Chapter 3

‘Stand close,’ said Mum as she pointed the camera at us in the back garden. ‘Put your hand on Paul’s shoulder, Richard. And try and look as though you like him a bit.’

Dad shuffled about behind us then finally put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘Might be more appropriate if Paul put his hand in my pocket,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Mum. ‘Enough now. You made your point over lunch. This is our last day together as a family before Paul leaves for Goa. Try and act like a grown-up.’

Paul and I tried not to laugh as Dad looked at the lawn like a naughty schoolboy. Quite an achievement seeing as he’s in his sixties, but Mum can be Scary Mum to his Scary Dad when she likes. She gets a look in her eye and you know she’s not to be messed with. Hannah used to call my parents the Wrinklies because they’re so ancient. Mum had me when she was forty-five and Dad was fifty-three. They thought they’d finished having children with Paul. Then seven years later, along came yours truly. I think I was what is commonly known in birth terms as A Surprise. Or A Mistake. Whatever. All I know is that I have the oldest parents of anyone in school. I used to get embarrassed when there’d be all these young mums in T-shirts and jeans waiting after school, then along would come my mum or dad in their ‘comfy clothes’ looking more like my grandparents. I started telling people that Mum and Dad were actually the same age as normal parents but they’d been captured by aliens one summer and kept as an experiment on their spaceship for two days. The trauma made their hair grow white and they grew old before their time. One girl in my class actually believed me.

Mum took her picture and Dad headed for the car.

So much for our last day together as a family before Paul’s trip, I thought, as I watched Dad reverse his Mercedes down the driveway and zoom off towards his golf club.

The rest of us trooped back inside and Paul and I began to clear the table. Lunch had been a strained affair with Dad giving me a lecture about ‘the importance of qualifications’ and ‘a good career meaning a good start in life’. It was so obvious it was aimed at Paul, but I tried to look as if I agreed with everything Dad said. Anything to keep the peace.

Then he started on about how much Paul going to college had cost him. What a waste it all was.

‘I will pay you back,’ said Paul. ‘I really will.’

‘It’s not the money,’ said Dad. ‘I want you to be happy.’

‘I will be,’ said Paul. ‘I am. I want to see the world. Experience life. It’s going to be brilliant.’

‘Well, at least let me give you some decent medical supplies for the journey,’ said Dad.

Paul sighed. ‘It’s sorted, Dad. Don’t worry.’

Dad didn’t look convinced and, for a moment, I felt sorry for him. He doesn’t normally look his age but today he did. He looked sad and a touch weary. Sometimes he can’t accept that people have their own plans for their lives. He’s so used to people obeying his every word at the hospital, he thinks it’s going to be the same at home. Poor Scary Dad. I think he means well.

After loading the dishwasher, Mum went to water the pots on the patio and Paul and I went through to the living-room. Paul flopped on the sofa and began flicking through the Sunday papers. At the bottom of the pile was our school newsletter, which he began to read.

‘There are loads of things you can do in here,’ he said after a while. ‘Art, drama, choir. Getting a hobby would be a good way of making new friends.’

‘You sound like Dad,’ I said, sitting next to him and stretching my legs out on to the coffee table, ‘organising my life. Anyway, I have loads of hobbies. Tennis. Football. Karate.’

‘Sounds like you’ll meet lots of boys doing that stuff, not girls.’

‘Don’t be sexist. Girls do all that stuff as well.’

‘Oh, sorry. Didn’t realise you’re a feminist,’ he teased.

‘I’m not. I just believe women are the superior race,’ I teased back.

‘Oh, look, there’s you,’ pointed Paul as he came across our class photo. ‘And Hannah.’

‘It was taken just after Easter,’ I said, looking over his shoulder. ‘I look awful.’

‘No, you don’t. What are the other girls like?’

‘Oh, God. All sorts.’ I pointed to some of the girls in the photo. ‘That’s Melanie and Lottie. I get on OK with them. They were at footie yesterday. Those three are the brainboxes, those two are the computer nerds, Jade and Candice are the bad girls that like to bunk off, Mary and Emma are the sporty girls, Wendy’s a bit of a pain.’

‘So, who do you hang with?’

‘Well, Hannah before she went, obviously. And now, I suppose Melanie and Lottie a bit, but they’re a twosome really. I’m lumped in with the brainboxes seeing as I’m usually first in the class at everything. Except maths. I hate maths.’

Paul continued to study the photo.

‘Now, she looks nice,’ he said. ‘Who’s she?’

‘God, typical,’ I said when I saw who he was pointing at. ‘She’s Nesta Williams. Only the best-looking girl in our school.’

‘She looks like Beyonce.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So who are her friends?’

I pointed out Lucy Lovering and Izzie Foster.

‘They look like fun. Tell me about them.’

‘Not much to tell. I don’t know them that well outside school. They don’t do football or any of the stuff I do. Inside school, they’re sort of in the middle. Popular. Not too swotty, not too disruptive, though Izzie does ask a lot of questions in class sometimes. One teacher called her Izzie ‘why?’ Foster. But everyone fancies Nesta, that I do know. Even Scott next door. She’s in the drama group and I think she wants to be an actress. She’s probably completely self-obsessed. Anyone as gorgeous as her has to be.’

‘Not necessarily,’ grinned Paul. ‘I’m gorgeous and I’m not self-obsessed.’

‘And I’m gorgeous and I’m not self-obsessed,’ said Mum, coming back in with a bunch of white roses she’d cut. ‘So why don’t you get in with this crowd?’

‘Oh, you don’t understand, Mum. They hang by themselves. They’d never let anyone as boring as me in with them.’

‘You’re not boring,’ said Mum, taking the newsletter from Paul and scanning the back page.

‘Don’t bother to read that,’ I said. ‘It’s completely out of touch and dull.’

‘Well, here’s your chance to change it,’ said Mum, handing it back to me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There, back page. I saw it the other day when I had a look through. I thought you might be interested. It says that they’re looking for a new editor, seeing as the old one will be moving on at the end of the year. And they want to make it more of a magazine than a newsletter. Applications open to everyone from Year 9 upwards. You only have to do eight pages or so as an example.’

‘Not interested,’ I said, putting the newsletter back on the pile of papers.

‘But you want to be a writer,’ said Paul. ‘You should go for it. It would be good practice.’

‘Nah, people think I’m a swot as it is. If I went for that, they’d only hate me more.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Mum and began to root around in the cupboards for a vase. ‘But I see that Sam Denham is doing a talk for all those interested.’

‘Sam Denham? Where does it say that?’

‘Ah, so suddenly it’s not so boring.’ Mum picked up the newsletter and read from the back. ‘Monday 11 June, 4.30 in the main assembly hall. That’s tomorrow. He’s going to talk about journalism. It says he got started on his school magazine.’

Sam Denham is a celebrity journalist and though he’s old, at least in his thirties, he’s still cute. They always have him on the news when they want an opinion about anything. He always has something interesting or funny to say.

And he’s coming to our school?

‘Maybe I will go to the talk,’ I said. ‘But only to listen.’

 

email: Outbox (1)

From: goody2shoes@psnet.co.uk

To: hannahnutter@fastmail.com

Date: 10 June

Subject: Night night

Hi Hannah

Feeling mis. Bro Paul gone. He and Saskia are booked on the overnight flight to Gog tomorrow. Boo hoo. Everyone I care about is going away.

Gotta go, school a.m.

TJ

By the way, our crapola newsletter is looking for a new editor and Sam Denham is coming to school tomorrow to do a talk. Apparently, he got started on his school mag.

 

email: Inbox (1)

From: hannahnutter@fastmail.com

To: goody2shoes@psnet.co.uk

Date: 10 June

Subject: Sam the Man

WAAAAKE UP.

Exscooth me? Did you say Sam Denham as in Sam Denham from the telly? He’s a top babe. V V jealous. Wish never left UK. Be sure to wear something short that reveals your legs as they are one of your best features. And sit on the front row.

TJ, you must go for editor. You’d be brilliant at it. And it would take your mind off missing me and Paul. I’ve read all about this kind of thing in Mum’s mags. The agony aunts are always telling people to ‘keep busy’ and ‘throw yourself into your work’. I think this is a godsend. Your destiny.

And you think you’re miserablahblah? Try being me. In a new country. With no friends at all. Not even Melanie and Lottie. No, young lady, you don’t know you’re born, as Dad would say.

Yours truly

Your Agony Aunt Hannah

PS: Few more for the book collection

Over the Cliff by Hugo First

The Cat’s Revenge by Claude Bottom

Arf arf arf arf arf arf!