‘She’s always in here,’ says Jackie. ‘After tea break. Amber? You in there? The door’s locked!’
Amber holds her breath, afraid that even the sound of her exhalation will call to them. Oh God, what do I do? I’ve got to get out of here.
‘C’mon,’ says Jackie. ‘Let’s try the back. Maybe she’s taking a break.’
‘Sure,’ says Moses.
That’s it, there’s no escape now. She hears their footsteps recede down the steps as they walk off towards the entrance to the service alley. Two minutes before they get here, maybe. She can’t get away, can’t undo the moment of discovery.
She straightens up, steps over the girl’s marionette legs and hurries to the emergency exit hidden behind the black curtain beyond. Best they find her out on the steps, out in the fresh air, throwing up.
9 a.m.
Her parents’ bedroom door is open, and the cheesy tang of unwashed skin and bedcovers hangs over the landing like marsh gas. Her mother’s not up yet: she can see her formless mass pooled beneath grey blankets. She hovers in the doorway, tries her voice:
‘Mum?’
Her mother doesn’t answer. But she sees slight movement in the ham-hock arm that pins the blankets down, and knows she’s awake.
‘Mum?’
Lorraine Walker takes one of her grunting breaths and turns on her back; stranded, like an upturned turtle. She turns a blank, defeated face and looks at her daughter. ‘What?’
The voice is damp, sweaty, indistinct; she’s not got her teeth in yet. It’s a hot day already, though it’s not yet ten o’clock, and Lorraine’s twenty-five stones will be suffocating her beneath the covers. Jade can see that she’s got her dress-up nightie on: knee-length flower print in brushed nylon, big enough to cover an armchair. Her skin is white against it, her elbows poking out between mounds of blubber.
‘There’s nothing for breakfast.’
‘Chrissake.’ Mrs Walker heaves herself upright. Jade looks at her mother’s molten face. She isn’t involved enough to feel disgust. ‘Ask your dad.’
Yeah, right. That’ll work.
Jade turns away and descends the staircase. Zig zags along the downstairs corridor. Ever since she can remember, her home life has consisted of picking her way from one place to another. Her father fancies himself a scrap-metal merchant, but really he’s a hoarder of crap other people have thrown away; and a lot of it has made it into the house because he’s afraid someone else will covet his collection of hubcaps and hinges, rust and rubber, as much as he does.
In the kitchen she tries, half-heartedly, to find something to kill her hunger. But there’s nothing on the shelves. Six empty cereal boxes, the plastic wrapper that once held a Wonderloaf, a pint and a half of milk that has solidified and separated.
It could be evening before someone notices and does something. He mother, despite her bulk, seems capable of lasting all day without anything passing her lips. Both her parents keep themselves going on a diet of Nescafé and Old Holborn, with the odd rabbit for variety when the snares work. I suppose she can live off her reserves for a while, Jade thinks – the furthest down the road to judgement she ever goes.
She can hear the old man swearing and hammering out in the yard. I’m not going anywhere near him when he’s in that mood. I’ll get a broken lip, and I’ll still be hungry.
She spots her father’s jacket hanging over the back of a chair. The summer really must have heated up if he’s not wearing it. She never sees him without it; can often tell when he’s coming without hearing him, from the combined aromas of tobacco, sweat and pig shit woven into the fibres. She glances into the yard to make sure he’s really as far away as he sounds, then tiptoes over and puts a hand in a pocket. His tobacco tin, some bits of formless metal, a penknife. And – yes! – her fingers close over the reassuring, joyful warmth of a twenty-pence piece. Twenty p. He probably won’t even remember he had it. That’s enough for a Kit Kat, at least. Or a Mars Bar even. It’s not much, but if she eats it slowly, it should get her through the day.
Chapter Four
‘Because I said so,’ says Jim.
That one’s not going to work for much longer, thinks Kirsty. Another fourteen months and she’s officially a teenager.
‘“Because I said so”? Seriously?’ sneers Sophie. ‘Can’t you do better than that?’
The toaster pops up. Kirsty puts another couple of slices in, spreads olive-oil margarine on the done ones. Ooh, she thinks, I wish we had one of those four-slice jobs. I must have spent three weeks waiting for toast over the course of this marriage.
Jim puts the Tribune down and slides his spectacles to the top of his head. He’s recently accepted that his hairline is never going to magically move forwards, and has adopted one of those ultra-short cuts. Kirsty likes it. It’s a bit metrosexual, and has brought back his cheekbones; makes him look leaner and more intense. I like the fact that I still fancy my husband after thirteen years, she thinks, and smiles to herself as she brings the toast to the table. But he’s going to have to grow it in soon, if he’s ever going to get to second-interview stage. No one wears their hair like that in the world of finance.
‘Because,’ says Jim, ‘it looks awful, that’s why. Little girls with pierced ears look awful, and I’m not having you go to upper school wearing earrings.’
‘But why?’ she whines again. Adds: ‘I’m not a little girl.’
‘Because,’ says Jim.
‘But Mum got her ears pierced when she was a baby!’ protests Sophie.
Jim shoots Kirsty a look. Too much information, it says. What did you want to tell her that for?
‘Your mother is a wonderful woman,’ he says. ‘But trust me. She’s who she is despite her upbringing, not because of it. You’d like to end up in care too, would you?’
The toast pops up again. Kirsty turns back. Yeah, it was the earrings, she thinks. That’s what did it.
Luke tears his eyes from his Nintendo. He only ever looks up from his screen when he sees an opportunity for mischief. ‘Are we snobs?’ he asks.
‘No,’ Jim says firmly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well…’ He scratches his head. Oh God, has he got nits again? wonders Kirsty. I’m going to have to shave his head to match his dad’s. ‘Lots of things.’
‘Like?’
Luke prods at his toast. ‘We eat bread with bits in,’ he says.
‘So does the entire population of Eastern Europe,’ replies Jim.
‘And we never go to McDonald’s,’ says Luke reproachfully.
‘I don’t want you to end up with diabetes and hurty hips. And anyway, we’re economising. Use your knife, Luke. Don’t just chew your way round the edges like that.’
Sophie examines her reflection in the back of a spoon, flips her hair at it. Adolescence is inches away.
‘Eat your toast, Sophie,’ Kirsty says. ‘What do you want? Marmite or marmalade?’
‘Nutella.’
Kirsty and Jim’s eyes meet over their children’s heads.
‘I know,’ groans Sophie. ‘We’re economising. How long are we going to be economising for?’
There’s a tiny silence, then Jim answers: ‘Until I get a job. Come on, you guys. It’s time we got out of here.’
The ritual response: ‘Uuuh, Dad!’
Jim stands up. ‘Do you want a lift or not? Seriously. I’m not in the mood for any nonsense today. I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘Nonsense’? You would have said ‘bollocks’ when we first met, reflects Kirsty. Parenthood has turned us into pussycats.