For a while, it looked like maybe things weren’t going to change that much.
Mum and Dad seemed a bit more relaxed now that they had told me the truth. They were really nice to each other, and to me. Sometimes they smiled, and once or twice they even laughed.
I got used to not seeing Dad’s car in the driveway.
Dad even got used to walking to work.
In the mornings, he set off wearing running shoes with his suit, and it made him look a tiny bit cool – almost like one of those grungy rock stars.
Then one Saturday morning, I went downstairs, to find Mum and Dad sitting at the kitchen table, looking more serious than ever.
‘Sit down, Eva,’ said Mum.
‘We need to talk to you,’ said Dad.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this wasn’t going to be about what kind of cereal I wanted for breakfast.
I sat down and waited.
And waited.
Mum looked at Dad and Dad looked at Mum and then they both looked at the floor.
It reminded me of the time we were on holidays in Mexico and there was an ice-cold swimming pool in the garden of our villa. I used to stand on the edge of that pool for ages, trying to get the courage to jump in. I knew that it was going to hurt like crazy, and yet I wanted to get it over with.
I sooo wanted to get this talk over with.
‘Eva, Dad and I have decided ……’ began Mum.
‘…… that we have to sell the house,’ said Dad in the end.
I could feel my whole body relaxing.
‘The house in Tuscany? You told me that months ago. Remember you told me it was getting too hard to find someone to look after it when we weren’t there?’
Even as I said the words, I knew that Mum and Dad hadn’t told me the truth about our Italian home.
Was that the first sign of trouble, and I hadn’t been smart enough to see it?
‘Sorry, Eva,’ said Dad, reading my mind. ‘We didn’t want to worry you by telling you what the real problem was.’
‘The house in Tuscany was sold a long time ago,’ said Mum. ‘We just couldn’t afford to keep it any more.’
Suddenly I remembered something else that had gone right over my head a few weeks earlier.
‘Teresita didn’t stop cleaning our house because she had to go back to the Philippines to look after her sick sister, did she?’
Mum shook her head slowly.
‘Sorry, Eva. We couldn’t afford to pay Teresita any more, so she got a job at the other side of town. I don’t even know if Teresita has a sister.’
I felt like an idiot.
‘I made Teresita’s imaginary sister a Get-Well card,’ I said. ‘How totally embarrassing is that?’
Mum sighed.
‘I know, darling. And Dad and I felt bad about that. It’s just that we didn’t know how to tell you the truth.’
I felt like giving Mum and Dad a hard time about telling so many lies, but one look at their downcast faces told me that would have been unfair.
Then I thought of something much, much worse.
‘If the house in Tuscany was sold ages ago, then what house were you talking about selling just now?’ I gasped with the horror of it, and then tried to continue. ‘You’re not ……? You wouldn’t ……? You can’t mean ……?’
Mum nodded sadly.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to sell this house. We’re selling Castleville.’
‘But you can’t sell Castleville,’ I protested. ‘It’s our house. It’s where we live. It’s our home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I don’t want to live anywhere else.’
Dad rubbed my arm.
‘Don’t you think we know all that?’ he said. ‘This isn’t easy for any of us.’
‘So don’t do it then,’ I said.
Dad sighed.
‘We don’t have a choice. The business is in ruins. We can’t afford to live here anymore.’
Suddenly I had a great idea.
‘But there’s a recession on,’ I said. ‘This is one of the biggest houses in town. If we can’t afford to live here, then who else can?’
Mum gave a small smile. ‘There’s always someone. Dad and I have been to the estate agents already. They think they have a buyer. We won’t get anything like the full value of the house, but we’re not in a position to argue. We just have to sell. And when everything is finalised, we can rent a smaller house, not too far from here, so you can still be near Victoria.’
Suddenly I had another idea.
‘Dad’s business might be in trouble, but there’s still your job, Mum. Why can’t we live here on what you earn?’
Mum sighed.
‘You know my job is only part-time. It hardly pays for the food we eat.’
I grinned.
‘I can help with that,’ I said. ‘I’ll eat extra at school. I’ll have second servings of everything – third servings even, if they’ll let me. I’ll eat so much at school, that you won’t have to pay for any food for me at home. I’ll even skip breakfast. I’ll ……’
I stopped talking. Mum was looking at Dad in a way that was making me very nervous.
I gulped. My school had one of the best canteens in the whole country. A celebrity chef visited one time, and we all got his autograph. There was a programme on TV saying that our school served better food than most restaurants.
‘Oh, Mum, Dad,’ I wailed. ‘Please don’t tell me that we can’t afford to pay for school dinners any more.’
Dad went pale. He looked at Mum who nodded so slightly that I almost missed it. Then he took a deep breath.
‘It’s not just the dinners, Eva,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we can’t afford the fees for The Abbey any more either. You’re going to have to leave your school.’
I shook my head, wanting to make all the bad stuff go away. This couldn’t be happening. I won’t pretend that school was my favourite place in the whole world, but I knew that The Abbey was the best one around. (That’s why I spent forty-five minutes on a bus to get there every morning.)
Mum came over and hugged me.
‘We’re sorry, darling, but it’s all arranged. We’ve already spoken to the principal. You’ll be leaving at the end of this term.’
I thought quickly. ‘But that’s only two weeks away.’
Dad nodded. ‘But look on the bright side. Even though it’s the middle of a school year, we’ve managed to get you in to a new school.’
Ha. Look on the bright side – easy for him to say.
Then I realised there was a bright side.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I can go to Victoria’s school. It’ll be kind of cool being at school with my best friend at last. And she says her school’s not too bad really. She says …’
I stopped talking. Why were Mum and Dad looking at me like that?
Why were there tears in Mum’s eyes, even though there wasn’t a single onion in sight?
‘We thought of sending you to Victoria’s school,’ said Dad. ‘It’s a good school, and they don’t charge fees. That would have been just perfect.’
Would have been perfect?
‘But there’s no room there,’ continued Mum.
‘But there are only three schools within reach of here,’ I said. ‘If we can’t afford The Abbey any more, and Victoria’s school is full, that only leaves ……’
Dad stood up and came over to me. His hand on my shoulder was warm and strong. It was the hand of a man who should be able to put things right.
But he wasn’t putting things right.
He nodded slowly.
‘That only leaves Woodpark School. It’s all sorted. You start there straight after the holidays.’
‘No way,’ I said. ‘That’s just not going to happen. Woodpark school is … well … it’s not the kind of school that girls like me go to.’
Dad pulled his hand away from my shoulder.
‘Eva,’ he said angrily. ‘It’s time for you to stop being so precious. If Woodpark isn’t the kind of school that girls like you go to, maybe you’d better think about becoming the kind of girl that goes to Woodpark school.’
I gulped.
I liked the kind of girl I was already.
I so didn’t want to change.
But Dad was looking at me in a way that made me decide that, for once, arguing with him wasn’t going to be a good idea.
I knew for sure that this wasn’t going to be the kind of argument that I was used to having with my dad – the kind that ended up with Dad apologising and buying me an expensive present.
So I smiled my brightest smile.
‘That’s cool,’ I said. ‘My life was a bit boring anyway. Change is good. Change is exciting.’
I ignored Mum and Dad’s puzzled looks. I kissed them both on the cheek, and I skipped out of the room like I’d just heard the best news ever.
Then I went up to my room, threw myself on to my bed and cried until my pure silk sheets were soaked through.
As soon as I stopped crying, I phoned Victoria.
‘We’ve got to move house, and I have to change schools,’ I said, before she even had time to say ‘hello’.
‘Oh,’ she said.
There was a long silence before she recovered.
‘A new house will be fun,’ she said brightly. ‘Remember before when you said it was boring living in the same house all your life?’
‘Yeah,’ I conceded. ‘But I didn’t mean it – not really.’
‘And a new school – that’ll be exciting.’
I tried not to cry at the injustice of it all.
‘A new fancy boarding school would be exciting,’ I said. ‘But we’re not talking about a fancy boarding school. I’ve got to go to … Woodpark.’
This time the silence was even longer. I was beginning to wonder if Victoria had fainted at the news, when she spoke again.
‘Woodpark’s meant to be …… OK,’ she said slowly.
‘No, it’s not,’ I said angrily. ‘I’ve heard some of the girls in my school talk about it. They say it’s really rough and scary.’
‘What do they know?’ said Victoria. ‘They probably just made that stuff up. Anyway, my mum went to Woodpark, and she turned out OK.’
‘That was hundreds of years ago,’ I said. ‘And it so doesn’t count.’
Victoria decided it was time to change the subject.
‘Do you want to hang out for a while? You can come over here if you like.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come here?’
I didn’t finish the sentence –
– while you still can?
A few days later, Mum sold her jeep and came home in a tiny, battered old car.
‘I really like this car,’ she said brightly, as she patted the fading red paint. ‘It’s got personality.’
I didn’t answer. I didn’t look for personality in a car – all I wanted was satnav and a super sound system and leather seats.
That wasn’t so much to ask for, was it?
A week after that, Dad’s business closed down completely.
When he came home and told me, I wasn’t even surprised.
Nothing could surprise me any more.
I hugged him. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll find another job soon.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure I will,’ he said.
I wondered why we were bothering to tell lies, since we were both so bad at it.
Our house was sold very quickly. That’s the way the new owners wanted it, and Mum and Dad didn’t argue. I knew how they felt. How can you enjoy something when you’re just sitting there, waiting for it to be taken away from you forever?
I’m not going to say much about the day we moved out – not because I don’t want to, but because it’s all a bit of a blur.
I can remember lots of packing cases and lots of tears.
I can remember Dad telling me to grow up, which so wasn’t fair, as he’s always saying that I’m still his baby girl.
I can remember the slam of the front door, as we left for the last time.
I can remember Mum, Dad and me piling into Mum’s small red car.
I can remember the crunch of the car tyres on the gravel.
I can remember turning back for a last look at the name-plaque on the gate post – Castleville House.
I can remember the dull clang of the electric gates as they closed behind us for the very last time.
I can remember the short, silent car journey.
I can remember pulling up outside the small, ugly house we had rented.
I can remember thinking that my life was over.