One Moment Page 8

  ‘I’m sure Kaz has got more important considerations than that,’ he says. ‘Do you have a family at all, Kaz?’

  ‘Just a younger brother,’ I reply.

  ‘His name is Our Terry and the mean kids at school used to call him names,’ says Finn.

  ‘I can see Finn has been interrogating you,’ Martin says.

  ‘We were just getting to know each other, weren’t we?’ says Kaz.

  Finn nods and takes his first mouthful of macaroni cheese.

  ‘Oh, I forgot the garlic bread,’ says Martin, jumping up and disappearing into the kitchen.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself shovelling the rest of the macaroni cheese down in the two minutes he is gone.

  ‘Sorry,’ Finn whispers to me.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The sauce is a bit lumpy and the pasta is too squishy. Mum’s is way better than this.’

  I give him a little smile as Martin comes back in with the slightly burnt garlic bread.

  *

  As I am putting my jacket on in the hall later, Finn asks if I can come for tea again.

  I look at Martin before answering. He gives a little nod.

  ‘I’d love to, pet,’ I say.

  ‘You can come every Saturday, if you like,’ says Finn. ‘Or maybe sometimes on Wednesdays when Love Your Garden with Alan Titchmarsh is on TV.’

  ‘Let’s take things one step at a time,’ I say. ‘I’ll sort summat out with your dad.’

  ‘You can bring Our Terry, if you like,’ Finn adds.

  ‘Thank you, only he’s not right well at moment. But it were very nice of you to ask.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t give you a lift home?’ asks Martin.

  ‘No, don’t you worry. I’m used to bus, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  Martin nods. ‘Well, it’s been lovely to meet you properly.’

  There is an awkward silence for a moment. I don’t really remember him from before, to be honest. I think I was too busy concentrating on Finn to take much notice of him.

  ‘You too,’ I reply.

  I turn to Finn and give him a big hug. I think for a moment he is going to start crying again but he doesn’t. We hold each other for a long time. I know that he is thinking about exactly the same thing as me but neither of us says a word. We don’t need to. Because we went through it together. And neither of us will ever forget.

  ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you soon. Just remember what I said.’

  He nods, his red curls bobbing as he does so. And I realise that it’s not just my stomach that is full, but my heart too.

  *

  I spot the sign on my way to see Terry the next day. It’s on an ‘A’ board outside the garden centre on the way out of town. I’ve seen them advertise jobs there before; usually just for gardeners and sales assistants, although there was a sign up for a ‘portly gentleman with white hair and a fondness for reindeer’, last November. It made me laugh because it said those applying shouldn’t be allergic to fake beards or children. It’s a different sign I see today, though. One that says, ‘Part-time catering assistant required for café. Apply within.’

  I stop dead next to it. I haven’t got my CV on me, but it doesn’t matter, I have to go in. It may only be a part-time job, but some money is better than no money. I head across the car park, past the rows of trolleys and a stand full of bedding plants. Once inside, I go up to the nearest till.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to the woman serving. ‘I’m interested in job advertised for café.’

  ‘Right,’ she replies. ‘You need to talk to Marje. If you turn right and go through indoor plant section, café’s on your right. That’s where you’ll find her.’

  I thank her and follow her directions. When I get to the café it’s busy. There’s only one person serving, an older woman, not far off my age. I hang back for a second, not wanting to jump the queue, until she finally looks up and says, ‘Yes, love, what can I get you?’

  ‘I’m here about your job,’ I say. ‘I’ve been told to ask for Marje.’

  ‘That were quick,’ she says. ‘We only put it up this morning. If you give me a few minutes until rush dies down, I’ll be right with you. Have a seat at table in corner.’

  I do as she says and look around me. Most of the customers are middle-aged or older couples, as you’d expect in a garden centre. The menu is mainly toasties, butties and jacket potatoes, with some cakes and pastries on the counter. All fairly run-of-the-mill stuff.

  After about five minutes, Marje comes and sits down opposite me, still in her apron.

  ‘Excuse state of this,’ she says, wiping sugar from the table with her hand. ‘As you can see, we’re a bit short-staffed. Lass that worked here weekends has jacked it in. Too much like hard work. Don’t know they’re born, kids today. Anyway, here’s me gabbing and I haven’t even asked your name.’

  ‘Karen Allen,’ I say. ‘Kaz to my friends. I’ve been working in cafés since I were sixteen, so I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Well, job’s part-time, ten while four Thursdays to Sundays. I’m here whole bloody time and I sing while I work even though I’ve got a voice like a strangled cat, but if you don’t mind that, we’ll be all right. Have you got any references or owt?’

  ‘No.’ I hesitate, not sure whether to be honest or not but I have a good feeling about Marje.

  ‘I had a bit of a falling-out with my boss at last place I worked. She blamed me for a one-star review some rude customer wrote online after I told her off for making a little lad cry.’

  ‘Seems a bit harsh,’ Marje says.

  ‘That’s what I thought. I’d worked there for years without a single complaint. I’m a hard worker, not afraid to get my hands dirty. Haven’t had a day off sick in years.’

  ‘When could you start?’ Marje asks.

  ‘Soon as you want. I’ve got nowt on.’

  ‘How does Thursday sound to you?’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘I’ve got job?’

  ‘Well, I reckon you’ve got more chance of sticking it out than any of youngsters we’ll get, and I don’t suppose you’ll be on your phone every two minutes either.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ I say, smiling. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll see you Thursday then, Kaz,’ she says, standing up.

  As I get up to leave, I notice the hygiene rating sticker behind the counter. It’s a five. In a café at a garden centre. The smile on my face gets a bit broader. I suspect Finn might be paying me a visit sometime soon.

  *

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ I say to Terry, as soon as I arrive. He looks at me blankly from his chair.

  ‘At café in garden centre. They had an advert up on board outside, so I went in on my way here, was interviewed and they said I could start on Thursday. Four days a week, it is and woman in charge seems right nice. A lot better than bloody Bridget, although that’s not hard.’

  Terry nods. ‘Great,’ he says, his voice flat, his face expressionless. I try not to take it personally. I know this is what the meds do to him, but I still find it hard.

  ‘So, how’s you?’ I ask.

  He shrugs.

  ‘Why don’t you try sitting in main room and watching telly,’ I say.

  ‘Nowt good on,’ he replies.

  ‘Maybe I could ask them if they could get hold of a video player, so I can bring your tapes in.’

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘They won’t do that.’

  ‘We need to get you better, Terry. That’s only way you’re going to get out of here. You know how it works.’

  He shrugs again and starts picking at a button on his cardigan. It feels like I’ve lost my brother. That’s what I hate about it. I know he couldn’t go on like he was, but this doesn’t seem like much of a life either. Somehow, I’ve got to tr
y to rebuild his life, as well as my own.

  *

  When my name is called at the job centre the next morning, I sit down opposite Denise and make no attempt to hide the grin on my face.

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ I wish she wouldn’t sound so surprised.

  ‘Yep. Had an interview and was taken on yesterday. It’s at café at garden centre. Four days a week but it’s better than nowt. I start on Thursday.’

  ‘That’s great. Well done. I wasn’t aware you’d applied for that.’

  ‘I hadn’t. Just saw sign up outside yesterday as I were walking past and went in and asked. Old-fashioned way of doing it. Still bloody works sometimes, though. She didn’t ask for my CV or an email address. Just when I could start.’

  Denise smiles, obviously trying to hide her irritation at my dig, and a tiny bit of me admires her for it. Only a tiny bit, mind. The rest of me is enjoying sticking my two fingers up at her.

  BEFORE 5

  5

  Finn

  I have to get up earlier than usual on Monday morning because of the meeting with Mrs Ratcliffe, which means we all have breakfast together (usually I don’t see Dad in the mornings because he’s gone to catch his train to Leeds). Mum and Dad sit opposite each other across the round kitchen table, and I sit between them, trying to pretend I don’t realise they are not speaking.

  ‘Can you pass the butter, please?’ says Mum. She doesn’t say who she wants to pass it to her, but it is in front of Dad. He doesn’t move, so I pick it up and pass it to Mum and she smiles at me and says ‘Thank you, Finn,’ and looks at Dad, who doesn’t say anything, just makes loud noises with his spoon scraping the cereal bowl and stands up as soon as he is finished.

  ‘Have a good day at school, Finn,’ he says. This is such a stupid thing to say as I have never had a good day at school in my life and he knows that today is not likely to be the day that happens. I don’t say that, though. I just nod and he ruffles my hair and looks at Mum and says nothing and she looks down at her toast and says nothing and I want to scream at them to stop it with all the saying nothing, but if I do that, it will only create a noisier scene, so I settle for the quiet one.

  ‘Right,’ says Mum a few minutes later, once we’ve heard the front gate click shut behind him and she has finished her last mouthful of toast, ‘have you had enough?’

  I nod.

  ‘Not hungry?’ she asks, looking at the soggy mush of Millet Bran left in my bowl.

  ‘Not really,’ I reply.

  ‘Remember, you’re not in trouble at school. Mrs Ratcliffe has agreed to see me because I’m cross at the school. None of this is about you.’

  It is a weird thing to say because, as far as I can see, all of it is about me.

  *

  As we arrive in the school playground, the other kids in my class are going in for the breakfast club. They all look at me because Mum is with me and that makes it weird.

  ‘Why’s your mum here?’ asks Daniel Williams.

  I freeze. Whatever I say, it’s going to sound wrong, so I decide to say nothing.

  I follow Mum into school, past my classroom and down the corridor towards Mrs Ratcliffe’s office. I imagine the other kids all talking about me; some saying I’m in trouble, others saying I’m going to grass them up. Or simply that I’m the weird kid being weird again.

  The school secretary’s door is open, and Mrs Ravani smiles at us both.

  ‘Good morning, she’s expecting you. Please go through.’

  Mum knocks on the door and Mrs Ratcliffe’s voice calls out, ‘Come in’.

  I follow Mum inside. Mrs Ratcliffe is tall because she used to be a policewoman and she wears big dangly earrings and bangles. I hope she didn’t wear them when she was a policewoman because the thieves and robbers would have heard her coming and got away. She stands up and jangles towards us.

  ‘Hello Finn. Hello Mrs Rook-Carter.’ I look at Mum, but she doesn’t say anything about the fact that her name is Ms Hannah Rook and you would think Mrs Ratcliffe would know that by now.

  She shakes Mum’s hand and smiles at me and tells us to sit down.

  ‘Now, Finn,’ she says. ‘Your mum contacted me about the breakfast club, and I asked you to come and see me with her today so I can put your mind at rest that it’s nothing to worry about.

  ‘All we’re doing is giving our year sixes a chance to get together over breakfast and do a little bit of extra revision with their friends.’

  I want to tell her that I’ve only got one friend and she’s started a petition against it and the others are only going because they think there might be jam or Nutella, but I don’t say that in case it sounds rude.

  ‘The thing is,’ says Mum, ‘Finn, as you know, is a sensitive boy and he’s feeling under enough pressure about the SATs already, without the school adding to it like this.’

  Mrs Ratcliffe smiles but still looks at me, rather than Mum.

  ‘What you need to understand, Finn, is that we want to give all our year sixes the best possible chance in their SATs. It’s about doing what’s best for you.’

  I can see Mum getting super-angry. I hope she isn’t going to say anything bad, but I think she probably is.

  ‘And what you need to understand,’ says Mum, in a higher-pitched voice than usual, ‘is that I am quite capable of deciding what’s best for my son and this isn’t really about him at all. It’s about school league tables. And I won’t have my son used in this way.’

  I don’t really listen to the words after that, just the voices. When people are trying not to argue in front of children, they talk in very strange voices and have expressions on their faces that don’t match what they are saying. Mrs Ratcliffe does lots of smiling and Mum does lots of nodding, but they don’t seem to be agreeing with each other about anything. I know they are talking about me, but I try to drown out what they are saying by doing bee noises in my head. It works until I notice they are both staring at me and the bee noises obviously aren’t in my head any more.

  ‘Is there something you’d like to say, Finn?’ Mrs Ratcliffe asks, looking concerned.

  ‘I don’t want to do the SATs and I don’t want to do the breakfast clubs and I don’t want to come to school any more.’

  For a second, I wonder if I just said it in my head, instead of out loud, but the look on Mrs Ratcliffe’s face suggests not. Mum looks like she might start crying but stands up instead.

  ‘Right. You heard him. He won’t be attending the breakfast club or sitting the SATs next week. I’ll send you confirmation of that in writing later. Thank you for your time.’

  Mum strides out of Mrs Ratcliffe’s office, with me trailing behind her. I have never stormed out of anywhere before and part of me thinks it needs some sort of sound effect to go with it, like they’d have in the movies, but as I’ve already been doing weird noises out loud, I decide to go silently.

  When we get to the end of the corridor, Mum turns round and looks at me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m better now I’ve got a week off school.’

  ‘You’ll probably still have to come to school.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s the law, Finn.’

  ‘But what will I do?’

  ‘I expect you’ll go in with the year fives instead. You liked Mr Mukhtar, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m a year six and they’ll all ask me why I’m in with them and I won’t know what to say.’

  I can hear my voice trembling as it comes out. Mum bends down and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘It’ll be fine. Let’s talk about this at home later, love.’

  She gives me one of her reassuring smiles, but I do not feel reassured.

  ‘Dad will be really cross.’

  ‘I’ll explain
everything to him.’

  ‘But he’ll still be mad and there’ll be a big argument.’

  ‘Try not to worry, eh? We’ll get it all sorted out later.’

  Mum’s eyes are watery. At that point my classroom door opens, and Mrs Kerrigan comes out.

  ‘Hello, Finn,’ she says. ‘Are you ready to join us now?’

  I’m not. What I really want is to run away and never come back but then I’d be in even more trouble than I already am. So, I nod, turn round, give Mum a little smile and follow Mrs Kerrigan into the classroom.

  *

  ‘Wow, a boycott, that’s awesome,’ says Lottie at break when I tell her I’m not doing the SATs. She is looking at me as if I have just conquered Mount Everest. Up until this point, I haven’t even thought of it as something to be proud of, but now I suppose I ought to act that way, even if I don’t feel it.

  ‘Yeah, Mrs Ratcliffe is pretty mad about it.’

  ‘Are you going to stand outside with a placard? You might get on the news.’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Mum thinks they’ll make me go in with year five for the week.’

  ‘Oh well, maybe you’ll get a blue plaque on your house when you die.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, if your protest starts a national boycott and it ends SATs forever.’

  ‘I don’t think that will actually happen, will it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I would join you, but Mum says she’s got some early starts at work next week, and it might be easier if I just go in for the breakfasts and not bother much with the revision. Like sort of fighting it from within.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘I’m still doing the petition, though,’ she says, fishing in her bag and pulling out a piece of A4 paper.

  ‘I’ll sign it then,’ I say.

  ‘Great,’ she says with a smile. ‘You can be the first.’

  *

  Mum doesn’t suggest baking or going for a ‘nice long walk’ when we get home from school later. It’s like she knows that this is so serious, even muffins won’t distract me from it.

  ‘Are we going to get into big trouble?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ says Mum. ‘Mrs Ratcliffe says she’s disappointed and we can still change our minds, but I’ve told her that we won’t.’