Somehow I struggled through to the end of the week. One thing kept me going – at the weekend Dad was coming to see us. He phoned us quite often, but we hadn’t actually seen him for weeks.
Dad wasn’t going to sleep at Gran’s house. “Over my dead body,” said Gran. “What’s wrong with Mrs Mabbutt’s Bed and Breakfast place? He can stop there. I’m not having him in this house.”
Mum sighed. “We’re trying to keep things friendly. It’s only a divorce, not World War Three.”
“Friendly? There’s nothing friendly about what he’s done to you, is there? Going off and leaving you; moving in with that woman of his and leaving these poor children without a dad…”
I said fiercely, “He hasn’t left us without a dad. He’s still our dad.”
“Not much good to you down in London, is he?”
I wanted to say: look, it’s not Dad’s fault that he’s far away. Blame Mum; she’s the one who dragged us here! But I kept my mouth shut. I know when to do that – unlike Gran.
I hadn’t told Mum just how bad things were at school. I tried to, once, but she wasn’t really listening. She was filling in another form about a job. These days she was always anxious about something, usually money. I didn’t want to add to her worries.
I did tell Tom about it, though. He got mad and started to think of all the things he would say to Emily and her friends on the bus. But I stopped him. If he annoyed the gang, it would be worse for me later when he’d gone.
***
Oh, it was great to see Dad again, even though he could only stay till Sunday night. The weekend went past far too quickly.
On Saturday it poured with rain, but that didn’t matter because Dad had the car. We went to the bowling alley in Caston – just Dad, Tom and me. (Dad and Mum were being polite to each other in a cold sort of way; you couldn’t describe them as friendly. As for Gran, she didn’t smile once, the whole weekend.)
On Sunday, amazingly, it wasn’t raining. Dad said that as we were out in the country we might as well get some air in our lungs, so we got well wrapped up and went for a walk over the moors. We had lunch in a country pub. It was just like the old days, except that Mum wasn’t with us.
I like it up there on the moors. You can see for miles. On the horizon are the hills of the Lake District, all heaped up like a crumpled duvet. Gran says if you can see them clearly it means there’s rain on the way – and if you can’t, it’s already raining. The first time she said this I thought it was meant to be a joke.
Now, as we were coming back down into the valley, the view disappeared behind the long shoulder of the moor. Ahead of us was Brilby, with its slate-grey roofs and smoking chimneys.
Tom said, “Who on earth decided to build a village away out here?”
“It was a mining village once,” Dad said. “But the mines packed up donkey’s years ago. Your gran could tell you all about it. She always said she could write a book on the history of Brilby.”
“Yeah, I bet she could. But who’d want to read it?” said Tom.
Nearly there; I found myself walking slower and slower – not wanting the afternoon to end.
“You’re very quiet today, Emily,” Dad said. “Are you OK?”
I wasn’t OK. I was feeling lousy, partly because it was school next day, and partly because Dad was going back to London. But what was the point of saying so?
“Are you all right? Tom, is your sister all right? She seems to have gone dumb.”
“She’s always been dumb,” I expected him to say, but he didn’t. He said, “Tell him about the Enemy.”
“No!”
“If you won’t, I will. Dad, Emily’s being bullied at school. There’s this gang…”
And then it all came out, the whole story. The time they tried to lock me in the toilets; the time they tipped all my sandwiches out in the street; the time Emily knocked me over and then Mrs Bell told me off for being clumsy.
“It’s not fair, the teacher’s on their side too. She doesn’t like me – she won’t call me by my proper name. I’m supposed to be called Denise now, but I keep forgetting, so she shouts at me for not paying attention. I hate that school, I hate it!”
“Right,” said Dad. “We’ll see about this!”
He sounded so fierce that for a moment I felt hopeful. But what could he do, when he was going back to London that night?
What he did was have a blazing row with Mum. How that was supposed to help me, I don’t know.
“I told you it was a bad move, taking the kids all the way up here, but you wouldn’t listen. You should have stayed in London and kept them at their old schools.”
“Oh yes? And where were we supposed to live? In a cardboard box?”
“You could have rented a place, couldn’t you?”
“On the money you’re giving me? You’re joking. What you’re giving me wouldn’t pay the rent on a rabbit hutch.”
They went on and on. It was the kind of row they used to have all the time, before they split up. (I timed them once – they rowed for three-and-a-half hours without stopping.)
Dad said, “What gets me is that you didn’t even know she was unhappy. Don’t you listen to your own daughter?”
“You’re a fine one to talk. When did you ever listen to your daughter? You were never there when she needed you. You even forgot her birthday!”
On, and on, and on. I crept upstairs, but in Gran’s small house I couldn’t escape from their angry voices.
The row ended in the usual way, with Dad walking out. He slammed the door, jumped in the car and drove off. Watching from the bedroom window, I waved, but he didn’t see me.
I went slowly back downstairs. Gran was making a cup of tea.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she said. “You’re better off without him, love; believe me.”
I wanted to hit her. No, I wanted to hit Emily. The weekend was ruined – and it was all Emily’s fault.