The first day was the worst, and, in fact, I soon become grateful for the invisibility I feel at school. It gives me the chance to get to know my way around and to work out who is who without any attention focusing on me. Jessie becomes a real friend when I notice a photograph in her locker of a terrier, and speak my thoughts out loud.
‘What a nice face that dog has got.’
‘That’s my dog, Loopy.’
‘Ooh, he’s sweet. He looks like Cactus. Is he a Border terrier?’
‘He’s anything you want him to be. We got him from Battersea Dogs Home when he was a puppy. They found him in a dustbin with six brothers and sisters.’
I lean into the locker to look at the picture more closely; there is a dark-haired woman holding the dog in her arms.
‘Is that your mum?’
‘Yup.’ Jessie slams the locker shut. ‘She’s a cow. She’s left me and Dad and my sister and she’s gone off with her yoga teacher. She’s on holiday right now.’
Jessie’s sneer hides pain I can recognize, even though it is too new to have made an imprint on me yet. I slide my arm through Jessie’s as we walk towards the canteen for lunch.
‘My parents have broken up too. That’s why I’m here.’
The relief of telling someone at school brings a lump to my throat.
All my physical boundaries have changed, along with the structure of my family. I am surrounded by buildings and pavements instead of the sea. Spring bursts out all around and I scarcely notice it – I am never aware of the weather any more. I haven’t once taken a coat to school; if it rains, I just run for shelter. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because it isn’t real rain like in Norfolk. And just as it is never really wet, it is also never really dark. Even in the middle of the night the street lamps glow orange, and I become used to sleeping through the restless city at night, only in my dreams experiencing the black silence of the nights at home.
Dad calls, and when I speak to him, I realize how odd it is not to see him every day. The funny thing is, I probably say more to him now on the phone in the evening than I did when we both lived in the same house.
‘Hi, Dad, I’ve got history and maths homework to do tonight and I haven’t even started.’
‘Is it the same as you were doing at Flixby?’
‘I can’t really tell because everything here is done so differently. We’re doing the French Revolution. I’ve never done that before.’
‘Oh, Marat and Robespierre and what was that woman called?’
‘You mean you know it?’
I am ashamed by my own surprise, but then, I’ve never thought about Dad in any other context than on the marshes, knowing about birds and boats and ecosystems, but not about revolutions and politics and history. Mind you, he quickly reverts.
‘I think one of them was a bit of a pervert. Was it Robespierre? I can’t remember, ask your teacher. When you come home, I’ve got lots to show you.’
‘I can’t ask which of the leaders of the Revolution was a pervert,’ I protest. ‘Tell me about Cactus, and what’s happening in the village. And Grandma and Jack.’
It is May now.
Staitheley is still home. Our flat in Iverly Road is characterless and hot. I miss the familiar faces in the village, people I didn’t even realize I noticed, like the milkman, or Miss Mills, or Billy Lawson’s dad with his gnomic hat and his daily stroll along the quay getting slower every year with his encroaching arthritis. In London, I don’t know a soul on our street, and the youth in the newspaper shop never acknowledges me with so much as a flicker of recognition, no matter how often I go in for chewing gum and phonecards.
The window in my room is stuck shut and Mum is working too hard to get it fixed, or so she says. I asked on Monday after a restless night, and then again on Tuesday and Wednesday.
‘I’m sorry, darling, could you organize it yourself?’ Mum says finally.
This is the last straw. I am a child, not a caretaker. I slam out of my bedroom yelling, ‘Mum! Why don’t you do something about this place? It’s not a home, it’s a cell.’
Mum looks stricken. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she repeats. ‘I’ve been so busy at work I haven’t had time to think about it.’
‘Well, life isn’t just about work. You’ve got to live somewhere as well,’ I storm. ‘This flat is awful. I want to go home.’
And Mum sits down on the sofa, and for once doesn’t cry.
‘This has not been an easy time for either of us, Lola, and I know I have neglected your needs. I am sorry for that.’ God, she is so serious. All I wanted was my window open. But the look on Mum’s face, which is kind of soft but strong, makes me slide down next to her. ‘I don’t know if I can make it up to you, but I can make an effort, with your help, to make this a happy place to be.’
‘OK,’ I agree. ‘Let’s make some rules about things each of us should do.’
The next day Mum comes back from work late with big bags of rugs and lampshades, cushions and a silver-grey velvet throw for my bed.
‘Here, I bought you this because it reminded me of the sea.’ She smiles, wrapping me in the silvery softness. ‘And I got takeaway for supper – sushi tonight.’
Actually we have takeaway most nights. I like it. In fact I love it, although breakfast the next day isn’t so great. We had curry last night, and this morning I have to hold my breath, because of the rank smell of the empty cartons. I must be a very contrary person, I think, because I find myself hankering after supper at home in Staitheley when all three of us sat down together at the table for fish pie or lasagne, proper meals that I took for granted until they stopped existing.
‘Why don’t you cook any more, Mum?’
We are both leaning on the breakfast counter, eating cereal and watching the toaster.
‘I do,’ protests Mum, rinsing a mug for each of us, and throwing in a tea bag. ‘It’s just so nice not to do it every night, especially now I’m working, and you love takeaway, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but not every day.’
I pour hot water over the tea bags and pass Mum her tea. Right now I’d be happy to have breakfast with Miss Mills and her dachshund if it meant I could sit at a table with a knife and fork and have tea from a pot. Honestly, anyone who could hear my thoughts would think I am a granny myself. The truth is that Mum is happy and engrossed, and I feel left out and lopsided. Mum brought me to London and now she is getting on with her own life and I am supposed to do the same. In some ways, being treated as a grownup is just what I want, but the contrast between now and family life in Norfolk is so extreme.
Nell is envious when she calls.
‘It sounds brilliant to me to be living in a flat with no cooking or clearing up,’ she says. ‘We had roast chicken tonight and guess who had to peel all the potatoes, and shred the cabbage?’
‘But I like cooking, and Mum used to as well,’ I reply forlornly. ‘We haven’t had any roast dinner at all since we’ve been here.’
‘Oh, Lola, come on. You sound like a baby,’ laughs Nell. ‘Tell me about the boys in your drama group. Are they fit?’