Shattered
Page 14
‘It’s her birthday!’
‘Really, Stella. Isn’t it about time you tell him the truth? That his precious daughter isn’t his; that you don’t even know whose she is. Perhaps I should tell him?’
‘No! Don’t you dare, I’ll—’
‘Don’t threaten me, Stella. You’ll regret it.’
Their voices continue but I stop listening. Shaking, I stuff my hands in my ears, but I can still hear Grandma’s words over and over inside my head: his precious daughter isn’t his.
How could that be? He’s Daddy.
My daddy!
I start to cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
‘Is everything okay?’ Madison asks.
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Where’d you disappear to yesterday? Bets are on that Stella will ground you, between that and what you said at lunch.’
She smiles, and it is a very happy smile. ‘I wrote it in the book: out until late. I thought I made it quite clear.’
The bus pulls up and we clamber on. Madison sits with Finley, he holds her hand, and some of the boys whistle. I settle into a seat on my own, glad to put some space between us before Madison shakes off her loved-up state enough to ask me again: is everything okay?
That dream, the things Astrid said: could it be true? Was he really not my father? All my snippets of memory of him – the way he was with me – say otherwise. But what if he never knew?
Then he died for a daughter who wasn’t even his.
Later I’m standing in the CAS meeting room, and when my name is called, collect an envelope. It doesn’t seem so important now. But unless Astrid works out what is up with Stella, and who I am, and everything stops, it is for five years of my life.
I rip it open.
Dear Miss Kain, blah blah blah. I scan down to the important part: my trials:
Week 1: Education
Week 2: National Parks
Week 3: Hospitality
Week 4: Transportation
Hurrah! I got my top two choices. But I’m puzzled at getting Hospitality. It didn’t really appeal to me so I’d had it far down my order of preference, and it seemed a popular choice. I turn the pages, and find the details for each placement.
The words next to Hospitality jump into stark focus:
Report to Waterfall House for Girls, Stella Connor.
What? How can this be? And I think back to how adamant Stella had been about me not signing up for CAS, especially not for Parks. But then when I went to tell her I’d signed, she was all chilled about it, and I’d thought she’d realised I had to make my own decisions. But I was wrong. She was in town that day; she knows somebody; she must have pulled some strings. What do you want to bet these trials mean nothing, that I’ll end up with her for five years as some sort of apprentice housemaid?
Eventually it penetrates that the others are leaving, heading off to the first of their trials. Week 1 for me is Education, and I find the details. Keswick Primary School: I’m supposed to go there now, and report to reception. But what difference will it make?
When I arrive I get rushed to an office. Two other potential apprentices are waiting along with the same smiling woman I spoke to last week about apprenticing in Education.
‘I’m really sorry I kept you waiting. I got lost,’ I lie. I knew the way, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate.
‘No problem dear, take a seat. I’m Mrs Medway, Head of School. I also train apprentice teachers and assistants. I’m going to run you through what you’ll be doing for the week.’
I try to pay attention, for her sake, but it is a losing battle. Some details get through: we’ll be shadowing classes two days, spend a day in reception and admin, two more days in classes but this time helping with lessons. ‘Any preference for year groups or subjects?’ The others tell her theirs, and eventually she turns to me, smiles. ‘You’re quiet today. Any favourite year groups? Activities?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I start to say, then pause. ‘Unless they do art? I love art. And running – sport.’
‘Perfect: Reception are doing messy art next lesson. I’ll put you in there. And there is a sports day on Friday afternoon this week: they can always use extra help. We’ll work something out for the other days.’
She has us follow her around the school for a tour, telling school history on the way. It was damaged and rebuilt after the riots. Keswick Primary used to be called St Herbert’s Church of England School, but the name changed after church schools were banned thirty years ago. We see children through windowed classroom doors, playing a noisy game of basketball in a gym, heads bent in a library. Then finally we reach an art studio, and I peer through the door. Reception, she said? They’re tiny. Four years old. All sat cross-legged on the floor listening to their teacher.
Mrs Medway knocks at the door, has a word with the teacher. Comes back and squeezes my arm. ‘Go on in. You’ll be fine; don’t look so worried.’ I walk in and a sea of small faces look up and smile.
Not much later they’re all wearing smocks over their school uniforms, and the teacher passes me one to go over my clothes. ‘It’s up to you: you’re down for shadowing, so you can sit in a corner and watch. Or jump in if you want to.’
I decide to sit and watch for a while. They are finger painting on great sheets of white paper, and the air is full of the smell of paint and excited voices. Despite the resolution to stay put, before long swirls of colour on white paper pull me close. I itch to paint.
A small hand tugs at mine. ‘Miss, look at my painting!’ a boy says, and I’m pulled to a table, and soon admiring blobs and blotches.
One girl sits quiet amongst the chatter, not joining in. ‘Hi,’ I say. She doesn’t answer.
The boy looks up. ‘That’s Becky. She’s sad.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sad sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘But I like painting when I’m sad.’ Never a truer sentence have I spoken: I kneel on the floor between them, and dip my eager fingers into black paint.
‘Why are you sad?’ Becky asks.
‘Mostly because I miss things. Like Sebastian.’
‘Who’s he?’ the boy asks.
‘Watch,’ I say. I can’t remember finger painting before; I’d rather a brush in my hand, but a reasonable estimate of a black cat soon appears on the paper.
Becky stares at it very hard. ‘You miss your cat?’ She nods to herself. ‘Okay. I’ll paint something, too.’ She gathers different paints and soon is concentrating on getting as much mess on herself and the paper as possible. I glance up and the art teacher gives me a thumbs up. Other kids bring me their pictures to look at, and then ask me to show them how to paint a cat. And after a while I’m thinking, this is fun. Could I be an art teacher?
Not if Stella has anything to do with it.
I stay and help clean up at lunch. The teacher hangs pictures on the walls, puts my cat up with them next to Becky’s: hers could be anything from an alien to a lamppost, but I’m reasonably sure it is supposed to be a man: her dad?
‘It’s her father,’ she confirms. ‘He went missing last month.’
I turn my shocked face to hers. ‘What happened?’
A pause. ‘It was good work getting Becky to take part. Thank you,’ she says, not answering my question. If it can’t be said out loud, we all know what that means.
Lorders.
When the final bell goes, I’m surprised the day has sped past. Each year group has art a half day each week, and the afternoon was spent charcoal drawing with Year Five. I gaze at the white-topped peaks as I walk back to the centre of Keswick. If I can’t get into Parks, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad choice. Then I shake it off. What a joke for me to even think of being a teacher: despite my faked records, I didn’t even finish high school. And what about Stella’s manipulations?
I should get the bus back to the house now, but there is a kernel of anger inside that says no.
Madison: she’ll understand. I head for her cafe. I’ll wait there until she’s finished; we can get the bus back together.
When I reach the cafe and pull at the door, it doesn’t budge: it’s locked? Puzzled, I realise the lights are off inside. A ‘closed’ sign hangs on the door, yet I’m sure Madison said she was working until five.
A sense of unease settles inside. I walk around to the cafe’s back door, and knock.
No one answers, but was there a noise inside? I knock again: nothing. I’m about to turn around and leave, but then try the door. The handle turns. It’s not locked.
I pull the door part open, and peer in. ‘Hello? It’s Riley. Is Madison here?’
Cora is sitting at the work surface, her back to me. Not turning or answering. Unsure what to do, after a moment I push the door open the rest of the way, walk in and let it shut behind me. The light is dim, and I blink.
‘Hello?’ I say again, and walk towards her. Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying? Fear grabs me inside. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
She looks up at me, shakes her head. ‘What could she have done?’ she whispers.
Madison? Panic swirls inside. No, not again. ‘What happened? Tell me!’ I demand.
‘She was helping make cakes for tomorrow, standing there with flour on her nose and telling me about that boy she likes. And they just marched in, grabbed her. Dragged her out past the regulars: all of them just sat there, staring at the lunches she’d brought them earlier. She’s gone.’ Her face drops to her hands.
‘Lorders?’ I whisper.
She nods.
No. NO. This can’t be happening, it can’t. Not here, too. And it feels like quicksand is clawing at my feet, pulling me down into another nightmare.
‘What could she have done?’ she says again.
I shake my head. Nothing to deserve this. I blink, but there are no tears, just an empty place inside as I conjure up the person who must be responsible: Astrid Connor. My grandmother. It must be her. Or could it even be Stella? A cold rock twists in my stomach. I’ll make her do something. I’ll make her fix this.
I stay long enough to make tea, to start tidying up the mess left behind. I get out of Cora that she’d thrown the customers out after the Lorders left. In the front of the cafe are half-eaten lunches still on plates. I scrape them into bins, put the dishes in the dishwasher, put food away in fridges.
Finally I hesitate by the door. ‘I should go now. Are you going to be all right?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll get up in the morning. Thanks for your help.’
Her words echo in my ears as I walk to the bus. She wouldn’t thank me if she knew who my grandmother was.
A bus is waiting when I get to the stop, and I climb on. Finley: he’s there. A sinking feeling twists inside as I realise I have to tell him. I walk towards his seat as the bus pulls away.
‘Finley?’ He looks up. His face is white, eyes dead. He knows. Someone from the cafe regulars or on the street must have told him.
I don’t say anything. I sit next to him, as if somebody being there could do anything to help.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
I march into reception. It’s past teatime, but there is a cluster of girls there, whispering, faces pale. News travels fast.
‘Where’s Stella?’ I ask.
One of them points at her office door, but before I can move towards it the door opens. Stella comes out, nods at everyone and starts to cross the room.
‘Wait,’ I say, and she turns.
‘Do you know what’s happened to Madison?’ I ask, and all voices cease.
Stella stops in her tracks. Looks at me and her eyes are saying be quiet, but I’m not receiving.
‘You know, don’t you: that Lorders came and hauled her away today. Strangely enough, the day after Astrid – your mother – came for lunch.’
‘Really, Stella. Isn’t it about time you tell him the truth? That his precious daughter isn’t his; that you don’t even know whose she is. Perhaps I should tell him?’
‘No! Don’t you dare, I’ll—’
‘Don’t threaten me, Stella. You’ll regret it.’
Their voices continue but I stop listening. Shaking, I stuff my hands in my ears, but I can still hear Grandma’s words over and over inside my head: his precious daughter isn’t his.
How could that be? He’s Daddy.
My daddy!
I start to cry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
‘Is everything okay?’ Madison asks.
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Where’d you disappear to yesterday? Bets are on that Stella will ground you, between that and what you said at lunch.’
She smiles, and it is a very happy smile. ‘I wrote it in the book: out until late. I thought I made it quite clear.’
The bus pulls up and we clamber on. Madison sits with Finley, he holds her hand, and some of the boys whistle. I settle into a seat on my own, glad to put some space between us before Madison shakes off her loved-up state enough to ask me again: is everything okay?
That dream, the things Astrid said: could it be true? Was he really not my father? All my snippets of memory of him – the way he was with me – say otherwise. But what if he never knew?
Then he died for a daughter who wasn’t even his.
Later I’m standing in the CAS meeting room, and when my name is called, collect an envelope. It doesn’t seem so important now. But unless Astrid works out what is up with Stella, and who I am, and everything stops, it is for five years of my life.
I rip it open.
Dear Miss Kain, blah blah blah. I scan down to the important part: my trials:
Week 1: Education
Week 2: National Parks
Week 3: Hospitality
Week 4: Transportation
Hurrah! I got my top two choices. But I’m puzzled at getting Hospitality. It didn’t really appeal to me so I’d had it far down my order of preference, and it seemed a popular choice. I turn the pages, and find the details for each placement.
The words next to Hospitality jump into stark focus:
Report to Waterfall House for Girls, Stella Connor.
What? How can this be? And I think back to how adamant Stella had been about me not signing up for CAS, especially not for Parks. But then when I went to tell her I’d signed, she was all chilled about it, and I’d thought she’d realised I had to make my own decisions. But I was wrong. She was in town that day; she knows somebody; she must have pulled some strings. What do you want to bet these trials mean nothing, that I’ll end up with her for five years as some sort of apprentice housemaid?
Eventually it penetrates that the others are leaving, heading off to the first of their trials. Week 1 for me is Education, and I find the details. Keswick Primary School: I’m supposed to go there now, and report to reception. But what difference will it make?
When I arrive I get rushed to an office. Two other potential apprentices are waiting along with the same smiling woman I spoke to last week about apprenticing in Education.
‘I’m really sorry I kept you waiting. I got lost,’ I lie. I knew the way, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate.
‘No problem dear, take a seat. I’m Mrs Medway, Head of School. I also train apprentice teachers and assistants. I’m going to run you through what you’ll be doing for the week.’
I try to pay attention, for her sake, but it is a losing battle. Some details get through: we’ll be shadowing classes two days, spend a day in reception and admin, two more days in classes but this time helping with lessons. ‘Any preference for year groups or subjects?’ The others tell her theirs, and eventually she turns to me, smiles. ‘You’re quiet today. Any favourite year groups? Activities?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I start to say, then pause. ‘Unless they do art? I love art. And running – sport.’
‘Perfect: Reception are doing messy art next lesson. I’ll put you in there. And there is a sports day on Friday afternoon this week: they can always use extra help. We’ll work something out for the other days.’
She has us follow her around the school for a tour, telling school history on the way. It was damaged and rebuilt after the riots. Keswick Primary used to be called St Herbert’s Church of England School, but the name changed after church schools were banned thirty years ago. We see children through windowed classroom doors, playing a noisy game of basketball in a gym, heads bent in a library. Then finally we reach an art studio, and I peer through the door. Reception, she said? They’re tiny. Four years old. All sat cross-legged on the floor listening to their teacher.
Mrs Medway knocks at the door, has a word with the teacher. Comes back and squeezes my arm. ‘Go on in. You’ll be fine; don’t look so worried.’ I walk in and a sea of small faces look up and smile.
Not much later they’re all wearing smocks over their school uniforms, and the teacher passes me one to go over my clothes. ‘It’s up to you: you’re down for shadowing, so you can sit in a corner and watch. Or jump in if you want to.’
I decide to sit and watch for a while. They are finger painting on great sheets of white paper, and the air is full of the smell of paint and excited voices. Despite the resolution to stay put, before long swirls of colour on white paper pull me close. I itch to paint.
A small hand tugs at mine. ‘Miss, look at my painting!’ a boy says, and I’m pulled to a table, and soon admiring blobs and blotches.
One girl sits quiet amongst the chatter, not joining in. ‘Hi,’ I say. She doesn’t answer.
The boy looks up. ‘That’s Becky. She’s sad.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sad sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘But I like painting when I’m sad.’ Never a truer sentence have I spoken: I kneel on the floor between them, and dip my eager fingers into black paint.
‘Why are you sad?’ Becky asks.
‘Mostly because I miss things. Like Sebastian.’
‘Who’s he?’ the boy asks.
‘Watch,’ I say. I can’t remember finger painting before; I’d rather a brush in my hand, but a reasonable estimate of a black cat soon appears on the paper.
Becky stares at it very hard. ‘You miss your cat?’ She nods to herself. ‘Okay. I’ll paint something, too.’ She gathers different paints and soon is concentrating on getting as much mess on herself and the paper as possible. I glance up and the art teacher gives me a thumbs up. Other kids bring me their pictures to look at, and then ask me to show them how to paint a cat. And after a while I’m thinking, this is fun. Could I be an art teacher?
Not if Stella has anything to do with it.
I stay and help clean up at lunch. The teacher hangs pictures on the walls, puts my cat up with them next to Becky’s: hers could be anything from an alien to a lamppost, but I’m reasonably sure it is supposed to be a man: her dad?
‘It’s her father,’ she confirms. ‘He went missing last month.’
I turn my shocked face to hers. ‘What happened?’
A pause. ‘It was good work getting Becky to take part. Thank you,’ she says, not answering my question. If it can’t be said out loud, we all know what that means.
Lorders.
When the final bell goes, I’m surprised the day has sped past. Each year group has art a half day each week, and the afternoon was spent charcoal drawing with Year Five. I gaze at the white-topped peaks as I walk back to the centre of Keswick. If I can’t get into Parks, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad choice. Then I shake it off. What a joke for me to even think of being a teacher: despite my faked records, I didn’t even finish high school. And what about Stella’s manipulations?
I should get the bus back to the house now, but there is a kernel of anger inside that says no.
Madison: she’ll understand. I head for her cafe. I’ll wait there until she’s finished; we can get the bus back together.
When I reach the cafe and pull at the door, it doesn’t budge: it’s locked? Puzzled, I realise the lights are off inside. A ‘closed’ sign hangs on the door, yet I’m sure Madison said she was working until five.
A sense of unease settles inside. I walk around to the cafe’s back door, and knock.
No one answers, but was there a noise inside? I knock again: nothing. I’m about to turn around and leave, but then try the door. The handle turns. It’s not locked.
I pull the door part open, and peer in. ‘Hello? It’s Riley. Is Madison here?’
Cora is sitting at the work surface, her back to me. Not turning or answering. Unsure what to do, after a moment I push the door open the rest of the way, walk in and let it shut behind me. The light is dim, and I blink.
‘Hello?’ I say again, and walk towards her. Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying? Fear grabs me inside. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
She looks up at me, shakes her head. ‘What could she have done?’ she whispers.
Madison? Panic swirls inside. No, not again. ‘What happened? Tell me!’ I demand.
‘She was helping make cakes for tomorrow, standing there with flour on her nose and telling me about that boy she likes. And they just marched in, grabbed her. Dragged her out past the regulars: all of them just sat there, staring at the lunches she’d brought them earlier. She’s gone.’ Her face drops to her hands.
‘Lorders?’ I whisper.
She nods.
No. NO. This can’t be happening, it can’t. Not here, too. And it feels like quicksand is clawing at my feet, pulling me down into another nightmare.
‘What could she have done?’ she says again.
I shake my head. Nothing to deserve this. I blink, but there are no tears, just an empty place inside as I conjure up the person who must be responsible: Astrid Connor. My grandmother. It must be her. Or could it even be Stella? A cold rock twists in my stomach. I’ll make her do something. I’ll make her fix this.
I stay long enough to make tea, to start tidying up the mess left behind. I get out of Cora that she’d thrown the customers out after the Lorders left. In the front of the cafe are half-eaten lunches still on plates. I scrape them into bins, put the dishes in the dishwasher, put food away in fridges.
Finally I hesitate by the door. ‘I should go now. Are you going to be all right?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll get up in the morning. Thanks for your help.’
Her words echo in my ears as I walk to the bus. She wouldn’t thank me if she knew who my grandmother was.
A bus is waiting when I get to the stop, and I climb on. Finley: he’s there. A sinking feeling twists inside as I realise I have to tell him. I walk towards his seat as the bus pulls away.
‘Finley?’ He looks up. His face is white, eyes dead. He knows. Someone from the cafe regulars or on the street must have told him.
I don’t say anything. I sit next to him, as if somebody being there could do anything to help.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
I march into reception. It’s past teatime, but there is a cluster of girls there, whispering, faces pale. News travels fast.
‘Where’s Stella?’ I ask.
One of them points at her office door, but before I can move towards it the door opens. Stella comes out, nods at everyone and starts to cross the room.
‘Wait,’ I say, and she turns.
‘Do you know what’s happened to Madison?’ I ask, and all voices cease.
Stella stops in her tracks. Looks at me and her eyes are saying be quiet, but I’m not receiving.
‘You know, don’t you: that Lorders came and hauled her away today. Strangely enough, the day after Astrid – your mother – came for lunch.’
