‘I hate watching people suffer,’ I reply, and make my way outside to buy my lunch instead.
I don’t know what that woman has lost to end up trapped in the life she lives now, but I know how it feels to have your world thrown from its axis through no fault of your own.
CHAPTER 6
NINA
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
The weight of the textbooks in my schoolbag makes a heavy thump when I let it fall to the floor. I kick my ugly, clunky, black lace-ups into the cupboard under the stairs and rush upstairs to my bedroom and swap my uniform for my tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. While school uniforms are okay for kids, it’s not fair that teenagers should be forced to wear them.
‘Hello,’ I shout as I head back downstairs, but there’s no response. There must be somebody here because the front door was unlocked and Mum never works later than 2.30 p.m. at the surgery. She says she doesn’t want me coming home to an empty house like she had to when I was her age. I keep reminding her that I’m nearly fourteen and that I can survive alone here for a few hours without burning the place down.
I pick up the remote control and switch on children’s TV. The programmes are a bit babyish but I like background noise as I do my homework. Dad says he doesn’t know how I can concentrate with all that noise; I remind him I’m a girl and it’s been scientifically proven that we can multitask better than boys. I read it inJust Seventeenmagazine so it must be true. Besides, I’ve only got an English lit essay about the Brontë sisters to finish tonight and they’re my favourites. Although I do still have a soft spot forMalory Towersand Judy Blume. I’ll do an hour beforeNeighbourscomes on and if I’m lucky and Dad is late home from work, then I’ll get to watchHome and Awaytoo. He hates the Aussie soaps.
Mum has usually come to find me by now to ask me about my day. Half the time I mumble one-word answers and tell her to move out of the way of the telly. But her not being here means curiosity’s getting the better of me, so I look for her instead. She’s not in the kitchen, or upstairs on the first floor or in the attic they’ve just had converted. Everyone else has been getting conservatories, but we’re the first house in the street to extend upandconvert the cellar into a basement floor. Dad says when we come to sell in the next couple of years, the profit we’ll make will have made the expense worthwhile. I keep trying to talk him into letting me swap bedrooms and move up there. He says no, but I’ll wear him down eventually. I always do.
I gaze out from the window at the top of the stairs and into the garden, where I spot Mum. She’s standing by the washing line, a towel in her hands and a full basket at her feet, but she’s not moving. It’s like I’m watching her on videotape and someone’s pressed pause. I knock on the glass but she doesn’t flinch. That’s not like her.
By the time I reach the kitchen, she’s made her way indoors. Her eyes are red and puffy, like mine when my hay fever kicks in and I want to claw them out.
‘Didn’t you hear me come in?’ I ask, and I can tell that her smile is forced because I do the same when I get a birthday or Christmas present I don’t like, so as not to offend. ‘Is everything okay?’ But I’m not sure I actually want to know.
‘Just give me a minute to finish hanging up the rest of the washing,’ she replies, and her voice is all sing-song-like. Like her smile, she’s putting it on. She’s acting weird; I don’t like this.
I glance at the basket and all she’s washed are bathroom towels, tea towels, dishrags, dusters and even those fluffy mats she puts under the toilet pedestal and by the side of the bath. I’m a bag of nerves as I wait until she comes back inside.
‘Come here,’ she says, and beckons me to join her at the kitchen table. She sits by my side, removes a tissue from under her sleeve and dabs at her eyes with it. I don’t know what she’s about to say.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she begins. ‘It’s about your dad.’
My stomach does backflips and I clamp my hand over my mouth so quickly that it hurts my lips. Now I know what she’s going to say and I want to throw up. The same thing happened to Sarah Collins at school last Christmas. She was called out of geography class and then Mrs Peck told her that her dad had been in an accident on his motorbike and her mum was on her way to come and collect her. She’s the first person I know who has lost a parent.
My dad is my world and I don’t want to be in a world without him. ‘Is he dead?’ I ask.
Mum shakes her head and suddenly, there’s hope. ‘No,’ she says. ‘He’s not, darling. But ... but I’m afraid your dad and I won’t be living together any more.’ She puts her hand on my arm. Her skin is cold. ‘This morning, when you were at school, your dad told me he couldn’t be with us any longer and that he had to leave.’
‘He’s gone?’ Tears prick my eyes and my voice trembles. ‘Why?’
‘We haven’t been getting on very well lately.’
‘But why does he need to leave?’
‘Because he thinks it will be for the best.’
‘Where’s he gone to?’
‘He’s found somewhere else to live up in Huddersfield.’
‘Where?’
‘About two and a half hours from here.’
‘When can I see him?’
‘You’re not going to be able to for a while. But he has left us an address that he said you can write to.’
‘I don’t want to write to him! I want to see him now.’ Mum’s grip tightens on my arm. It doesn’t hurt and I think she’s trying to reassure me but it’s only making me more afraid. ‘You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you? Mark Fearn’s mum and dad did that and he went to live with his mum and now he only sees his dad at weekends and it’s not fair.’
