – hardcore heavy metal. It never lasts for long. I know the drill by now – after a couple of songs, the volume will be turned down to an acceptable level and replaced with something a little less shouty, something with acoustic guitars and mournful lyrics and an air of tragedy.
I wait, ear pressed against the wall. I can hear the floorboards creaking as Noah paces back and forth, and the squeak of his bed as he sits down. And then, the gentle thump of his head against the wall. I can picture him perfectly, his head tilted towards the ceiling, his long legs dangling off the edge of his bed. I shift my position so I’m mirroring him, the only thing separating us a wall that feels flimsy and impenetrable at the exact same time, Noah’s pain and anger seeping through the layers of plasterboard and mingling with mine.
*
The following week the weather cheers up so I can venture outside, taking long walks around Ostborough Park or through the tangle of woods on the eastern edge of town.
As I walk, I think about Noah. I don’t mean to. He just keeps popping into my brain, uninvited. I imagine bumping into him on the path and plan what I’d say and what he’d say back, the looks we’d give each other, the exact sound of our mingled laughter. Before I know it, I’ve scripted hours and hours of conversation in my head, complete with highly detailed stage directions.
A few times I see people I recognize from school. They’re never alone. It’s as if they only exist in groups. I pretend not to notice them and they do the same. Or perhaps there is no pretence and they just don’t notice me to start with. Sometimes I can go an entire day without speaking a word out loud. Some days, I’m OK with that. Other days my thoughts are so loud inside my head I want to scream.
When she remembers, Bonnie asks me where I’ve been.
‘To the park,’ I say.
‘Who with?’
‘Just people.’
Most parents would want names and details, but Bonnie never digs; she just nods, seemingly satisfied with my obvious lie, and gets on with what she’s doing. She disguises it well with her ever-changing roster of singer friends, but I get the feeling Bonnie’s as big a loner as I am.
Between my jaunts to the park and woods, I continue to spy on the Hornbys. One Thursday I almost have a heart attack when someone knocks at the back door in the middle of the afternoon, certain it’s going to be Mr Hornby ready to lodge his first complaint, or even worse, someone from Social Services with a lanyard and a clipboard, asking to speak to ‘Mrs Bonnie Snow’ in a stern voice. In the end though, it’s just a delivery person, dropping off the fruits of Bonnie’s latest Amazon spree. Ever since our evening in front of The Sound of Music, the atmosphere at home has been much more harmonious, but the sight of so many packages with Bonnie’s name on them breaks the spell in one fell swoop, resulting in a row so furious I’m still shaking with rage about it two days later.
‘You OK, babe?’ Jodie asks before our shift on Saturday.
‘I’m fine. Why?’ I ask, giving the biscuit tin a shake before opening it and rescuing a broken chocolate bourbon from the dusty bottom.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Jodie says, hauling herself on top of the fridge. Her skinny jeans have holes in them, exposing her knobbly pink knees. Someone had drawn a picture of a sunflower on her left one in black biro. ‘You just haven’t quite seemed yourself lately.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say automatically. ‘Just a bit tired probably.’
‘But it’s the summer holidays. Aren’t you having loads of lie-ins?’
‘I’m not very good at lying in.’
This is true. Thanks to the lock on my door, Bonnie’s hoard no longer encroaches on my space, but I still feel the weight of it all around me, and once I’m awake it’s impossible to comfortably loll in bed knowing what lies on the other side of my door.
‘I worry about you, you know,’ Jodie says.
�
�Me? Why?’ I ask, my heart fluttering the way it always seems to when people seem to take more than a passing interest in me.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jodie says. ‘You just seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes. Don’t you think, Moses?’
‘Think about what?’ Moses asks as he enters the kitchen, stretching and yawning, his T-shirt riding up to reveal his hairy belly.
Moses is a tall, skinny and impossibly cheerful man in his early thirties who juggles five different jobs in order to support his wife and four little kids.
‘I was just saying that Ro seems to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders,’ Jodie says. ‘Which is fine if you’re like fifty or something, but you’re not fifty, Ro – your life is just beginning.’
All I can do is shrug. The truth is, I feel more like one hundred and fifty some days.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ Moses says. ‘Our Ro here is an old soul.’
‘Thanks, Moses,’ I say, shooting him a grateful smile.
‘Old souls can still have a bit of fun every so often,’ Jodie says.
‘I have fun,’ I say.
Jodie puts her hands on her hips as if to say ‘Yeah, right’.
‘I do!’ I insist.
‘When? Like, what do you get up to with your friends?’
‘How do you mean?’ I ask, stalling for time.
‘You know, in your free time? Like after school and stuff.’
‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ I say. ‘The cinema, ice skating, shopping …’
As I recite my fictional list, I try to remember the last time I did any of these things, my skin prickling at the realization I’ve never done any of them with anyone other than Bonnie or my dad.
‘Listen, I’m not having a go at you,’ Jodie says, her hand on her heart. ‘All I’m trying to say is, life is short and there’s only a limited amount of fun to be had. You need to make sure you get out there and take your fair share.’
‘Noted,’ I say, tipping the remainder of my tea into the sink and reaching for my trolley.
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