Читать книгу Invisible Girl - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 10

I walk around the park for ages, nibbling the biscuits, traipsing round and round. I watch the little kids on the swings, the boys on the skate ramps, the old people playing a really boring-looking game with lots of black shiny balls. I check that Dad’s letter is still in my bag about seven hundred times. I think about Dad. I think about Mum. I think about Beckett and the stripy jumper he was wearing when he walked away in those faded jeans with the pink of his knee poking through the frayed rips.

“You all right, love?” a lady asks when I walk past the little café. “You’ve been marching about for ages. I keep on seeing you. Those bags look heavy.”

“Errrrrm,” I stutter, “yeah, I’m OK. I just feel like walking.”

“Can’t stop for a quick cupcake then?” she smiles. “I’m just about to shut up shop and I have one left, begging to be eaten.”

“Errrrrm.”

“Oh, go on,” she says. “You can have it for free. If you don’t tell, I won’t tell, so long as you don’t go spoiling your dinner. Don’t want your mum chasing after me, do I?”

She hands me the cupcake. It’s covered in pink icing with tiny red hearts.

“Thanks.”

I take the cupcake and carry on walking. I lick the icing. I nibble the hearts. I sit on a bench and let the warm sun kiss me.

Maybe Mum’s changed and things’ll be different. Maybe if I do go there everything’ll be OK. I probably won’t even recognise Beckett and he definitely won’t recognise me.

My tummy twists, that knotty nest of fear unravelling and turning to snakes. But what if she hasn’t changed? What if she blames me for everything that happened? What if she goes mad at me again? No one can make me go. There isn’t even anyone to make me. I could disappear forever and no one would ever know.

I pull the letter out again and stare at it. I trace my finger over the shapes and my heart thunders. Gabriella.

Gabriella Midwinter. Beckett Midwinter. Dave & Sally Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Families are so silly.

I wiggle my finger under the flap and loosen the seal. I slide it all the way along until the envelope opens like a big white mouth and then I take a deep breath and pull the letter out. I try to hold it still enough to read, but my arms are juddering, and the paper is fluttering like a moth in my hands.

“Still here?” says the café lady, walking past.

I nod and stuff the letter in my pocket. “Thanks for the cake, it was lovely.”

“You sure you’re OK, sweetheart?” she asks, coming closer. “Nothing wrong is there?”

I shake my head.

“I’m meeting my dad here,” I lie. “We’re having a picnic before Parents’ Evening. We’re celebrating because my artwork is on display.”

“Awww, that’s lovely,” she smiles. “Have a nice time. And good luck with Parents’ Evening!”

I wish I was having a picnic with Dad. Instead, I find some nature stuff on the ground and make my own little tea party. I use buttercups for cups, a flat piece of wood for a table and a smooth round stone for a teapot. I bend little twigs to make a family, sit them all around and make tiny cakes and buns out of berries, and miniature green sandwiches from leaves.

There. Everyone’s smiling. Everyone’s happy and having fun. A pain swells up in my chest. I swallow it down and pick up my bags. I leave my twig family behind and hope a little girl finds them and has a play before the wind blows and scatters them across the grass.

I leave the park and walk up and down the streets, wondering what it would’ve been like if Dad actually was going to Parents’ Evening to see my artwork and take photos of it on his phone.

Then I remember having a picnic with Grace and her mum. We hired a canoe, paddled up the canal and then stopped when we were far away from everyone. It was all green shade and magical rays of sunlight bursting through. I couldn’t believe it was real; it was like the paintings. We had egg sandwiches and crisps and chocolate cake and real orange juice with bits in, not squash. Grace’s mum bought us white chocolate Magnum ice creams and we sat on the edge of the canal for hours, watching the boats float by and the moorhens nesting. We took off our sandals and dangled our feet in the freezing water and laughed.

Dad’s letter is bashing about in my pocket, demanding attention. I walk and walk until the straps on the backpack start digging in again and my legs are achy and tired. And when I can’t walk any more I find a bench, hunt in my school bag for my bottle and glug some water down. I find a warm, brave place in my heart, swallow down the big hard lump in my throat and pull the letter out. I stare at it, tracing my finger over the blue biro shapes looping across the page.

Dear Gabriella,

I know I should have told you, but I didn’t know how. Amy and me are making a fresh start together and it’s time for you to go and live with your mum. Amy thinks it’ll be good for you to see her and Beckett. Here’s some money for the train and for food while you’re travelling. You’re a big girl now. I know you’ll be OK.

Mum’s address is: 4, Macklow Street, Manchester. You’ll be a nice little surprise!

Dad

I swallow hard. I pick the little scab on my arm. I trace my finger over the words again and again and again. I sit there for a lifetime, my heart thudding in my chest, waiting for the sun to go down, watching the wind lift litter from the path.

“Can I have a ticket to Manchester?” I say, to the man at the railway station.

He peers at me through the glass. “Single or return?”

“Single.”

He taps away at the computer screen. He squints his eyes to read. “Sorry, Miss,” he says, “last train’s already gone. You’ll have to wait till morning.”

I stare at him. “There must be something?”

He shakes his head and peers through the glass again. “Bit young to be travelling alone this time of night, aren’t you?”

“Everyone says that. I’m just small for my age.” And I’m not sure why, but suddenly I’m lying again.

The man nods and turns back to his computer. I wander away and press the green button on my phone and listen to Dad’s voice seventeen times. I walk and walk and walk, until the town is hushed, until the sky grows dark, until there’s no one else around except me walking and walking under a bright, bright moon.

Without noticing where I’m going I find myself standing in the shadows near Grace’s house, like a thick elastic band has pulled me back here. I should knock on the door and tell her mum what’s going on. But I’m scared she’ll phone the police and get my dad in trouble for leaving me alone.

I slip down the alleyway between the houses, stumbling in the dark, counting the back gates until I find Grace’s, number 58. I lean my arm over and slide the bolt open as quietly as I can. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I think I might be sick.

I tiptoe through the garden towards the shed, feeling like a thief, avoiding the pond, careful not to clatter the swing. Grace’s garden is washed with silvery moonlight and a soft golden glow spills from the house like honey, spreading across the lawn. It’s quiet and still, except for the silhouetted leaves fluttering in the breeze and my heart hammering fast in my throat.

“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” Grace’s mum calls from the kitchen door, bashing a tin can with a spoon.

I freeze. I press myself against the shed door. Kitty leaps off the shed roof, on to the fence, and down to the ground with a pitter-patter thud.

“Come on, Kitty Kat,” her mum calls again.

Kitty winds her soft furry body around my ankles. She nuzzles up close and purrs.

“Kitty Kat, come on.”

I try pushing her gently away, towards the house, but she won’t go, she just keeps on twirling around me.

“Suit yourself,” says Grace’s mum at last. “Out on the town are you, Kitty? Chasing mice?”

She puts the cat bowl down and then she stands and tips her head right back to gaze up at the stars. I have to stop myself from flying into her arms and telling her everything, from clinging on to her forever. I wish she’d stand there all night, with the halo glow of the kitchen light around her. I wish she’d walk into the darkness and find me and take charge.

Grace’s mum shuts the door and turns the key. She snaps off the light, plunging the garden into dark silvery shadows of moonshine. I stoop down and pick Kitty up. I nuzzle my face in her fur.

“Go get your dinner, Kitty,” I whisper, putting her back on the ground. “Go on, you’ll be hungry.” But she won’t go and I just stand there, waiting.

When the clouds first roll in, soft glittery rain tumbles from the sky, but then the drops get bigger and wetter. I shelter under a tree and wait with my fringe dripping on to my cheeks, until all the upstairs lights go off. And when the house is totally quiet, I creak the shed door open and creep inside.

Kitty leaps on to the workbench sending tins of paint and bottles of stuff flying. I freeze. I hold my breath. I tremble. I wait for Grace’s mum to come shouting into the garden in a panic to see what all the noise is about. I wish she would. I cross my fingers and toes and hope she won’t.

The shed window is so grubby and full of cobwebs the moonlight can’t get in. I drag my bags into the dry and shut the door. I run my hands over cold things, a lawnmower, garden tools, a metal bucket. I bash my knee pulling a sun lounger from the pile and I struggle to put it up.

I think about Blue Bunny and wonder if he’s in my bag. I’ve never been to sleep without him before. I swallow hard, settle myself down and dig around in the backpack looking for his soft silky ears. I feel a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some scissors and scraps, a book and some clothes.

I dig deeper and deeper, then freeze when the low rumbling thunder rolls over me and bright white lightning cracks open the sky. I hold myself tightly as the storm rain lashes the window and drips through a crack.