Skylarks Page 11

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Next door. Lorraine knocked about the letter. She was in a state.’

  ‘God, I bet she was.’ I can’t see Housing Benefit touching the new amount of rent.

  ‘You had a good night then?’ Jamie says, and there is some definite barbed wire in his voice. I’m guessing he knows I was out with Annabel. I remember what he said before, about steering clear of people like her.

  I decide to style it out and give a vague shrug, which would look more convincing if I didn’t have to turn away to hide my smile.

  Jamie’s not letting it go though. ‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, aiming for a light voice, but not really managing it. I give the tin of beans a hard shake over the pan.

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘It’s none of your business, Jamie!’

  ‘What isn’t?’ Mum’s come in. I give the tin another shake, but all the beans are stuck stubbornly to the side, so I huff and grab a spoon to scoop them out.

  ‘She’s seeing that girl from the library, Annabel Huntington,’ Jamie says.

  Oh my God, Jamie is so annoying sometimes. I swing round, fast enough that a big splodge of sauce drops from the spoon on to the lino. ‘What are you, like twelve?’

  Mum raises her eyebrows, which is enough to get us to stop. I give the floor a quick wipe, then stir the beans, pretending I can’t feel Mum’s eyes on my back.

  When they’re hot enough I start grating the cheese directly into the pan.

  ‘Plate’s an optional extra tonight, is it?’ Mum says.

  I take a big mouthful of hot beans and half-melted cheese. Wish we hadn’t run out of Worcestershire Sauce, because then it would be perfect. ‘Saves the washing-up,’ I say through my mouthful.

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Chew and swallow first, then talk. Unless you’re also twelve this evening?’ She looks meaningfully between me and Jamie, who’s still glowering at the table.

  ‘I’m just looking out for her,’ Jamie says in a sulky mutter.

  ‘I can look out for myself.’

  ‘Without your mouth full, Joni,’ Mum sighs. Then she looks at me. ‘Annabel seems nice. Why don’t you invite her round properly? I could cook some tea.’

  I choke on a bean and have to get some water, standing at the sink with my eyes streaming. It’s nice of Mum to offer, but seriously, I think she takes the whole supporting-her-daughter-who-likes-girls routine a bit too far. Plus having someone round for tea might’ve been something I’d do once upon a time. In junior school. And Annabel sitting at our table? I can’t picture it. It was bad enough her being round here for ten minutes earlier, let alone a whole evening. I wipe my eyes with a grubby tea towel that has a singe mark from where someone – possibly me, not that I’m owning up to it – left it too near the hob. Behind me I hear Jamie say, ‘The Huntingtons are millionaires, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘And Annabel Huntington is not going to want to come here for “tea”.’ I don’t like the way Jamie says it one bit. ‘Joni knows it too. She’d be embarrassed –’

  I drop the tea towel and whirl to face him. ‘Wrong again, knobber. I’d love to have Annabel round.’ I ignore the fact I’m definitely regressing to playground level. ‘When’s OK with you, Mum?’

  ‘I’m not working a week Friday.’

  ‘Oh good. Neither am I,’ Jamie says, his voice a challenge.

  ‘Great,’ I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can rustle up. I dump the pan in the sink and fill it with lukewarm water, then decide to make my escape. I’m halfway out of the door before she says, ‘You are planning to wash that up?’

  ‘Uh, yeah? Just leaving it to soak,’ I say.

  ‘Good. And Joni?’

  I stop in the doorway.

  There’s the hint of a smile on her face, but she tries to make her expression stern. ‘Please stop calling your brother a “knobber”.’

  I flee upstairs to lie on my bed and contemplate how I’m going to ask Annabel round for sausage, egg and chips night in less than two weeks.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘So …’ Jamie’s shuffling his feet in my doorway. ‘Can I come in?’

  I’m in bed, balancing a worksheet on my knee. ‘Well, anything’s preferable to French comprehension. It’s not due in until after half term anyway,’ I say. I shut my dictionary with a harder thud than is strictly necessary.

  Jamie comes to sit on the edge of my bed.

  ‘Sorry about before.’

  I shrug. He means the other night, but I don’t want to get into it right now. I’m knackered from pushing a hoover around a deserted office earlier. It’s kind of creepy, just me and a row of desks and blank computer monitors. I sat down at one of the swivel chairs and tried to imagine putting on a shirt and coming there every day, sitting at one of those desks and typing or whatever. Each one had a screen thing around it, covered with blue felt, and people had lists of phone numbers and rows of codes printed up, next to pictures of their kids or pets. Just sitting there made me feel like the life was draining out of me, even though plenty would say I’d be lucky to get a job in a place like that. I’d get sick pay and holiday and probably pensions and stuff. I can’t help it though, the thought that what I should be aiming for is … Well, it’s not what you dream of when you’re a little kid, is it?

  And then there’s the next thought chasing the first one down hard: if not that, then what?

  I don’t know.

  I realise Jamie’s giving me a look, and wonder if he said anything. ‘You what?’

  ‘What?’ Now he looks confused.

  Just to wind him up, I go, ‘What?’ again and for a second he looks annoyed, then realises this is my way of accepting his apology and grins.

  ‘What?’

  We go back and forth a couple of times, our voices getting sillier as we do, until we’re both laughing.

  Eventually, Jamie straightens his face and says, ‘So I was going to say, Dealo says the website’s all live. And …’ He runs his fingers through his hair, which has got pretty long even for him – longer than mine by a couple of inches now. ‘I’ve emailed Douglas Lattimer and made an appointment. There’s a surgery thing in a couple of days. You can just go and, like, chat to them or whatever.’

  I make a face. Douglas Lattimer is our local MP, Tory as you come. Dad can’t stand him, not that the woman who came knocking on our door for Labour in the last election got much of a hearing either. Dad’s line is they’re all the same: liars and out for themselves.

  He’s probably got a point.

  ‘I want you to come and see him with me.’ Jamie says.

  ‘You reckon?’ I mean, this is Jamie’s baby, the housing thing, I’m only helping out. I don’t know how I feel about actually going and seeing our MP. It feels … committed, I guess.

  Jamie spots the doubtful look on my face and scowls. ‘Well, unless you’re not bothered we’re about to get kicked out.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You know I’m bothered. I’m just not sure what I’d say. What about some other people from the estate? Everyone else must be pretty upset too?’

  ‘They are, but we can’t have a massive group of us showing up. Well, at least not at first … Look, I’ll do the talking. But if you’re there too … you look pretty young for your age. And you’re still at school …’

  ‘Won’t that mean he’s less likely to take me seriously?’

  ‘Or feel sorry for you.’

  Oh right. Jamie wants me to use my youthful looks and boundless charm to convince the local Tory we shouldn’t get kicked out. There’s as much chance of this working as there is of me becoming an Olympic swimmer, which I totally wanted to be for about four weeks when I was seven and watching the Olympics on telly. We couldn’t afford lessons. Actually, I still can’t swim too well. About enough to not drown, if I got thrown into a lake or something. I think suddenly of the birds over Annabel’s lake, the feel
of her lips against mine, so surprising and yet not somehow …

  ‘Hello? You coming then or what?’

  I blink and focus on Jamie. ‘All right.’

  He smiles. ‘Good. And I thought we should get some leaflets done, go door to door. Can you get some copied at the library?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe when Mrs H isn’t about,’ I say.

  He stands, but before he opens my door Jamie gives me a funny look and opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it. ‘Let’s not tell Mum and Dad yet, all right? Not with Dad so … well, we should wait till there’s something decent to tell them.’

  I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what was originally on his mind, but I just say, ‘OK then,’ and let him go.

  I look at my old dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. It’s just about seen me through last winter, although it barely reaches my knees now and the sleeves stop somewhere mid-forearm. I add seeing the MP and working out how to do leaflets to my mental list of worries. Also keeping something like this from Mum and Dad. It’s not like I tell them everything, obviously, but still – we usually discuss big things together. Jamie’s probably right though. Dad isn’t exactly doing too well since he lost his job and the buyout news. Poleaxed is probably the word for it. He needs something to start going right soon or … well, I don’t know what will happen but I know it won’t be good. I think again about Mum and Dad arguing, and how Dad gets this look like he wants to sleep forever some days.

  I slump back against my pillows and lug the dictionary open again, but find the more I try to work out the language in front of me, the more other thoughts crowd to the front of my mind.

  Douglas Lattimer’s office is off the High Street, down a narrow cobbled alleyway between a tea shop and an antiques place, neither of which I’ve ever actually set foot in. They’re more a tourist thing. I’ve got on my best jeans, my scuffed-up trainers and a clean shirt. Jamie’s fiddling with his phone, trying to spot if we’re too early.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ I say. He pockets his phone, brushes his hand through his hair and pulls open the door harder than he needs to. I don’t know whether to roll my eyes or cry at seeing my big brother all nervous like this.

  Inside there’s a reception area. The walls are dotted with prints of local scenery – views from the Downs, the old church, some black and white ones of the High Street with a horse and cart – and posters with slogans that say nothing meaningful at all. We give our names to the receptionist. Her smile is about as glossy as her hair, but she’s definitely not what you’d call the chatty sort. We settle down to wait.

  I flick through a couple of magazines, but it’s all Country Life-type stuff, so I get out my phone instead. There’s a text from Annabel about tonight, and I’m not sure if it’s the MP meeting or later on that’s giving me that scrunched-up feeling in my stomach, which then gives a massive gurgle like it always does when I’m anxious. I push one hand against it and avoid Jamie’s eyes in case we both start cracking up. The woman at the reception desk approximately two feet away from me has definitely heard but is pretending she didn’t.

  Suddenly, a door opens and a lady comes through, a pearl clutcher type. She says thank you to the receptionist, gives Jamie’s long hair a look that says she would most certainly be clutching her pearls if she was wearing them, and sweeps out.

  Me and Jamie swap looks, Jamie’s mouth pulled down, and I have to turn away in case I snort. The nervous feelings evaporate.

  ‘Mr Cooper?’ It’s him. Douglas Lattimer, MP, complete with balding head and sharp suit.

  We stand.

  ‘And Ms Cooper,’ I add, stressing the ‘Ms’. Mr Lattimer gives us one of those bland politician smiles, shakes our hands in turn, then motions for us to follow him. As we go, I flex my fingers by my side to check they all still work – he’s got one strong grip.

  We go into an office and sit across from him at a table.

  ‘So …’ He draws it out, his accent reminding me of Annabel’s. He scans some papers. ‘I understand you have some concerns regarding the recent purchase of Cherry Tree Estate?’

  ‘Yeah – yes.’ Jamie leans forward and starts to explain the situation. ‘They’ve already said they’re going to raise all our rents, and we can’t afford it. They’re doing it on purpose – they want us all out so they can sell the houses on and make a load of money. It’s not right.’

  Mr Lattimer steeples his fingers together as he waits for Jamie to finish. ‘Unfortunately, my caseworker has looked into this and there is little we can do. The purchase and rent adjustments are perfectly legal,’ he says with a patronising smile.

  ‘But they’re kicking us out!’

  ‘White Light Holdings are within their rights to review the rental pricing structure. I understand the current rates offered are well below the market value.’

  There’s a smooth, smug look about him as he says this. He thinks he can blind us with his jargon, like we’re just silly kids.

  Jamie tries to interrupt, but Lattimer keeps talking, right over him. ‘They are committed to reinvesting much of the revenue into rejuvenating the housing stock, which I think you’ll agree,’ he gives a small laugh, ‘is rather overdue.’

  ‘So where’re we supposed to go then? What about people like us? We can’t afford to live anywhere else near here. My brother’s in school, and my sister, she’s in sixth form, aren’t you, Joni?’

  I nod. ‘We don’t feel this is fair.’ I’m using my best voice, trying to sound grown-up and reasonable and stuff, but Lattimer’s just giving me that same nod that’s as good as a pat on the head.

  ‘I do understand this is a difficult situation for your family and we’re committed to supporting you where we can. My caseworker, Dev, has put together some resources – perhaps your parents would like to take a look?’ There’s a small but telling emphasis on the word ‘parents’.

  He slides a couple of leaflets and phone numbers for the Council Housing department and Citizens Advice towards us, then stands up. ‘I regret I’m not able to do any more at this time, but if you have concerns on any other issue, I would encourage you to make an appointment to come and see me again. It’s so refreshing to see young people engaging in politics.’ He actually seems to think we’re going to smile back. He’s already at the door.

  I look at Jamie, who’s picked up the papers with a shaking hand. I can see in the way he clenches them in his fist, and how he’s gone white, that he’s struggling to stop himself lumping Lattimer one.

  Lattimer’s holding the door open now.

  There doesn’t seem to be anything for it but to go.

  *

  We’re silent, walking down the street. When we get to the far end, Jamie suddenly bursts out, ‘Stupid dick!’ which is a bit startling for the two old ladies coming out of Laura Ashley. I give them an apologetic look, but they ignore it and hurry off in the opposite direction. ‘Fat lot of good he was,’ Jamie continues.

  I let him rant the whole way home; it’s probably best he gets it all out before we get in, because I’ve got something to say too. I stop at the end of our row of houses and say quietly, ‘Jamie. I think we should tell Mum and Dad – you know, about the website and the leaflets, which I’m totally doing next week by the way. They’ll be super pissed off if we don’t.’

  Jamie’s rage has blown itself out and instead his face is grimly set. ‘I will – soon. We’ve got to get those leaflets out. People are crapping themselves, but no one knows what to do. Let’s get them together, have a community meeting next week. And find some stuff to fire Lattimer’s way,’ Jamie says, his voice loud like he’s on a one-man mission.

  I think again about that ridiculously painful handshake, and Lattimer’s smug smile and I nod. ‘I’ll get Kelly to help. She always ferrets things out in the end.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Monday after half term, I’m sitting with Pete, Ananya, Stacey and Ed in the common room. I scowl at the History essay I totall
y didn’t do when I should’ve, wondering again why I decided to subject myself to two more years’ worth of dissecting the Nazis’ rise to power. I pick up my phone, type and delete another text inviting Annabel for tea on Friday, then plonk my phone back down.

  ‘It’s too nice to be inside. I want to be on a beach somewhere,’ Stacey says. It’s true, the sun’s out and there’s actual warmth to it, heating up the room.

  ‘Yeah, like Barbados,’ Ed says.

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ I add and then everyone’s off on chats about holidays past, present and future. Kelly’s been away to Paris over half term.

  I don’t have much to add on the holiday experience front, so I go back to my History essay, write a couple of notes – I’ll type it up later on Jamie’s laptop if I can nick it off him – and then pick up my phone again, angling it so no one can see while I type a fast message to Annabel and hit send this time. I could’ve just invited her face to face at the library on Saturday, but we were super busy and never got any decent time on our own. Plus, it feels safer doing it by text.

  I’ve barely had a chance to see if it’s sent when there’s a shriek that seems to ping off all four walls and the ceiling at once. I don’t need to look up to know it’s Kelly.

  ‘You guys!’ I haven’t even managed to get my phone down before she’s on me, giving me a hard hug from behind. ‘I missed you!’

  ‘Steady on, it was only a week.’ I grin as she pulls back. ‘How was it?’