by Beth Moran
20
Later that week, I found Maddie’s head buried in a kitchen cupboard.
‘Maddie?’
She spun around, cheeks flaming, whipping her hands behind her back.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ Her eyes darted in every direction but mine.
‘Come on, what are you hiding?’ I stepped closer, and she bristled briefly before letting her shoulders sag in defeat. Slowly opening her hand, she revealed a cherry muffin, a banana and two chocolate biscuits.
‘You’re sneaking food?’
She nodded, miserably.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to say,’ she whispered, tears balancing on her eyelashes.
‘If you’re hungry, why didn’t you tell me? Sometimes when children are growing fast, they get hungry all the time. It isn’t naughty.’
‘Okay.’
‘But we need to make sure it’s good food that will fill you up and keep you healthy. Let’s put these biscuits back. If you’re still hungry after the banana and the muffin let me know.’
Peeling the paper case off the muffin, Maddie looked too miserable to eat it.
I gently propelled her to the window seat and curled up next to her before asking, ‘What’s going on?’
She shook her head, a teardrop tumbling down her cheek. ‘I don’t want to be a snitch.’
‘Okay.’ I thought about that. ‘Well, what if I guessed? That wouldn’t be snitching.’
‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘Definitely not.’
She nodded, picking crumbs off the muffin.
‘Was the food for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you eat your lunch?’
A shake, no…
And we carried on the yes/no game until I reached the last question, a bowling-ball of dread sitting heavy in my stomach.
‘Do you know why Dawson is eating your lunch?’
She shrugged.
‘I have to talk to him.’
Maddie looked at me, face aghast.
‘I’m not going to tell him off. But he might be in trouble. And even if he’s cross, it’s still the right thing to do. He’ll understand.’
Her mouth opened and closed in panic.
‘Trust me. It’ll be okay.’
I ignored Dawson’s long, irritated sigh when I came in his room and pulled up the beanbag again.
‘Who’s stealing your lunch, Dawson?’ I hoped he’d appreciate my direct approach.
‘Nobody.’ He scribbled furiously on the picture he was working on.
‘I’m going to sit here annoying you until we talk about it. The sooner you do, the sooner you can get back to Squash Harris.’
‘I can’t believe Maddie.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. I was surprised the pencil didn’t snap.
‘I caught her taking food. She’s nine. I’m a great interrogator. And it wasn’t hard to guess what’s happening.’
‘Yeah, but still. She’s broken the Cameron code.’
‘That may be. But what matters is why you’ve been doing it, not how I found out.’
‘You know why.’ He looked at me now, eyes blazing. ‘I shared her lunch because I’m starving. Because I don’t want to eat food that’s been spat on. Or kicked about. Or dunked in the toilet.’
‘Oh, Dawson. Why didn’t you say?’
He didn’t blink. He knew I knew why.
‘Is it one kid, or a few of them?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell Maddie I’m sorry and I’ll stop eating her lunch. So you can forget about it. I’ll have a bigger breakfast or something instead.’
But his entreaties were half-hearted. I suspected Dawson had reached his limit.
‘Dawson, there is a difference between not having friends, and people being actively mean to you. If this was Maddie, would you think it was okay for me to do nothing?’
‘I’ve only got three months left. If you tell Mum and Dad they’ll talk to school. Everyone will know.’
‘I can’t not tell them about this.’
‘They’ll be really upset.’ He pulled at his cheeks in distress.
‘That’s not for you to worry about. It’s part of being a parent. Families work together, share their problems, help each other.’
Well, families like the Camerons did, anyway. I couldn’t recall that being part of the Birkenshaw code.
We talked a little more about what had been happening, when it had started. The least worst way for us to tell Ellen. Apologising to Maddie.
It was a long, tough, heartache of an evening. I sat down with Ellen, Will and Dawson straight after dinner, almost drowning in the guilt of not having spoken up earlier. And by the time I’d put the other children to bed, they were still talking, weeping, hugging, listening. Will insisted I stay. I witnessed a masterclass in family life that night. Marvelled at how Will and Ellen spoke hope and encouragement to their son, even as they wiped their own tears away. Reminded him of who he really was – loved, precious, amazing. Told him how proud they were. That they would find a way through. That he could do it, he was strong and brave. Shared stories to help him know he wasn’t alone in going through this. Reassured him that good teachers knew how to handle bullying.
Eventually Dawson leant into his daddy’s chest and agreed they would speak to his teacher.
Ellen drove me home.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said as soon as we pulled away. ‘I really messed up.’
‘Yes,’ Ellen said. ‘And right now my heart’s very sore, so I’m pretty angry about that. It was stupid, and wrong, to keep this from us.’
‘I thought if I betrayed his trust on this… I thought he needed an ally. Someone impartial to talk to…’
‘He needed his parents to know what was going on so they could help him,’ Ellen replied, her voice sharp. ‘You knew we were worried sick.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘Honestly, Jenny. What were you doing, trying to be his friend, not the responsible adult?’
I sucked in some air, had to force my words past the lump wedged in the back of my throat. ‘I guess it was because I knew how he felt. And the worst thing I could have done was tell my parents. I don’t know if it’s my family that’s weird, but we never had a conversation like that. My whole childhood could be summed up as “pull yourself together, get over it and try harder’’.’
‘And you genuinely thought that’s how we would deal with this? After being with us for this long?’
‘I wasn’t thinking at all. I was feeling – sad and scared and wretched. I was remembering.’
Ellen was silent for a while.
‘You got bullied at school?’
‘And at home.’
We pulled up outside the house. ‘I’m sorry. That’s awful.’
I unbuckled my seat belt, gathered my things. ‘Ask Dawson about Squash Harris.’
‘Squash what?’
‘Just ask him. And thanks for the lift. And I am so, so sorry. Sorry this happened and sorry I made it worse. I’ll understand if you want to find a different nanny. Anyway. I hope it goes well with school tomorrow.’
As I skulked away, Ellen climbed out of the car and ran after me. I turned to her, half braced for a slap round the face, but instead Ellen wrapped her arms around me tightly, pressing her head against mine. ‘Forgiven. Forgotten. I’m sorry it took me this long.’ She squeezed me even tighter. ‘Thank you for loving my kids.’
I’ve never believed in angels. But if they did exist, they’d surely look a lot like Ellen Cameron.
Things chugged along fairly uneventfully for the next week or so. The roofers came and roofed. Dawson’s teacher started paying attention, so at the very least he got to eat his lunch in peace. I fumbled my way along, sorted and priced another load for the car boot sale. Played KerPlunk a hundred and twenty-two times with Edison. Lost a hundred and twenty-one times. Saw fleeting glimpses of my neighbour as he ran through t
he woods. Ignored the excellent excuses I thought up to knock on his door.
‘Urgh! How low the mighty New Jenny hath fallen!’ I railed at Mannequin Diana, resident relationship expert. ‘That is the worst, worst, WORST type of terrible thing to do. I might as well chain myself barefoot to the kitchen sink for the rest of my life if I’m going to play the helpless, hapless female to get a man’s attention. A married man.’
I seized another load of yellowing nighties from the chest of drawers and stuffed them into a bin bag. ‘Well, yes, I could just go and ask him if he wants to come over for a cup of tea. But we both know that time alone with Mack is not a good idea. No. The best thing to do is keep busy and concentrate on my real friends.’
Before I knew it, May had arrived, drab and grey compared to the earlier spring sunshine. But the lighter evenings meant cycling home in the daylight, and every day the forest seemed to burst with new life amongst the bluebells and cow parsley. Pheasants, squawking in the bracken, grey squirrels darting up the branches. One evening a fawn sprang across the path and vanished into the trees up ahead of me. Why had I ever thought chugging to work in a car, spewing out carbon emissions, would be preferable to all this?
I would soon find out.
21
I had an idea. It might turn out to be a completely rubbish one, but might just be better than doing nothing. While Will had been coming home early once a week to take Dawson to see his friends, I couldn’t bear watching Dawson drag himself to school every morning, eyes on the ground, his spirit drooping behind him. If he walked into his new school like that in September, things were only going to get worse. Dawson desperately needed a boost.
I had a boost-tastic idea.
I hoped.
But, for my plan to work, I needed a decent computer. Preferably one I could have regular access to that belonged to someone who didn’t know the Camerons.
For my plan to really work, I needed someone with hardcore, and quite possibly illegal, computer skills. The kind of skills a spy might possess.
I ended my three-week Mack-fast and knocked on his door.
Another two knocks later, he finally flung it open. His dark eyes were rimmed with red, hair standing up in every direction, beard bristling; he was wearing a sagging jumper and the most unflattering pair of tracksuit bottoms I’d ever seen.
My heart lit up like a firework, whooshing around my ribcage for a few seconds in a flurry of happy sparks.
‘Yes?’ he croaked out eventually, sounding as though he’d not said a word in those whole three weeks.
‘Can I come in?’
Mack frowned.
‘Or you could come to mine?’ I blurted. ‘I wanted to ask a favour, not for me, but for a ten-year-old boy who really needs a break.’
‘I’m in the middle of something. I have a deadline coming up and…’
‘Can I at least explain what it is and then you can say no? No pressure, I promise.’
That got me a cynical look.
‘Okay. Not much pressure. And you’re perfectly capable of resisting me.’ Whoops. That came out wrong. The warmth flooding my cheeks could save a fortune on heating bills. All I’d need was to keep remembering how Mack had straightened to attention, jaw locked, and I could keep the radiators off all year.
‘It’s not that big a deal,’ I gabbled. ‘And I don’t know who else to ask. No, scrap that. It’s a big favour and a big deal. Too big. It’s a stupid idea and I should never have thought of it. It’s just so damn hard not being able to help him. Sorry to have bothered you. I know you’re busy. Just pretend I was never here. Thanks. Bye.’
I scuttled away before humiliating myself any further. What on earth had compelled me to ask Mack for help?
Forty minutes later, while I was lying on the only available space on the living-room floor, making shapes out of the stains on the ceiling, Mack poked his head in through the doorway.
‘Wow. You’ve made progress.’ He nodded in approval. I scrambled to a sitting position, as dignified as I could manage in the limited space.
‘Or… not?’ he questioned. ‘Jenny?’
‘I’m trying to work out if you’re being sarcastic.’ I pushed my glasses up.
He grimaced. ‘I was trying to be friendly. Or, at least polite. And to answer your question.’
I waited. This was interesting. Mack’s hair was damp. He wore a clean sweatshirt and decent jeans. I was pretty sure he’d trimmed his beard. Looking at him, filling up half the room, I couldn’t actually remember what the question was.
‘Because I haven’t spoken to anyone apart from Sarah all week. Because you remind me that’s not a good way to live. Because your hare-brained schemes are the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all year. Because, contrary to what you have, quite justifiably, concluded, I don’t hate helping you out.’
Ah, yes, I remembered the question now.
He coughed. ‘And sitting there wondering what crazy idea you’ve come up with is preventing me from getting any decent work done.’
We let that hover in the air between us for half a minute.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I eventually said, way too fast and too loud.
‘Um, yes?’ He crossed his arms, uncrossed them again. Scratched his beard.
‘I can tell you all about it,’ I said, trying to squeeze past without touching him, then, realising this was impossible, backing off and gesturing to indicate he should go first.
Relocating to the kitchen helped, a bit. Mack didn’t seem to be sucking quite all the oxygen out of the air in there, and I could stand at a nice, safe distance while he leant against the worktop.
‘I did mean it about the house. It’s loads better.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it. It’s over three months and there’s still so much to do. And the more I clear out, the more I can see how much work needs doing. It wants gutting from top to bottom.’
Mack shrugged, accepting the mug I offered. ‘You’ll figure it out.’
‘Either that or I’ll snap one day while sorting through the millionth box of hideous tat and call Fisher. I mean, why feel loyalty or obligation to a house that belonged to a woman I never knew? Loyalty does not exactly run strong in my family. Mum couldn’t even be bothered to come and look at it.’
‘Because family is important. So is sticking to a commitment. Even one you made to yourself. Even when it’s tough.’
‘Is your family important to you?’ I asked, over the rim of my tea.
Mack cleared his throat. ‘So, what’s this favour you need, then?’
I took another slow sip.
‘Yes. My family is important to me,’ he huffed. ‘The favour?’
I told him about Dawson. And then I offered him Squash Harris, Episode One.
I dug out a packet of biscuits while he carefully turned the pages, eyes scanning every detail.
‘I thought you said he was ten.’
‘He is. Eleven in July.’
‘Are you sure he made this?’ He flicked back to the beginning, started again.
‘I’ve watched him draw it.’
‘Yes, but he could have got the idea from somewhere else, copied the characters, the storylines. Are you sure it’s all his own original ideas?’
I clicked through my phone onto the Middlebeck Primary School website. ‘This is his headmaster. And his class teacher.’ I scrolled down through the photographs. ‘That boy there, with the red hair, is Austin. Dawson’s cousin.’
‘He’s a genius,’ Mack muttered. Then he looked up at me, eyes sharp. ‘But what do you want from me?’
‘I want to put them on a blog. I think if I can get some people reading this, when Dawson sees the positive comments, it’s going to really help. And he can start secondary school with his head a little higher. But I need a proper computer with the right software. And I’ll have to regularly add on new editions, filter the comments and things.’
‘Why don’t you use the Camerons’ computer? Do it with t
hem?’
‘Because I’m scared it might backfire horribly. And because there’s no point having a blog if no one knows about it. I have less than ten contacts in my phone. I’ve never done social media. But if we can get the comic where people can see it, I’m trusting it’s good enough that word will spread.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Jenny, but I can’t help you with this. I don’t have the kind of contacts you think.’ Mack’s face was on lock-down again.
‘I want to hack into the school website and post a copy there. I figured your secret spy-type skills could do that?’
He blinked at me for a minute, before his eyes crinkled at the edges and he full-on smiled. ‘Jenny, I’m not a spy. Or a cop. Or a hacker. I have a boring job requiring minimal IT skills.’
‘Okay. But what if you had to tell me that, but really it was a cover? What if, you helped me set the blog up, and then an unknown, anonymous person left a rogue copy on the school website?’
‘If that happened, it wouldn’t be me. I’m sorry. And I can’t keep letting you have access to my computer. I do have confidential work on there of an utterly tedious nature.’
I clutched the mug tighter, trying to swallow down my disappointment.
‘That’s fine.’ I kept my voice steady. ‘It was a stupid idea anyway. Sorry for wasting your time.’ I was growing tired of Mysterious Mack. Whoever decided enigmatic men were attractive hadn’t lived next door to one.
He sighed. ‘Look, I do have some contacts who might help. Not hacking the school website, but proper marketing. If you let me have a copy I’ll see what they say.’
‘Who are your contacts?’ I asked, my words flat.
‘I can’t tell you.’ He paused, thinking. ‘But I can tell you I’m self-employed. I work primarily for a large company with a huge marketing department, producing customer-driven solutions to generate sales and maximise brand awareness through providing significant input into innovative products designed for worldwide distribution.’
‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘I get it. You have a completely boring job. I’ll get a photocopy done at the library. And, thanks.’
