‘Oh, lovely!’ said Tricia from the other side of the bed. ‘She's done well, Celia, hasn't she?’
Mum's lips moved in a smile. Yes, she blinked.
That's how she communicated: blinking. Once for yes, twice for no. You could do the alphabet too, apparently, but that took a while.
I looked down and shoved the paper away, crumpling it in my bag. Tricia kept smiling at me, and my chest felt like an anvil was sitting on it. ‘Yeah, Mrs Shipton says I've really improved.’
Yes, blinked Mum again. Which I guessed meant fantastic, well done, I'm so proud of you. I hoped so, anyway. I kept talking for almost half an hour, telling her everything I could think of that would make her happy.
I even managed to laugh once or twice.
Angel Wishes
That night I stood staring into the fridge, leaning my temple against the cool plastic door. No matter how long I stood there, it didn't look any better. Three packs of bacon. Two packs of sausages, two measly cartons of eggs . . . barely enough for breakfast over the weekend, and then that was it.
And I didn't have any more money.
‘Should I get more bacon from Mum?’ Marcus was hovering at my elbow, looking worried.
‘No, she'll start wondering what's going on. We'll just have to – to figure it out, somehow.’
Marcus glanced at the scanty contents of the fridge. He started to say something, and then thought better of it.
The fridge door made a sucking noise as I shut it. Think, Sadie, think! I needed money, and fast. The thing was, most people made a reservation before they came, and sent a cheque for a deposit. And then once they got here, they usually wanted to write a cheque for the rest of it.
We had got seven cheques by then, totalling over two hundred pounds, which sounded fantastic. But even though I could deposit them into Mum's bank account, no problem – I had dropped by Brixham Building Society after school on Thursday – I couldn't get hold of the money afterwards, because Mum's bank card was lying on a beach in the Canaries. It was like sending money into a black hole.
I let out a breath, and scraped my hair back with both hands. ‘Maybe – maybe I could get some of the guests to pay cash when they check in.’
Marcus twisted up his face. ‘Maybe . . . but people don't like paying cash very much. If they don't pay by cheque, then they like using their credit cards, because then they can get air miles and special offers and things like that.’
‘Hang on . . .’ I muttered, staring at him. ‘Marcus, that's it!’
‘What? What?’ He ran after me as I bolted into my bedroom.
When I was eleven or so, I went through this stage where I thought I might be artistic, and I still had some poster board and markers left over. I dug them out of my wardrobe, and found a sheet of white A4 cardboard.
‘ Sa-die . . . what are you doing?’
In neat red letters, I wrote, Ask about our special offer! I handed the sign to Marcus. ‘Put that in the front window, OK?’
‘What special offer?’ His nose wrinkled as he squinted at the sign.
‘The one that's going to buy breakfast for us, with any luck.’
Marcus looked doubtful, but he went and put the sign up. The white square looked very small against the window. Staring at it, I crossed my fingers and kissed them. Dad used to call it an ‘angel wish’.
Not that I believed in angels, but I'd take any help that was going.
Rate of Fall
The weekend was a complete holiday after all that I had been doing – two whole days when I didn't have to try to get back to school on time after lunch. Doing up the rooms was simple when I didn't have to race about like an Olympic runner.
It didn't last long, though. It was Monday again before I knew it, and then I was running again. Even once I got to school, I still had to run – Miss Fitch, our PE teacher, had everyone outside doing timed sprints in the sizzling heat that afternoon. She was obsessed with ‘healthy competition’.
I had run a really good time when she last timed us doing the sprints, back around Easter, so I was one of the first to go. With the sun streaming down on me, I pounded down the field as fast as I could, and Miss Fitch clicked her stopwatch.
‘Sadie, you've improved your best time by four seconds; well done! Have you been practising?’
‘Oh – not really, miss.’ Just panicking on a regular basis.
As the others did their sprints, I sat cross-legged on the warm grass a little way away, and carefully pulled Hannah's science homework out of my bag. Taking out a pen, I started to copy out her answers into my book.
Explain three ways that outside forces can affect an object's rate of fall. Weight can affect an object's rate of fall, because when something is heavier, it—
A shadow fell over my exercise book. Snapping it quickly shut, I looked up.
‘Hi.’ Milly sat down beside me on the grass. ‘I thought you were into this sort of thing.’ She pointed over to where some people were running extra sprints for fun – Chris DeBacca and that lot.
‘Yeah, I just had some homework to do.’ I shoved my exercise book deep into my bag, hoping that Hannah's name wasn't showing.
‘Well, don't let me stop you.’ She swiped at a strand of hair that had come loose from her clasp.
‘That's OK; I'll do it later.’
She redid her ponytail, scraping her thick hair back with both hands. She glanced over at me as she refastened it. ‘Why do you keep copying Hannah's homework?’
I struggled to sound normal. ‘I don't. What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, Sadie. I've seen you do it loads of times.’ She leaned back on the grass, crossing her ankles.
‘What, are you watching my every move now?’ I forced out a laugh. ‘Anyway, you're mad; I don't copy from Hannah.’
Milly's eyes were very clear and grey in the July sunshine. ‘Sadie. I don't care if you copy, OK? I'm not going to turn you in or anything. I just wondered why you do it, when you're miles cleverer than Hannah is.’
I gaped at her. ‘You're insane! I'm not cleverer than Hannah.’
‘Sure you are. Have you ever talked to Hannah? She's about as interesting as a damp sponge.’
‘Of course I've talked to her! Have you seen my marks?’
She shrugged. ‘Marks aren't everything.’
‘Well, you could fool me.’
Milly sat quietly on the grass, watching me. ‘Anyway, I bet you could do a lot better if you wanted to. Maybe you're just not trying hard enough.’
Oh, God, not that again. ‘You know, if I had a pound for every time someone's told me that, I could fly to Tahiti and lounge on the beach for the rest of my life! I mean seriously, I could even afford someone to follow me about and carry my towel for me.’
Milly shook her head, half smiling to herself.
‘What?’ I snapped.
‘Sadie, no one with your sense of humour could be thick, OK? It's, like, scientifically impossible.’
Miss Fitch's voice floated to us from across the field. ‘Faster! Come on, pick up those feet!’
I swallowed hard. ‘Well . . . well, then explain why I'm so crap at school, if you think I'm so clever. Because I do try. I try really hard, and I still get pathetic marks.’
Milly squinted her eyes up, nodding slowly. ‘Now that's interesting.’
‘Oh, please continue, Sherlock.’
She sat up and crossed her legs. ‘Well, you're definitely not thick. So if you try but still can't get good marks, there must be a reason for it.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don't know; maybe you have dyslexia. Or maybe you just try too hard.’
I snorted. ‘You can't try too hard.’
‘Sure you can, if you're getting all wound up over it. Like, I used to take piano, and I was awful at it. And I had to play at a recital, and I practised so much that I practically made myself sick, and then when I got out on stage I just froze. Dad said if I had just relaxed and had fun, I would have done a mi
llion times better.’
The casual way she said ‘Dad’ was like a fish-hook in my heart. I looked down, plucking at a blade of grass. ‘You can't relax and have fun with schoolwork, though.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Can't you? Why not, then?’
I opened my mouth to answer and then shut it again, thinking of the hours and hours I had spent struggling at my desk, trying to get the answers right, knowing they were completely wrong. And Mum saying, Sadie, come on, you're not concentrating.
Fun. Right. She was from a different planet. Tearing the grass in two, I threw the pieces away and stood up.
‘You just can't, that's all,’ I said.
Our Sadie
There were only a couple of people left to do sprints by then, with the rest of the class all milling about and watching. I went over to the side of the field and stood with Hannah and Tara. Alice was there, too, watching as Jan ran her sprint. Everyone was laughing, cheering her on.
‘What were you talking to Milly about?’ asked Tara.
I applauded with the others as Jan huffed her way past Miss Fitch, her round cheeks red. ‘Oh, nothing. She just came over and sat with me.’
Alice glanced over at me. ‘You looked really serious, the pair of you. You were talking for ages.’
Hannah nudged her. ‘Yeah, they have so much in common – Sadie and Milly!’
The three of them started laughing, looking at me with shining eyes like they expected me to join in. Ooh, yes, I'm just so bwainy! But it felt like my chest had turned to stone.
‘What do you mean?’
Hannah stopped laughing abruptly, looking surprised. ‘Well, just that – you know. Milly's such a swot, and you . . .’ She trailed off.
‘I'm really thick, you mean,’ I said.
‘No, not thick – just—’ Hannah's face turned red.
Tara gave me a hug, rumpling my hair. ‘You're our Sadie and we love you,’ she said. ‘We wouldn't have you any other way.’
Special Offer
The woman who rang the doorbell that afternoon peered at me with cold grey eyes, clutching a black leather handbag with both hands.
‘Have you got any rooms? We're looking to stay for a week or two.’ She had a scattering of tiny white whiskers on her chin, and permed old-lady blue hair. She looked like she had spent the last seven hours going from B&B to B&B, comparing prices with her nose crinkled up.
My fingers tightened on the door. ‘I think we might have one. I mean, I'd have to ask my aunt; she's actually running things, but—’
‘And what's your special offer?’
I tried to sound casual, as if we had twelve people a day asking about it. ‘Oh, it's just that if you pay cash, you get ten pounds off a night.’
Her black pencilled-in eyebrows flew up. ‘Really! So that would be—’
‘Twenty pounds a night.’
She peered past me into the hallway, checking out the house. ‘Could I see a room?’
‘Sure.’ I glanced at her car, where I could see a spindly white-haired man sitting behind the steering wheel, reading a paper. Apparently he wasn't being invited in, as well. Maybe he didn't get an opinion.
Looking in the reservations book, I saw that Room Seven was empty, so I took her up to it. There was a massive wardrobe that Dad had sanded down and stained, and yellow flowered wallpaper. I drew back the cream-coloured curtains, and showed her the view of the ocean sparkling in the bay.
I could tell that she was trying not to look impressed. ‘Is it available until the twenty-first?’
Oh, God, if you pay cash, you can stay as long as you like! ‘Yes, I think so . . . I'll have to ask.’
Strangely enough, my phantom aunt said that yes, the room was available, and could I possibly be the one to check them in, since she was very busy doing something extremely important? So I gave them a registration card to fill out – Mr and Mrs Dumont, from Newbury – and handed them their key.
‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’ My smile was real, stretching across my face.
Mrs Dumont took the key from me. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I hope so, too.’
Intensive Bed-Making Class
‘Right.’ I ripped the duvet and sheets off my bed. Air currents rippled through the room, ruffling Marcus's hair.
‘Time for intensive bed-making class.’ I handed him the pile of bedding. ‘Look, it's really not hard – see, you just pull everything up as tight as you can . . .’
Marcus gripped the sheet with his fingers and tugged sideways. ‘Like this?’
‘Sort of . . . no, look, you pull up. Just pull it all up really tight. Come on, Marcus – if you get this I won't have to come home at lunch any more.’ I tried to laugh.
We worked on it for over an hour, but it was as though his hands just wouldn't do what they were supposed to. He really tried – twitching the covers this way and that, muttering to himself. But when he finished, my bed looked like an entire pre-school had been bouncing up and down on it.
‘Um . . . I think that looks OK, don't you?’ He glanced at me hopefully.
‘No, it doesn't look OK at all!’ I ripped the duvet off, feeling hot and sweaty. ‘It looks awful. God, Marcus, you're meant to be so clever! How come you can't make a bed?’
He shifted feet. ‘I don't know. It just . . . doesn't seem very logical.’
‘But—’ I stopped, seeing his face. ‘Oh, never mind! I'll just have to keep coming home.’
How, though? No matter how fast I ran, I still got back to school panting and late after cleaning the rooms. I was running out of excuses. I'd used the period story again that afternoon, on Mrs Green in English, and I felt sick every time I thought about it. I was sure to get caught soon, even though there were only eight school days left of term.
Would she and Mr Grange compare notes on something like that? Sitting in the staff room – Guess what, Sadie Pollock got her period today! Oh, did she really? That's funny, she got it last week, too.
‘Anyway, are we finished now?’ Marcus pushed his glasses up with a finger. ‘I want to show you something.’
I fluffed the pillow up, punching at the feathers with my fist.
‘ Sa-die . . .’
I sighed, and tossed my pillow onto the bed. ‘Yes, all right.’
Mr Brochu
Two minutes later Marcus was sitting in front of the computer, tapping away. ‘Right, now watch this.’
How come his hands were so agile on a keyboard, but turned to mush if you put them anywhere near a duvet? And then the screen flickered, and I forgot about making up the rooms.
‘Marcus, that's amazing!’
There was a photo of our house on a green background, with GRACE’S PLACE, BED & BREAKFAST EXTRAORDINAIRE! written under it.
Marcus grinned at me, his glasses shining in the light. ‘Ta-da! Your new website!’ He clicked through it, showing me photo after photo of the inside of the house. The stained-glass window. The garden. He even had a photo of Dad on there – the one that sat on our coffee table, where he was holding a paintbrush up and grinning.
I leaned forward, drinking it in. ‘This is fantastic! Did you really do it yourself?’
His skinny chest pushed out. ‘Sure, it's easy. It actually went live last night; I was just working out a few kinks. And look, they can even make their own reservations on it.’ He pointed the cursor at a dark green button that said Reservations. A second later a new screen came up, with a calendar page on it.
‘Oh, wow!’ he squeaked. ‘Someone's already made a reservation for Friday week! Look – Mr and Mrs John Brochu.’
A feeling like a slow-motion car crash rocked through me. ‘Marcus . . . did you check the reservations book first?’
He blinked. ‘Um . . .’
I grabbed up the book, flipping through it, and groaned. ‘Here, look – we're already completely full that Friday night; we've got a hen party coming to stay!’
‘A what?’
‘A hen party. It's like a part
y before a wedding – look, you'll just have to tell Mr Brochu that he can't come; we don't have any rooms.’
Marcus bit his lip, looking at the screen. ‘Well . . . what about your mum's room?’
My teeth clenched. ‘We are not using my mother's room, Marcus. Forget it.’
‘But it's just sitting there empty. It might be empty for months and months.’
I put the reservations book back onto the coffee table, trying to hide the fact that my hands were shaking suddenly. ‘Well, we're still not going to use it, end of story.’
‘That's not very logical of you, Sadie.’
‘I don't have to be logical!’ I snapped.
‘But you have a room! A completely vacant room, with no one in it for ages. The professional thing to do would be—’
‘Marcus, stop it! Just write to Mr Brochu and tell him, all right?’
Heaving a huge, martyred sigh, Marcus swung the chair back towards the screen and started typing while I read over his shoulder. ‘ Dear Mr Brochu . . . We are very sorry, but . . .’
‘That's good,’ I said finally. ‘Tell him to ring if he wants to come on a different date.’
Marcus typed the words in, then clicked the mouse to send the email. He frowned, and clicked it again.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Um, I'm not sure . . .’ click, click, click. ‘ The email doesn't seem to be responding. It's, like, hung up or something.’
‘ Mar-cus . . .’ I said threateningly.
‘No, hang on.’ Tapping the mouse. ‘There, it's gone.’
‘Are you sure? Are you positive?’
‘Yes, I'm sure! He's not coming now, even though you have an empty room he could stay in.’ Marcus switched the computer off and stood up, looking like a cat who'd had a mouse taken away from it. ‘And I have to go home now.’
I grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back down. ‘No way. Not before you take off that reservations thing.’
His jaw fell open. ‘But it took me ages!’
‘Marcus, I don't care. If guests can book rooms when we don't have any rooms, it's not exactly a good thing, is it?’
Breakfast at Sadie's Page 8
