by Beth Moran
‘Says her with her too-big glasses and shabby jeans,’ Sarah said. ‘You couldn’t say it more clearly if you had a sign round your neck: “Men beware– I’m not interested and deffo not interesting.’’’
‘What?’ I goggled at her.
‘It’s true.’ Kiko giggled. ‘You do look like the style you’ve gone for is “please don’t notice me.’’’
‘Well, how about you stop noticing me and get back to Sarah?’ I huffed. Too late – my new friends launched themselves across the sofa, ripped out my bun, stole my glasses and would have forcibly removed my jeans if I hadn’t loudly pointed out that this was about Sarah being attractive, not me.
‘It’s weird, though.’ Kiko looked me up and down. ‘You wear nice clothes but they just don’t really suit you. No offence.’
‘Personality-wise or your figure.’ Sarah nodded wisely.
‘No offence, but saying no offence at the start or end of a sentence doesn’t mean it isn’t offensive,’ I pointed out. ‘And the reason they don’t suit me is because I didn’t buy them.’
‘Eh?’ Sarah said, adding the picture I’d picked onto her profile.
‘Pretty much all my clothes are Zara’s rejects.’ I took another swig of wine.
‘Who’s Zara?’ Kiko asked. And that started a whole other conversation, so by the time we’d done that, and sent Sarah’s details shooting off into the worldwide web, it was way too late for me to walk home. This time, when enduring another taxi ride with Tezza, I paid in advance.
12
The Monday after the holidays, I spent the morning at Ellen’s, baking another cake. As I swung back out of the garden gate, Fisher slunk up in his car, eyebrows bristling through the open window.
‘Still here?’
‘Yes. And yes, Ellen knows I’m here, too.’
‘I meant still in Middlebeck.’
I started pushing the bike along the pavement, but he simply crawled along beside me.
Glancing over, I saw the crocodile smile again. ‘Can’t be pleasant, living without basic appliances.’
What would new Jenny say to an arrogant crocodile? I decided new Jenny wouldn’t bother.
‘Top-of-the-range kitchens in the flats behind the church. Dishwashers. Induction hobs.’
I clambered on the bike, pedals spinning as I raced along the empty pavement, while Fisher called after me. ‘I’ll do you a very nice deal on a part-exchange. But they won’t be available for long.’
Why was Fisher so keen to buy my cottage? And how did he know I had no appliances? Did Ellen know? Had she asked him to make me an offer? Didn’t she know I couldn’t begin to think about letting go of the only link to my family that didn’t involve me having to actually speak or otherwise interact with them?
I arrived home with the cake unharmed despite the angry and anxious thoughts sloshing around in my brain and disturbing my balance. Then I sucked in a big lungful of crisp forest air and knocked on Mack’s back door. Then, of course, knocked twice more before he answered it.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ His frown lessened slightly when he spied the tub in my outstretched hands.
‘Peace offering?’
Ooh, that made me bristle. ‘Why do I need to make a peace offering?’
He shrugged. ‘A month of your prickly attitude, constant banging and the gradual encroachment of your trash-heap onto my charming garden?’
‘My orderly stack is not encroaching on your raggedy, charmless garden.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Fine,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll move it.’
‘No need.’ He looked at me thoughtfully, and I’m sure a smile lurked somewhere behind those dark eyes. ‘Another cake’ll be more than adequate recompense. For now.’
I fidgeted on one foot, every inch of trampled pride urging me to hand over the cake and scarper. It had nearly won, when Mack suddenly narrowed his eyes.
‘Oh, no. What have you done now?’
‘What? Nothing! I’ve made you a cake. That’s all I’ve done!’
‘But if it’s not a peace offering, then why?’ He pulled his head back. ‘Are you trying to make this a thing, us sharing cake?’
I scrabbled for something to say that didn’t make me come off worse, yet again. Mack said nothing, no doubt happy to watch me dig myself in deeper.
‘I know I’ve not always been as nice as I could have been, and now my grandma’s hideous stuff is spilling across your land because I can’t afford a skip or a car, but, well, I’m working on it. And, um, in the meantime, it would be really helpful if, well, I was hoping you might…’
Mack leant on the doorframe, as if settling in for the night.
I stomped down the irksome, idiot part of me that wanted to join him, both of us leaning on the doorframe and staring at each other until morning.
‘Can I have your broadband code?’
‘You want to poach my broadband?’ That was definitely a smile! Right there, hiding in his beard. ‘Wait here.’
Before I could find the pluck to ask for favour number two, considerably larger than favour number one, he disappeared, returning a minute later with the code written on a scrap of paper.
‘If you go over my limit I’ll want more baked goods as recompense.’
‘Actually…’
He took the paper back.
‘Could I borrow your computer?’
There was a horrible silence while Mack stared at me. I held my breath and bit my lip to prevent jabbering. He had to know this was important, or I wouldn’t have asked. And the only reason I asked him, and not Ellen, or Sarah or Kiko, was because he was the only one who knew about my dire living conditions. Nobody under retirement age existed without Internet access. Or a smartphone. Nobody except losers with nothing of their own, who got fired, had to return their work phone and buy the world’s cheapest non-smart phone, for non-smart people who had made a total mess of things.
I think Mack must have seen something despairing in my eyes, because instead of laughing and slamming the door in my face, or joking about how I’d probably destroy his computer, he didn’t even roll his eyes. ‘When?’
‘Pardon?’
‘When would you like to borrow my computer?’
‘Um… now?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m working now.’
‘Then, um, whenever you aren’t working?’ Ugh. I hated this. Old Jenny, relying on favours and handouts.
‘I’m going for a run in a couple of hours. I’ll drop it round then.’
‘I could just use it here…’ I could just come in and explore the secret innards of your mysterious house… I was dying to know what kind of furniture and paint colour and photographs Mack had. Or whatever else it was that meant he never let me across the threshold.
‘What, and leave you loose in my fully functioning, disaster-free home?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll bring it round.’
I resisted the urge to argue. ‘Thank you for trusting me with your computer. I promise I’ll be exceptionally careful.’
I started to walk away, when he called my name. ‘Jenny.’
‘Yes?’
He held out his hands. What? Did he want a hug? Did I want to hug him back? I looked at those big, lightly tanned, toned arms and found out I did.
‘Oof.’ The tub I’d somehow managed to forget I was holding slammed into Mack’s chest. I’m not sure who said ‘oof’. I think it was both of us.
He blinked, reaching up to grab the tub. ‘You forgot to leave the cake.’
Yes. Of course. Um. ‘Enjoy!’ I trilled, and practically sprinted across to my open door and dived inside.
A mouse was sitting on the kitchen table, laughing at me. I threw a dishcloth and it ran back into the mess. I swear I could hear it still laughing from behind the skirting board.
Two hours later, as promised, Mack knocked on my door. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside, forcing me to back towards the table. I made a mental note to copy his
tactics when I returned the computer. Mack scanned the room, ignoring me.
‘I know. It’s still a shambles.’
He tipped his head to one side. ‘Are you keeping food down here now?’
‘I’ve bleached everything! And it’s all in plastic boxes to keep the mice out.’
‘Are they a big problem?’
‘No.’ I grimaced. ‘Just lots and lots of little ones.’
He kept looking around. ‘I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.’
‘Try neither. Try minding your own business!’ Here we go again… ‘Look, the table’s clean. Your computer will be fine.’
He nodded, placing it on the table. ‘How long do you need it for?’
‘Not long. An hour?’
‘See you in an hour, then.’ He winced. ‘Please be careful.’
I waited for him to leave, then settled myself at the table. A bad thought had crossed my mind. This was Mack’s computer. What if I accidentally stumbled across some personal information? A file? An Internet history? Glancing at the window, I clicked on the mouse pad and tried not to look at the icons coming up on the home screen, while sort of looking at them at the same time out the corner of my eye.
My attempt to resist temptation was futile. I had been set up as a guest user, with access to no files, no history, nothing.
Slightly peeved at the missed opportunity to do the right – and, let’s be honest, maybe the teeniest chance of perhaps the wrong – thing, I set about discovering who the car belonged to.
And then I searched Dougal and Duff.
That result hit me like a swift kick in the guts. Dougal and Duff were pleased to announce that Zara Birkenshaw was now a partner. Even more splendid and wonderful was her upcoming wedding to Richard Abernethy.
The big day would be 20 July, five months away. Would my sister invite me to her wedding?
If she did, would I go?
If I did, would I end up breaking her nose for a second time?
I guess I couldn’t blame them for not inviting me.
I’d stick to blaming her for stealing my boyfriend, getting me fired and kicking me out of her flat three days before Christmas instead.
A few minutes later, Mack staggered in, panting. I quickly shut the computer down. Taking a long swig from a water-bottle, he threw himself into a chair. ‘Did you get what you needed done?’
‘Yeah, but I can’t submit the form without a bill proving my address.’
‘Right.’ He picked up the laptop and left, denying me the satisfaction of telling him it was confidential when he asked what the form was for. I picked up the car maintenance manual I’d borrowed from the library, and pretended to read it. Having to wait a few more weeks before submitting the DVLA form to find out who owned the car simply gave me more time to learn about changing car batteries. Or, even better, I might have found the paperwork by then, saving the DVLA charge of two pounds fifty plus the price of a stamp. That could probably buy enough petrol to reach the village, which was nothing to be sniffed at.
I put the book down, heaved myself into the living room and opened another box.
13
The next Monday, I had a major work-related breakthrough. Which led to a second, far more revealing breakthrough. That breakthrough just about broke my heart.
The first thing was I got all five kids to school on time. With fifty spare seconds, to boot. That morning, I had been a machine. Toast, cereal, bags, outfits, lunchboxes, untangling myself from sea-monster net-trap, locating runaway caterpillar. Nailed ’em all.
I strode into the playground like a warrior. Head high, arms swinging, breath only slightly more puffed than usual. I shooed the triplets over to where their teacher stood waiting with a big thumbs-up, hugged Maddie goodbye, and then realised I’d forgotten to hand Dawson his PE bag.
Hurrying round to his classroom door, I found him not yet inside.
My heart stopped, right before it cracked.
A group of boys were clustered in a circle, girls dotted around them. That strange mix of ten-and-eleven-year olds, some looking almost like adults, others still childlike in comparison, round-cheeked with innocent eyes.
And Dawson, huddled by the wall. Eyes on the ground, clutching his rucksack strap for dear life. The kind of utterly alone you could only be when surrounded by laughing, noisy others. Desperate to be invisible, so no one would realise what a nobody you were. Desperate to be noticed, for just one person to acknowledge you existed.
The bell rang, and the children started pushing and jostling their way inside. A particularly tall girl slammed into Dawson, causing his head to smack, hard, into the brick wall. The girl shouted in annoyance, charging after the boy who’d knocked her. But not before she paused to throw a look of such contempt and irritation at Dawson that I cringed.
Dawson held back, clutching his head, face screwed up in pain.
He hadn’t uttered a sound.
I hurried down the path, but he jerked away, straightening his jacket.
‘You forgot your bag.’ I held it out, trying to stop my hand trembling.
He stared at the ground, face a rigid mask. ‘Thanks.’
‘Dawson, are you having problems with the other kids?’
‘No.’ He tried to sneer, but his voice shook worse than my hands.
‘Have you talked to your mum or dad about it?’
‘About what?’ He looked at me now, and I saw fear in his eyes, despite the defiant voice. ‘A kid bumped into me. It’s hardly a big deal.’
I nodded. Now wasn’t the time – or the place – to talk about it.
‘Okay. Well. You’d best get inside. It would be a shame to be late the one day we’ve made it on time.’ My smile was about as convincing as his denial.
He trudged to the door, turning back as he grabbed the handle. ‘You can’t tell them about this. They’ll only worry and fuss and end up making it worse. Promise you won’t tell them.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘Exactly! There’s nothing to tell.’
Oh, boy. What to do now? I looked at him trying so hard not to care, and knew exactly how he felt. I would have died rather than have my parents, or babysitters, or teachers, or anyone else full stop, know I had no friends. If I acted out of the upset charging through my bloodstream, I ran the risk of causing a load more trouble for a lonely, unhappy boy.
I took a deep breath. ‘I won’t say anything yet, if we can talk about it later.’
‘Please.’ His voice was a whisper. A fragment of heart snapped off and splintered my chest.
‘I won’t say anything without your permission.’ I wanted to hug him, press him tight against my middle and absorb some of that anguish, but I knew he’d crumble. ‘Go on. Shoulders back, chin up. Ignore them as best you can.’
Head down, shoulders slumped, he limped through the door.
It killed me inside because I had been that kid. Still felt I was that woman. I had scuttled through most of my life, every action an apology for inflicting my existence on the world. And during those dark nights after Oxford, when my broken soul had seemed to be plummeting down a bottomless pit of despair and hopelessness, I had at times considered that not existing was perhaps the better option.
And to see Dawson – clever, interesting, thoughtful Dawson, with a family who loved and cherished him, a home that was warm and bright and healthy – to see him cowed and hurting tore me up more than I could have imagined. I wanted to storm into that classroom, fists flying, to fight his corner.
By mid-morning I was wound up so tight I could barely think, so I decided some constructive destruction of rubbish was called for. It took an hour to build a decent-sized bonfire, piling up reams of ancient paperwork and then applying what seemed like dozens of matches to get things burning.
It was a perfect day for a bonfire – the late February air carrying a faint whiff of springtime, the gentle breeze whooshing smoke up into the blue sky, far above the treetops. I pulled my jacket hoo
d up, perching on Mack’s picnic bench while I sipped tea and wished I could send all of life’s trashy bits up and away into the atmosphere as easily as old magazines.
Early afternoon, Mack joined me, carrying two mugs of coffee. We watched in silence for a while, taking it in turns to throw another armful of paper on the fire every now and then.
‘Not working today?’ I asked eventually, in an attempt to stop freaking out about Dawson for at least a minute.
‘I am working.’
I swivelled to look at him.
‘I’m thinking. Sorting out some problems. Fires are a great focus for pondering, I find.’
‘I presumed you were making sure I don’t burn the forest down.’
‘That too.’
After another silence he asked, ‘Have you eaten lunch?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
He looked at me, face blank. ‘I’m getting a sandwich. If I make two that’s not me suggesting you can’t provide your own lunch. It just seems… neighbourly to not sit here scoffing my face alone.’
‘Thanks.’ Wow. How had we reached this place where a sandwich could be so complicated? ‘But I’m fine.’
Mack looked at me, face still inscrutable, for a beat before going inside. After pacing about the fire for far longer than it took to make a sandwich, watching it dwindle to glowing embers, I decided to survey the fire through the kitchen window instead.
Later, Ellen called. ‘Dawson’s been throwing up, so I’ve skived off my afternoon lectures.’ There was a loud crash followed by a wail in the background. ‘I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow and let you know what’s happening.’
‘Um, well…’ I groped about for something to say, how to say it.
Ellen misunderstood me completely. ‘I’ll still pay you, of course!’
‘No, you don’t have to do that, it’s not that, I…’
A much louder shriek. ‘Sorry, I really have to go, ’bye!’
I laced and unlaced my boots three times, certain the right thing was to tell Ellen face to face what I’d seen that morning. Yes, Dawson might not forgive me, but he was a child. He couldn’t see what was best for himself, could he?
