Skylarks Read online

  For Mum, with love

  Also by Karen Gregory

  Countless

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  We did this school trip to a castle once, where they got us dressing up as either knights, princesses or servants. No prizes for guessing which one I got. Right now, I feel like I’m still wearing that servant costume. Dad senses it too; he keeps putting down his pint to pull at his shirt collar. We’re on one of our three-times-a-year meals out, on account of Jack turning twelve, but the place is packed with people who look like being here’s as normal as going up the chippie.

  ‘So,’ Dad says, ‘twelve eh? That means next year you’re going to be …’ he does a drum roll with his two forefingers on the table, then says in a voice of fake doom, ‘a Teenager.’

  Dad did this routine with Jamie, then me, when we both turned thirteen. Mum smiles around the table, while Jamie leans over to ruffle Jack’s hair. Jack ducks, and when he comes up runs his fingers over the gelled bit he’s got going on at the top. The rest of it’s shaved; it’s what all the lads are wearing and Lorraine next door’s pretty good with the clippers, so we treated Jack this morning. I catch Mum giving me a don’t-take-the-mick look and a faint wink.

  ‘Yep, it’ll be all slamming doors and “I never asked to be born” and girls,’ Dad goes on, trying to make Jack go red. He made pretty much the same speech to me, substituting the ‘girls’ for ‘boys’, back before everyone cottoned on that there wasn’t exactly going to be boys on the cards for me. As if sensing my thoughts, Dad says, ‘You’ll be giving your sister a run for her money before long, I’ll bet.’

  Everyone groans, and I say, ‘Urgh, Daaaad,’ in a way that lets him know I’m partly exasperated, but mainly OK with how he’s not fussed who I like. Then he seems to have the same thought, because he says in an even louder voice, ‘Or you might decide you like boys, son, and that’s fine with your mother and me, isn’t it, Marian?’

  Mum nods, but I spot her glancing around as Dad downs the rest of his pint. She’s always the one who’s more worried about what people will think. I follow Mum’s gaze and meet the eyes of a woman at a table across from us, with perfect make up and smart-casual clothes you can tell cost a bomb. She sniffs and looks away.

  I can’t help the faint flush that works its way over my cheeks. Dad’s trying to get the attention of a waiter, but it seems my six-foot thirteen-stone father has somehow become invisible. I stare around the restaurant. It’s the third nicest one in our little market town; we wouldn’t go for Molray’s which has two Michelin stars and is definitely too pricey, even if it wasn’t for Jamie getting the sack from there, or the local gastropub, but none of us wanted to go up The Olde Inne, where Jamie’s got his latest job as a sous-chef. So we’ve ended up here, where the floors are wood and there’s hunting prints and a massive stone fireplace with a real fire blazing away, though spring is definitely here and it’s pretty nice out. I guess it’s a tradition of sorts, even if none of us are totally ourselves in a place like this.

  There’s a gust of laughter from the next table down. They came in after us; two boys and two girls about my age, all slouched walks and those accents all the kids have at the local posh school. No parents in sight. When one of them, a girl with super shiny dark hair, swears, Mum frowns in their direction.

  ‘I’m full,’ I announce to no one in particular, mainly to distract Mum. Jamie doesn’t bother to ask before he spears the last of my veg with his fork. I had the veggie option – I’m not massively down with eating animals – and I probably could’ve managed that last piece of purple broccoli, but it’s worth it because Mum pulls her attention back to the table and says for the hundredth time, ‘How about you, Jack? You want anything else? You can have a dessert if you want.’

  The word ‘dessert’ instead of ‘afters’ sounds wrong, especially the way Mum says it, and Jack gives her a bemused look. ‘Nah, you’re all right, thanks.’

  ‘Go on, it’s your birthday.’

  Dad has finally got the waiter’s attention. He clears our plates, ignoring our thank yous as he piles them up. Maybe you’re not supposed to say thanks, just pretend the waiter doesn’t exist, like that twitchy-nosed woman sitting there like something got rammed up her behind. I realise, looking around, how upright everyone else is. My family all tend to lean down to meet our food, but it isn’t the way other people sit in here. I feel my own spine lengthen, then I purposely slouch back down.

  ‘Who cares, Joni?’ That’s what Kelly would say. I’ll go over to hers later, tell her all about this, and even though her family could afford to eat at Molray’s any time they wanted, she’ll have a laugh with me and tell me I’m being ridiculous. She’d probably have a point.

  The waiter brings back some menus.

  ‘Can we have some more water, please?’ Dad says.

  ‘Still or sparkling?’ the waiter says.

  ‘Just tap again, son,’ Dad says.

  I catch a smirk on the waiter’s face when he turns away. Fish and chips at home followed by one of Mum’s cakes sounds just right round about now, especially as the group next to us are still laughing like only they exist. When one of them drops another f-bomb, Mum turns round and says, ‘Do you mind not swearing? My son here’s only twelve.’

  They apologise, but when she turns back, the dark-haired girl and the two boys pull faces and whisper together. There’s another girl with them, her hair arranged on top of her head in that expensively messy way you see on the posh girls round here. She’s not smiling.

  Mum’s persuaded Jack to have the biggest pudding on the menu, some sort of sundae which comes with sparklers, although the rest of us all pretend we’re too full. You’re not allowed to bring your own cake in here but we’ll all sing ‘Happy Birthday’ anyway, stuff what anyone else thinks.

  We wait for the sundae to arrive, chatting about nothing stuff like what’s been on telly. Mum doesn’t watch much, but she loves Call the Midwife, even though she’s guaranteed to bawl at pretty much every episode. Jamie’s quiet compared to usual; he’d normally be joking around with Dad, but I can see he’s not happy about having to yell over the top of the brayers, who’ve got even louder, if that’s possible. They have wine and everything on their table, even though they only look my age. Maybe the management turns a blind eye for people like them. But where it makes me a wee bit irritated and a lot uncomfy, like I’ve done something wrong except I don’t know what it is, the expression on Jamie’s face is pure lava. It’s one I’ve seen too many times the last few months, since whatever it was that got him the chop from his last job. His rants
at the tea table are getting way too regular, and with a sinking feeling I can see he’s winding up to start one now.

  He leans forward. ‘So Dealo reckons this thing with the estate’s going to go through. We could all be out on our ears by –’

  ‘Jamie.’ Dad doesn’t use that voice often and it stops Jamie in his tracks, but only for a second.

  ‘But how is it f–’

  ‘Jamie.’ This time there’s a real warning in Dad’s voice. ‘Not tonight.’

  Fair. We can see the shape of the word Jamie was about to say. Things being fair, or not fair, is becoming a right theme with him. Far as I’m concerned, I’m with Mum and Dad: don’t borrow trouble, and concentrate on what you do have is their motto. What’s the point in spending all that energy hating random people because they’ve got more than you? Even if there’s a few at the next table I could work myself up to disliking.

  But Jack’s birthday is definitely not the time for one of Jamie’s lectures. He knows it too and shuts his mouth as the waiter shows back up and plonks down a new jug of water.

  Maybe to diffuse the tension, or because he’s seen it on telly or something, Jack picks up a spoon and taps at the side of his Coke. ‘I’d like to make a speech,’ he announces.

  We look at him, amused, and I smile as he gives a cough, goes red, then says, ‘Just to say thanks very much for my birthday and for the PlayStation,’ – me and Jamie managed to find an old PS2 and some vintage games on eBay – ‘and for my tea.’ He gives us a Jack-special – this innocently cheeky grin that always makes you want to hug him, even when he’s done something annoying like scoffing the last of the biscuits and not telling anyone.

  Then I notice the restaurant has gone quiet. The lads on the next table are sniggering, both the girls trying to shush them, although the dark-haired one is laughing as she does.

  Before I have the chance to get irritated, I spot the sparklers approaching. I nudge Jamie and we start to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Jack’s eyes get wide, and Mum and Dad exchange smiles as they begin to sing too and suddenly everything is perfect, because we’re a unit, us Coopers, never mind about Jamie being weird these days. He’s got over himself anyway and is singing loudest of all, and Jack’s face is all happy and pink. He’s already reaching for his spoon.

  Then one of the boys at the next table, the arrogantly good-looking one, shoves back his chair without looking, because he’s busy still braying, just as the waiter goes past.

  The waiter trips, does a comedy run for a couple of paces before finally losing his balance and crashing to the ground, propelling the sundae, sparklers and all, up into the air. We all watch in horror as it comes down.

  Right into my lap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Aargh!’ The combination of cold sundae spreading over my legs and hot sparklers in the vicinity of my boobs is not the best feeling in the world.

  Mum lunges across the table and throws a glass of water over me. Two waitresses rush over. One helps the waiter up, the other starts saying sorry to me. Mum grabs two napkins, hesitates for a second because they’re these thick cloth ones, then chucks them to me. I use them to scoop the worst of the ice cream off and dump it on the table. Dad’s saying, ‘Are you burnt, Joni?’

  Jamie says, ‘Je-sus,’ and Mum says, ‘Watch your mouth.’

  Jack’s gone quiet, his round face shocked.

  The boy who tripped the waiter is saying, ‘So sorry,’ in a lazy voice, but behind him the black-haired girl and the other boy are killing themselves laughing, and not trying to hide it. I can’t see the face of the blonde one.

  I stand, lumps of sundae still dripping off my top. Arrogant-face boy spots my expression and his apologies turn slightly more sincere. He says to one of the hovering waitresses, ‘I’ll pay,’ without directly looking at her, then looks me up and down and says, ‘I’ll get one for all of them.’ And maybe it’s something about the way he says ‘them’, but even my hackles go up.

  Jamie shoves his chair back too. ‘No thanks, mate,’ he spits out and I know his ‘mate’ is standing in for a totally different four-letter word. Jamie’s white with anger.

  The atmosphere sharpens. Arrogant-face boy stares at Jamie in the worst possible way and I suck in a breath and step closer to my big brother, but Dad puts his hand on Jamie’s arm and propels him outside to cool down before anything else can happen. The waiter is already bringing in another sundae, but even though Jack smiles, I can feel the moment’s ruined. Once Jack’s started eating, Mum chatting at him in a too-bright voice, I get up.

  ‘Going to sort this out,’ I say.

  Mum nods.

  In the toilet I take off my shirt and rinse it under the tap. There’s a singe mark on the front and I wince; that was my favourite shirt. At least I was wearing a vest top underneath. My jeans are spattered with ice cream as well. I bundle the shirt into a ball and leave it on the side of the sink while I go into one of the cubicles.

  I’m finishing up when I hear the door open and a loud, posh voice drawl, ‘Oh, come on, Annabel, it was hilarious. I wish I’d been filming.’

  If the other person makes a reply, I don’t hear, because I’ve already pushed my way out of the cubicle in time to see the blonde girl picking up my shirt. Next to her, the other girl’s laughing.

  I can’t help channelling Jamie. I glare at them.

  The first girl looks like she couldn’t care less, but the blonde girl’s pale face flushes, as she holds out my shirt to me. I can see she’s about to say sorry, but I take it from her before she gets the chance and walk out, conscious my greying bra straps are showing under my vest top.

  Dad’s come back in to sort out the bill. ‘I told Jamie to wait outside,’ he says in a low voice to Mum. We get the sundae for free and on the walk home, we try and keep the mood up for Jack, but Jamie walks a couple of paces apart from the rest of us.

  When we get home he turns on Dad, his jaw jutting. ‘You should’ve let me lump him. Bunch of –’ he glances at Mum, ‘idiots.’

  Dad sighs. ‘And what good would that’ve done, son? Eh?’

  Jamie mumbles something about, ‘Teach him a lesson,’ but I can see the anger’s draining out of him now. Jack’s looking from one face to another and I chew at the side of a nail. This isn’t how his birthday was supposed to be. In fact, nothing seems like it’s supposed to be these days, and it’s all since Jamie landed that swishy job and then got fired. Since then he’s stopped being my usual laid-back big brother and turned into some rant-machine.

  But it’s Jack’s birthday and I can’t stand to see him looking so worried. I nudge him on the shoulder. ‘Didn’t you say your PlayStation’s got Tetris Worlds on it?’

  Jack’s face lights up.

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you how the master does it,’ I say.

  The next day, I manage to sleep right through my alarm, so by the time Mum comes to investigate why I’m not up yet I’ve got about twenty minutes to get ready and bike it down to the library. I take the world’s speediest shower, cursing myself for being such a heavy sleeper. Kelly insists I snore like mad, which is clearly a total lie, but all I know is sleep is like this great comforting blanket to look forward to at the end of a long day. And I always seem to have exciting dreams.

  Mum’s already on her way out – she’s on a double today – and Jamie will have left hours ago; but Jack’s there at the table, hunched over a bowl piled with Weetabix. He never sleeps in on a Saturday.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, stretching out my Wiltshire accent to make it all Farmer Giles-like.

  He replies through a mouthful, so it comes out a muffled muuhh-ihh. I go to the bread bin and it’s empty. So’s the milk, apart from a dribble I’d better leave for Dad.

  Jack gives me a guilty look over his spoon, then treats me to a Jack-special, cheeks chubbed up as he grins. How does that work every single time?

  I smile back. ‘I’ll go to the shop on the way home. What you up to today? Going round Dylan’s?’


  He nods. Jack and Dylan next door have been mates about as long as me and Kelly. Dylan’s all right, even if Lorraine can be a bit much sometimes. She knows everything about everyone and if she doesn’t, she makes it her business to find out.

  I check my phone; I am seriously late. ‘Got to go. Take a cup of tea up to Dad before you go out,’ I say. I give him a quick kiss on the top of his head, getting a waft of warm Weetabix and sleep. It reminds me of when he was a baby. He’d sit for hours on my lap in front of the telly. Mum reckons he was born happy. Apparently, I was ‘a tornado’. I wonder where that energy all went, because this morning I’m hanging.

  I stop at the back door. ‘Make sure you take your phone and tell him when you’re back. And don’t be late for tea.’

  Jack waves his milky spoon goodbye and I’m off out into the morning air.

  The sky is white as I pull out of our little cul-de-sac on Jamie’s knackered old bike. I’ve lived here my whole life, know every pothole and grass verge. I like being up high with the wind pushing across my cheeks as I whizz past tall hedges and trees that are just beginning to show signs of spring blossom, reaching towards each other to form a tunnel over the road.

  I settle into a rhythm, pushing away worries about the essay I didn’t quite finish last night, about money for food, and the thing Jamie keeps bringing up – that our houses are all getting sold to some private company. They’re owned by a charity now, but from what Mum and Dad say, the charity’s ‘gone downhill’ over the last few years, so I figure it might be a good thing for someone else to take over. Could mean there’s more cash for stuff like fixing the damp, or the shower, which comes closer to packing up altogether every year. Maybe we’ll even get proper double-glazed windows and central heating, so it’s nice and toasty instead of the usual hop-about-freezing-your-butt-off nightmare on winter mornings. Last time I tried saying all that to Jamie though, he just laughed like I don’t know anything, but I’m with Dad on it: why borrow trouble? Better not to think about it at all, and especially not about the homework I’ve got piling up at home. An image of my French teacher, Miss Armstrong, comes to my mind. She stopped me again after lessons the other day, going on about uni open days.