Читать книгу A Hope Christmas Love Story - Julia Williams - Страница 8

“Mum, you are still ok to pick Lou Lou up from nursery aren’t you?” I shout as I come down the stairs, my little girl squirming in my arms. She’s clinging to me, and holding on determinedly to Bunny, a scrubby rabbit she insists on sleeping with. I can never get it away from her to put in the wash, so poor Bunny is quite filthy. I love the feeling of her against me, the warmth of her breath against my neck, the way she puts her hands round me so trustingly. However difficult my life is sometimes, I’d never be without her.

Mum had said she was picking Lou Lou up for me, but my granny has come to stay unexpectedly, and I know she’s very stressed.

“I already said, didn’t I?” Mum says in exasperated tones I know well, giving Lou Lou a tickle under the chin.

“I know,” I say, “I just don’t want to be a nuisance, what with Gran and everything.”

Mum’s so busy. She’s working on a new TV series, as well as coping with Gran and my brothers and sisters; I hate putting her under more pressure.

“You’re not,” says Mum giving me a hug, “you know I’m always happy to help.”

“Gaga,” says Lou Lou holding out her arms to Mum.

“You really are the best,” I say.

“I know,” Mum says, rolling her eyes. “Now have you had breakfast? I know Lou Lou has.”

“Yes, yes, don’t fuss,” I say, though I haven’t. I never have time in the morning, and Mum has enough to do kicking my lazy siblings into touch to get them ready for school, so I look after Lou Lou despite her offers of help. And it’s always such a battle. Lou Lou wants to play first thing, and if I have time, I play too. It’s my favourite part of the day, and I always feel mean on nursery mornings, taking her out of her nice cosy bed, getting her dressed and ready by 7.30, so I can drop her off at nursery by 8. But college starts for me at 8.30 and it’s a half hour drive down winding country lanes. I’m always just managing to screech in on time. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m a ditzy airhead who can’t get out of bed in the morning. If only they knew …

I kiss Mum goodbye, give my little sister Ruby a quick hug (my other sister Paige and my brother James still haven’t emerged from their bedrooms), have my normal battle to get Lou Lou into her coat and shoes, and head for the door.

Then the morning takes a turn for the worse. I realise within seconds of leaving that my petrol gauge is low, so I take a quick detour to fill up, which means I arrive in the mid drop-off rush at nursery, so it takes longer than usual to get Lou Lou settled. By the time she’s prepared to let me go it’s gone 8.10 and even if I put my foot on it, I’m going to be late.

After a frustratingly slow drive, stuck behind a tractor nearly all the way to Shrewsbury, I scream into the college car park at 8.35, grab my bags and leg it to the office to report in late as I’ve missed registration. Our first lesson starts at 8.45, so with any luck I might just make it. I have English first lesson and Tom, my tutor, has been giving me a hard time this year ever since I told him I wasn’t going to sit Oxbridge. I’d love to sit Oxbridge, but it’s not practical, and of course Tom has no idea why. So instead I’m applying to Birmingham to do a Media Studies course, so I can continue to live at home. It’s not what I would have planned, but nothing since Lou Lou came along is.

Whenever Tom makes sarky remarks about me being late, it’s always on the tip of my tongue to say it doesn’t seem to be affecting my grades, but I hate drawing attention to myself, so I never do.

I’m in such a hurry, I don’t see someone else bowling in the opposite direction towards me till it’s too late. We collide, I go flying and so does he. I look up groggily to see Will staring into my face.

***

I hadn’t seen Melanie till the last minute. I’d been late leaving because Izzy, my sixteen-year-old sister was being stroppy. She didn’t want to go to school again, so I’d physically had to make her, shouting at her all the way.

It’s partly Izzy’s fault that I’m here, resitting Year 13. Most of last year was spent chasing her up, making sure she was in school, and driving round Shrewsbury late at night to keep her out of trouble. I don’t blame her. She’s found Mum and Dad splitting up even harder than I have. She’s such a Daddy’s girl, and Daddy, quite frankly, has behaved like a shit.

In fact, both our parents have. They’ve always been spectacularly selfish, but once the divorce came through it felt like they couldn’t wait to get shot of us. Mum moved straight in with her new partner and got pregnant pretty much straight away, while Dad stayed for a little bit. But you could tell he was furious with Mum for jumping ship first. As soon as he could, he was off with his new partner and her adorable little kids who are much easier to deal with than a difficult teenage daughter and grumpy son. It feels like we don’t exist anymore.

Sure, they give us money, and we get to stay in the house and be totally independent. I know lots of kids who envy me for that. But it’s not great, not really. Not when you have a shitty day at school, and you want some advice and your parents aren’t there to give it to you. Or you get home from college and discover the washing machine is on the blink and you have no clean clothes, and you’ve forgotten to go shopping so you have get takeaway pizza again.

They’re very generous, I’ll give them that. We never want for anything material. But what kind of parents abandon their children in the middle of exam year? It’s rubbish and Izzy isn’t dealing with it too well.

Anyway, that’s why I’m so late and preoccupied and I don’t see Melanie till the last minute, so we end up in a rather embarrassed, tangled mess on the floor. Oh god, it would be her. She must think I’m a complete twat.

“I am so sorry,” I say, helping her up. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“Me neither,” she says, giving me a quick shy and completely endearing smile, and gathering up her books and pens. “It’s just as much my fault as it is yours.”

As we sort ourselves out, we register that we are now fifteen minutes late, the magic number after which the college will ring our parents if we’re late too often. Not that my parents would give a damn about that. And I’m eighteen anyway, so as far as I’m concerned so long as I show up and do the work it doesn’t matter what time I roll up. After such a disrupted year last year, studying and getting it right is all I care about.

We slink into class to the inevitable sardonic phrase, “Nice of you to join us, Miss Carpenter, Mr Harris,” from Tom, our tutor, and knowing grins from the rest of the class. I’m cringing so much I daren’t look at Melanie. After two weeks here I’ve taken an instant dislike to Tom. It seems I’m not alone. He’s not very popular, judging by the brief chats I’ve had with people in the coffee bar.

My dislike of Tom has intensified by the end of the lesson, as he spends the whole of it trying to catch Melanie out. He seems to have a real grudge against her, I don’t know why, as she’s so clearly star pupil material. She certainly seems to know more about The Bell Jar than anyone else in the class. I’m baffled by the way he treats her but Melanie just shrugs her shoulders when I ask her about it.

“He hates me being late,” she says, “but Monday mornings, you know what they’re like.”

I do know what they are like. But I doubt Melanie has a clue how hard it is to get yourself and your sister out of the house on time, and run a home. I don’t think anyone knows what that’s like. Least of all, Tom.