Читать книгу Snow Foal - Susanna Bailey - Страница 8

The farmhouse was huge: the biggest house Addie had ever seen. Wide windows threw yellow light on to a snow-covered courtyard. Smoke curled from tall chimneys into the night.

The door opened as Addie and Penny approached, and a small woman in Wellington boots hurried across the yard to meet them. She was holding a jacket round her shoulders. Addie saw that she was wearing pyjamas underneath

‘You made it,’ she said. ‘I was worried. The weather’s really closed in since this morning.’

‘Hi, Ruth,’ said Penny. ‘Sorry it’s got so late. These roads . . .’

‘Not to worry. You’re here now, that’s the main thing.’ Ruth smiled at Addie. ‘Let’s get you both inside.’ She hurried them through the door into a long, bright hallway full of jackets, boots and bags. ‘Come on into the kitchen. And let me have your coats,’ she said, ‘I’ll put them by the fire to dry.’

The fire in the kitchen was a real one inside a huge, brick hearth. ‘Get it going a bit more, shall we, Addie?’ Ruth said, smiling again. She pointed to a wooden rocking chair by the hearth. ‘Sit here, when you’re done, love. Warm yourself. But pop those trainers off first, I would. They look soaked.’ She bent down and poked at the fire with some kind of stick. Small red flames licked up around the logs inside.

Addie watched them for a moment. She could smell smoke. It made her throat tickle.

She stayed where she was, folded her arms across her chest.

‘When you’re ready then,’ Ruth said. ‘You take your time.’ She moved across to the table and lifted foil from a large plate ‘I’ve made some sandwiches for you both.’ She turned back to Addie, smiled again. ‘And there’s hot chocolate too. I expect you’d like some of that, Addie? Penny, how about you?’

‘Perfect,’ Penny said. She put her briefcase on the table. Addie stared at it. She knew all about that briefcase, with its files full of secrets and lies.

She looked away.

She was freezing cold, even in Ruth’s warm kitchen. Her toes felt as if something was biting them. And she was thirsty. ‘Yes,’ she said to Ruth. ‘Hot chocolate. Please.’

Ruth smiled still more broadly. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a mo.’ She moved a shiny copper pan from the bench on to the stove and began to stir it.

Addie stared down at her feet. Snow slid from her shoes on to the tiled floor and quickly melted there. She glanced up. Had Ruth noticed?

She hadn’t. She was deep in conversation with Penny, over by the stove.

Addie pulled at her wet laces, took off her trainers. She held them up for a moment. Where was she supposed to put them? Nobody had said. She pushed them out of sight, under her chair, clutched her damp coat collar closer round her neck. She looked around.

It was the kind of kitchen you see in films, or in magazines at the doctor’s surgery. Big tiles on the floor, big wooden furniture, big dark beams across the ceiling. There was an enormous fridge covered in stickers, scribbled notes and photographs of children. Addie wondered who the children were and whether they all lived here, with Ruth and Sam.

Whatever Penny and Ruth were planning, Addie’s photo was never going on that fridge.

She strained to hear what Penny was saying to Ruth. Penny had her serious face on, which was worrying. Ruth was nodding. She glanced over at Addie, her eyes soft and watery. Like the police officer’s eyes, just before she made Addie let go of Mam’s hand.

‘Almost done, Addie,’ she said, smiling. She turned back to the stove, stirred her pan of milk, as if everything was normal. As if everything was fine.

Ruth didn’t look like a foster carer. Not like Dawn anyway. Dawn, with her pink hair and high heels, her endless phone calls, her high-pitched laugh. Dawn, who hardly spoke to Addie for the whole weekend she spent there in the summer. Dawn, who never smiled.

Ruth’s face looked as if it was used to smiling. Her brown hair was scooped into a kind of nest on the top of her head. It bobbed from side to side as she moved around the kitchen, quick as bird. And she still had her boots on. Dawn would bust a gut. It was shoes off at the door in her house.

Ruth would have rules, too, Addie thought – rules for children like her, who didn’t really belong in this house. She would tell Addie what they were when Penny had gone. Like Dawn did.

Ruth reached over Addie’s shoulder; put a tray of drinks and a plate of thick, brown sandwiches on the table. ‘Help yourself, love,’ she said. ‘Just say if you want more.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Addie said. She watched as Penny took a sandwich, bit into it, chewed. A piece of tomato dropped on to her chest and rested on her multicoloured beads.

‘What time are you coming back, Penny? In the morning?’ Addie asked.

Penny looked over at Ruth, swallowed her mouthful of food. ‘As early as I can, Addie,’ she said. ‘Once I’ve had a chance to find out what the plan is with your mum.’ She took another bite of sandwich, held the remainder in the air. There was pink lipstick on the edge of the bread.

‘She’ll be fine tomorrow,’ Addie said. She looked at Ruth. ‘She just needed more sleep, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t we let you get some sleep as well,’ said Ruth said. ‘If you’re sure you don’t need to eat. I was hoping you might be able to meet the boys before bed, but they’re still out checking the fields. This weather closed in really quickly and we have to bring the sheep in closer to the farm. There’re a few stragglers still out there. She pointed to the sandwiches, laughed again. ‘They’ll make short work of your leftovers when they do get back, Addie.’

Addie stared at her. She didn’t care about sheep and she didn’t care about Ruth’s family. All she cared about was making the morning come as quickly as possible. ‘Come and see your room then,’ Ruth said. She sat down, pulled off her boots. ‘Bring your drink if you like.’ She gave Addie another of her smiles. ‘There’s someone rather special waiting to meet you upstairs.’

‘I just want to go to sleep,’ Addie said. She gulped down her hot drink, wiped her hand across her mouth, got to her feet.

‘Best thing,’ said Penny. ‘Try not to worry, love. Your mum’s in the right place just now.’

Addie bit her lip. Why did adults always say that when they knew it wasn’t true? She turned her back on Penny and followed Ruth to the door.

‘Goodnight, Addie,’ Penny called. ‘See you very soon.’

Addie looked over her shoulder. Penny was taking papers from her bag: papers about Addie. Papers for deciding things.

Papers for keeping her away from Mam.

‘It’s all my fault,’ she said. ‘Just stupid, stupid me. Write that on your stupid papers.’

Addie peered out through splinters of frost on the hall window. Early light now. No one about except Mrs Donovan, shuffling up her drive with her bags.

Perhaps they weren’t coming, after all.

Could Addie risk going out? Was that a stupid idea?

She had to go. She was starving. And Mam would need something when she woke.

She stood on the doorstep, pulled up her hood. Her breath floated on the air for a moment, then disappeared. She counted the coins again: just enough, with the fifty pence from under the fridge. She checked up and down the grey street. Nobody at all now. Just cracked puddles and litter drifting in the gutter; the still, orange light from the corner shop.

Addie hurried past the squashed row of brown brick houses with their faded doors and broken fences. She stayed close to the kerb, kept her head down. The baby at number six was screaming again. A dog started to bark.

Addie pushed open the shop door. The bell clanged. She peered round the shelves. Please let it be Mr Borovski today, she thought. Not Mrs Crabtree, with her thin nose poking into everyone’s business. Mrs Crabtree who noticed things.

No such luck. Mrs Crabtree came out from behind the counter and folded her arms across her bony chest. She watched Addie’s every move, looked her up and down; hovered like a hungry crow.

Addie thumped the brown loaf and milk down by the till. ‘One pound, ten pence,’ she said. ‘The bread’s reduced.’ She pointed to the yellow sticker and counted the coins into Mrs Crabtree’s hand.

The shopkeeper poked at them with a thin finger, pulled a piece of dark fluff from among them. ‘I’ve not seen your mam in a while,’ she said. ‘Under the weather again, is she?’

Addie grabbed her shopping. ‘She’s busy, that’s all,’ she said. ‘With her painting.’ She turned away, felt the burn of Mrs Crabtree’s eyes as she hurried from the shop.