It’s my turn to pick up Tiffin and Willa today because Lochan has a late class. On the way home, they charge ahead as usual, giving me a heart attack at every road-crossing. When we get in, I sort out snacks and rummage through their book bags for teachers’ notes and homework while they fight over the remote in the front room. I put on a wash, clear away the breakfast things and go upstairs to tidy their room. When I return to the front room they have tired of TV, the Gameboy isn’t working properly and Tiffin’s neighbourhood friends are all out at football club. They start to bicker, so I suggest a game of Cluedo. Exhausted from the long week, they agree, and so we set up the game on the carpet in the front room: Tiffin lying on his front with his head propped up on his hand, his blond mane hanging in his eyes; Willa cross-legged at the foot of the couch, an enormous new hole in her red school tights revealing part of an even larger sticking plaster.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask, pointing.
‘I fell!’ she announces, her eyes lighting up in anticipatory relish as she begins her account of the drama. ‘It was very, very serious. My knee gashed open and there was blood all down my leg and the nurse said we was gonna have to go to hospital to get stitches!’ She glances at Tiffin to make sure she has a captive audience. ‘I hardly cried much at all. Only till the end of break time. The nurse said I was really brave.’
‘You had stitches!’ I stare at her, appalled.
‘No, ’cos after a while the blood stopped gushing out, so the nurse said she thought it would be OK. She kept trying to call Mum but I told her and told her it was the wrong number.’
‘What d’you mean, the wrong number?’
‘I kept telling her that she had to call you or Lochie instead, but she didn’t listen, even when I told her I knew the numbers off by heart. She just left a lot of messages on Mum’s mobile. And she asked me if I had a granny or a grandpa who could come and pick me up instead.’
‘Oh God, let me see. Does it still hurt?’
‘Only a bit. No—Ow – don’t take the plaster off, Maya! The nurse said I have to leave it on!’
‘OK, OK,’ I say quickly. ‘But next time, you tell the nurse she has to call me or Lochie. You say she has to, Willa, OK? She has to!’ I suddenly find myself almost shouting.
Willa nods distractedly, intent on setting out the pieces of the game now the account of her drama is over. But Tiffin is looking at me solemnly, his blue eyes narrowing.
‘Why does school always have to call you or Lochan?’ he asks quietly. ‘Are you secretly our real parents?’
Shock runs like icy water through my veins. I am unable to draw breath for a moment. ‘No, of course not, Tiffin. We’re just a lot older than you, that’s all. What – what on earth made you think that?’
Tiffin continues to fix me with his penetrating stare and I find myself literally holding my breath, waiting for him to comment on what he witnessed this morning.
‘’Cos Mum’s never here no more. Even hardly at weekends. She’s got a new family now at Dave’s house. She lives there and she’s even got new kids.’
I stare at him, sadness seeping through me. ‘It’s not her new family,’ I attempt at last in desperation. ‘They only stay over at the weekend and they’re Dave’s children, not hers. We’re her children. She just spends lots of time there at the moment because she works so late – it’s dangerous for her to come home in the middle of the night on her own.’
My heart is beating too fast. I wish Lochan were here to say the right thing. I don’t know how to explain it to them. I don’t know how to explain it to myself.
‘Then how come she’s never even here at weekends any more?’ Tiffin asks, his voice suddenly sharp with anger. ‘How come she never takes us to school or picks us up at hometime like she used to on her day off?’
‘Because—’ My voice wavers. I know I’m going to have to lie here. ‘Because she now works at weekends too and doesn’t take days off during the week any more. It’s just so she can earn more money to buy nice things for us.’
Tiffin gives me a long hard look, and with a start I see the teenager he will be in a few years’ time. ‘You’re lying,’ he says in a low voice. ‘All of you are lying.’ He gets up and rushes off upstairs.
I sit there, paralysed with fear, guilt and horror. I know I should go up after him, but what can I possibly say? Willa is pulling at my sleeve, demanding to be played with, the conversation thankfully lost on her. And so I pick up the pieces with an unsteady hand and start to play.
As time passes, the afternoon I fainted begins to feel like a dream, slowly evaporating from the coils of my mind. I don’t try touching Lochan again. I keep telling myself that this is only temporary – just until things calm down with Tiffin and he starts to focus on other things and gets back to his usual cheeky self. It doesn’t take him long, but I know the memory is still there, along with the doubt, and the hurt, and the confusion. And that is enough to keep me from reaching out to Lochan.
The Christmas nightmare begins: Nativity plays, costumes to be made from scratch, a disco for the sixth formers which Lochan is the only pupil not to attend. Then everyone breaks up and Christmas is upon us, the house decorated with streamers and tinsel that Lochan nicks from school. It takes the combined efforts of all five of us to carry the tree home from the high street, and Willa gets a pine needle in her eye, and for a few dreadful moments we think we’ll have to take her to Casualty, but Lochan finally manages to remove it. Tiffin and Willa adorn the tree with home- and school-made decorations, and even though the end result is a great lopsided, glittery mess, it cheers us all up tremendously. Even Kit deigns to join in with the preparations, although he spends most of his time trying to prove to Willa that Santa isn’t real. Mum gives us our Christmas money and I go shopping for Willa while Lochan takes care of Tiffin – a system we devised one unfortunate year when I bought Tiffin a pair of football gloves with a pink stripe down the side. Kit only wants money, but Lochan and I club together to get him the pair of ridiculously expensive designer trainers he’s been banging on about for ages. On Christmas Eve we wait till we hear him softly snoring before placing the wrapped box at the foot of his ladder with the words From Santa written on it for good measure.
Mum makes an appearance late Christmas morning, when the turkey is already in the oven. She has presents too – mostly second-hand stuff that Dave’s children have grown tired of: Lego and toy cars for Tiffin, despite the fact he stopped playing with such things some time ago, a second copy of Bambi on DVD and a grubby Teletubby for Willa, which she gazes at with a mixture of confusion and horror. Kit gets some old video games that don’t work with his console but that he reckons he can sell at school. I get a dress several sizes too big that looks as if it probably once belonged to Dave’s ex-wife, and Lochan is the proud new owner of an encyclopaedia, generously adorned with obscene drawings. We all make the appropriate exclamations of joy and surprise, and Mum sits back on the couch, pours herself a large glass of cheap wine, lights up a cigarette and pulls Willa and Tiffin onto her lap, her face already flushed with alcohol.
Somehow we survive the day. Dave is spending the occasion with his family, and Mum passes out on the couch just before six. Tiffin and Willa are cajoled into bed early by being allowed to take their presents up with them, and Kit disappears upstairs with his video games to start wheeling and dealing. Lochan offers to clean up the kitchen and, to my shame, I let him do it and collapse into bed, thankful that the day is at an end.
It is almost a relief when school starts up again. Lochan and I both have mocks, and keeping Tiffin and Willa amused every day for two weeks has taken its toll. We return to school, exhausted, and admire the new iPods, mobiles, designer clothes and laptops that surround us. At lunch, Lochan walks past my table. ‘Meet me on the stairs,’ he whispers. Francie lets out a loud wolf-whistle as he moves away and I swing round in time to see his face turn crimson.
Up here the wind is almost a gale, cutting right through you like sl
ivers of ice. I have no idea how Lochan can bear it, day after day. He is hugging himself against the cold, his teeth chattering, his lips tinged with blue.
‘Where’s your coat?’ I reproach him.
‘I forgot it in the usual morning rush.’
‘Lochan, you’re going to catch pneumonia and die! Would you at least go read in the library, for God’s sake?’
‘I’m OK.’ He is so cold, he can barely talk. But on a day like this, half the school is crammed into the library.
‘What’s up? I thought you didn’t like me coming up here. Has something happened?’
‘No, no.’ He bites his lip in an attempt to hold back a smile. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
I frown, confused. ‘What?’
He reaches into his blazer pocket and brings out a small silver box. ‘It’s a late Christmas present. I wasn’t able to get it till now. And I didn’t want to give it to you at home because, you know . . .’ His voice tails off awkwardly.
I take it from him slowly. ‘But we made a pact ages ago,’ I protest. ‘Christmas was for the kids. We weren’t going to waste any more money than we had to, remember?’
‘I wanted to break the pact this year.’ He looks excited, his eyes on the box, willing me to open it.
‘But then you should have told me. I didn’t get you anything!’
‘I didn’t want you to get me anything. I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘But—’
He takes me by the shoulders and gives me a gentle shake, laughing. ‘Aargh! Would you just open it?’
I grin. ‘OK, OK! But I still object to this pact-breaking without my consent . . .’ I lift the lid. ‘Oh . . . God . . . Lochie . . .’
‘Do you like it?’ He is practically bouncing on his toes, grinning in delight, a glow of triumph shining from his eyes. ‘It’s solid silver,’ he informs me proudly. ‘It should fit you perfectly. I took the measurement from the mark on your watch strap.’
I continue to stare into the box, aware I haven’t moved or spoken for several moments. The silver bracelet lying there against the black velvet is the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. Made up of intricate loops and swirls, it sparkles as it catches the white light of the winter sun.
‘How did you pay for this?’ My voice is a shocked whisper.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes!’
He hesitates for a moment, the glow fades and he lowers his eyes. ‘I’ve – I’ve been saving. I had a kind of job—’
I look up from the beautiful bracelet, incredulous. ‘A job? What? When?’
‘Well, it wasn’t a real job.’ The light has gone from his eyes and he sounds embarrassed now. ‘I offered to write some essays for a few people and it kind of caught on.’
‘You did people’s homework for money?’
‘Yeah. Well, coursework mostly.’ He looks down sheepishly.
‘Since when?’
‘Beginning of last term.’
‘You’ve been saving for this for four months?’
His shoes scuff at the ground and his eyes refuse to meet mine. ‘At first it was just extra money for – you know – household stuff. But then I thought about Christmas and how you hadn’t had a present for – for ever . . .’
I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. It’s a struggle to take all this in. ‘Lochan, we have to return this immediately and get your money back.’
‘We can’t.’ His voice wavers.
‘What d’you mean?’
He turns the bracelet over. On the inside are the words: Maya, love you for ever. Lochan x
I stare at the engraving, numb with shock, the silence between us punctuated only by distant shouts from the playground.
Lochan says quietly, ‘I thought – it shouldn’t be too loose, so no one will be able to see the engraving. And if you’re worried, you could always just keep it hidden at home. L-like a lucky charm or something – I mean, only – only if you like it of course . . .’ His voice trails off into silence again.
I cannot move.
‘It was probably a silly idea.’ He’s talking very fast now, tripping over his words. ‘It’s – it’s probably not what you’d have picked out for yourself – guys have the worst taste in this kind of thing. I should have waited and asked you. I should have let you choose, or got something more useful like, um, like – like . . .’
I drag my eyes away from the bracelet again. Despite the cold, Lochan’s cheeks look hot with embarrassment, his eyes radiating disappointment. ‘Maya, look, it really doesn’t matter. You don’t need to wear it or anything. You – you could just keep it hidden at home – for the engraving.’ He gives me an unsteady smile, desperate to shrug the whole thing off.
I shake my head slowly, swallow hard and force myself to speak. ‘No, Lochie, no. It’s – it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. It’s the most incredible present I’ve ever been given. And the engraving . . . I’m going to wear it all my life. I just can’t believe you did this. Just for me. All that work, night after night. I thought you were going crazy about exams or something. But it was all just to – just to give me—’ I can’t finish the sentence and, holding tightly onto the box, lean towards him, my face pressed against his chest.
I hear him exhale in relief. ‘Hey, you know, the polite thing to do is smile and say thank you!’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper against him, but the words mean nothing compared to what I feel.
He takes the box and lifts my arm from my side. I feel him reach round me and push up the sleeve of my coat. After a few moments of fumbling, I feel the cool silver against my skin.
‘Hey, how’s that? Take a look at it,’ he says proudly.
I take a deep breath, blinking back tears. The intricate silver round my wrist gleams. Against my pulse point rest the words Love you for ever. Yet I already know that he will.
I wear the bracelet all the time. I only ever take it off in the safety of my own room, resting it in the palm of my hand and gazing, enraptured, at the engraving. At night I sleep with the curtains partially opened so the moonlight catches against the metal, making it sparkle. In the dark I feel its indentations with my lips, as if kissing it brings me closer to Lochan.
On Saturday evening Mum surprises us by slamming into the house, her make-up running, hair wet with rain. ‘Oh, you’re all here,’ she sighs, making no attempt to hide her disappointment, standing in the doorway of the front room in an oversized man’s anorak, fishnet stockings and tottery heels. Tiffin is practising head-stands on the couch, Willa is sprawled out on the carpet gazing dully at the TV and I’m attempting to finish my history homework on the coffee table. Kit is already out with his mates and Lochan is upstairs, revising.
‘Mummy!’ Willa leaps up and runs over, holding up her arms for a hug. Mum pats her on the head without looking down, and Willa settles for hugging her legs instead.
‘Mum, Mum, look what I can do!’ Tiffin shouts triumphantly, launching himself into an aerial somersault and knocking my pile of books to the floor.
‘How come you’re not at Dave’s?’ I ask her acerbically.
‘He had to go and rescue his ex-wife,’ she replies, her lip curling in disgust. ‘Apparently she’s now an agoraphobic or something. More like a chronic attention-seeker, if you ask me.’
‘Mummy, let’s go out somewhere. Please!’ Willa begs, hanging onto her leg.
‘Not now, sweetie pie. It’s raining and Mummy’s very tired.’
‘You could take them to the cinema,’ I suggest quickly. ‘Superheroes starts in fifteen minutes. I was going to take them, but since they haven’t seen you in over two weeks . . .’
‘Yeah, Mum! Superheroes sounds well cool – you’ll love it! Everyone in my class has seen it.’ Tiffin’s face lights up.
‘And popcorn!’ Willa begs, jumping up and down. ‘I love popcorn! And Coke!’
Mum manages a tight smile. ‘Kids, I’ve got a splitting headache
and I’ve only just got in.’
‘But you’ve been at Dave’s for two whole weeks!’ Tiffin suddenly shouts, his face puce.
She flinches slightly. ‘OK, OK. Fine.’ She shoots me an angry look. ‘You do realize I’ve been working for the past two weeks, right?’
I stare back at her coldly. ‘So have we.’
She turns on her heel, and after an argument over an umbrella, furious yells about a missing coat and anguished wails about someone’s foot being stepped on, the front door bangs shut. I drop my head back against the edge of the couch and close my eyes. After a moment I open them again and smile. They’ve gone. They’ve all gone. This is too good to be true. We finally have the house to ourselves.
I tiptoe upstairs, my heart-rate picking up. I’m going to surprise him. Creep up behind him, slide onto his lap and announce our unexpected window of freedom with a long, deep kiss. Poised outside his bedroom door, I hold my breath and gently turn the handle.
Slowly I push the door ajar. Then I stop. He is not at his desk, head bent over his book as I expected. Instead he’s by the window: one hand fiddling intently with the broken mobile he still thinks he can salvage, the other trying to pull off a sock as he wobbles precariously on one leg. He is half turned away from me so he hasn’t noticed me behind the door and I watch him in amusement as he struggles to remove his other sock, eyes still fixed on the phone’s cracked screen. Then, with a sigh of annoyance, he chucks it onto his bed and, grabbing his T-shirt, pulls it swiftly over his head, his hair emerging comically tousled. Spotting the towel slung over the back of his chair, I realize he is about to take a shower and start to draw back, when something stops me. I’m suddenly struck by how much his body has changed. Always on the skinny side, he has now become more muscular. A slight curve of the biceps, his chest smooth and hairless, not exactly a six-pack but the hint of definition in his stomach . . .