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It was about 9 o'clock when I got home. As I walked in the door, Katy screeched then stuck her beak under her wing as the cold wind whipped through the door, ruffling her feathers. "Sorry, Katy," I said closing the door behind me.
I walked to the kitchen. There was a blackboard stuck to the wall above the sink where we wrote each other messages. In my Aunt's loopy copperplate, was scrawled:
"Beltway Emergency Meeting. Back at lunchtime."
That probably meant she'd be back around four o'clock, when her voice wore out. Aunt Bea loved long meetings.
I'd almost forgotten about the dreaded Beltway. The Old Stump Highway skirted the north of town, and had served travellers for over a century. But it could no longer cope with the volume of cars. On Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, the road resembled a car park. The Government had decided to build a new freeway, called the Beltway. The only problem was that, as designed, it would bypass Quakehaven altogether. That meant fewer tourists and shoppers. The threat was so serious that, for the first time in history, Aunt Bea and Mr Barker actually agreed on something: the Beltway had to be stopped.
I had a glass of milk, then went into Mum's bedroom. Mum and Aunt Bea's father - my granddad, a doctor and explorer - added the room to the back of the main house after he'd picked up a bug in Singapore on one of his voyages. The room was bright, with three walls made entirely of double-glazed glass. The fourth wall, against the larder, was plastered.
In his final years, granddad's health had deteriorated and he installed a fireplace there to keep him warm. It was perhaps the only conservatory in existence with a red brick chimney!
Mum slept against the glass wall farthest from the fireplace in granddad's oversized teak day bed. The room was cluttered with exotic objects from granddad's travels: wicker chairs from England, Persian carpets from Iran and Pakistan, and two large porcelain pots cast in China, each containing a lemon tree that bore fruit year round.
Mum lay in the middle of the bed, her head propped up on a pile of white pillows, her eyes closed. In vain, I tried not to look at the large wooden trunk at the base of the bed, and busied myself straightening Mum's bedspread.
Scented candles and the hearth had been lit, most likely by my Aunt before she left for her meeting. The room smelled pleasantly of musky smoke and citrus. Mum breathed gently, seemingly at peace. Just what Doctor Vassel had ordered!
With one last glance at the trunk, I retreated from the room the way I'd come. As I stepped through the door, Mum's eyes flashed open and she sat bolt upright, her red locks bouncing up and down like rusty springs.
"Paddy," she said, and lowered her head back onto the pillow. "Stay awhile."
I walked over and sat down at the foot of her bed. "Hi Mum," I whispered. "Sorry to wake you." My eyes slipped back to the trunk.
"No, I'm sorry, Paddy," said Mum. "I don't know what happened. I was feeling as strong as an ox. Then this," she said, her voice wavering. "My poor baby! Have you had any breakfast?" She moved to sit up.
"Shh! Stay in bed," I said, gently rubbing Mum's hand through the covers. "I can make my own breakfast. And Aunt Bea has everything under control. Including me!"
Mum laughed. "She's a good lady, your Aunt. I don't know where we'd be without her."
"We'd be fine," I said.
"I don't know what's happening to me, Paddy, but I promise you I'll pull through this and be back to look after you as soon as I can." She smiled and tapped the mattress: "Get in."
I grinned and wiggled up the bed, kicking off my shoes. Under the quilt I dove, my head ending up next to Mum's.
"How was band practice?" she asked.
"Fine," I said, scrunching my eyes shut and rubbing my hands together to hide the white-lie.
"You're half-frozen!"
"Yeah," I mumbled, digging myself in deeper. "Ms Crabshank made us do marching practice."
"Silly woman! I'll be astounded if none of you catches the flu. Even with the fire, I'm cold! I'll pay her a visit as soon as I can. My baby shouldn't be marching in the dead of Winter!"
"No need," I said quickly, almost stumbling over my words. "It was voluntary. I wanted to practice my turns. French horns usually play the offbeat, so turning isn't easy. But Ms Crabshank didn't force me to practice outside."
Mum nodded, apparently satisfied. "Beatrice told me about the party. Poor Mark! What a horrible thing to happen to him on his birthday."
"Yeah," I said, relieved she'd changed the topic. "Can't say I felt too sorry for him. He kind of deserved it."
"Why?" asked Mum, blinking slowly, her body rigid and thin. I told her about the party, including the games and Mark's shoddy treatment of Joke and Tim's injury.
"Poor Joke!" said Mum. "What was Annette thinking! Kids are so cruel sometimes."
"That's pretty much what Mr Fisk said."
"He's spot on in this case. Why didn't you say something to stop it? Joke's your best friend."
"Was my best friend," I said. Mum groaned and shook her head. I propped up on my elbow: "I did say something. I mean I tried. But it's hard to say no to Mark. He's so - so persuasive. I'm his friend now, and it was his party. I had to be loyal to the host! He has all this cool stuff. And his father practically owns everyone. Aunt Bea says -"
"Stop it, Paddy," said Mum, opening her eyes, her face an approaching storm. "No-one owns anyone. Doesn't matter how much money they have, or how many toys. Stuff is just stuff."
"Well I wouldn't mind some stuff for a change!" I said, then instantly regretted it. Mum closed her eyes, wounded.
"I know things are tough at the moment, Paddy. But your father's insurance should come through soon. And we've got the important stuff: a roof over our heads and family. Your Aunt didn't need to take us in, but she loves us. You know that. You also know that you should have helped Joke, even if that made you unpopular. You should stand up for your friends."
"He's not my friend," I said. "We haven't been friends for ages. He's so embarrassing, with his books and quizzes and his squeaky voice and -"
"I don't believe what I'm hearing," Mum said, thumping the mattress with both palms. "When we first came to Quakehaven, Joke was the only boy in your class that would talk to you. Do you remember?"
"That's just because no-one else would talk to him," I said. "I mean, he's so weird. He doesn't care what people say about him, even when he's dressed like a pumpkin - you should have seen him waddling up Mark's driveway. Even Mr Fisk was embarrassed. I tried to warn Joke, but he wouldn't go home to change. He studies all the time and talks on and on about Pinkerton University and becoming an archaeologist. I mean, he needs to come back to Planet Earth. He's just crazy."
"Like me?" whispered Mum. "As crazy as your mother?"
"That's not what I meant," I said, horrified by the clumsy words that kept tumbling from my mouth. "You're not crazy, you're sick. Joke's different. He just refuses to -"
"He refuses to be like everyone else, right?" said Mum. "Just like me. Or your Dad for that matter. So just because Joke doesn't let others tell him what to do - doesn't follow the popular kids around like a lonely puppy - and, God forbid, works hard to get what he wants out of life, he's a outcast, is he? Someone you are too cool to be seen with?"
"Yes, I mean no, of course not," I said. "You don't understand. It's just that -"
"I'm disappointed, Paddy. I thought Dad and I raised you better than that. Your father would not have been half the man he was if he spent his time trying to be like everyone else. If he didn't fight against the tide for what was right. You think your Dad cared what people thought about him?"
Tears welled in my eyes, and I rolled over, away from Mum. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what I mean. And why I didn't..."
"It's confusing," said Mum, turning onto her side and raking my back gently with the tips of her fingernails. "Life's like that. I'm not telling you who your friends should be. You have to decide that for yourself. But you're different, t
oo, Paddy, and I don't want you to feel you ever have to hide who you are because you're worried about what Mark, me or anyone else might think. You're stronger than that, I know. And I love you for it. My baby! Don't compromise who you are just to fit it."
"Thanks, Mum," I said. "I'll make you proud."
"I'm already proud, Paddy. You're my little boy," she said.
I flipped over and kissed her cheek. "Not so little anymore," I said. We hugged a while, and I nearly fell asleep in her arms. Then Mum sharply inhaled and turned onto her back.
"I'm a bit tired, Paddy. I might have a small nap, if that's OK?"
"Of course," I said. "Go to sleep." I rolled out of bed, and put on my shoes. Rain drops splashed against the glass walls, like tears. I lowered the wooden plantation shutters, and blew out the candles. As I poured Mum a fresh glass of water from the blue china pitcher on the dressing table next to her bed, I glanced again at the trunk. I couldn't help it. Explore your surrounds - start with the trunk in your Mum's room. See what you see. Mr Seth's words had been paddling through the backwaters of my brain since I'd cycled home from the newsagency.
I crept to the end of the bed to examine the trunk. On the carpet in front of the trunk, lay an orange and white exercise book splayed open on its face, like a half-read novel. My name was inscribed in blue ink on the cover in Mum's neat cursive script. I lent over to study it, and Mum stirred.
"What this?" I muttered to myself, picking up the book and rotating it.
Mum's eyes fluttered open. "It's for you. Thought you might need it. For your maths test tomorrow, and other things." Her eyes closed again, and she started, almost daintily, to snore.
It was my turn to wince. My stomach was knotted like a nautical rope. In the excitement of the last couple of days, I'd completely forgotten the test!