Chapter Eight.

Carrie closed the door of the Wendy house, looked at Joel and frowned. He was sucking his thumb and rubbing his cheek with his silky. His silky was a pale pink scarf Mum had worn when he'd been a baby. He used to stroke it whenever she wore it and then one night she gave it to him to help him sleep. He was always carrying the scarf around with him, dragging it on the floor when he was really little. Carrie could remember the time they were going somewhere and couldn't find it. Joel had cried and cried and wouldn't get in the car until he had it. They found it under a pile of his toys. He wasn't a baby then, but he'd acted like one.

He was acting like a baby now, sucking his thumb and making that humming noise he made when he was tired or upset. None of the grown-ups seemed to notice that he was doing it more and more, but Carrie knew he had to stop. If he did it when he went to school, he'd be laughed at. Someone would have to tell him. And seeing as she was the only one who knew what he was doing, it would have to be her. She sat in the chair next to him and put her arm around his shoulders, just as Mummy used to whenever she had something important to say. 'Joel,' she said, 'do you remember Daddy saying that big boys don't suck their thumbs? It's something you grow out of.'

Joel unplugged his thumb, making a small popping sound. 'Mummy said I could do it.'

'Yes, but that was when you were very little. Now you're a big boy. You'll be five soon.'

He shook his head. 'But Mummy said it was all right. She did.' His eyes wide, he clutched at his silky as though afraid Carrie might s.n.a.t.c.h it from him.

She tried to make her voice sound firm, like a grown-up's. 'I'm only telling you this for your own good, Joel. Because when you go to big school in a few weeks' time, you'll get laughed at if you don't act like all the other children. And if I'm not around to keep an eye on you, they'll pick on you.'

His eyes opened even wider. 'Then I'm not going to school.'

'But you have to.'

He shook his head and put his thumb back in his mouth.

Carrie took her arms away from him, folded them in front of her and tried to look stern. 'If you don't do as I say, I won't let you sleep in my bed with me.'

The thumb was out again. 'But I don't like sleeping on my own.'

'Then you have to do as I say.'

He looked thoughtful. 'Can I take silky to school with me?'

'No. You wouldn't want to lose it, would you? And someone might take it. I took a doll to school once and a girl stole it. She said she didn't, but I know she did. You see, Joel, not everyone's as nice as us.'

'Grandma and Granddad are nice.'

'That's true.'

'And Harriet. She's nice.'

Carrie wasn't so sure about this. For the last few days, since Harriet had come back from wherever it was she'd been, she hadn't seemed at all nice. She'd told Carrie off for not eating enough of her cereal yesterday morning and then had snapped at her because she hadn't tidied her room. 'You have to do your bit,' Harriet had said. 'You can't expect me or Grandma and Granddad to do everything for you.'

'Grandma doesn't mind tidying up; she told me she quite likes it,' Carrie had said.

'But Grandma can't do as much as she used to.'

'What's wrong with her?'

'It doesn't matter what's wrong with her; the point is you have to make sure you clean up after yourselves. And if you can remember to put the lid back on the toothpaste after you've finished spreading it round the basin, so much the better.'

It wasn't even as if her bedroom had been that messy. Just a few toys she and Joel had tipped out of the box and had been playing with.

Harriet could be so bossy with her and Joel. Maybe not so much with Joel. That was because he was still little. Probably, when he was bigger, Harriet would start telling him off too.

Carrie often wished that Harriet could be more like their mother. You'd have thought because they were sisters they would be the same. But they weren't. Other than being the same size, they weren't like one another at all. Mum had been kind and patient, and her voice had always been gentle and full of happiness, like she was about to burst out laughing. Carrie used to love it when Mum read to her; she did all the voices, even the funny deep ones. Harriet never did that. She always rushed it as if she was in a hurry to do something else. She could look pretty sometimes, like Mum, but not when she was cross; then her lips would go all thin and her eyes would screw up in a scowl, as if she'd eaten something horrible.

Carrie knew for a fact that Harriet didn't like children. If she did like them, she'd be married with some of her own. Maybe then it wouldn't be so bad for her and Joel. If they had some cousins to play with, there wouldn't be time to think about ...

Carrie stopped quickly. She'd promised herself not to let her mind get confused with sad thoughts about Mum and Dad. She had to remember what Grandma had told her, that they were happy where they were. But then everyone knew that if you went to heaven you were happy, that you didn't have anything to worry about. There wasn't anyone there to tell you off. No one to tell you to tidy your room.

Carrie often wished she and Joel could be there too. But if that happened then she'd miss Grandma and Granddad, who were always nice and hardly ever told them off. Granddad had taken them to the garden centre the other day - the day when Harriet came home in a bad mood with her car full of bags and boxes - and he hadn't even told Joel off when he didn't make it to the loo in time and wet himself. Although he did sigh quite a bit when they were queuing for an ice-cream.

It was weird, but Grandma and Granddad were the only friends Carrie and Joel now had. They hadn't lived in their last house long enough to make any friends, and the friends they'd made before she couldn't really remember because they'd moved house millions of times. Although Harriet said it wasn't anywhere near that many. She said she should know because she'd stayed with them at least once in every house they'd ever lived in.

Deciding it was too hot in the Wendy house, Carrie got up and opened the two windows either side of the door. She liked playing in here; it was like having her own little house. She lifted the lid of the toy box and looked inside. There was the plastic tea set Joel loved playing with. 'Let's have a tea party,' she said, knowing that it would please him.

Joel sprang into life and got off his chair. 'Can we have real water like we did last time? Not pretend water.'

She pa.s.sed him a matching teapot and milk jug. 'Yes. But only if you promise not to spill it everywhere. We mustn't make extra work for Grandma and Granddad.' And quoting her aunt, she added, 'Grandma isn't very well, so we have to be extra good.'

She helped him to place the things carefully on the table, four cups and saucers and four plates - he always insisted that it had to be four of everything. 'Is Grandma going to die like Mummy and Daddy?' he asked, putting the lid on the teapot.

'Don't be stupid. No one is going to die, Joel.' Carrie didn't know if this was true. She and Joel weren't supposed to know that their grandmother had anything wrong with her. But Carrie often listened at the top of the stairs when everyone thought she was asleep in bed and one night she had heard Harriet telling Grandma that she should rest more, that if she didn't, she'd make herself more ill than she already was.

'But Mummy and Daddy died,' Joel said, his voice shrill and persistent. 'Harriet says that everyone dies in the end. Harriet told me that even - '

'Oh, stop going on about it, will you?' Carrie snapped. 'You're just a silly little boy who doesn't know anything.' She wrenched the teapot out of his hands and grabbed the milk jug. 'Now stay here while I go and fill these.'

She didn't know why, but her legs were shaking when she stepped outside into the sunshine. She walked uncertainly across the lawn to the tap that was on the end of the garage. Blinking back tears, she wondered if this was how you felt just before you fainted. A boy had fainted at school once, on sports day, and everyone had crowded round him to get a look as he lay on the gra.s.s. She stood in the shade of the garage and felt her heart racing. It felt like someone was playing a drum inside her. Her throat felt tight and it was an effort to swallow. Maybe she had what was making Grandma ill. Maybe she was dying. She suddenly thought of Joel and how lonely and frightened he'd be without her.

At night, when her brother was sleeping next to her, his breath noisy and tickly in her ear, his silky wrapped around his thumb-sucking hand, she often worried about who would look after them if anything happened to their grandparents. Or Harriet. What if there was another car crash and she and Joel were left on their own? Who would look after them then? Or would they be made to stay in one of those places where children without parents had to live?

An orphanage.

Just saying the word in her head scared Carrie. She knew all about orphanages; she'd seen them on the television. Children were made to wear smelly old clothes that had been worn by hundreds of other children. They were all made to sleep together in one big room and had to get up in the middle of the night to mop the floors. Oh, yes, she knew what went on. She'd watched that film with the girl who had all that curly red hair. She and the other girls in the orphanage didn't look too unhappy, but they all wanted to escape, didn't they? They wanted to be with kind, rich people who loved them.

Suddenly Carrie's throat was so tight she was struggling to breathe. It only loosened when hot tears splashed onto her cheeks. She drew her forearm across her face and wiped them away. Just as Joel had to stop sucking his thumb, she had to learn not to cry. She had to be good, too. Because if Grandma wasn't well and they annoyed Harriet, their aunt might decide not to look after them any more and they'd end up in an orphanage wearing clothes that didn't fit and shoes with holes in them.

Perhaps she ought to explain to Joel what could happen if they didn't do as Harriet said.

She filled the plastic teapot and jug and went back to the Wendy house. When she pushed the door open, she found Joel lying on his side on the floor. He was crying, curled up into a ball, his precious silky pushed against his eyes. In her hurry to put the teapot and jug on the table, she splashed water down the front of her shorts and T-shirt, but hardly noticing it, she dropped to her knees. She pulled her brother onto her lap. 'What's the matter, Joel? Have you hurt yourself?'

He lifted his head from her shoulder. 'You ... you shouted at me. You called me silly. And I'm not. Mummy said I was clever. She ... she always said I was clever.'

'Oh, Joel, I'm sorry. Of course you're not silly. Please don't cry any more.'

But the more she tried to calm him - rocking him gently, patting his back - the more he cried, his tears making a cool, damp patch on her shoulder. He was shuddering and gulping in her arms and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She tried to think what their mother would have done if she were here. How would Mum have stopped him crying?

Then it came to her: Mum would have given him a drink. Reaching across to the table she poured Joel a cup of water from the teapot. 'Look, Joel,' she said, 'I've got you a drink. Sit up straight and you can have it.'

Within seconds he was calm and drinking thirstily. Still holding him close and wiping his eyes with his silky, she said, 'Don't worry, Joel, I'll take care of you. I'll always look after you.'

Cuddling Joel tightly, she knew what she'd just said was true. She would always look after her brother. She had to. There wasn't anyone else they could rely on. Mummy and Daddy had left them, Grandma was ill and would probably leave them too, and Granddad had a bad knee, didn't he? So that only left Harriet. And Harriet didn't really like them, did she?

Chapter Nine.

It was probably a first, but for once the commotion going on downstairs had nothing to do with Gemma - it wasn't about her clothes, her hair, the hours she kept or her att.i.tude - and, pushing her unpacking onto the floor, she lay on the bed with her hands behind her head. The way Steve was carrying on, anyone would think Suzie had done it deliberately. What a t.w.a.t! Kicking up such a fuss just because his stupid car had been damaged. At least Suzie had come clean about it. Mind you, even Gemma would have done that, but only because she would have been gagging to see the expression on Steve's face. She'd also have made a better job of it - would have really trashed the car, maybe taken off a door or two. And she certainly wouldn't have bothered to get it fixed like her sister had. Unluckily for Suzie, the garage had c.o.c.ked up big-time by bodging the respray.

Gemma smirked at the memory of Steve's face when he'd realised something was wrong. They'd only been in the house ten minutes when he'd looked out of the sitting-room window and nearly had a fit. Mum had told him he was imagining it, but when they'd all gone outside, it became pretty obvious that there was a patch of paintwork that looked different from the rest. Suzie's eyes had been a giveaway too. Mum had immediately taken Steve's side, as she always did these days. 'What the h.e.l.l did you think you were doing, driving Steve's car, anyway?' she'd shouted at Suzie.

'I'd run out of petrol in mine.'

'And you thought that gave you the right to help yourself to mine?' Steve had bl.u.s.tered, his nostrils flaring.

'I was only nipping to the shops for some milk.'

'Oh, so that makes it all right. Well, I'll tell you this for nothing; I'm going to get it fixed properly and you're going to pay for it. Do you hear me? What's more, we'll stop your allowance.'

'Steve, calm down. Let me handle this.'

More nostril flaring. 'You mean you'll just let her off. I've told you before, Maxine, you're not firm enough with them.'

That was when Gemma had decided she'd had enough. She wasn't going to stick around while PC Plod, as her father called Steve, banged on about the teenagers of today. She'd tried to signal to Suzie to make her escape with her, but Mum had stepped in. 'Oh, no you don't, you stay right where you are. Gemma, go and do your unpacking.'

b.u.g.g.e.r the unpacking, thought Gemma, as she continued to lie on her bed. She was knackered and didn't have any intention of moving for the next hour. The journey back from Paris, which should only have taken a few hours had been a total nightmare. French baggage-handlers had been on a twenty-four-hour strike. Or had it been traffic controllers? Either way it delayed them getting home by more than six hours. Mum had been all for getting the Eurostar and then the train up to Crewe, but Steve, in one of his I've-paid-for-this-we'll-b.l.o.o.d.y-well-stick-it-out moods, wouldn't listen. She'd left them to their bickering and went off to find something to eat.

Looking at her watch, she wondered what time supper would be. Maybe she'd pa.s.s on it this evening. She could wander into town and get something from the chip shop. In fact, a bag of proper chips swimming in vinegar would be just the job after all that French food. Using the remote control, she turned up the volume on Radiohead's OK Computer and drowned out the argument still going on downstairs. She closed her eyes, imagining herself back at Glas...o...b..ry, where she'd gone earlier in the summer with a bunch of friends when their AS exams were over. She hadn't really fancied lolloping around in the mud, but seeing as Radiohead were playing, she reckoned she could rough it for a couple of days. It had been the perfect wind-up for Steve. For an ex-policeman, a music festival was the ultimate social evil. The amount of drugs awareness lectures he'd subjected her to was a criminal act in itself. Wake up and smell the coffee, Stevie Boy! She didn't need to go all the way to Glas...o...b..ry to find a supplier. She could do that at school. Or here in Maywood. But the festival had been cool. The sun had shone and the bands had been great. She and Fay had shared their tent with Gus and it had been a right laugh the three of them trying to sleep together. Not that she'd told Mum and Steve about Gus sleeping with her and Fay. That would have brought on a heart attack for them both. It had been a shame that Gemma's best friend hadn't been able to join them, but Yasmin came from a strict Muslim family and Mr and Mrs Patel were very protective of their only daughter.

She closed her eyes and lost herself in the music. It was good to be home. The last two weeks had been exhausting. As part of the student exchange system the school ran, she'd been staying with the Leon family in Paris. In theory, Veronique Leon would be coming to stay with them next summer, but Gemma wasn't so sure she'd actually come. Veronique had been an all-round loser and way too serious. She hardly ever wanted to go out and only wanted Gemma there to improve her English. Okay, so that was the point of the exercise, but how school had reached the conclusion that they'd have anything in common was a mystery to Gemma. It hadn't been all bad: Veronique's nineteen-year-old brother, Marcel, had more than made up for any inadequacy on his sister's behalf. Home from university, and with his own transport - a noisy, back-firing motorbike - Marcel had offered to take her out. They'd gone to the cinemas, they'd sat around in smoky bars and cafes and one night they'd gone to a party and didn't come home until seven in the morning, having spent the last two hours lying on the dewy gra.s.s in the nearby park, watching the sun come up. Mum and Steve would have gone mad if they'd known.

But not half as mad as if they knew what else she'd been doing. Marcel had made it pretty obvious that he wanted to go to bed with her, and deciding that she quite fancied him, and that she might just as well get the whole virginity thing over and done with, she'd gone along with it. The first time had been the let-down she'd expected. It hadn't hurt, but then it hadn't been all that great either. But the second time had been okay. The third and fourth time she began to see what all the fuss was about.

When Mum and Steve had met her at the airport she'd been convinced that they would take one look at her and guess. But she should have known better. They were so cross - they'd just heard about the strike at the airport - that not even a sticker on her forehead with the words 'All s.h.a.gged Out' would have made them pay attention.

For some reason she thought of her father and, not having spoken to him for some time, she got off the bed, turned down the volume on Karma Police and dug around in her rucksack for her mobile. The one thing you could count on with Dad was that he always had time for you. She'd phoned him once when he was in the middle of bidding at an auction; he'd kept chatting with her and only asked her to hold on when the bidding got really serious.

Within seconds he answered. 'Hi Bobtail,' he said, 'how was France? Have you brought me back a present? A pretty little Lalique bowl would be nice.'

'I've got you a bottle of wine and a T-shirt with Je Suis un Rockstar on it.'

'Sweetkins, you shouldn't have.'

'I know, but I'm like that. All heart.'

'So come on, tell me all about the trip. How was chez Leon? Did they treat you well? Did you go up the Eiffel Tower? Have you come back stinking of Gauloise and Camel cigarettes and with a liking for incomprehensible black and white films shot from arty angles?'

'Easy there, Dad. You've got to handle those stereotypes with care. How about I come round and see the new house and tell you all about it?'

'When do you want to come?'

'Now would be great but I don't think Mum would appreciate driving me anywhere tonight.'

'Tired after her romantic trip away with PC Plod, is she? That'll teach her.'

'No, it's got nothing to do with that; it's Steve's car.' She started to tell her father about Suzie being in trouble.

'd.a.m.n!' he interrupted her. 'I knew we wouldn't get away with it.'

'You knew?'

'Yes. Your sister asked me to lend her the money to get it put right and, thinking I could do better than that, I stepped in and organised for it to be fixed. Trouble was, the only garage that could do the job at such short notice wasn't exactly the best. On a scale of one to ten, how mad is Steve?'

'How would you rate six inches off the ground with incandescent rage?'

'Highly amusing if I didn't feel so sorry for Suzie. Does he know I had anything to do with it?'

'No. Suzie hasn't said anything. Well, not to my knowledge. But then I've been up here in my bedroom for the last half-hour, so for all I know, he might have got the thumbscrews out by now and be extracting a full confession.'

'Sounds like Suzie needs a good defence lawyer. Shall I just happen to be pa.s.sing and call in?'

With the second load of holiday washing now in the machine, Maxine was staring into the freezer hoping for inspiration. It was the worst thing about coming home after a holiday - trying to summon up the enthusiasm to cook again. More often than not Steve cooked, but tonight he wasn't capable of boiling an egg. He was currently upstairs in the shower, trying to calm down. Maxine had never seen him so furious, and frankly, she didn't blame him. If Suzie had b.u.mped her new car she'd be hopping mad. What the h.e.l.l had Suzie been playing at? If it wasn't one thing with those girls, it was another.

And the shame of it was, she and Steve hadn't managed to get a week away together - just the two of them - in ages, and when they did manage it, it was ruined. You had to wonder if it was worth the effort. Perhaps they should have taken a week off work and just stayed at home. That way Suzie wouldn't have dreamt of borrowing a car she had absolutely no right to touch.

Paris had been Steve's idea. He'd wanted to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary by doing something special, and when Gemma had come home from school with the letter about the lower-sixth French student exchange system, he had suddenly fancied France for himself, particularly Paris. 'We could treat ourselves to a decent hotel and really take our time exploring,' he said. 'It could be a second honeymoon for us.'

'But I've already had a second one,' she'd said, 'when I married you.'

'Yes, but did the first one really count?'

Steve didn't often badmouth Will - that was her job, especially if Will had been irritatingly stubborn over something - but she supposed that occasionally it was natural that Husband Number Two would feel the need to check his stock against that of Husband Number One. Not that he needed to worry. Will didn't compare at all. Steve was everything Will could never be. He was dependable, solid, hardworking, ambitious, organised and most importantly, all grown up. When Steve said he'd organise something he did it by the book and you could be sure it would happen. There were no embarra.s.sing surprises or disappointments. If Will had suggested a trip to Paris it would probably turn out to be a long weekend to EuroDisney with Big Macs thrown in. Her idea of h.e.l.l.

It transpired that the only week she and Steve could both get away coincided with Gemma's trip to Paris. 'I might know you'd find some way to keep an eye on me,' Gemma had said.

'Paris is a big city,' Maxine had mollified her, 'quite large enough for us to avoid b.u.mping into each other.'

'I certainly hope so.'

As tempting as it was to look up Monsieur and Madame Leon in Paris and introduce themselves, they stuck to the arrangement that they would meet at Charles de Gaulle airport at the agreed time. It was then, when they discovered there was a strike on, that all the pleasure of the holiday started to fade away.

Maxine sighed, and deciding on chicken Kiev for supper, she closed the freezer door. After putting the unappetising lumps of breaded chicken into a dish and shoving them into the oven, she went over to the wine rack. A very large gla.s.s of wine was just what was needed. She had the cork almost out when the doorbell rang. If it was one of the girls' friends, a Jehovah's Witness or a double-glazing man, they were in for short shrift. She flung the door back in a way guaranteed to see them off.

'Oh, it's you.'

'Bonjour, ma cherie! Is that the pungent smell of a ripe Brie fresh from its travels across the channel? Or is it the smell of a daughter being roasted on the spit?'