Alice in Time Read online

  I go into the sitting room and deliver the message. It gets a mixed reaction. Rory starts crying, but obviously that has nothing to do with the fact that his father is not coming home tonight. Mum moves him on to her other breast and he shuts up. Gran’s lips disappear into a thin line – just like Mum’s will when I’m fourteen and have done something she disapproves of and I know she’s trying not to say what she really thinks. Mum looks embarrassed and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the fact that one of her boobs is hanging out. As she tucks it away she smiles weakly at Gran.

  ‘Well!’ she says with a forced cheerfulness. ‘That’s a blessing in disguise. Alice can share my bed and you can have hers tonight. I’m sure you’d rather not sleep on the sofa again.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Gran enthusiastically. I know they’re doing this for my benefit and I wonder what they’d be saying if I wasn’t in the room. I wonder if Gran would stick by her resolution not to interfere or whether she’d voice her thoughts as to what a loser Dad is. Probably not. It wouldn’t really help the situation.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go tomorrow,’ Gran says to Mum. ‘But I really have to get back to work. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ she says.

  But nobody looks convinced.

  Chapter Eight

  At school the next day, Sasha pounces on me the minute I get through the gate.

  ‘Why don’t you tell Miss Carter that you don’t like the new girl and ask her to make someone else her buddy?’ she says to me.

  I smile noncommittally. Imogen arrives and comes straight over. The two of them talk to me as if the other wasn’t there. It’s very tiring.

  We spend the whole morning working on an art project which is great because nobody notices how bad I am at art. I can paint away happily with the rest of them and my work looks quite good beside theirs. At break, Miss Carter asks for two volunteers to stay in and clean up.

  Obviously no one is keen to give up their playtime to wash out a load of paint pots and brushes and only Henry Trotter puts his hand up. He’s a puny lad who, I happen to know, is going to turn into an über-geek and he doesn’t like playtime because he hates football and gets teased by the other boys.

  I casually raise my hand. I could do with a break from the ‘terrible two’. But when Sasha sees me, she quickly puts her hand up too. Then of course Imogen does as well. Miss Carter looks surprised by the number of volunteers.

  ‘Heavens!’ she says. ‘You are a keen bunch.’

  She looks round the room. ‘Please pick me and Henry’, I’m praying. Sasha has her hand up so far she looks as though she’s trying to touch the ceiling. Imogen has a determined look and is staring hard at Miss Carter. I don’t want to get stuck with either of them.

  But Miss Carter doesn’t pick me at all. She picks Sasha and Imogen. Brilliant! I could laugh with glee at how that turned out. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. But I try to look disappointed before I head out of the door into the cloakroom, where I grab the rope from my bag.

  Out in the playground, I round up some of the girls. I start with Lucy and Miranda and persuade them to take one end of the rope each. As I start skipping, more and more girls want to join in and by the end of the break there are about fifteen children playing skipping, including a few of the boys. It seems that I’ve started a new craze. I can see it being popular for quite a few weeks. The beauty of it is that, while we’re all playing together, Sasha and Imogen won’t be able to fight over me. They’ll have to join in and I can be nice to both of them, while slowly easing my way into a different group of friends. They can either come with me or not, and if they don’t, that will be their decision – so it won’t look like I’m rejecting either of them. Perfect.

  At hometime, I’m in a really good mood. A lot of kids come up to me to check that I’m going to bring the skipping rope tomorrow. As I’m getting my things from the cloakroom, it occurs to me that that everyone is happy and excited and that, at the age of seven, that’s a cool way to be. I think of everyone at fourteen, when it’s not cool to get excited about anything and being happy doesn’t seem to be cool either. Unless you’re Luke O’Connor, that is. My fourteen-year-old self was hardly ever happy, though thinking about it now I don’t know why.

  My good mood lasts all the way home with Gran, even though I know she has to leave us after tea. When we get back, Mum is upstairs with the doctor. I think she’s having her stitches checked. It’s not really something I want to think about too much. I’m in the kitchen with Gran when I hear the doctor come downstairs.

  ‘I’ll go and see the doctor out,’ I tell Gran and dash out into the hall.

  I catch her just as she’s opening the front door. She smiles vaguely at me and I know that if I don’t act fast she’ll be gone. I can’t think of any way to introduce the subject in a subtle way so I just blurt out, ‘I think my mum has got post-natal depression.’

  She looks down at me as she passes through the door. ‘And who have we here?’ she says. ‘Dr Watkins?’ as if she’s talking to a seven-year-old. Well, OK, she is, so how am I going to get her to take me seriously?

  ‘I read a leaflet on it and she’s showing all the symptoms,’ I tell her in my best grown-up voice – sort of woman to woman.

  ‘Well, doctor – next time I have a patient and I don’t know what’s wrong with them, I’ll give you a ring.’ And then she actually pats me on the head! Luckily for her she’s shut the door and gone by the time I come to my senses.

  The condescending, patronising old trout!

  Mum’s coming down the stairs. ‘Rory’s asleep,’ she says, ‘so let’s you, me and Gran have a nice cup of tea together.’

  The next hour is great as we sit round the kitchen table and I try not to think about that fact that Gran will be leaving soon and that if I manage to ‘get back to reality’ I will never see her again. We’re eventually interrupted by the doorbell. ‘It’s all go round here today,’ says Mum. ‘That’ll be the midwife. I’ll see her upstairs.’

  I follow them and hang around while the midwife chats to Mum about Rory and his ‘feeding patterns’ and I help her to weigh and measure him. The midwife is really nice and doesn’t treat me like some half-witted kid, so when it’s time for her to go I tell Mum that I’ll show the midwife out and I follow her down the stairs. I’m desperately trying to think how to bring up the subject of post-natal depression when the midwife starts talking to me about Rory.

  ‘Do you like having a little brother?’ she asks me.

  ‘Yes, it’s great, but he does cry a lot.’ This gives me an idea, so when the midwife has finished telling me that babies tend to do that I pipe up, ‘But he doesn’t cry as much as Mum.’

  This revelation causes her to pause at the front door.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ she says, looking back up the stairs to where Mum is redressing Rory after his examination. I must tread carefully.

  ‘I know she loves the baby very much,’ I tell her, ‘but she seems very unhappy at the same time.’

  The midwife sits herself down on the stairs so that she’s on the same level as me. ‘OK, well, that can happen sometimes. It’s called the “baby blues” because your mum’s hormones have had a bit of a shock and she will feel up and down for a bit.’

  That may be so, but I desperately need this woman to take me seriously. I had been trying not to mention the phrase ‘post-natal depression’ because I didn’t want her to use that amused face that adults put on when faced by a precocious child.

  ‘What if it’s not just that, though?’ I ask her. ‘What if she is . . . what if she has . . .’ there’s nothing else for it – ‘post-natal depression?’ I finish on a whisper and wait for the amusement. But it doesn’t come. Instead the midwife looks deadly serious.

  ‘That can sometimes happen,’ she explains. ‘Actually more often than people think. So I tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll be coming once a week for a while to check up on Mum and ba
by and I’ll keep an eye on the situation.’ She takes a small card out of her pocket. It’s got her name and job title on it and a telephone number. ‘If you’re really worried about your mum at any point you can ring me on this number, OK?’

  I could kiss her. She didn’t laugh at me. I wonder briefly why she didn’t pick it up the first time round, because I’m fairly certain that Mum didn’t get any help last time I was seven. Then it occurs to me that Mum is the sort of person who always puts on a brave face, and she probably made an effort to appear cheerful and capable every time the midwife came round.

  Still, I’m feeling more positive after she’s gone and I go and help Gran make the dinner. I feed Sooty and hope that his enforced imprisonment is saving him from being run over. I’ve been a bit sneaky about making sure he doesn’t go out. When Mum got back from the hospital, I took one of Rory’s tiny little socks and taped it round his foot. Then I told Mum he’d hurt it while she was away and that the vet had told Dad to keep him in for a few days. Luckily she hasn’t discussed this with Dad yet, because he hasn’t been here enough.

  I go outside to empty the litter tray and refill it. My theory is that if none of the grown-ups have to think about it they won’t even notice it’s there. Sooty is mostly happy to sleep on my bed, although he does get under it if Rory’s crying gets too loud. When he gets fed up with not being allowed out, I sneak bits of ham and cheese into my room. If this goes on much longer he’s going to end up really fat.

  All in all I’m feeling fairly pleased with my progress. I think I will soon be able to cross off save Sooty from the list. So now all I’ve got to do is save Mum and Dad’s marriage and then get back to being fourteen.

  I wonder what it will be like at fourteen with Mum and Dad still together. Will we still be living in this house? If so, I hope they get round to decorating. And I bet I can persuade Dad to buy me my own computer.

  Things will be better, I just know it.

  My good mood is soon ruined after dinner when it’s time for Gran to go home.

  When she says goodbye and gives me a hug I cling on tightly and don’t want to let go.

  ‘Hey! I’ll be back soon,’ Gran says. Then Rory starts crying and Gran prises my arms away and goes to give Mum a kiss. Mum hustles Gran out of the house and into her car and turns away before Gran’s driven off. I think she’s being a bit rude until I see that she’s crying as well. The three of us stand in the hall bawling (me), wailing (Rory) and weeping (Mum). I realise that if Dad comes home now and sees us like this he’ll probably go out again. This thought makes me cry even harder. Then I remember what Gran said about feeling sorry for yourself and how it’s a waste of time. Immediately my tears stop and I feel a surge of something. I think it’s determination.

  If Dad’s not here to look after us then I’m going to have to do it.

  I find Rory’s dummy in the changing bag by the front door and pop it into his mouth, then I lead Mum into the kitchen and make her sit down while I make her a cup of tea. All the time I’m doing this I am actually still feeling sorry for myself. I mean, I’m not a saint. As I pour the milk into the tea I’m thinking about how unfair everything is. Then it hits me. Not all adults are adult! Dad is not an adult. He’s like a kid who wants to go out and play with his mates and doesn’t want to face up to his responsibilities. It makes me so mad that I’m beginning to think that if Mum doesn’t throw him out then I will. No, stop it! I’m sure I’m here for a reason, and it has to be to save the marriage. I’m sure I wasn’t sent back just to save Sooty.

  I sit at the table with Mum while she drinks her tea. She’s stopped crying now and so has Rory. I need to know if my support is going to be enough. I need to know that she isn’t resenting Dad for not being here. I decide to be direct.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘You wouldn’t leave Dad, would you?’

  Mum sighs. ‘Alice, we’ve had this conversation before. I told you. Your dad’s not perfect, I’m well aware of that, but I love him, we’re a family and I’m not about to throw that away.’

  I’m missing something here. What’s about to happen to change Mum’s mind? It would have to be something pretty dramatic for her to change from loving woman to vengeful harpy overnight.

  Oh my God! That’s it! Overnight! It’s Dad! That’s why he didn’t come home last night. He’s having an affair! I knew there was something bothering me about that phone call he made at the hospital. If he was ringing his friends, why would he tell them he’d pick up some wine on the way if he was going to the pub? Also, when he rang up to say he wasn’t coming home because he’d drunk too much – firstly he wasn’t drunk, and secondly there wasn’t any background noise, which means he wasn’t in the pub like he was supposed to be.

  I go all cold and then all hot. I think I’m going to be sick. I make a dash for the sink. I mustn’t throw up. I pour myself a glass of water, but when I try to drink it my hands are shaking so much that the glass rattles against my teeth.

  Dad’s having an affair and Mum finds out and that’s why she throws him out! I feel like I’m in too deep here.

  But I must have been sent back to stop this, so how am I going to do it? I have to stop Mum from finding out. Either that or I have to persuade her that it’s not the end of the world. The trouble is – it feels like the end of the world.

  ‘There’s a girl at school,’ I say tentatively, because I don’t want to alarm her, ‘and her dad was having an affair so her mum threw him out and now she’s really unhappy and cries all the time.’

  Mum looks a bit startled by this revelation. ‘Really? Who is it?’

  ‘Oh, nobody you know.’ This isn’t working. I’ll have to be more direct. ‘Mum? If Dad was having an affair, would you throw him out?’

  ‘Alice, your dad is not “having an affair”, as you so quaintly put it. And even if he was, I wouldn’t throw him out. I’ve just had a baby, and ending a marriage is not something you do lightly.’

  ‘But what if he was, though?’ I know I’m beginning to annoy her, but I have to know.

  Mum raises her eyebrows as if to say, ‘Oh no, not again’, and sighs. ‘If he had been unfaithful I’d be very upset, but I’d sit tight and wait for it to blow over. Listen, there’s something I haven’t told you. When you were born, Dad disappeared for a bit. I didn’t know where he was and I was worried sick. Then he came back. He was just scared. He soon got over it. I don’t think he’ll disappear again, but he might make himself scarce for a bit. Just until he’s got used to the idea. So don’t worry about it. It will be all right once everything settles down. Now look at the time – you should be in bed.’

  I don’t point out that it’s the weekend and there’s no school tomorrow. Instead I kiss Mum and Rory and go up to my room.

  I’m still feeling worried. It’s all very well Mum saying those things, and I expect she believes them. She obviously has no idea how upset she is going to be, and how she won’t be able to forgive Dad.

  I really need to make sure she doesn’t find out. I can’t think of a single way to do this, because I don’t know how she’s going to find out.

  OK, let’s be logical. She’s not suspicious about him not coming home last night, and if he does it again she won’t catch on because she’ll assume that he’s ‘making himself scarce’. Maybe she finds some incriminating evidence, like a receipt in his trouser pocket for a huge bunch of flowers that she never got. Isn’t that what usually happens in films and books? Right, so all I have to do is go through his pockets myself and remove anything that could give him away. What if she sees them together? If I make sure I’m with her when she goes out I can keep my eyes open and distract her if I see them. What if someone else sees them and rings up and tells Mum? I’ll have to make sure that I screen all the calls myself. This seems like a plan to me. And if all else fails and she does find out, I’ll beg her not to throw him out. I’ll paint a very bleak picture of what our life will be like if we have to leave this
house and she has to be a single mother.

  Having decided that one of these is bound to work, I feel a lot calmer. I fall asleep under the weight of Sooty, who’s purring so loudly on my chest it feels like I’m purring myself.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s dark when I wake up. I’m lying on top of the bed, still fully dressed and Sooty has gone.

  I can hear voices. Loud, angry voices. My heart sinks. They’re arguing. I want nothing more than to block out the noise, turn over and go back to sleep, but I know that I can’t. Maybe they’re just arguing about money or where Dad’s been. I suppose I’d better find out.

  I creep on to the landing and peer through the banisters. They’re in the sitting room and I can hear Dad.

  ‘It’s that bloody interfering mother of yours, isn’t it? I’ve a good mind to ring her up and give her a piece of my mind.’

  I can see him standing by the coffee table. He’s holding the leaflets I got from the hospital and waving them at Mum, who I can’t see.

  ‘I’m sure she thought she was being helpful,’ I hear Mum say.

  ‘Helpful! She’s just bloody stirring it! How many times do I have to tell you? I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM! So I like to go for a drink with the lads, and I might like to put the odd bet on a horse, but that does not make me an alcoholic with a gambling problem. I’m just a normal bloke doing normal blokey things, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Yes, I know love, I know that. Just put them in the bin and forget about them.’ She’s using the same voice that she uses on Rory when he’s seven and having a tantrum. I hope it has the same calming effect on Dad as it usually has on Rory.

  My hopes are in vain. Dad is obviously spoiling for a fight. He rips the leaflets up and throws them in her direction. They scatter all over the coffee table and on to the carpet around it. He’s really angry, and it’s all my fault.

  I should go down and tell him that I put them there – not Gran – and that I’m sorry and I realise he hasn’t got a problem. Now that I know it’s not the drinking or the gambling that makes Mum throw him out, I can see that maybe he’s not an alcoholic or a serious gambler. Although I’m not sure about the gambling, considering the wedding reception held next door to the bookies.