Dale’s wheelchair has left muddy tracks through the foyer. José will be livid.
On the table is a postcard from Mira who is visiting relatives in Budapest with Flori. Jody smiles wistfully. She had hoped to see Flori grow, but of course it was right for Mira to return home to her family. If Jody had family she would have done the same. She will have to save up for those flights too, as the invitation to Albania is an open one.
She passes through the door into the stairwell, aglow with the colours of the stained-glass window. There’s a young man sitting on the stairs, drawing with pastels. He is so thin she knows it must be the recovering anorexic who has moved into Flat Ten. He’s absorbed in what he’s doing and only looks up when her shadow falls across the page. He starts and drops his crayon.
‘Sorry,’ she says, picking it up.
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m Benno.’
They shake hands. His fingertips leave coloured spots of chalk on her skin.
‘I’m Jody. Flat Twelve. We’re almost next-door neighbours.’
They talk about the logistics of the flats: the unreliable availability of hot water, the dodgy tumble dryer in the basement that shrinks socks, the ambulance that arrived in the middle of the night to take the woman in Flat Seven to hospital. Benno says he was lucky to get a flat in such a beautiful place and did she know the window was by Thomas Willement? For a moment they gaze at Jesus. His mild brown eyes gaze back at them. Willement was good, Jody thinks; she cannot look away.
‘Well, nice to meet you,’ she says, finally. ‘If you get bored, we’ll be outside picking runner beans for the next three hours!’
Benno laughs. ‘With these artist’s fingers? I’ll think about it.’
She goes upstairs and lets herself into the flat, dumping her bag and kicking off her shoes. She’s got time for a cup of tea.
She listens for the sounds of the church: the distant gurgle of plumbing, the heartbeat of the organist’s foot, the sighing of the wind around the spire, then she puts on the radio.
The kettle boils and she takes her tea to the table by the window. She used to think this view was terrible: looking down over the bins. But you don’t have to look down. You can look up.
Above the shabby flats opposite the gulls soar through the sudden afternoon sunlight, their backs ablaze with gold and red. She watches them a moment, wheeling through the blue, never to land, then she goes to get changed.
Abe
It’s cold and the wind’s whipping my jacket around like mad but I don’t go inside. I like the feel of the salt spray on my face and the boom when the ferry bucks through a wave. I’m standing at the front, right up by the chain, as far as they let you go, and I can’t help the feeling that if I look back I’ll see my da striding over the water to fetch me back.
Mam found me packing. I thought she’d try to stop me, or go and fetch my da from the prayer meeting, but she didn’t. She just stood in the doorway watching me stuff a few pairs of pants and socks and some toiletries into my case. She must have seen the mobile Pete gave me when he got his iPhone, sitting on top of the pile, but she didn’t say nothing. I didn’t take many clothes. When I can afford it I’m going to buy new ones. Tight ones that cling to my body: like a little tart. It’s not just girls that can be tarts, Daddy.
I met a man online who lives in Dublin. He’s older than me and I don’t fancy him much but he says he’ll put me up, help me find a job, get me on my feet. Like a real dad should. I’ll do whatever I need to to pay for it. I think I know what that’ll be, because one of the other boys showed me a video online.
‘Goodbye, Mam,’ I said.
‘Goodbye, Abraham.’ When she said it her lips hardly moved.
I’d left myself only a couple of minutes to spare before the bus left, but they were the longest moments of my life as I waited in the wind for my da to come striding down the slope.
Even as I got on the bus I didn’t believe it. Even as it pulled away and went rocketing down the motorway. Even as it clunked onto the ferry and the metal doors went down and the engines roared.
Still I was looking for him, not quite believing I’d made it.
I’ve not much to thank you for, Mary. And you’ve not much to thank me for – we were real bastards to each other, weren’t we? But this one thing, I’ll be grateful to you for my whole life.
You showed me it was possible to leave.
You laid a trail of white pebbles for me, and here I am following them. Da always said I was weak. Well, you’ve taught me to be brave, to fight for my dreams.
I know yours will come true. You were always clever and strong; you didn’t take any shit from Da even when you were little. I always admired you. Even when you were grassing me up, or whipping my arse with that belt. I hated you, but I admired you. I reckon you’ll be something really special. And I reckon that when you don’t have to fight to stay alive any more you’ll be a decent person.
I’d like to meet you then.
Seagulls have followed us all the way from Liverpool. Sometimes they’re high up in the sky like white confetti, other times they fly really low to the water, and you can see the rippled reflections of their bodies. If I came back as an animal I’d like to be a bird. But all that reincarnation guff is heresy, Da, isn’t it? When I die I’ll be gathered into the bosom of the Lord Jesus, eh? Hope he’s as hot as he looks in Stories for Young Believers. Big strong arms from carrying that bloody great cross, a decent tan, black wavy hair like Pete Goldring.
The ferry terminal comes in sight and I turn back to see if Da’s made it across the Irish sea yet.
A man on the other side of the ferry is watching me. He’s probably ten years older than me, short and stocky with a broad nose and a wide mouth. When I catch his eye I smile.
And then I laugh.
I am free.
I am free.
As the ferry starts to slow down a gull’s white wing skims the surface of the water beside us, throwing up an arc of spray that catches the sunlight, and for a moment I can see a rainbow.
Acknowledgements
As ever, outpourings of gratitude to my agent Eve White, for her constant support, advice and championing. Without her TATTLETALE would never have been written. Also thanks to her trusty sidekick, Kitty Walker, who answers my pedantic questions with promptness and grace.
The team at Trapeze are a joy to work with. Along with her searing narrative insight, my editor, Sam Eades, seems to possess the energy of a five-year-old mainlining E-numbers. With epic publicist Ben Willis beside her, the world will know my name.
Thanks also to those working so hard on TATTLETALE’S behalf behind the scenes at Trapeze, including Laura Swainbank in marketing, Susan Howe and the rights team, Rachael Hum (who when we last met was sucking her thumb but now is, apparently, rather good at export sales), Ruth Sharvell in production, Loulou Clark in design, Sara Griffin and Katy Nicholl.
On a personal note, thanks to hotshot lawyer Jane MacDougall, who helped me tread the line between accuracy and drama in the trial scene.
Huge gratitude to all the early readers, the bloggers and authors who liked the book enough to get a buzz going on social media. And finally, of course, thanks to my stalwart first reader and biggest fan, my ma, Jill Smith.
Copyright
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Orion Books.
This eBook first published in 2017 by Orion Books.
© Sarah J Naughton 2017
The right of Sarah J Naughton to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this
condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978 1 4091 7022 8
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 1 4091 6694 8
eBook ISBN: 978 1 4091 6696 2
Trapeze
an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd
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