Skylarks Page 7

  ‘Shall we have some cheese with this?’ she says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  In the cheese aisle, Annabel says, ‘What do you like?’ I glance at the shelves. There’s a whole section just for Cheddar, plus other packets I recognise like Dairylea and mini Babybels. Jack loves those so I sometimes pick some up if they’re on offer, though I reckon he likes unwrapping the red bit more than eating the actual cheese. But I bet Annabel doesn’t mean for us to get plain old Cheddar. I see with a sinking feeling that she’s looking at a row of cheeses I don’t recognise. I hesitate, then grab a wedge of something speckled with blue – posh people like all those weird mouldy type cheeses, don’t they? I hand it to her and her eyebrows raise a fraction, then she says, ‘Perfect.’ As she turns towards the drinks aisle – if the size of the wine section is anything to go by, Waitrose shoppers are serious boozers – I start inwardly cursing myself, because now I’m going to have to eat the stuff.

  Annabel insists on this pink lemonade that’s £2.79 for a tiny bottle, as well as smoked salmon and a stack of other stuff.

  We join a queue behind a woman who’s taking her time packing everything just so into her bags. The girl at the checkout scans super slow and helps her to pack. There is no way this would happen in my world; there’d be a line of people glaring and tutting, and a massive pile-up as the checkout person whizzed it all through. You don’t even pack at the till anyway in Lidl, you sweep it all in your trolley and use the bench to shove it in bags, which I guess is faster but kind of more work when you think about it.

  The conveyor belt inches forward. Eventually, there’s enough room for our stuff and I help Annabel unload the basket.

  It seems like a lot. I say in a jokey voice, ‘How much do you think I eat?’

  ‘Oh!’ she looks horrified. ‘I thought … well, it’s only a few bits and pieces.’

  The total says otherwise; she spends over thirty quid, but when I offer to pay half she pretends she hasn’t heard me, and shoves it on a card. I insist on grabbing the heaviest carrier off her though. She stops to pick up a free newspaper – oh yeah, you get a free paper – and slides that into her bag.

  If I came here every week, I reckon I’d probably actually enjoy doing the food shopping.

  On the way out, Annabel clocks a girl and woman coming towards us. She immediately does this weird flip thing into Confident Annabel. I could swear she gets taller.

  ‘Annabel!’ the woman exclaims and they do this air-kiss thing on both cheeks. ‘Wonderful to see you. I was only saying to Charlotte the other day, we hardly hear from you now.’ She wanders off towards the wine.

  Charlotte’s staring at me and Annabel. I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of calculation going on in her brain, and whatever it is it’s not good. Annabel says, ‘This is Joni. From the library.’

  ‘Oh. The library. Lovely,’ Charlotte says.

  Annabel flushes slightly, and her smile gets wider.

  It’s amazing how much meaning you can pack into one word.

  Annabel’s quiet as we drive. It’s not until we’ve walked up a sloping track and found a big boulder to sit on that I ask the obvious question.

  ‘I take it she’s not your friend? That Charlotte girl?’

  Annabel pauses from unwrapping the bread, and looks at me. ‘I suppose … no, not especially.’ She gazes out to where the sun is starting to get lower in the sky. ‘We used to be. We were both boarders at prep school, we went through it all together. You know – homesickness.’ She gives a light laugh. ‘That sort of thing. Silly, really.’

  ‘So when did she stop being your mate?’

  ‘When we started at Edrington’s, I suppose.’

  I stare at her, a question in my eyes, and she shrugs and smiles. ‘Edrington’s not the same as prep school. Larger, you know. And boys of course, which always seems to be the main topic of conversation. You know, who fancies who? Charlotte’s been crazy about Ollie since we started and I’ve never really been as interested in –’ She breaks off.

  I wait to see if she says anything else, brain whirring, but when she doesn’t I ask, ‘So she ditched you then?’

  ‘Something like that. I try to keep up, but sometimes it’s like everyone but me is talking in Russian, so a while ago I decided I needed to try to be more … well, to fit in. You see …’ She glances at me and I see her decide against something and her posture changes. ‘Then we got caught – smoking – by Miss Schiel, the headmistress. She wrote to our parents.’ Annabel shudders.

  I wait, confused, then say, ‘Is that it? Not exactly hard drugs, is it?’

  ‘That’s not how Daddy saw it.’ Annabel rolls her eyes and laughs like she’s expecting me to join in, but I don’t because her eyes are not matching her smiling mouth.

  Instead, I take a punt. ‘That why he’s making you work in the library?’

  ‘Yes, in part, although there were other reasons. He hasn’t been happy since my GCSE results. I got a B in French – I still don’t think he’s over it. That’s why I was surprised at your A Levels. I can’t imagine taking French.’

  Oh. I flash back to the argument on the wall. Then I say, ‘So you got caught smoking and you got a B in French. Not really the crimes of a century. Bet you got A stars in everything else, didn’t you?’

  ‘Some As.’ She smiles.

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Well, volunteering will be good for university applications, I suppose. And I got the sense Daddy wants me there for another reason, but I don’t really … well. Who knows?’ She’s trying to keep it light-hearted, but there’s something desolate about her voice.

  So I say in a teasing way, ‘The library’s not that bad, is it?’

  She blinks, then says, ‘No, it’s not.’ Her eyes seem soft as she looks at me.

  I go red. Then a gust of wind makes her shiver. ‘You want my jumper?’ I say.

  Annabel smiles. ‘I’m not sure it would fit.’

  ‘I don’t know, it would definitely go around you – might be a bit short though,’ I say.

  The way we’re sitting, her knee is almost but not quite touching mine. She passes me some bread and then opens the dreaded blue cheese. Oh Christ. I cut a tiny lump and take a bite.

  It’s not good. I chew as fast as I can, the taste of it bitter and overpowering, then take a long swig of lemonade to wash it down, hoping she hasn’t noticed.

  ‘You want some?’ I say.

  ‘Urgh no, can’t stand the stuff. I’ve never understood eating mould,’ she says and pulls a face.

  ‘Oh. I thought you liked it,’ I say.

  She gives me a look like I’m crazy, then with something approaching understanding, she shakes her head.

  For a second I’m teetering on the edge of humiliation, then I decide there’s nothing for it but to style it out. ‘Thank God for that – it’s rank,’ I say.

  We both burst out laughing, then Annabel stands up, pulls the cheese from its wrapper and lobs it really hard down the hill. We watch it bounce a couple of times, then come to a rest next to a boulder.

  ‘There. The sheep can have it,’ she says. ‘Or do you think it’s poisonous?’ She goes to stand up. ‘Perhaps I ought to get it back?’

  I put my hand on her arm to pull her back down. ‘Relax. They probably won’t eat it anyway, if they’ve got any sense.’

  Annabel looks at my hand still on her arm. I pull away, but not before I see her go pink, then she grabs the nearest thing to her. ‘Smoked salmon?’ Annabel holds the packet out to me. It doesn’t look massively appealing, sitting there all wet and shining in the sun, and maybe it’s the cheese, but I feel OK saying, ‘I’ve never actually had it. I’m a veggie anyway.’

  ‘Really?’ Annabel chucks the opened packet back into the bag and I frown. The price on the front said £4.99.

  ‘You can have some though, I don’t mind.’

  Annabel shrugs and crumbles off a little piece of bread.

  It’s right at the edge of my
tongue, to tell her what a waste of cash that is, but then I take in a great breath of fresh air and try to let it go. After a moment, Annabel says, ‘Do you come up here often?’

  Kelly’s voice roars in my head, ‘Mate, that’s a total line, oh my GOD!’

  For a minute nothing comes out of my mouth. I can’t read the expression on Annabel’s face. In the end I swallow hard and then make my voice as casual as I can. ‘Used to. My dad liked watching the birds. We’d come up here for picnics and stuff and he’d teach us all their calls. Before his back got all knackered.’

  Before he got too tired, too stressed out. Stopped trying to find the beautiful bits to life. I realise suddenly that these days, Dad’s more likely to say ‘you can’t eat the scenery’ than point out a rare bird, and it makes me sad.

  ‘It’s been such a long time since I came here. It’s lovely, isn’t it, Joni?’ Annabel says.

  Her accent makes the ‘o’ in my name long. It sounds all right actually. And there’s something about the way she’s looking at me …

  I shove a massive chunk of bread into my mouth. I’m imagining things. Definitely. When I look up, Annabel’s staring at me. ‘What?’ I say, my mouth still full.

  ‘Nothing … It’s only … you really enjoy your food,’ she says.

  For a second I think she’s saying I’m fat, and it’s kind of true. Well, a bit cuddly. I’m not a size ten, let’s say that, but Annabel can’t be more than an eight at a push.

  She looks like she’s thinking the same thing. ‘I didn’t mean … I like it. I wish I was more … I find it hard to relax when I eat sometimes. Everyone at Edrington’s on a diet. The other day a group of boys made Simran in my year cry, because they said she had chunky thighs. She doesn’t, not that it would matter – she’s gorgeous. But everyone’s always watching everyone else.’

  ‘Stuff that,’ I say and hand her a pastry. ‘Way I see it, food’s there to enjoy, right? We’re only here for that long,’ I hold up two fingers close together.

  ‘The girls at school don’t see it that way.’

  ‘What, like that Charlotte girl? Screw ’em.’

  ‘Easy to say, harder to do when it’s always been like that,’ Annabel points out. Her eyes tighten at the edges. ‘You know, school’s not always … I mean, I know what a privilege it is, I do. Daddy tells me all the time they’re spending a fortune on my education …’

  I feel a sudden flare of jealousy. I’ve walked past the gates to her posh school so many times. Pete’s even been in once or twice when they do outreach type stuff. They have their own proper theatre, a swimming pool, state of the art design studios. Everything is red brick and old and beautiful. Then I think about my school, the mobile buildings they put on the field because there was nowhere else for them to go, and the tiny hall where we used to squeeze in for assembly.

  But Annabel’s still talking as if the wind up here’s freed something in her, like it does for me. ‘There’s all these expectations, that you will do something incredible, but it doesn’t actually matter if you do, because someone else is always more extraordinary than you. Prize-giving is a nightmare. I suppose it can make you feel … trapped.’ She pulls her knees up to her chest and shoots me a look like she thinks I might laugh, or argue with her. I could do. I think about saying, ‘You try being skint all the time and see what being trapped really feels like.’ But I can’t summon it.

  Annabel tips her chin up, so she’s speaking to the clouds. ‘And it’s so tiring. The days go on forever with activities and prep.’

  I tip my head to one side. ‘Yeah?’ I say, trying not to let her see I’m annoyed.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s not as bad now I’m a day girl, but sometimes I feel like I’ve been exhausted since I was eight.’ She glances quickly at me, then away again. ‘I’ve never really talked about this before. Sorry.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind listening. It’s interesting.’ It is really, even if it’s also kind of annoying she doesn’t get how lucky she is.

  ‘Well …’ She takes a breath and I can see suddenly how big a deal this is for her, like it’s been chipping away at her for just about forever. ‘School is so overwhelming. Then at home … I get in and the house is empty. When my parents do come back, we’ll have supper and they might quiz me about my day – but it’s always what score I got in a test and if I didn’t come first, where do I need to work harder, that sort of thing – and then I feel crowded again, like at school.’ She holds up her hands. ‘I don’t know, it’s ridiculous really. I seem to spend my time wanting space, but then when I get it …’ She trails off again, like she’s trying to work it all out in her mind.

  I’m so tempted to say something to fill up the silence, and, if I’m honest, there’s still a part of me that thinks she’s complaining her designer handbag’s too heavy or something, but I don’t. I wait.

  ‘Sometimes … no, that’s not true. A lot of the time I feel … it gets …’ She swallows, like she’s pushing it all back down, and tries to smile.

  ‘Lonely?’ I remember Mrs H saying Annabel’s not happy, and I’m starting to get why.

  She nods and even though I know it’s mad, I reach across the gap between us and touch her hand.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ I say.

  Her hand is cold, but as I’m about to move, she curls her fingers up, so that they’re squeezing mine.

  We sit like that for a long moment before I come to my senses and gently ease my own hand away.

  Cycling home, my hand feels hot and tingly where Annabel held it. There’s a little voice inside telling me this is a bad idea, that I’m on the edge of something I don’t want to get into, but I tell it to pipe down and pedal harder.

  When I get in, the house has this strange sort of quiet to it. I go into the living room and can see by Dad’s face something’s up. Mum’s sat next to him, holding a cup of tea.

  ‘All right?’ I say, but my voice has a prickle of anxiety in it.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘Your dad’s had a bit of bad news about his work.’

  Oh crap. I take a breath and hold it in.

  Dad looks up. ‘They’re shutting down the warehouse. Moving everything to the other branch. We’re all out of work from next week.’

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  I swallow hard. ‘Next week?’

  Mum pats Dad’s hand. ‘It’s all right, love, we’ll make do.’

  I feel a sudden urge to cry. How will we make do? Even with mine and Jamie’s wages as well as Mum’s, it’s going to be tight. I’ve got to find another job. I go over to give Dad a careful hug, and he grips me back extra hard.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll get it sorted. You can always sign on until something else comes along, can’t he, Mum?’

  ‘Your tea’s in the oven, love,’ Mum says.

  ‘Oh right, thanks, I – thanks.’ I’m not sure now is the time to tell them I’ve just been scoffing a posh picnic with Annabel. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  ‘In his room,’ Mum says.

  I speak without really thinking. ‘Jack could get a job, a paper round or something?’ It isn’t that crazy an idea. I’ve had Saturday jobs since I was thirteen. And Jack’s twelve now.

  ‘Joni, not now,’ Mum says.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Not now!’ Dad’s voice comes out in a roar that makes me jump. He pushes himself up, wincing, one hand on his back. ‘I’m going down The Crown,’ he says. Mum scurries after him and I hear her voice, low and wobbling, then him replying, ‘I’ll be back at ten, Marian.’

  The front door slams.

  Mum comes back in. ‘You’ve upset your dad.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Mum’s eyes are too bright, her throat working. I shouldn’t have said that, about Jack. But when I open my mouth to say sorry again, Mum shakes her head. We watch some nature documentary in silence, side by side on the sofa.

  Much later, awake in bed, I finally hear the front door go, then the smell of cigarette smoke
floating up from the kitchen. Mum and Dad’s voices start quiet, but get louder, rising, then falling again when they remember we’re all supposed to be asleep upstairs.

  My door opens and Jack comes in.

  ‘You all right?’ I say.

  In response, he climbs into bed next to me and I shove over against the cold radiator. I put my arm around his shoulders and we sit there, listening to the sound of arguing.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ Jack says.

  ‘Nothing, don’t worry. They’re just a bit stressed out, money and all that. It’ll be fine tomorrow.’

  It always is, one way or another. Mum and Dad haven’t had a row in such a long time. They only argue when money’s tight, when worry forces itself out in an explosion, like an overinflated balloon. I get it. Doesn’t mean I’m not scared though.

  Eventually, we hear the living-room door thud and then Mum’s tread on the stairs and Mum and Dad’s bedroom door opening and closing. Guess this means Dad’s on the sofa tonight. Before Jack tiptoes back to his bed, I tell him again it’s all going to be fine, but after he’s gone, I can’t help lying there and wondering whether this will finally be the time when it’s not.

  In the morning, it’s like nothing’s happened. Dad must’ve shifted off the sofa in the middle of the night, because there’s no sign he’s slept there. Mum is already up, speaking on the phone.

  ‘Can I pay twenty?’ she says, her face pinched-looking. ‘No, I can’t manage that … OK, twenty-five.’ A moment later her face eases into relief. She reads out her card details and hangs up, then turns to me. ‘Morning,’ she says, overly cheery.

  I raise my eyebrows and she says, ‘BT. I’ll pay the rest next week,’ with a don’t-tell-your-father look. Looks like we won’t be getting broadband back for a bit. I take the free paper to the table with a coffee. A quick scan shows nothing doing except those work from home adverts everyone knows are a total con. I push it to one side, meeting Mum’s eyes, then looking away before I can clock the disappointment in them. She hasn’t had a text from work about doing any overtime today.