The feeling of triumph didn’t last for very long. I knew there would be trouble when Emily got back with her gang.
It didn’t help when a letter arrived for Mum, telling her she’d got a job in an office in Caston. She jumped up and began to do a kind of dance – not easy in Gran’s cluttered kitchen.
“Well done, lass,” said Gran. “I told you it’d all come right in the end. We ought to celebrate – put kettle on, Emily. Emily! What’s up? You look like you’ve lost a pound and found a sixpence.”
For Mum’s sake I tried to look pleased. I felt about as joyful as a prisoner in court, hearing the judge say, “Guilty! Life imprisonment!” Imprisonment in Brilby. Imprisonment in Caston School…
I said so to Tom as we sat on the bus, expecting him to feel the same.
“Oh come on,” he said. “It isn’t that bad.”
I stared at him. “You mean you don’t mind living here?”
“It’s OK.”
“But you hated it when we came!”
“Well, yeah. I didn’t know anybody then, but I do now, and I’m in the football team and the rock climbing club. I could get to like it here. And so could you, if you’d give it a try.”
“I don’t like football, or rock climbing. I want to go back home!”
“You want to grow up a bit; that’s what you want.” It wasn’t fair. Nobody was on my side – not even Tom. If things got much worse I would… I would run away from home.
***
I called Denise, my best friend in London, and told her how awful things were. I even told her about all my prayers that weren’t being answered. I knew Denise would understand. She was the one who took me along to St Mark’s and helped me become a Christian.
She said, “We were talking about that, just this Sunday.”
“Talking about me?”
“No, you idiot. About why God doesn’t always give us what we ask for.”
“Not always? It’s never,” I said bitterly. “Listen, I’ve been praying for ages about Mum and Dad, and about school, and Deadly Emily. But it doesn’t make any difference. God must have stopped listening to me.”
“I don’t think God ever stops listening,” she said cautiously, “or caring about us. But that doesn’t mean he always gives us whatever we want.”
“Why not?”
“It’s like when I was little, I kept on and on at my dad. I wanted to go down the big slide in the playground. He always said no. But that didn’t mean he hated me, did it? It meant the opposite.”
“Yes, well… that was different. You were asking for something that might be bad for you.”
“But at the time I didn’t understand that. I was too little – I just thought he was being horrible.”
“You mean when I get older and wiser,” I said, “I’ll understand that there was a good reason why my prayers weren’t answered? Is that right?”
“Got it in one.”
I thought about this. “But your dad didn’t always say no. He did let you go on the slide in the end.”
“Yeah – but only when he knew the time was right. So don’t stop praying, OK?”
After the phone call I felt a whole lot better, and I realised how much I was missing the St Mark’s Mob. In Brilby I had nobody to talk to – not about things that mattered. The church in Brilby was hopeless, unless you were fond of funerals: a bored vicar, a few old ladies in hats, no music because the organ had died years ago. I went twice; then I gave up.
Oh, I wished I could go back a year, to the time when I first believed in Jesus and gave my life to him. I felt so happy then. I felt as if all my troubles were over. Why did nobody warn me?
***
At least there was one bit of good news. Mrs Bell was off with the flu.
We had a new teacher called Miss Atkinson. She seemed (for a teacher) quite nice. She was keen on Art, which is my favourite subject.
She told us to paint a winter scene. Most people immediately did snow, snowmen, sledges, snow, more snow. Boring! I thought of winter in Brilby and drew dark clouds, trees bending in the wind, rain lashing down. It was all painted in shades of grey.
Miss Atkinson held my picture up in front of the whole class. “Now this is really effective. Look at it – you can almost feel the wetness of the rain. Well done!”
I couldn’t help looking pleased. It was the first time any of my work had been praised for ages and ages. I picked up my brush to add a few final raindrops.
“Want some more?”
Emily was holding a jar of dirty paint-water over my picture. Slowly she began to tilt it. I tried to grab it – but too late.
“Look at it! You can feel the wetness!” she giggled.
I stared at the ruined picture. Sludge-brown water ran off the table into my lap. At that moment, if I could have found a way to murder Emily, I’d have done it – no question. Stab her with a craft knife? Burn her to death in the kiln?
“You, girl! Stand up!”
At first I thought it was me she was yelling at. But no – she meant Emily.
“It was an accident, Miss…”
“It was not an accident. I saw exactly what you did. You will apologise and clean up the mess, and you will spend every break time this week scrubbing paint pots!”
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled. She glared at me.
I managed not to laugh out loud. If Mrs Bell had been in charge, Emily would have got away scot-free: “An accident? Oh dear. Be more careful next time. Denise, clear it up!”
Maybe Mrs Bell would develop pneumonia, pleurisy or pig fever. The longer she was away from school the better.
***
A few days later Miss Atkinson told us about an art competition. It was to design a poster that would make people want to visit your home town. I thought of a collage in the shape of Big Ben, using pictures of famous London sights. Dad could send me postcards and things.
When I sketched out my design, Miss Atkinson looked doubtful. “London? But this is a local competition. I think they’re expecting posters about places near here.”
“You said it was to be about our home town,” I argued. “This isn’t my home town. London is.”
Miss Atkinson looked at the competition rules. “Well, there’s nothing to say it has to be a local place. It just says ‘your home town’, but the competition is for schools within the county. You’d have a better chance of winning if you use the place you live in now.”
I spent some time thinking. “It’s no good; I can’t do an advert for Brilby. There’s nothing to advertise. VISIT BRILBY – IT’S BRILL! and a picture of nothing. Amazing!”
“Oh thanks, Denise,” said Emily. “You just gave me an idea.”
“You must be pretty desperate,” I said.
“I suppose even a moron can have one good idea in a lifetime.”
“Possibly,” I said. “Do let us know when it arrives.”