At the model village bus stop I jump from the bus to a dry paving slab, which tips and shoots water up the back of my trouser leg.
‘Bye, all,’ shouts Dad, skipping down the step and tripping along the pavement.
Tilly gets off too and, head bent against the rain, walks dismally behind him. She looks completely furious.
I wait a decent time and follow. I’m not sure what to do with the deckchair that Eric gave me, so I’m thinking of leaving it in the model village. If it’s really a zombie then presumably at some point it will take off and march back to the beach. If it isn’t, it will grow back to normal size and look like someone left it there for a prank. Either way, I don’t want it in my bedroom.
I place it by the tiny cricket match. It looks utterly harmless. Perhaps Eric’s completely wrong about this. Perhaps it was some kind of freak wind and he’s been looking through the wrong end of the microscope.
I head back up towards home, pulling my hood close around my head, but I’m brought up short by the village noticeboard.
On one side, a handmade rain-smudged politely placed poster, barely covering anyone else’s adverts: IF YOU LIKE DECENCY AND WHOLEFOODS – VOTE FOR COLIN THREEPWOOD. On the other, a dayglo-orange big-print banner: SARAH PERKS FOR MAYOR.
Sarah Perks? That’s Mum’s name.
A horrible sense of misgiving slides over me. My percentage of happiness sinks from 61 to 0.
‘She wouldn’t,’ I say to one of the Dingly Dell elves on the wall of the crazy golf course.
The elf drips back at me, a horrible fibreglass grin stretched across its face.
‘But, Mum, you CAN’T.’ Tilly’s voice greets me before I even reach the front door. ‘I’ll never live it down.’
‘It’s not a question of you, Tilly. Or even me. It’s a question of what’s good for the community.’
Mum’s sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of dayglo posters and a huge pen, writing our telephone number on them all. ‘And I will be good for the community. I intend to wipe out all corruption and run on a ticket of transparency.’
‘Community? Transparency? What about me?’ Tilly grabs my arm. ‘Us?’
I pull back. I don’t like being caught up in Tilly’s arguments. They can be very unstraightforward.
‘Don’t be silly, Tilly. You’ll survive.’ A slight look of panic comes into Mum’s eyes and she speaks a little too loudly. I can see that Tilly’s got her worried so she does what I do with Tilly – avoid making eye contact. ‘And actually I can’t just be a stay-at-home mum to please you. I’ve a life to live too you know. I’d like a little excitement before it’s too late.’ She finishes the telephone numbers and reaches for a stack of envelopes and a pile of stickered addresses. ‘Quite frankly, I’d like to see the bright lights once in a while. So put up with it.’
Grandma crangs down the lid of the Aga and crashes about with saucepans. It kind of fills the gap but there’s still a huge silence in the room.
‘Do you fancy a rice pudding this evening, Sarah?’ says Grandma.
‘Good idea,’ says Mum, building up a rhythm with the stickers and envelopes. Mum’s new career in politics doesn’t look very exciting to me.
I glance over at Tilly. It’s as if someone has sucked all the air out of her. Her shoulders are bent and her whole body droops. She scratches her head and pulls her hair down so that it hangs over her face. She draws in a long breath, but instead of speaking she lets it out in tiny bursts of almost sobbing, finished with a loud rattling sniff.
I wait.
She breathes in and out again, and the almost sobbing becomes louder and more definite, followed by another sniff. ‘But, Mum,’ she says in a near whisper, ‘it’s child cruelty.’ I risk eye contact and notice that her eyes have changed from narrowed and angry to big and pathetic. She stops, waiting for the effect her words will have.
Mum goes on sticking stickers on envelopes. Grandma thumps a bag of sugar on the table.
Tilly sighs, and with a beautifully stifled sob goes on: ‘You’ll be ignoring us, following a career in politics while your children go unshod and unfed, languishing and forgotten.’ She rubs her nose with the back of her hand before scratching her head violently.
‘Oh stuff,’ says Grandma, pulling out a pudding basin. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’
Tilly heaves a huge sigh, the biggest yet. I can actually see a tear dribbling down her cheek.
‘I’ll go up to my cold room then, and read a book, and wait until supper time. Don’t worry too much about a pudding – I don’t think I’ll be able to eat one – I’m so … unhappy.’
She’s wasted as a child. She should be an actress.