Alice in Time Read online

  What was it that Gran said earlier? ‘If you can’t change something then you have to learn to accept it and make the most of it’ or something like that. And not feel sorry for yourself. Right. Moving on, then.

  I look at number four on the list.

  4. Make Sasha’s life hell.

  I put a line through it. I’m not going to do that any more. I don’t like the way it makes me feel. I’m not a bully and I don’t want to turn into one. And it’s not because I’m really fourteen and feel like I’m picking on a little kid, it’s because I don’t want to turn into one of those girls that makes herself feel big by making other people look small.

  I admit I’m feeling quite pleased with myself for this mature attitude when Gran calls up the stairs and says it’s time to go to the hospital.

  Chapter Seven

  When Gran drops me off at school the next day she says, ‘Your mum and baby brother will be coming home today. Won’t that be nice?’

  I put on my best ‘happy’ face. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately – pretending everything’s just fine when really it’s anything but.

  As soon as I get into the playground Sasha comes bounding up.

  ‘Well?’ she says.

  ‘Well what?’ I reply. If she starts on about the skipping rope again I won’t be held responsible for my actions.

  ‘The baby! Has your mum had the baby? What is it? What’s it called?’

  So I have to go off into Baby Enthusiasm again, only now I’m quite enjoying it. I tell her it’s a boy and that he’s called Rory and that even though he’s a bit scrunched and red he’s actually quite sweet.

  At the hospital last night, something occurred to me. Something major.

  In the car, as we were driving to see the new baby, I was still congratulating myself on the fact that I’d decided not to be a bully. All the way there Gran was going on about the baby and how nice it was going to be for me. I had to pretend to be all excited because I didn’t want her to think I was jealous or anything. It’s only Rory, for God’s sake! I was thinking. Anyone would have thought that Mum had just given birth to the second Messiah, the way Gran was going on.

  Dad was there when we arrived, but he soon made himself scarce.

  ‘Have to go and wet the baby’s head with the lads,’ he said as he backed out of the room. I had a sudden image of Trish ranting on the other end of the phone that Dad had disappeared. I wondered if he was about to do the same to us, which was silly really because I know he didn’t.

  I followed him out into the corridor and could just see him disappearing round the corner into the waiting area. I hurried after him, thinking that I was too late and that he’d have gone, but when I turned the corner I could see him standing outside talking on his phone.

  I pushed the heavy doors open and walked up behind him.

  ‘OK, I’ll see you in about half an hour. I’ll stop off on the way and pick up a bottle of wine.’

  ‘See you later, Dad,’ I said, trying not to sound like I was whinging. He spun round like I’d stabbed him with a red hot poker.

  ‘God, Alice – you nearly gave me a heart attack!’ He didn’t take the phone away from his ear. ‘I’m just arranging to meet the lads.’ He spoke into the phone again. ‘Right, I won’t be long. Bye.’ He hung up the phone. ‘What are you doing following me out here? Run along back inside to your mum.’

  ‘You will be home before I’m asleep, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure I will, Princess,’ he said. Somehow I didn’t believe him.

  But he hadn’t just disappeared all those years ago, I thought. That’s not what happened. Still, I felt uneasy as I went back inside. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  As I was walking through the waiting area I spotted a huge rack of leaflets. I remembered that I hadn’t been able to get to the library. Maybe there was something here that would be useful. It only took me a few minutes to find exactly what I needed. I ended up with two leaflets on alcohol abuse, one about the impact it had on your health and the other on getting help, including a flyer on support groups, that were held in the hospital. I didn’t take the one on binge drinking as I didn’t think it applied to my dad. I had one on gambling addiction, again with information on support groups and I also found one on post-natal depression. As I made my way back to the ward, I was feeling very pleased with myself. I stuck the leaflets into the back of the waistband of my skirt and pulled my jumper over them.

  Mum was holding Rory and he was crying. Nothing changed there then, I was thinking. ‘Bloody baby’ was my next automatic thought. Mum said to him, ‘Look, Rory. Here’s your big sister.’

  And it was then, when I leant over him, that I thought about the description he was going to write about me in seven years’ time – the one I found in his homework book – and I felt ashamed. Some big sister I was going to turn out to be. He looked so small and defenceless and I wanted to protect him.

  Then I realised that I wanted to protect him from me. That is, the me that I used to be. Or am going to be. Anyway, the me that he wrote about as being big and scary.

  And that’s when the major thing happened. I realised that there I was, thinking I was great because I wasn’t a bully, when in fact I was! I’d spent the last seven years ‘bullying’ this tiny baby. OK, so he’d grown into an incredibly annoying child, but whose fault was that? Maybe if I’d been nicer to him he wouldn’t have been so annoying.

  All this thinking has got me through the bell and lining up and now we’re in the cloakroom. I’m just taking off my coat when Clara and Chelsea grab me and drag me off to a corner.

  ‘We thought you weren’t speaking to Sasha,’ they whisper accusingly at me. I tell them what she did for me yesterday – about the ball and going to see Miss Strickland – and that she’s a good friend. They look suitably impressed by this self-sacrifice, if a little disappointed that the hate campaign has come to an end. I’m tempted to tell them that in a few years’ time they’ll be Sasha’s bosom buddies, hanging on her every word.

  As we file into the classroom and I plonk myself down next to Sasha, I’m feeling a tad depressed. To be honest, the novelty is wearing off and I’m getting a bit sick of hanging around with kids. I’m going to have to give some serious thought to the idea that this will not come to an end and that I’m really stuck here.

  It’s then that I have an idea, and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. What if I go back to the park and spin on the roundabout? I might fly off and find myself back where I should be. As soon as I’ve sorted Mum and Dad out I’m going to try it.

  I’m just getting quite excited by this idea when Miss Carter comes in, followed by a strange girl. I’m not really concentrating until she says, ‘I’d like you all to welcome a new girl to the class. Say a big hello to Imogen, everyone.’

  Oh, thank God! I nearly shout out ‘Imogen, over here!’ until I realise I’m supposed never to have seen her before. Still, I’m so excited I’m bobbing up and down in my seat.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ says Sasha. ‘It’s only a new girl. She looks really boring, if you ask me.’

  Before I can reply, Miss Carter says, ‘Alice, I’d like you to be Imogen’s “Buddy” for a couple of weeks, until she gets settled in. Would you like to move over here and sit next to her?’

  She’s smiling at me in a conspiratorial way and I realise that this is what she was referring to when I went to see her about Sasha bullying me. She said she’d do something about it, and this is her way of moving me away from Sasha.

  I’ve got such a big grin on my face it’s beginning to ache. It’s so good to see Imogen. As I get up to move, I catch sight of Sasha’s expression. She looks close to tears.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she’s muttering. ‘You’re my friend.’

  Not any more, I’m thinking as I scoot across the classroom and sit down next to Imogen. Everything’s going to be all right now, I think, smiling at her and trying to ignore the fact that she
’s only seven.

  She looks very neat in her school uniform and her hair is cut in a shoulder-length bob with a fringe.

  She’s looking at me through the fringe and I get the feeling that she’s assessing me. It’s very weird to think that this is the first time that Imogen has seen me. I want to make a good impression, but all I can think of to say is ‘hello’ and to give her what I hope is a friendly smile.

  ‘Hi,’ she says back. I wonder what I’m going to talk to her about. She doesn’t look like the kind of girl who would have a room full of Barbie dolls.

  Playtime is a bit awkward. I’m trying to talk to Imogen but she isn’t saying much. Maybe she’s shy. It is her first day at a new school after all, and that must be scary. Sasha keeps butting in. I don’t know why, but I sort of thought that she’d disappear and leave me and Imogen alone.

  I can tell they’ve taken an instant dislike to each other. I’m tempted to tell Sasha to just go away but I don’t, for two reasons. The first is that I don’t think it would work. She’s not going to give up that easily. The second is my vow not to be horrible to her, and this is really difficult to keep. I’m trying to remember why I came to this decision. OK, so she stuck up for me and took the blame with Miss Strickland. Apart from that, I don’t actually like her very much so the temptation to tell her to push off is overwhelming. In an attempt to keep the peace I suggest we all play a game of ‘Puppies’. Sasha is the owner, I’m the puppy and Imogen has to be the shopkeeper and the vet.

  The whole thing is a disaster. Imogen isn’t very good at pretending and, for that matter, neither am I. I feel a right idiot panting, wagging my tail and yelping. Sasha and Imogen are glaring at each other the whole time and I think we’re all relieved when the bell finally rings and we can go back inside.

  Lunchtime isn’t any better. Sasha is now being openly hostile towards Imogen and I know Imogen well enough to see that she’s just biding her time and it won’t be long before she feels comfortable enough in this new school to start being horrid back.

  Sasha suggests we play a game of ‘Hide and It’ and tells Imogen to count while we go off and hide. Her motive becomes clear as soon as she’s dragged me behind the caretaker’s shed.

  ‘Come on, lets run off and leave her,’ says Sasha, pulling on my cardigan.

  ‘I can’t, I’m her buddy, remember.’

  ‘So what,’ says Sasha, poking her head round the shed to see if Imogen is coming. ‘Quick, before she finds us.’

  ‘Look, Sasha,’ I say firmly, ‘I don’t want to, OK. Anyhow, I like her.’

  Sasha looks completely gobsmacked. ‘You like her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, more than me?’

  ‘Yes, more than you.’ I say this without really thinking, because it seems so obvious to me. But it’s a huge shock to Sasha and she actually starts to cry. Oh my God, I’ve made a little kid cry!

  I try to put myself in her position. She’s seven and her best friend has just told her that she doesn’t like her any more. She doesn’t know anything about how she’s going to be horrible to me all through secondary school so that it’s hardly surprising that I don’t like her. Also, I think I’m beginning to see why she’s going to be horrible to me and I can’t say I blame her. If my seven-year-old self just ran off with Imogen and left her on her own without a backward glance, it’s no wonder she ends up hating me. All the same, that’s hardly a good excuse for doing what she does. I mean, for God’s sake, get over it!

  She’s about to run off and, I suspect, hide in the cloakroom and cry for the rest of playtime. I grab her hand.

  ‘Look, Sasha, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was – I like her as well.’

  ‘I don’t know why, she’s horrible,’ Sasha says. I feel like screaming with frustration. And it doesn’t end there.

  When it’s Sasha’s turn to count, Imogen follows me as I hide behind a wall.

  ‘I don’t think Sasha likes me,’ says Imogen. ‘She’s very bossy. I don’t know why you put up with her.’

  I’m about to say ‘I don’t either’ when I stop myself. I can see how this is going to develop. Sasha and Imogen are going to fight over me until I choose one or the other. Obviously the first time I was seven I chose Imogen. It would be so easy to do that again. But something is stopping me. I realise it isn’t so much that each one is desperate to be my friend. It’s not me they’re fighting over. They just want to get one over on the other.

  I look around the playground at all the other children playing happily together and I’m suddenly sick of both of them. I don’t see why I have to pick one or the other. Why can’t we all be friends? Not that that’s going to happen. These two obviously loathe each other. What if I don’t choose either? I think back to my fourteen-year-old self. I’m pretty certain that I don’t want to be friends with Sasha because that would mean becoming one of the Handbag Brigade in secondary school, and I’m definitely not cut out for that. On the other hand do I really want to choose Imogen?

  The thought of not choosing Imogen actually leaves me breathless for a few moments. What if I didn’t? I know what will happen if we do become best friends. It will be me and her from now on. Exclusively. And while that used to make me feel important, now I’m not at all sure that’s what I want.

  I remember how I felt when Seth came to our school and I couldn’t talk to her about it or even tell her that he’d asked me out. Also I start to remember some of the things she said to me during our argument. About how she was sick of me always being fed up with my life and taking it out on my mum. I wonder if I ought to tell her that if we become friends she’ll get sick of me. Then there’s the fact that I hardly ever saw her outside of school and that my social life was nonexistent. Not to mention the fact that she’s about to go off to boarding school and abandon me! Is this really what I’d choose again? I’m not sure that it is.

  ‘Why aren’t you running?’ Sasha appears round the corner. ‘You’re supposed to run.’ She glares at Imogen, who’s standing beside me. ‘You can’t play anything right. I’m glad Miss Carter didn’t make me your buddy. You’re a hopeless loser.’

  Imogen just stares at Sasha with a cold-level stare, a bit like a panther watching its prey as it crashes through the undergrowth. I’m about to tell them both where to go, but something is stopping me. I realise that I want to resolve this with a bit of dignity.

  Gran picks me up at three o’clock.

  ‘Your mum’s home with the baby. I’m just going to make sure she’s settled in and then I’ll have to go home.’

  ‘Oh no, can’t you stay a bit longer?’ I don’t want Gran to go and leave me with Mum and Dad and the baby. Maybe they won’t argue in front of Gran. Mum is hardly going to throw Dad out when Gran is there.

  Gran puts her arm round me. ‘I have to get back to work. They don’t give grandmas maternity leave. I’ll come and see you next time I’ve got some holiday.’

  ‘But it will be too late by then,’ I want to shout at her. Instead I end up bursting into tears. And to make matters worse I can’t explain to Gran that I’ve just realised I might never see her again, so when she presses me to tell her what’s upsetting me, I end up telling her about Imogen and Sasha instead.

  ‘That all sounds a bit awkward,’ she says sympathetically. ‘Can’t you be friends with both of them?’ Honestly. Sometimes adults are so thick! I explain that this is not an option as they hate each other and always will.

  ‘Always is a terribly long time,’ says Gran. ‘You never know, they might end up being the best of friends.’ Yeah, right, and I might end up being the next prime minister.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gran continues, ‘don’t feel you have to be friends with the new girl just because the teacher has put you together. Only you know if she’ll make a good friend or not.’

  I think about this the rest of the way home. I can’t believe that I’m actually considering not being friends with Imogen. It’s a scary thought. I mean, she’
s my best friend. What would I do without her? Immediately quite a few things pop into my head. Have other friends, for starters. Go to the cinema with them. Have sleepovers. Talk about boys.

  I realise that I’ve made up my mind what to do.

  When I get indoors there’s a party atmosphere in the air. Gran’s made a cake to celebrate the new baby and a couple of Mum’s friends have come round for a cup of tea and to look at the baby. Mum looks tired but happy and I wonder when this post-natal depression is going to set in.

  I go up to my bedroom and dig out the leaflets I picked up at the hospital last night. I take out the one on post-natal depression. I’m going to give it to Mum later, when her friends have gone.

  The other ones are for Dad, but I don’t have the nerve to give them to him. I go back downstairs and leave them lying on the coffee table in the sitting room where he’ll see them and then I go into the kitchen to have a piece of Gran’s cake.

  After dinner, which Gran cooks, I help her wash up and then I go to the shed in the garden and dig out a long piece of rope that Mum used to use as a washing line before she bought the rotary one. I wind it up and force it into my school bag. I’m about to go into the sitting room where Mum and Gran are watching something on television when the phone rings. I automatically pick it up. It’s Dad. I look into the sitting room and see that Mum has Rory clamped firmly to one of her breasts.

  ‘Mum’s feeding Rory right now,’ I tell him. ‘Do you want to speak to Gran?’

  ‘God, no,’ says Dad. ‘Just tell them that I’ve had too much to drink and I don’t think I should drive home so I’m going to stay with a mate tonight. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ I can’t really think of anything to add. Usually, when Dad’s had too much to drink, his voice gets really loud and jolly. I can’t help thinking he sounds like his normal self. Maybe what he means is that he’s going to have too much to drink.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ he says and hangs up.