Читать книгу Glitter - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 9

Three weeks later I’m sitting in a maths lesson with my mind half drifting out of the window when a prefect knocks on our door and tells our teacher that I have to go to the headmaster’s office straight away. I am completely sure that I haven’t done anything wrong or bad enough to need a trip to see Mr Jenkins, our headmaster, for a telling off, but anyway I’m careful to pull up my socks and straighten my tie before knocking on his door. “Yes,” booms his throaty voice, “come on in.” I turn the big brass handle, step inside and am surprised to see my dad sitting on one of Mr Jenkins’s black leather chairs. He’s looking all red faced and flustered and Sebastian is there as well, pacing about the room in tears. My heart dives into my tummy like a cold hard pebble and bounces straight back up again and lodges in my throat.

“What’s happened?” I ask, immediately leaping to the conclusion that somebody we know has died or that Sebastian only got a B for his science homework or something terrible like that.

“Come and sit down, Liberty,” says Mr Jenkins. “I’m afraid your father has some rather upsetting news.”

But I don’t sit down. Because how can you sit down when the tension in the room is making you worried that your ears are about to hear some ultra-upsetting news. My dad looks terrible. He clearly hasn’t shaved for a few days and he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten for weeks. I hover nearby without getting too close. I never know with my dad when he might unexpectedly bark some random command at me and make my feelings hurt. The headmaster coughs as a polite way of reminding my dad that it’s his turn to speak now.

“Liberty, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” whispers my dad, running his hand through his untidy hair. I’m shocked because I’ve never heard my dad speak so quietly before. His voice usually booms around the room, deafening my ears, but now he sounds like someone’s just let the air out of him and there’s nothing left for talking. “The business has collapsed, Liberty,” he says. “I’ve hung on for months and months trying to keep it all going but now I’ve hit rock bottom, the official receiver has been called in and we’ve become victims of the credit crunch.”

Then he looks at me like I know what all that means, which, of course, I don’t. I mean I’ve heard of the credit crunch and everything and things closing down all over the place, because whoever on this planet hasn’t. That was what Alice was saying her dad was talking about. He said things would change and he was right, but what has any of that got to do with me? Then Sebastian explodes.

“What he’s trying to say, Libby,” he steams, “is that we’ve lost everything. And I mean, everything! All the houses, all the cars, the boat, all the shares and every last penny in the bank.”

“Oh,” I say, still not really understanding, but knowing that something has gone terribly wrong. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” And suddenly it’s like the word ‘sorry’ has been touched by the edge of a lighted match and whooshed it up in flames.

“Sorry!” my dad bellows, full of air again. “What do you mean, ‘Sorry’? Sorry is hardly going to help now, Liberty, is it? What are you talking about, child? It’s far too late for sorry.”

I flinch and begin to feel like the whole credit crunch thing and Dad’s business collapsing and everything is really all my fault. All I want is to go back to my maths lesson, because right now maths feels like one hundred and fifty thousand times more interesting than the angry words that are flying out of people’s mouths and around this room. Luckily Mr Jenkins takes charge.

“Liberty,” he says, in a trying-to-explain-something-important-to-a-stupid-person kind of voice, “your father’s here to take you home. He’s come to pick you both up and take you home because he can no longer afford the fees to keep you here.”

Dad makes whimpering, hurt dog sounds and his left leg keeps jiggling up and down like it can’t stop.

“Home?” scoffs Sebastian. “And where exactly is that, Dad? Where is home?” And then he crumples in a heap on the floor, wiping his tear snot on his blazer sleeve. And my dad peers back at him through empty eyes. I’m afraid to even move an inch or say anything at all because I don’t want to make anyone else shout. And I’m relieved when Mrs Peterson, the school secretary, arrives with a tray full of tea and biscuits. But Sebastian’s not letting up and he turns on Mr Jenkins.

“After all I’ve done for this school,” he shrieks, “and being head boy and everything. You can’t just turf me out on the streets; I’m in my last year of A levels. This disaster might well ruin my whole life and I will hold you,’ he points to Mr Jenkins, “and you,” he points to Dad, “personally responsible.”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” says Mr Jenkins, handing Sebastian a handkerchief and a cup of tea. “Of course I wouldn’t just turf you out on the streets. At your stage in your education and with your brilliant academic record there are plenty of bursaries and charitable funds available to finance your last year with us. It’s your father’s decision to take you home.”

Sebastian glares fury at Dad, wanting some answers.

“It’s true, Seb,” says Dad. “I can’t help it; I’m a proud man. I owe the school the whole of last term’s fees and there’s no money to left to clear the debt or pay for any more. And that debt doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg. I’m up to my neck in trouble, so I’m calling it a day. I’ve given it my best shot and now I’m drawing a line under it and we’re moving on. Now, enough of this emotional display, I want the pair of you to go and pack your trunks immediately and we’ll be off.”

I don’t think my mind is totally taking all of this information overload in, because my legs are definitely not making their way towards my dorm to pack my trunk. I’m just standing quietly, keeping my eyes on the ground, sipping on the hot tea and nibbling a chocolate biscuit, wondering if this is the last food I might be eating in a while, because of us having no money any more. And then Sebastian starts up again.

“I’m not leaving here, Dad,” he spits, “and you can’t make me. I’m nearly eighteen, so it’s not like it’s even your choice any more.”

“Sebastian,” Dad booms, finding his voice again, “you will do as I say. Now go and pack your trunk at once and meet me in the Grand Hall in fifteen minutes.” Then he spins around and turns on me, making me jump and I spill a whole slop of tea in my saucer. “And that goes for you too, young lady. And I mean it, double quick sharp.”