“Alexandra! Where have you been? I slipped over when I tried to get the butter out of the fridge.” The white plaster on Mum’s broken leg has a skid mark on it and her face is smudged with tears.
“You should have waited for me,” I cry out, kneeling down beside her. There’s a big blob of butter on the floor and it smells horrible. I’m nearly in tears too and Trudy’s whining and trying to lick Mum’s face, which is as white as sea mist.
“You were so long. Where were you?”
Her hand is sort of flailing around trying to grab my arm and for some reason it freaks me out. I feel suffocated and guilty and angry all at the same time. What am I doing trying to look after some washed-up stranger when my own mum’s alone and in pain?
I’m just deciding I’ll never leave the house again when her hand clutches the leg of my jeans. “Alexandra Miller!” she screeches, and she’s off like a robot screeching in a monotone. “You’ve been in the sea, haven’t you? What on earth were you thinking of in this weather? Can’t you see how dreadful it would be for me if you went and got pneumonia right now? Your hands are like ice. Who would look after us if you were in bed, or in hospital or worse!”
There’s that word again. Worse.
Mum stops to suck in air and I think one word. Dad. Dad should be looking after us, shouldn’t he? Only I don’t think it. I say it. Out loud. Mum just lies there, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, as if she can’t think of anything worse.
I shriek at her out loud and in full Technicolor, “Why don’t you look for him? Instead of lying around here all day. You could look on the Internet, or phone someone! Because he’s somewhere, isn’t he? Not nowhere? Then he can at least give us some money because I only get twelve pounds fifty a week for my paper route. You expect me to do everything. You’re the adult. I’m the kid!”
And then the doorbell goes.
We stare at each other in horror and Trudy lopes down the corridor and starts pawing at the front door. I can see quite a large shape looming through the frosted glass.
Mum says quietly, “Open the door.”
I get to my feet and scuff down the corridor feeling as though my body weighs a ton.
It’s Bert from opposite. “I was just passing, Alix, and thought I’d look in on your mum.”
He’s got a big stalk of Brussels sprouts hanging in his hand and for once it’s a relief to see him. “Thought she’d like some nice sprouts,” and he hands me the stalk as he squeezes his beer belly past me into our narrow hallway. He’s got his gardening boots on and he trails mud all over the floor.
He’s sweating in his crumpled jacket, but he goes straight to the kitchen and heaves Mum to her feet and practically carries her back to her chair in the living room.
“Don’t worry, Sheila, we’ll call the doctor,” and he nods to me but I’m already dialing.
I make everyone tea and then mutter that I’m going upstairs to change. Bert can chat with Mum while they wait for the doctor. I run upstairs and close my door. I never want to speak to her again. Then I realize that actually she’ll never want to speak to me again after what I said about Dad.
I didn’t even know I thought all that stuff.
By the time the doorbell rings again I’ve got dry clothes on and I’m planning what I need to take back to the hut. I promised Samir and I can’t just leave our man to die of cold, even if I feel bad about leaving Mum for a bit.
I go downstairs and it’s the doctor. He’s a tall, black guy, much younger than Mum. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, and he looks pretty casual, but he’s carrying the right sort of bag and he takes charge straightaway. Bert looks relieved as he smooths down what’s left of his graying hair. He digs deep into a torn pocket for his keys and says, “I’ll leave you to it then,” and I let him out.
When I go back in the doctor is flicking open his bag and Mum is asking him where he comes from.
“Nigeria,” he says. “I’m doing some research here and paying my way with temp work.”
Then I realize what the doctor could be useful for. “Did you bang your head when you fell, Mum?” I ask.
“Perhaps a bit,” says Mum, looking rather vague.
The doctor feels her pulse and nods. He’s got quite a nice sort of understanding face. “Did you lose consciousness, Mrs. Miller?”
“No.”
“Have you been sick?”
“No,” says Mum. But I have, I think, and so has our wounded man.
“Is that a bad sign?” I ask anxiously.
The doctor smiles reassuringly, his dark, smooth skin shining in the electric light. “Your mum isn’t showing any signs of a head injury, but if she starts to be sick or gets very sleepy in the next 24 to 48 hours, then you should take her to the hospital. She might have a concussion.”
And so might our man. How on earth am I going to get an illegal immigrant to the hospital five miles up the Island without anyone like Bert, Mrs. Saddler or even flipping Jeremy noticing? I almost break out in a sweat at the thought.
But the doctor is still going on, “. . . so your leg is fine, Mrs. Miller, but no more skating on the kitchen floor.” Mum gives a little giggle.
The doctor leaves and it’s sort of broken the ice between me and Mum. I scramble up some eggs and we sit watching an Australian soap together. I hate soaps, they pretend to be like real life, but they’re nothing like it. Well, not like my real life, anyhow. But at least Mum and me are speaking again.
“How is your English course work going?” asks Mum.
“Okay,” I say.
There’s lots of other stuff I want to say, like, If we’re not going to talk about Dad ever again, why can’t we at least talk about Grandpa? Doesn’t she miss him? He was her dad, after all, and he never let her down. But I manage to keep quiet.
“Are you seeing Kim tonight?”
“Dunno,” I say.
“You can if you want, I’ll be all right,” says Mum, peering at me over the rim of her Best Mum on the Planet mug I got her last Mother’s Day.
I’m just about to say I have more important things to do when my cell phone beeps. It’s a text from Kim. Hey party dude . . . but before I can read the rest my phone rings.
“What time are you getting to mine?”
“What?” I ask. I haven’t a clue what she’s on about; it’s been a really busy day.
“Spring Rave. School. Zak might be there. Durrh.”
Zak’s the 12th-Year boy I kissed at New Year at Kim’s big sister’s club. Right now he’s the last thing on my mind.
I leave Mum and shut the door behind me. “You wouldn’t believe what happened today . . .” I start, and then I stop. Suddenly I’m not sure what Kim would think. I’m not sure what anyone I know would say about this.
“You’ve been surfing with Al Qaeda around the yacht club,” she laughs.
Well, then, I was right not to tell her, wasn’t I?