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  ‘Are you coming to kill rats?’

  I sigh. ‘I’ll be going to sign on as well, Terry. I lost my job today.’

  Terry looks at me, frowning.

  ‘Was it because of rats? Matthew says they’re at café too. That’s why it didn’t get a good hygiene rating.’

  ‘No, I told you. It were because Bridget were too tight to buy a big enough fridge so things got put together that shouldn’t have been.’

  Terry shakes his heads. ‘No, there were rats too. That inspector saw them.’

  There is no use arguing with him when he gets like this, I know that.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t because of owt to do with rats, but I don’t work there any more, so let’s not worry about it. Put kettle on for us, would you, love?’

  I go into the bathroom to sort the loo out. He has stuffed two entire bog rolls down there. And my spare kitchen roll. I get a bucket from the cupboard, put it next to the loo and start picking it all out.

  It’s going to get worse, that’s the most difficult thing about it. I know this is only the beginning. It always gets a lot worse before we can get any help for him. I’ll call the mental health team on Monday, but I already know what they’ll say. It’s not an emergency. And there’s a lot of people who need help more than he does. And they’ve got no money and no staff. It’s not their fault, poor sods. It’s just how it is.

  I stand up and wash my hands. I’ll need to pop to the corner shop and get some more bog roll. I’ll have to try to hide it, mind, or he’ll only do the same thing again.

  I go back into the kitchen. Terry has emptied the entire contents of my bag into the kitchen sink and is scrubbing everything with a nailbrush.

  ‘Because of rats,’ he says, looking up at me. ‘Matthew said they got into your bag at café.’

  AFTER 3

  3

  Finn

  The first thing I notice about sheep apron lady when she arrives is that she isn’t wearing her sheep apron. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. It’s like Alan Titchmarsh coming for tea and not having his gardening gloves on. Although I don’t suppose it’s very easy to drink a cup of tea with gardening gloves on, but I’d like to think he’d try.

  She stands there for a second looking at me. Her plaits look sad again, like they did that night, and I think she might be about to cry.

  Dad asks her in, and she steps inside.

  ‘Hello, Finn, love,’ she says. She steps forward and gives me a hug. The second I feel her arms round me I start to cry. I do not even have time to try to stop the tears before they come out of my eyes. It’s like she has just pushed a button and all these tears are coming and I don’t know how to make them stop and the more I cry, the more she hugs me tightly and the more she hugs me, the more I keep crying. She is crying too, not as much as me but still quite a lot for a grown-up. I think we might end up standing in a big puddle in the hall if we can’t stop soon. It will be like that story in Winnie the Pooh where it kept on raining and Piglet was entirely surrounded by water and had to be rescued by Pooh and Christopher Robin. Mum used to do the voices when she read Winnie The Pooh to me. She was good at all of them, but I think her Eeyore was the best. Dad read it to me once when Mum wasn’t here, and it was like watching a film with the sound off, because he didn’t do the voices. I think I actually fell asleep.

  Finally, sheep apron lady loosens her grip on me and pulls back a little. I look at her through blurry eyes.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you so much,’ she says. ‘Thank you for inviting me for tea.’

  I nod. I am still trying to stop crying enough to be able to speak. I wipe my eyes with my hands. Dad comes back from the kitchen with a couple of tissues and hands one to me and one to sheep apron lady. His eyes are red too.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Karen? Tea, coffee, something stronger?’

  ‘Tea would be grand, thanks,’ sheep apron lady replies. ‘And please, call me Kaz, everyone else does.’

  ‘Will do,’ says Dad. ‘Finn, why don’t you take Kaz through to the lounge, while I get the drinks?’

  Sheep apron lady finally lets go of me.

  ‘Shall I call you Kaz too?’ I ask, as she follows me through to the lounge. ‘Only I’ve been calling you sheep apron lady up till now.’

  She bursts into laughter, which, I suppose, is better than crying. It’s not like she is laughing at me like the kids at school do, though. It’s a nice laugh. We sit down next to each other on the sofa.

  ‘You can call me whatever you like, pet. Sheep apron lady is a good one, though. I’ve been called a lot worse in my time.’

  ‘So have I,’ I say. ‘At school, I mean.’

  She screws up her nose. ‘My little brother got called a lot of names at school. Kids can be cruel.’

  ‘What did he get called?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, smelly pants and stick-insect, because he were skinny, loads of stuff like that.’

  ‘I get called weirdo and freak,’ I say. ‘And other ones I can’t tell you because they’re rude.’

  Kaz smiles. ‘Try not to let them get to you,’ she says.

  I nod, remembering how many times Mum said that to me.

  ‘My friend Lottie says they’re all sad losers.’

  ‘Well, she’s right,’ says Kaz. ‘Is Lottie your best friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She’s actually my only friend but that doesn’t matter because Mum says one good one is worth a million rubbish ones.’

  Kaz looks down at her hands. We sit in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  She looks up quickly, a slight frown on her face. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Running out of your café,’ I reply. ‘It wasn’t because of you. You were really nice to me; it was because you only had a hygiene rating of three.’

  Kaz looks at me.

  ‘Is that what were bothering you?’

  ‘Yes. Because three is generally satisfactory, and Dad wouldn’t let me go to a school that only had a satisfactory Ofsted. My school is good, so like a four hygiene rating, but there are still mean kids there and the head teacher thinks I’m weird, so that’s why I only like eating in places that have a five, because that means they are very good.’

  ‘Well, I reckon that’s pretty smart, working all that out for yoursen. At least I know it weren’t my sheep apron that scared you off.’

  ‘No, I like that. Do you have other things with sheep on or is it just the apron?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘I used to have a tea-towel, but I can’t remember what happened to it. Our Terry got me one for Christmas and apron for my birthday.’

  ‘Is Our Terry you son?’ I ask.

  Kaz smiles. ‘No, he’s my brother. He’s one I told you about who got picked on at school.’

  ‘Does he like sheep too?’ I ask, as Dad comes in with the tea-tray.

  ‘Not really,’ she says. ‘He likes eighties TV shows. Ones you’ll not have heard of. What about you, Finn? What do you like?’

  ‘Flowers,’ I say, ‘and Alan Titchmarsh.’

  Kaz looks a bit surprised but she doesn’t laugh. ‘Right you are, into gardening, are you? I used to go down allotment when I were little.’

  ‘There you go, Finn,’ says Dad as he puts the tray down and hands Kaz her mug and me my glass of orange juice. ‘Maybe Kaz can give you some gardening tips.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Kaz. ‘That were a good while ago now. I haven’t grown owt for years.’

  ‘Haven’t you got the allotment any more?’ I ask.

  ‘No. Me mam had to give it up.’

  ‘It’s a lot to manage, from what I’ve heard,’ says Dad, sitting down in the armchair opposite us.

  Kaz looks down at her hands.

  ‘Have you got a garden?’ I ask.

 
She shakes her head. ‘No, love. Never had one.’

  I’d hate that. I remember how worried I was when Mum told me I might not have a garden after her and Dad got divorced.

  ‘Whereabouts do you live, Kaz?’ Dad asks.

  ‘In town centre,’ she replies.

  ‘Not much space for gardens, then,’ Dad says.

  Kaz holds her mug and doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I was thinking of doing macaroni cheese for tea,’ Dad says. ‘Would that be OK with you, Kaz? Do say if you’re a vegan or anything.’

  Kaz smiles. ‘I’ll eat owt that’s put in front of me, I will.’

  ‘Great,’ says Dad. ‘That makes things easier. My cooking’s not up to much, though, so you might regret saying that.’

  I don’t like him talking about Mum like this. He is talking about Mum, even though he isn’t saying her name, because she is the reason his cooking isn’t very good. Hers was so good he never did any. We are all quiet for a bit. Kaz drinks her tea. I take a sip of my orange juice.

  ‘Tell you what, Finn,’ says Dad. ‘Why don’t you take Kaz up to see your room while I start cooking? You’ll have lots of things you can show her up there.’

  I’m not sure what sort of things he means, but I suppose I can show her some of my Alan Titchmarsh gardening books and maybe talk about roses or allotments. I stand up. Kaz finishes her tea and stands up too.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’

  *

  I push open the door of my bedroom. I am not used to having people I don’t know in here. I think the only person apart from Mum and Dad who has ever been in my room is Lottie. I am not sure what Kaz will make of it because it is full of me and I know I am weird so I suppose my bedroom must be weird too.

  Kaz walks in. The first thing she does is look up at the bee light on the ceiling.

  ‘Hey, that’s smashing, is that.’

  I pull a face. ‘I don’t really like it,’ I say, ‘but don’t tell Dad, because he got it for me.’

  ‘Why don’t you like it?’ Kaz asks.

  ‘Because bees aren’t blue. And because Mum wouldn’t like it.’

  Kaz nods.

  ‘Do you like bees, then?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve always liked them since I was a little kid.’

  ‘How old are you, Finn?’

  ‘Ten. Eleven in August.’

  ‘So, you start big school in September?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You don’t sound right keen.’

  ‘I didn’t really want to go there. It was Dad’s idea. It’s a posh school near Ilkley. I got a music scholarship.’

  ‘Wow. You must be right good at music then. What do you play?’

  ‘Ukulele and piano. But I haven’t played for a while. Not since, you know.’

  I walk over to the other side of the room so Kaz doesn’t see that I’m trying not to cry.

  ‘Why don’t you want to go to your new school?’ asks Kaz, sitting down on my bed.

  ‘Because it’s big so there’ll be even more kids to be mean to me. I don’t suit school. Not normal schools. Mum made a school in a tent for me once. On the day when . . .’

  My voice trails off. I still don’t think I am able to talk about what happened. I take a deep breath and try again.

  ‘It was brilliant, her school. We went on a nature trail and I drew pictures of what I found. They weren’t very good but it didn’t matter and I wanted it to be like that forever.’

  I stop talking again to concentrate on trying not to cry.

  ‘What does your dad say?’ asks Kaz after a bit. ‘About you not wanting to go to this school?’

  ‘He says it might not be as bad as I think. He said the same thing about my primary school and it’s been horrible.’

  Kaz scrunches up her face. ‘Dads do talk rubbish sometimes.’

  ‘Did your dad talk rubbish?’ I ask.

  ‘Aye, whenever he opened his mouth.’

  I do a little laugh. It turns out I don’t mind Kaz being in my room at all. I show her some other stuff. Photos and music certificates and that. Then we come to my gardening books.

  ‘That’s a right lot you’ve got there,’ Kaz says. ‘You must be a bit of an expert if you’ve read all them.’

  ‘I want to be a gardener when I’m older,’ I say. ‘That’s another reason why I don’t want to go to school. Everything I need to learn about is in these books. Being able to label a Viking longboat isn’t going to be much help to a gardener.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s much help to anyone. We don’t get many Vikings in Halifax.’

  I do another little laugh and take one of my books off the shelf.

  ‘I met Alan Titchmarsh once. He was at Tong Garden Centre. He signed this book about climbing roses,’ I say, holding it out with the page turned to his signature for her to see.

  ‘That’s smashing, that is. He’s good on telly, too,’ Kaz says. ‘But then he’s from Yorkshire. All the best people are.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I was born in Manchester and Mum and Dad were born in Cheshire and we all came to live here when I was one.’

  ‘Well, you’re honorary Yorkshire then,’ says Kaz.

  ‘The kids at school say I talk funny because I don’t sound like them.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you sound like, it’s words that come out of your mouth and kindness in your heart what’s important,’ says Kaz.

  For someone who doesn’t use proper grammar and wouldn’t do very well in her SATS, Kaz seems to talk a lot of sense. I show her a few more of my books and I tell her about the sort of garden I would like to have one day. And finally, just after Dad calls up that tea is ready, I pluck up the courage to ask her the thing that I wanted to ask. The thing that I know we shouldn’t talk about, but I have to, because I have lain in bed worrying about it every night since.

  ‘Do you think it was my fault?’

  She hesitates and looks at me, but I can tell that she knows what I am talking about because of the sadness in her eyes.

  ‘No, love,’ she says. ‘And you must never think that, because it’s not true.’

  ‘But if I hadn’t—’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ she says, putting her hand on my shoulder and bending down to my level. ‘I won’t hear a word of it. None of it was your fault. You are the bravest boy I have ever known.’

  I nod, even though I don’t think I am, and wonder if she means that or, like everyone else, she’s just being nice to me.

  ‘You called me Terry that night,’ I say.

  ‘Did I?’ she replies. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t really thinking straight.’

  ‘I didn’t mind,’ I say. ‘I was just glad you were there.’

  AFTER 4

  4

  Kaz

  I follow Finn downstairs for tea. I am still thinking about what he said. I wanted to give him another hug, but I was worried I’d set him off crying again and spoil his tea. His fault. As if any of it was his fault. Poor little mite.

  They have a dining room. A room that isn’t a kitchen and just has a big, wooden dining table and chairs in it and a window that looks out onto their back garden. I don’t think I have ever been to the house of someone who has a dining room before.

  Martin has laid the table. There are table mats and serviettes. Bloody serviettes. I think about what Terry will say when I tell him. When he’s better mind. He won’t say anything right now.

  In the middle of the table is a jug of water on a mat (they have mats for everything, even the table mats), with ice and lemon slices in it. I think of my tea last night, which was a pot of noodles made in the shared kitchen downstairs and eaten sitting on my bed.

  ‘Can I get you wine, Kaz?’ asks Martin. ‘We’ve got red or white.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’m
fine with that,’ I say, pointing to the water on the table. I’m worried now that it was rude not to have brought a bottle with me – not that I could have afforded one. I’d thought tea was just going to be a couple of sandwiches and a slice of cake. I wasn’t expecting any of this fancy stuff.

  I sit down next to Finn while Martin goes to fetch our food. Right on cue, as he comes back in, my stomach rumbles.

  ‘Sounds like you’re ready for this.’ He smiles as he puts the plate down in front of me. I can’t begin to tell him how right he is.

  ‘Finn tells me you work at the café on the other side of the park. I imagine it must get pretty hectic on a day like this. I expect you’re too busy serving other people to have a chance to eat.’

  ‘Oh, I, er, don’t work there any more,’ I say.

  ‘Right. Where are you now then?’

  ‘I’ve got nowt at moment but I’m looking,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, I hope you find something soon,’ says Martin.

  I pick up my fork and try a mouthful of the macaroni cheese. It tastes fine to me. Although, to be honest, I am that hungry I would eat anything.

  ‘Why did you leave the café?’ Finn asks. ‘Was it because of the hygiene rating?’

  ‘Finn,’ says Martin.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, with a smile. ‘It was more me and boss not exactly seeing eye-to-eye about summat.’

  I can’t tell them it was because of him. He blames himself enough already. I don’t want to give him another thing to feel bad about. I carry on eating, trying to get enough into my stomach so that it doesn’t embarrass me and rumble again.

  ‘Are you planning to stay in the same line of work?’ asks Martin, ‘or do you fancy trying something different?’

  I know he’s trying to be nice, but he’s got no fucking idea if he thinks that people like me have a choice in the matter. Or that one-O-level Kaz might have some nice savings in the bank to live off while I retrain as an architect.

  ‘It’s all I’ve ever done,’ I reply. ‘Best to stick to what you know.’

  ‘Try to choose a café with a five for its hygiene rating though,’ says Finn. ‘Then I can come and visit you there.’

  I look up and catch Martin shaking his head.