Chapter 56

“You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my mother!”

“And I’m bloody glad I’m not, you nasty spoiled brat, but I can tell you not to steal money from my purse.”

“God, I hate you!”

“Trust me, not nearly as much as I hate you.”

The vicious argument between Leonie and Tamsin had carried on like this for some time, insults flying back and forth with such increasing recklessness that Tilly had been convinced it would end in blows. Appalled, she had been forced to witness the battle from the sidelines. Finally, Brian had arrived home and frog-marched his furious crimson-faced daughter to her room.

Twenty minutes later, he had emerged with Tamsin and made her apologize to Leonie. Afterwards, as Leonie had dropped Tilly at the station, she’d said, “That girl’s going through a difficult stage.” Then, flinging her arms round her own daughter, she had added, “Never mind, darling, it’ll be so much better once you’re here. Having you to keep an eye on her will make all the difference in the world.”

Tilly really didn’t see how it could. Tamsin had never taken a blind bit of notice of anything she said. It was a scary prospect, and one that had been haunting her on the train all the way back from Brighton.

This was it now. She was here to pack up her belongings and say her good-byes. On Saturday morning, Leonie would be driving up to collect her and her things, and her life in Bristol would be over.

Tilly wondered if anyone would actually miss her.

Probably not. They seemed to have more than enough to occupy them just now. As Leonie had pointed out with a little too much relish, other people might put up a good front and pretend they were perfect, but it was never true. Deep down, they all had their shameful secrets.

Even Miriam, much to Leonie’s delight.

The train pulled into Temple Meads station and squealed to a halt. Peering through the dusty window, Tilly wondered if anyone was here to meet her—when she’d phoned home last night, she had made a point of telling Clare what time she’d be getting in. There was no sign that the hint had been taken.

Oh well.

Hauling her sports bag over her shoulder, Tilly made her way out of the station and headed for the row of bus stops. It was starting to rain, the gray clouds overhead matching her mood. She was hungry, but not hungry enough to queue up at the buffet for a stale bun that would cost a fiver. When she—

“Whaaa!” Tilly shrieked as a pair of hands covered her eyes. Spinning round, she saw Cal grinning at her and threw her arms round him. “Oh my God, you made me jump! How did you know I was here?”

“Rang the house this morning. Your sister told me which train you’d be on. I meant to be there on the platform when you pulled into the station, but the bus was late. I thought I’d missed you…”

Oh Cal, dearest Cal. She was going to miss him too. Terrified that she was about to cry, or say something hopelessly embarrassing, Tilly beamed at him. She was damned if she’d spend her last couple of days in Bristol moping and whining; that was a surefire way of guaranteeing that even Cal would be glad to see the back of her.

“I brought you back a souvenir from Brighton. A key ring!”

“You shouldn’t have,” Cal said gravely, when she’d presented it to him with due ceremony.

Tilly dimpled. “Why not? You’re worth it.”

“I meant you should have got me something better. I deserve so much more than a lousy key ring—ouch!” He ducked away, laughing, as she hit him over the head with it.

“Come on, let’s go back to my place. Are you free for the rest of the day?”

“I’m all yours,” Cal teased, and Tilly had to look away hurriedly before the tears could well up. She mustn’t, absolutely mustn’t cry.

***

When they reached Latimer Road, everyone was out.

Except Harpo, of course, who greeted Tilly with a ribald, Barbara Windsorish cackle followed by a wolf whistle.

“You’ve been watching too many Carry On films,” Tilly told him.

“Oooh, matron,” squawked Harpo, lovingly nipping her fingers as she fed him a raisin.

“Hey.” Cal moved toward her as Tilly’s face abruptly crumpled. “Don’t cry. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s not Harpo.” The dam had burst without warning. Tilly sank to her knees, burying her head in her hands. “It’s just… oh God… I don’t want to leave. I love this family. I don’t want to move to Brighton.”

“Nice pants.” Only mildly curious, Harpo peered down at her from his perch. “Shame about the arse.”

“I even love Harpo,” Tilly sobbed, “and he’s so stupid it isn’t true.”

“Of course he is. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your arse.” Cal was by this time kneeling on the floor next to her. Peeling Tilly’s fingers away from her tear-stained face he said, “Come on, stop it, there’s no need to cry.”

Which just went to prove how stupid boys were, Tilly thought helplessly, because there was every need. And to prove it, tears were spurting out of her eyes, her nose was starting to run and she was making undignified hurrh-hurrh noises like a lawn mower refusing to start.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. They can’t force you to leave. Just tell them how you feel.” Cal gently pushed her fine blonde hair away from her face before it could get entangled with the watery stuff dribbling from her nose. “If you’re this upset, they’ll let you stay.”

Hopelessly, Tilly shook her head. It was true, but it wasn’t enough. They might let her stay—of course they would, because they were nice people—but the fact remained that they’d far prefer it if she didn’t.

Anyway, her mum really wanted her to go to Brighton. She couldn’t let Leonie down.

Rubbing her eyes, Tilly sniffed loudly and shook her head. “I’m going.” As she glanced helplessly around the room, she spotted the drinks cabinet. Wasn’t that what everyone else did when they were going through a rough time? Crikey, at the first sign of tension practically all the grown-ups in this family reached for a bottle to steady their nerves. Maybe it would make her feel better too.

“What?” said Cal, because she was gazing into the distance like a zombie.

“Let’s have a drink.” Tilly made up her mind.

“I’ll get them. Seven-Up or Pepsi?”

“I meant a proper drink.” Sliding off the sofa, she headed for the glass-fronted cabinet. There was more in the kitchen, but this would do for a start. There was port. And cognac. And whisky and Cointreau and Tia Maria. Taking out a couple of cut-glass tumblers, Tilly handed one to Cal. “Come on, let’s see what’s so great about this stuff.”

Cal hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s practically our last night together, but don’t let it bother you.” Recklessly Tilly sloshed tawny port into her tumbler. “You can wimp out if you like.”

***

God, whisky was disgusting. What a con. It burned your mouth and made you choke and tasted absolutely vile. So did cognac. Who in their right mind would ever want to drink this stuff?

The Tia Maria wasn’t much better. Tilly would have given it up as a bad job, but Cal had told her that his mother drank it with milk. This had improved it no end, turning it into a kind of medicinal coffee milkshake. And the port was pretty good too, nice and sweet and tasting of concentrated raisins. It was even better mixed with lemonade.

So was the Cointreau.

By eight o’clock, they were really getting into the swing of things.

“I can see why people do this.” Tilly giggled at the way her voice sounded, kind of slurry but precise at the same time. “I feel better already. My knees have gone funny. Have your knees gone funny?”

“My knees are fine. But my hands are hilarious. My fingers feel like… you know, bunches of bananas? Oof, nearly dropped the bottle. ’S empty,” said Cal, sounding worried. “Will your grandmother mind that we finished the Cointreau?”

“Noooo. They have to be used up.” Vigorously, Tilly shook her head. “Can’t let them go past their sell-by date, can you? Anyway, she’s got loads. Does your tongue feel weird?”

Cal gave this some thought. “It feels like somebody else’s tongue. How ’bout you?”

“Mine too. P’raps they swapped when we weren’t looking. You’ve got mine and I’ve got yours. OK if I take yours to Brighton with me?” Tilly waggled her tongue at Cal and began to giggle helplessly. This was all right, she felt heaps better now, even if she did have an alien tongue in her mouth.

The next moment their heads jerked up at the sound of car wheels on gravel.

“Oh shit, someone’s home!” In her hurry to hide the empty Cointreau bottle, Tilly sent her half-full tumbler of port flying. Staring in dismay at the broken glass and the spreading stain on the rug, she leapt to her feet. “They’re going to go mental… oops, ouch…”

“Where can we hide?” Cal gazed around helplessly as Tilly rubbed her banged shin.

“Bloody tables, why do they have to have edges? No, no, they’ll see you under the sofa.” Giggling, she dragged him out by the ankles. Outside, car doors banged and there was the beep of an electronic lock. “Quick, out through the side door… we’ll jump over the garden wall…”

Jump turned out to be the wrong word, conjuring up as it did connotations of leaping effortlessly through the air like a gazelle. Between the two of them they fumbled, stumbled, scrambled, and finally collapsed over the ivy-covered wall with all the grace of a couple of hippos.

Still, at least the bottles didn’t break.

“What the bloody hell’s been going on?” shouted Nadia, evidently having discovered the mess in the sitting room. Raising her voice, clearly thinking Tilly was upstairs, she bellowed incredulously, “Tilly, did you do this? Get down here this minute!”

Tilly and Cal, crouching on the other side of the wall, sniggered and tucked their stolen bottles—Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and Taylor’s tawny port respectively—under their T-shirts. Keeping close to the dusty ground, they scurried off down the lane away from the house.

By nine o’clock it was dark and the bottles were empty. Tilly, beginning to shiver, realized she was crying again. It had been like this all evening; one minute she and Cal were snorting with laughter over something or other, the next moment she was consumed with misery and just wanted to die. If this was what drinking did for you, maybe it wasn’t so great after all.

“They hate me,” she sobbed, using the hem of her thin T-shirt—yet again—to wipe her face.

Clumsily, Cal patted her hand. “Course they don’t hate you.”

“I’ve messed up their carpet. They can’t wait to get rid of me.” Tilly had never felt so lonely and unloved, like a puppy being bundled into a sack. “I’m just a nuisance. Where are you going? To be sick again?”

“I don’t know.” Cal had heaved himself upright and wandered over to the edge of the bridge. He took deep breaths and said fretfully, “I wish it would make up its mind.”

“To be sick or not to be,” proclaimed Tilly, who didn’t feel sick at all. Her head was spinning, though. Round and round and round and round, like riding on the waltzers at the fairground. If she closed her eyes it was worse. Oh well, they’d finished the sherry and the port. Drunk some, spilled some… whatever, it was gone now. Shifting to try and get herself comfortable, she realized her bladder was full to bursting. That was the bad thing about railway bridges, they didn’t come with a loo attached.

“I can’t go home.” Hot tears trickled down Tilly’s cheeks. “They’ll shout at me. I wish I was dead.”

“You don’t, you don’t, don’t say that.” Having decided he wasn’t going to be sick after all, Cal stumbled back to her. In the darkness, he tripped over her outstretched foot and landed clumsily, more or less on her lap. Wincing and crying, Tilly pushed him off her; he wasn’t doing her poor distended bladder any favors.

“They hate me. They’ll probably have a party when I’m gone, to celebrate. And if I don’t find a loo this minute I’m going to wet myself.”

“There’s the loo.” Solemnly, Cal pointed to a small bush. “Go on, I won’t look, I promise.”

Tuh, did she look stupid? Staggering to her feet, Tilly ignored the bush and reeled to the end of the bridge. The slope leading down to the railway line below was fenced off, but if she clambered over the fence and down the slope she could wee in peace, without Cal being able to see or hear her.

Much more dignified.

Scaling the fence, she landed with a flumpph on the other side and crawled to the safety of the wall of the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Cal’s voice was raised in concern.

“You know what I’m doing. Weeing in a discreet ladylike manner, without an audience. And you mustn’t listen either.” Awkwardly, Tilly unfastened her shorts and half crouched, half leaned against the bridge. Balancing herself so that, hopefully, the stream of urine wouldn’t go all over her feet, she allowed her muscles to relax.

Oh, bliss, utter bliss…

“Are you OK?”

“Will you shut up and leave me alone?” Honestly, do-gooders. How could he possibly think he was being helpful?

“You shouldn’t be down there.” Cal’s voice drifted down to her.

“Don’t fuss, I’m coming back up now.” Irritated by his concern, Tilly struggled to pull her shorts back up—bit damp, oh well—and braced her feet against the stony, sloping ground. Her head was still doing its spinny thing, making it hard to regain her balance. One foot slipped on loose rock and she made a panicky grab for the side of the bridge. The next moment Tilly let out a shriek as she landed agonizingly and awkwardly on her back. And after that she couldn’t stop herself falling, rolling down the steep rocky incline, her head bouncing and ricocheting off the ground as she flailed like a rag doll, screaming with pain and terror all the way down.