Читать книгу The Last Charm - Ella Allbright, Элла Олбрайт - Страница 12

Frowning as the teacher scrawls famous Lady Macbeth quotes across the whiteboard in blue marker pen, I absentmindedly fiddle with the new charm that arrived this morning. With a solemn nod, Dad slid the envelope across the breakfast table towards me. For a moment I thought it was from him. However, when I sliced open the envelope with a butter knife, it contained a curled-up silver conch shell with a swirly pink interior, tiny and so very cute, with a typed note. Happy Homecoming. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how Mum knows we’ve moved back to Bournemouth and if that’s the case why doesn’t she just visit, but Dad stood up abruptly and left the room.

As he was closing the front door, he called over his shoulder he’d see me in time for dinner, and to try to be good at school, leaving me and my grandad staring at each other over my cornflakes and his marmalade on toast. The silence between us before I got up and tossed the dregs of my cereal and milk into the bin was uneasy. I’ve only seen him a handful of times since we moved away, and I never knew him that well when Mum lived with us.

I was probably a bit snappy with him as I pulled on my forest-green school blazer over my striped blouse and said I had to go, but what do people expect? I didn’t ask for this. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to be transplanted, taken away from everything I know. Again. I still can’t believe Dad made me move back here. Although it isn’t his fault Ray’s ill, and coming back to look after him is the right thing to do, did we really have to move in with him? Every time I catch sight of the peeling red front door of our old house, the gaping tiled roof, or the weed-choked garden, it makes me wince. Even so, I can’t stop looking. It’s like a scab you shouldn’t pick but do anyway, even though you know it’ll leave a scar.

I wonder if Jake still lives there. I’ve not seen him since that half-term we spent together, which seems like a lifetime ago now.

I also wonder if Eloise – or anyone else I might recognise – will be at this school. Despite our promises to be best friends for ever, Eloise and I didn’t keep in touch after I left. Still, there’ve been moments over the years when I’ve thought about her, wondering how she is.

Now, flexing my toes inside my new black flats, heels stinging and rubbed raw by the walk to school, I tune out the teacher droning on about the core themes of Shakespeare’s play. Instead, I focus on the music playing in my left ear through an earphone hidden by my long hair. I’ve been listening to ‘This Love’ by Maroon 5 on loop since it came out at the beginning of the summer and haven’t tired of it yet. We covered Macbeth at my old school last term, so I know it back to front and sideways and don’t need to hear it again. Besides, I found sketching pictures of the witches more interesting than the tragedy, greed, and madness of the story.

‘Miss Jones, am I boring you?’ Mr Strickland’s sarcasm booms and bounces off the walls.

His tone annoys me. Lifting my chin, I raise one eyebrow, careful to tuck the earphone wire out of sight. ‘I’m not sure. Are you boring yourself yet?’ There are titters around the room, along with the sound of pupils shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.

The teacher’s nostrils flare as he straightens his back, his salt-and-pepper hair sitting on his forehead in an old-fashioned 50s-style wave. ‘Don’t be so rude. Pay attention and contribute, or else you can stay back for detention today and explain to the head teacher why you feel you’re above getting a good education, and why,’ his eyebrows draw together, ‘you feel you’re entitled to disrupt the lesson for all your classmates.’

‘I’m happy to explain to the head that you can’t keep me in for a DT today because you need to properly notify a parent in advance to keep a child back after school,’ I respond flatly, intimately familiar with school rules and regs after the last fourteen months, feeling the burn on my lower back itch at the thought. ‘Plus, I hardly think the head would be interested in my first offence on my first day, do you?’

He sucks in a breath, a puce flush washing up his neck into his face. ‘It’s because it’s your first day here you should be trying your best to—’

The smallish, dark-haired boy behind me, whom I only gave a cursory glance to when I rushed in late at the start of lesson, clears his throat.

The teacher’s face tightens. ‘Is there something you want to add, Mr Harding?’

‘Nah, I just wondered whether we could get on with it now? Lady M is kind of hot for a homicidal chick and I wondered whether there are any sex scenes.’

‘For God’s sake—’ Mr Strickland shakes his head as the class explodes with laughter. ‘You know, for someone who’s been held back for failure to academically achieve, despite being one of the oldest in your year group, you always have a lot to say for yourself, don’t you?’ The teacher marches down the aisle between the rows of laminated tables.

‘Yeah, thickie,’ a chunky yellow-haired boy sat leaning against the opposite wall yells, ‘why don’t you spend time with people your own age?’

‘Good one, Davey,’ his friend sniggers beside him.

I feel bad for the flack he’s getting on my behalf, given that he interjected to save me, so I turn around to peer over my shoulder.

I gulp with shock. It’s Jake! He looks older but it’s definitely him. I take in the details of his face with my artist’s eye. The scar running down into his lip. His different coloured eyes – left one brown, right one green – and the thick dark eyebrows framing them. His cheekbones and jaw seem too angular, telling me he’s not eating any better than he used to. His black hair is shaggy and a touch too long.

He flicks me a quick acknowledging glance before craning his head to look up at Mr Strickland, who’s now hovering above him. ‘Sir, the truth is,’ he says with a straight face, ‘I find your lessons so inspiring that I fuck up just so I can repeat year ten and spend more quality time with you.’

I hide a snigger behind my hand. Jake’s former quiet confidence has become a more daring manner, and I marvel at the chances of us being in the same class.

Switching my attention to the teacher, I watch a mixture of emotions flutter over his face. Anger, resentment, and then resignation. It’s a war he either can’t win or just can’t be bothered fighting. ‘Right, that’s enough messing about,’ he barks, ‘let’s just get back to it, shall we? You, behave.’ He glares, nodding at Jake. ‘You’re on your last warning from me. Any more trouble and you’ll be suspended again, or worse.’ He nods down at me, ‘And you, behave yourself too.’

He’s so patronising it makes me seethe.

Mr Strickland claps his hands and strides back to the front of the room, pointing at the board. ‘Now, who wants to comment on Lady Macbeth’s behaviour? About the way she goads her husband into killing the Scottish King, Duncan?’

‘Goads?’ I mutter under my breath, yanking the earphone out and jamming it into my blazer pocket. ‘Whatever happened to free will?’

‘Someone tell me how she manipulates him. How she forces him into becoming a murderer. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. He was innocent in all this, wasn’t he? Come on! Someone must have an opinion. Act 1, Scene 7, what does she say?’

My fingers flex and curl into fists. I need to control myself.

‘You’ve all gone quiet. Look –’ he turns his back to the room, stabbing his finger at the quotes he’s copied out ‘– what do these tell us about Lady Macbeth? About the female of the species and their ability to lie and deceive?’

Manipulate? Lie and deceive? The female of the species? Like only women are capable of that kind of behaviour. My teeth grind. He’s a total misogynist. Although, his description does bear some resemblance to my feckless mum. After all, didn’t she lie and deceive us into thinking she loved us before running out? I swallow down the rage unfurling in my chest. I swear, if Mr Strickland says one more sexist thing—

‘She’s greedy and forceful,’ he continues, using a red marker to underline a quote, his back to the class, ‘and she’s willing to seduce and coax until she gets exactly what she wants. Come on, women like her have been doing this since the world began, haven’t they? What about Eve in the Garden of Eden? She completely led Adam down the garden path, and some would argue that mankind has been paying for that sin ever since—’

At that, I grab the heavy hardback off my desk and hurl it across the room at his head. It misses, hits the board beside his left shoulder and drops to the floor with a thud.

‘What the—’ Spinning around, he sees the book on the floor and glares at the class. He picks it up and holds it aloft. There’s a deathly silence. Everyone looks at each other with unease. ‘Who threw this? Who? It could have seriously injured me.’

I swallow, immediately regretting my loss of temper. You’d have thought I’d have learnt by now, after what happened at my last school. Dad is going to be horrified. I couldn’t even make it through three lessons. Shit. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth and start rising to my feet, planting my hands on the table in front of me. But before I can stand, a voice behind me speaks out.

‘I did it.’

‘What?’ Mr Strickland’s eyes narrow, his gaze landing over my right shoulder.

I click my teeth shut. What the hell’s Jake doing?

The teacher gestures to the book he’s holding. ‘Pandora, by Jilly Cooper? A bit girly for you, isn’t it?’ His mouth curls into a smirk. ‘Not the type of reading material I’d imagine you with.’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t reach the top shelf in the newsagent’s yet. Unlike you, Sir,’ Jake replies cheekily.

‘I do not—’ Mr Strickland splutters, eyebrows shooting up. Everyone loses it, and I can’t help sniggering, even while knowing I can’t let this continue.

I turn around to look at Jake again and my lips form the words to end this whole thing and take the blame, but he shakes his head slightly and talks over me, staring our teacher in the eye. ‘It pissed me off, all that guff you were spouting. I thought you should shut up. If I had to ruin a book to do it, I can live with that.’

‘Jake Harding, that is the final straw!’ Mr Strickland bellows. ‘Get out of my classroom, now. Go and find the head and explain what you’ve just done. You think you’re so clever? Well, let’s see where it gets you.’

‘That’s cool,’ Jake shrugs, grabbing his tatty bag from the carpeted floor and sauntering to the front of the room. His black trousers are an inch too short at the ankle, and there’s a noticeable gap between the cuffs of his blazer and his thin wrists. ‘I’ll just take this with me. I might need something to read while I wait.’ Plucking my book from the gaping teacher’s hands, he flings open the door and slams it shut behind him.

***

As soon as fourth period is over – a boring physics lesson I had no hope of following – I rush to the head’s office, bag banging against my hip as I ask people for directions. I get lost twice before I stumble into a reception area with four closed blue doors and matching blue carpet. There’s a row of three blue chairs and Jake’s sitting in one of them, his head resting against the wall as he gazes at the ceiling.

‘Tell me you haven’t seen the head yet,’ I blurt.

He tips his head forward and his odd-coloured eyes flicker as they move over me. I touch my pale hair self-consciously when his gaze lands on the length of it hanging down a few inches past my shoulders.

‘It’s still so light, almost silvery,’ he muses.

‘You remember me then?’

‘Of course I do.’ An odd smile plays on his mouth. When he sees me looking, he lifts a hand and rubs the scar like it’s aching.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter, ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’ Sighing, I step closer. ‘So, have you seen the head? I need to speak to him, her, whoever. I need to explain it was me who threw the book.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t just the book – it was the stuff I said. They’re used to it from me.’ From the expression on his face, he doesn’t much care.

‘But if I hadn’t thrown it,’ I insist, ‘you wouldn’t have made the comments to cover for me.’

‘I would. He was pissing me off. He deserved it.’

‘It’s still not up to you to take the blame, Jake.’ Studying his apparent indifference, relaxed body language, and thinking back to the way he spoke to Mr Strickland, I tilt my head. ‘You’re pretty cocky now, aren’t you?’

‘If you say so. Why –’ he grins ‘– do you like cocky?’

‘Hardly,’ I scoff.

‘Shame.’ He sucks his cheeks in, studying me.

‘What happened to you?’ I ask.

‘Nothing. Why, what happened to you?’

It’s a deflection and we both know it, and his slight rudeness makes me blush. I settle into the chair at the other end of the row, so there’s an empty one between us. ‘You don’t need to cover for me, Jake. I appreciate what you did, but I can take care of myself. I know it’ll probably only be a couple of days of detention or maybe a suspension.’

‘I’ve already seen the head, and she’s expelling me. It was my last strike. It’s too late.’

I shoot out of my seat. ‘What?’ My eyes well up with tears. ‘Why didn’t you say something? I’ve got to go in and see her. That’s not right.’

Getting up, he blocks my path, holding me back from a door with an etched sign on it. Head teacher, Mrs Grace Irving. ‘Don’t.’

Despite the fact he’s a few inches shorter than me and skinny, he’s pretty strong. ‘You have to let me,’ I insist. ‘It’s not fair on you.’

‘No.’ He shifts to the left when I try to side-step him. ‘Listen! It’s too late for me here. It was going to happen sooner or later. I’m no good at keeping out of trouble. And if you hadn’t thrown that book then I would have done something else. Maybe something worse.’ He shakes his head, tufty black hair sticking out at all angles. ‘Mr Strickland’s a sexist twat. But you can have a fresh start. Forget what happened today. Begin again. It’s all right here, this school. Most of the teachers are cool.’

‘But—’

‘What’s the point of you owning up and getting in trouble, when I’ll probably end up getting expelled for something else tomorrow?’

I go to protest again, when he pushes me gently away and stares at me beseechingly. ‘Please, Jones.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ I realise there’s something else going on here and am taken aback at the way he uses my surname. We were only ever on first-name terms.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shakes his head, looking anxious. ‘Just go along with it?’

Pausing, I bite my lip. This is more like the boy I knew, and the expression on his face reminds me of the way he used to look when it was time to go home from the park. It still doesn’t feel right to let him take the blame, but I’m at a complete loss and have tried my best, so after taking a deep breath and tucking away the guilt, I nod. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ I shuffle from one foot to another. ‘But are you going to be okay? Isn’t your dad going to kill you?’

The bored expression is back on his face. He loosens the knot in his school tie and yanks the loop over his head, making his hair even messier. ‘I’ll be fine. Go.’

‘I will, but … why take the blame for me?’

He pauses, and then says quietly, ‘I met you before I met you, and what I saw, I liked. I knew you were a good person.’

‘Well, that’s cryptic. What are you talking about? We met outside our houses on the day you moved in, and then spent the next five days together.’

Delving in his pocket, he unwraps a Polo, biting down on it with a distinct crunch. The smell of mint drifts over me. ‘I’ll tell you one day, when it’s right,’ he says with a shrug, before clearing his throat. He touches a finger to the heart-shaped clasp on my bracelet. ‘You still have it.’

‘Of course. It’s important to me. Mum never came back, but at least I know she thinks of me occasionally.’

His thick eyebrows give him an air of intensity that makes me jittery. It’s weird being with him again.

‘Jones, I need to—’

As he’s speaking, his dad flings his way into reception, curse words filling the air along with the stink of alcohol, and whatever Jake was about to say gets lost in the moment.

***

When the final bell rings, I dive out of last period before grabbing everything I need from my locker and taking a shortcut from the school grounds. I’ve had enough for my first day and am still unsettled by the scene I witnessed outside the head’s office when Jake’s dad turned up. He really is a horrible man. The only highlight of the day was running into Eloise, and after a warm hug, her introducing me to some nice girls she’s friends with.

On the walk home, I stop to study a view which catches my eye. I take out my sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. There’s an alleyway running between two houses, trees and bushes lining it to form an archway of foliage. The shape of the leaves and branches melding in the middle – with rays of sunshine streaming through them to make a dappled shadowy effect on the dirt path – is exquisite. I lose half an hour sketching, while leaning up against a concrete post. It’s only when the light changes I realise I’ve drifted again, and lost time. Crap. Shoving my stuff in my bag, I run the rest of the way home.

‘Sorry,’ I gasp, stumbling through the front door. Moving along the dim flock-papered hallway, I flip off my shoes. The carpet is thick and frayed under my feet and has an ugly red and yellow swirly pattern.

Dad steps out of the lounge, his face strained. ‘You’re late. Where’ve you been? I left work early to be here.’

Stiffening, I try to keep my voice even. ‘Sorry. Something caught my eye on the way home and I stopped to sketch it.’

‘You’re okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

His face softens and he steps forward, putting his large hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. ‘Leila, we agreed. You can’t keep wandering off. People worry.’

Sliding out from beneath his touch, I walk into the lounge. ‘I told you, I was just sketching.’ Propping my bag on a chair, I unzip it and reach in for my school books. I’m so sick of having this conversation with him, and don’t want another argument.

Sighing as he follows me in, he sits down in the chair opposite, his navy T-shirt dirty from where he’s been lying on some stranger’s floor to fix their plumbing. ‘You should wear the watch I bought you.’

‘It makes me feel trapped,’ I reply flatly. ‘I don’t want to spend my time counting down the minutes, always clock-watching.’

‘You need to be responsible—’

‘I am responsible.’ Wrenching my arms out of my blazer, I lob it into the corner. ‘Dad, stop! God, why can’t you just give me some space? What do you think is going to happen? I’m fourteen, not four.’

He stands up, shaking his head sadly. ‘With what happened at your last school …’

His disappointment is more than I can stand, and I don’t need the reminder. ‘Look,’ I huff, ‘that’s behind me. I stayed all day, okay? Can’t you give me some credit? I was only half an hour late.’

My grandad – whom I refer to as Ray nowadays – strides in from the kitchen holding a cup of tea. He must be having a good day with his illness, because he normally needs a mid-afternoon nap. ‘Leila, don’t you speak to your father like that! Not under my roof. In my day you showed your elders some respect. And in the Navy, you were taught to obey authority – your superiors – whether you agreed with them or not. You trusted that the orders you got were for the greater good. You should give your dad the same respect.’

I cross my arms across my chest, face boiling. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. He’s never reprimanded me before, and although I’m tempted to flounce up to my room, his expression says it won’t get me anywhere.

Stepping closer, he extends the hot drink toward me. ‘Come on, take a seat.’

Relaxing at his easy acceptance of my apology, I take the cup and sit down at the old mahogany table, giving Dad a conciliatory smile and rubbing his arm as he joins me. Thankfully he returns the gesture by squeezing my hand, warming my heart. No matter how shitty I can be, he always loves me.

‘Now that’s done –’ Ray clears his throat, uncomfortable with the show of emotion ‘– is this yours?’ Going over to the towering oak bookcase in the corner, he comes back with a copy of Pandora and passes it to me. ‘Someone left it on the doorstep earlier,’ he explains, ‘but they were gone by the time I got there. I’m not as quick these days with my bloody lungs. Yours?’

‘Yes.’ Flipping to the Orlando Bloom bookmark inside, I find a tiny charm stuck to the back with tape; a book with open pages and lines scored into them to look like writing. There’s an odd quiver in the pit of my stomach. It’s weird getting a charm from Jake. It’s mine and Mum’s thing so it feels like he’s intruding, and we don’t really know each other well enough to exchange gifts. I suppose it is kind of sweet though. ‘It’s from Jake.’ I look at Dad. ‘He picked up the book when … Uh, something happened today. I kind of lost my temper in class and he took the flack for me. I did try and sort it out,’ I blurt, ‘really, I did, but it was too late. He got expelled, and he wouldn’t let me do anything to stop it.’ I pause, thinking. ‘It was almost like he wanted to get thrown out. Then his dad arrived, and he was horrid, yanking Jake around all over the place. I didn’t get to say goodbye before they left.’

Dad frowns. ‘Doesn’t sound good. Now this boy knows where you live?’

‘It’s Jake Harding, Dad. From down the road? The one who lives in our old house?’

Ray clutches his side and goes white, before taking a deep rasping breath. ‘My Jake?

‘Ray, take it easy.’ Dad gets out of his chair, sliding an arm around his waist to prop him up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘We need to check on him,’ Ray mutters urgently. ‘I won’t rest easy until I do. I can go knock on the door and see if Jake can come over and help with something. I pay him to mow the lawn and help me wash the car, so it shouldn’t look suspicious.’

I follow uneasily as they shuffle into the hallway. Dad helps Ray put his shoes on, before pulling on his own toe-capped work boots. Since when does Ray need help with household maintenance? He’s only been ill for a few weeks. As I shove my feet into my flats, Ray steps away from Dad and steadies himself. ‘I can manage, thank you.’ Throwing open the door, he straightens his shoulders and marches down the front path as if his pain was never there.

Dad and I rush onto the pavement behind him. We come to an abrupt halt as the peeling red front door of my old house opens and Jake’s dad emerges, dragging his son along by one arm and carrying a bag over his other shoulder. ‘Cut it out, boy,’ he roars, ‘I told you what would happen if you kept getting in trouble at school. You can go up north to my family and give them grief instead!’

Unlocking a run-down blue Ford Mondeo with rust around the arches, he thrusts Jake into the back and throws the bag in after him, hitting him square in the face. I can see it all because their car is facing us, the driver’s side closest to the pavement. Jake’s head disappears beneath the line of the seats, and I turn into my dad’s shoulder, wincing.

Dad tenses, putting his arm across Ray’s chest as he tries to step forward. ‘You’re not well enough, and it’s not our business.’

‘I have to do something.’ He’s agitated, his hands clenching.

Jake’s mum steps out into the messy garden, greasy black hair dishevelled and a vivid scarlet mark on her cheekbone. Spotting us, she scrubs at her tearstained face and tucks shaking hands into her skirt pockets, trying hard to conceal her emotions. But I can see from the way her shoulders bow forward that her heart is breaking, and a little of my own breaks with it. No mother should be separated from their child. It’s just not right. But she stands by while her husband gets in the car and starts the engine. She does nothing but watch. Says nothing. Doesn’t take one step forward. My sympathy for her withers and dies. Every parent should fight for their child, doggedly, until there’s not an ounce of energy left in their body, until there is no breath left. It makes me hate Mum all over again, and tears sting my eyes.

Jake’s head reappears and he meets his mum’s gaze, nodding once and then giving her a solemn wave goodbye. His eyes flicker our way, but he pretends not to see us. I don’t blame him.

Winding the window down, Jake’s dad shouts at his wife to get in the house, or else. She hastily retreats inside, the door slamming behind her. Paint flecks shower down onto the garden path with the violent force, like dried blood. Revving the engine, Jake’s dad sticks his middle finger up at us, ‘Enjoying the show? Fuck off, the lot of you.’ With a screech, he peels away from the kerb, narrowly missing the cars parked on the other side of the road.

Ray’s shaking with anger, and Dad’s concerned, holding his elbow to guide him home, checking over his shoulder to make sure I’m following. As we go back inside, I picture Jake’s thin face, feeling scared for him and hoping he’ll be okay. I can’t help feeling it’s my fault.

Crossing the threshold into the dim interior of Ray’s hallway, realising how thoughtful it was of Jake to return my book and give me a charm when his own situation is so bad, I wonder when I’ll see him again.

I have no idea that the next time I do, I’ll be saving his life.