Less than an hour later, we are all back at Lilac Wine. Never has a place felt more warm and cosy and welcoming – the weather outside is now elemental, and I fear for Cherie’s roof tiles and chimney pots as the wind whirls and twists outside. I’ve switched the lamps on and drawn all the curtains, both for privacy and to make us all feel more safe.
The Boy in the Shed is sitting in the flowery-patterned armchair, looking madly out of place with his spider-web tattoo and nose ring, but also looking pathetically grateful. He’s clasping a hot mug of cocoa in his hands, and his teeth are still chattering slightly. Jesus. It was bad enough being out there for half an hour – he’s been living in that shed for almost a week. I’ve given him a fleecy blanket, and he’s tucked up inside it, big black biker boots popping out at the bottom.
I recognise him now, of course – from that night in The Dump. The night when Martha and I had Rebel Rebelled, and I’d taken her home in tears. He’d given me a bottle of Peroni, I remind myself, and didn’t try and stop me when I made Martha leave.
He looks a lot more vulnerable now. His previously spiked black hair is floppy and lank, and he looks less like a tough kid who could cause trouble and more like a 10-year-old who needs a cuddle.
Cal is back at Saffron, rooting out some spare clothes for the boy, and Martha is sitting on the floor by his side, like a mini-Goth guard dog. She’s glaring at me like I’m the enemy, which is a look I’m not unfamiliar with, so it doesn’t bother me at all. I can almost see the thoughts tumbling through her worried brain: How much trouble am I in? What will she do next? How can we get out of this? What’s the best way to play it?
“Right,” I say, sinking into the comfort of the sofa and realising how tired I am. Not just by today – but by the days running up to it; the days when I was worried that Martha was descending back into a pit of angst and grief and self-destruction, and even more worried that I wouldn’t be able to drag her back out again. I’m so tired, and I need sleep – but first, I need to at least start sorting this mess out.
“It’s time to tell me what’s been going on …”
I have my own mug of cocoa, but have taken the liberty of splashing some brandy in it. One of the few perks of being the nominated grown-up.
Martha starts to speak immediately, and I hold up one hand to silence her.
“No, Martha, not you. I can already figure out your part in all of this, and we’ll talk about that later – but now I want to hear from … what’s your name, anyway?”
“Uh … Peter,” he mutters, looking terrified. I don’t blame him – last time he saw me I was on the warpath and threatened to pull his nose ring out, and this time I probably don’t look much more friendly. I make an effort to smile, to get him to relax – he’s just a kid, after all, just a poor lost kid whose life is clearly not going well. I can spare some kindness, no matter how tired I am.
“Your surname’s not Parker, is it?” I ask, immediately. What can I say? It’s just the way my brain is wired.
He looks momentarily confused, and then his fingers go to the skin of his neck, and the spider web tattoo that criss-crosses it. Boy, he’s going to regret that one when he’s 60.
“Oh! I get it! Peter Parker! No, it’s not … look, I’m really sorry,” he says, sounding genuine. “For coming here. For dragging Martha into this. I just … I had nowhere else to go. I was desperate.”
I hear the sound of the front door opening as Cal returns, the brief howl of the storm outside before he closes it again, and nod at him as he walks into the room bearing a small pile of clothes. Spider Man is tall, like Cal, but super-skinny, in the way of these young men today – the gear will swamp him, but it’s the best we can do at short notice.
Cal assesses the mood, and simply sits next to me so we can present a united front. That’s good – I’m sure Martha’s Machiavellian mind has already been hoping she can divide and conquer.
“Go on,” I say, after a sip of my cocoa. “Tell me about it. Why were you desperate? And be honest. I am completely unshockable, I guarantee it.”
Peter still looks shaky, and pauses for a moment, looking from Martha to me to Cal.
“It’s all right, son,” says Cal, firmly. “You’re safe now. We might look scary, but we won’t bite. We’ve all been young, and we’ve all made mistakes – and maybe we can help you.”
The boy gazes at Cal with something approaching adoration, nods, and finally begins to speak. He has a thick Bristol accent, and was clearly born and raised there.
“Yeah. Well. I suppose it started with my step-dad. My real dad … well, he went away when I was a kid. Don’t know where. It was all right – my mum was all right. But then when he moved in, the step-dad … well, it wasn’t all right anymore, so I left.”
I ponder asking him why it wasn’t all right, but decide that that would be too much. He looks as though he might clam up on that particular subject, so I let it lie. There’ll be time for the whole story to come out eventually, and it’s not exactly an uncommon one, is it? Might be that the step-dad was a wife-beating arsehole who deserved a slow and painful death. Might be that Peter was just a stroppy teen who couldn’t accept his mum had a new man in his life. Either way, the end result was the same.
“So, where did you go?” I ask, already suspecting I know the answer to this one.
“I bummed around for a bit, you know? Sofa-surfing. Spent a bit of time crashing in the park when the weather was good. Eventually, I met some people. They had a place … well, they’d kind of taken over a place, an old shop that had closed down. It was all shuttered up, and nobody was using it anyway, and we weren’t really doing any harm …”
He sounds defensive, and I know why: I’ve lived in those ‘places’ as well, and they invariably end up less as a blissful socialist co-operative and more as a drug-infested pit of squalor. It often starts well, starts hopeful, but there’s usually someone in there who rakes up trouble – someone with more of a habit, someone who’s got issues, someone who is just a bit of a twat and likes bullying people. For anyone vulnerable – young, weak, in less than robust mental health – it’s not an ideal environment.
“I can imagine,” I respond, not wanting him to stop now. “So. Why did you leave?”
“Well. It was okay to start with. Martha knows a lot of that gang, and honestly, they’re good guys. Not, like, in the normal sense – but decent people, no matter how they look. So it was all right. But then this new guy moved in, and he wasn’t so nice. Things started to change. He … he’d come back with stuff. Stuff that wasn’t his. Phones and iPods and sometimes wallets. He always had cash, and he was generous with it, so nobody really asked too many questions. Except … well, it just didn’t feel right, you know? Not to me, anyway.
“It was last week when I decided I couldn’t do it any more. He came back to the shop with a big bag full of toys. Still in the Toys R Us bag. I mean, they obviously weren’t his – it’s not like he’d been there and bought them. He’d nicked them. And they were probably some kid’s Christmas presents, and some mum had probably worked really hard to buy them … my mum always did, she saved up through the year … and … well. I just couldn’t stay. And I had nowhere to go, and nobody to ask for help, and I had Martha’s number … so I hitched my way here. Took ages as well.”
I can imagine that it did. He doesn’t exactly look like the kind of person you’d stop for at the side of the road on a cold winter’s night.
He’s tearing up slightly as he talks, and his nose is running. Probably partly because of the emotion, and partly because he’s been living rough for so long – that lifestyle isn’t easy on the health and wellbeing front, and spending the last few nights on a windswept beach in an abandoned boat shed can’t have helped. I bite down my frustration – if only they’d come to me, asked for help instead of sneaking around shrouded in mystery, he could have been here, and safe, and warm.
But I remind myself that they are just kids. That Martha is only 16. That at that age, things have their own sense of logic – one that defies anybody over the age of 30. Sneaking around always seems like the most sensible solution.
“Okay, I get all that – and don’t worry, all right? You’ll be fine with us for the time being. But when you say you don’t have anywhere to go, is that really true, long term? You’re, what, 19, 20? Your mum sounds like a good person. She must be worried sick about you. Are you sure you can’t go home?”
He shakes his head, so vigorously that he spills cocoa on his fleecy blanket, and replies: “No! No, I can’t. I try and stay in touch with her, every now and then, just so she knows I’m okay. But I can’t go back, no.”
“Is there anyone else? Any family at all?”
He pauses at this one, and I know that there is. That it might not be easy, but that there is at least a possible way out for him.
“Well, I have a brother. But he’s ten years older than me, and he lives in London, and he’s just had his first baby, and his girlfriend doesn’t like me much … I can’t turn up there. He wouldn’t want me.”
“Have you asked him?” I say, as gently as I can. “Have you given him the chance to say yes or no, or have you decided for him?”
His silence tells me that it’s very much the latter. That Peter has done what lots of kids in his situation do – rejected himself in advance, to spare himself the trauma of someone else doing it.
I’m self-aware enough to realise that at least some of my sympathy is based on my own experiences, and tell myself not to get too carried away – he needs help, and I will help him. But he’s not me, and nothing short of a time machine is going to change my childhood.
“Can he stay with us? Please?” asks Martha, pleadingly. I suppose, ultimately, that is the main question that needs to be answered right now. We don’t have a spare bedroom, but I’m guessing he’d be happy enough on the sofa…
“He could stay with me at Saffron,” replies Cal, following my train of thought. “I need to check with Cherie first, though.”
It’s a sensible idea, and I hope she says yes. I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise – and having him in Saffron with Cal is better all round. He seems like a decent enough kid that’s fallen on hard times, but until I know him better, I’d also prefer it if he wasn’t sharing a house with Martha. Harsh, but true – she has to be my priority. She’s at that weird age where she’s responsible enough to want to help a friend, but not mature enough to see the potential pitfalls. I guess that’s my job – and much as my instincts tell me Peter is okay, I can’t risk her sliding back into her old ways. She’s still vulnerable, still grieving, still only just working her way through life. It’s a delicate balance, and I need to help her maintain it.
Cal has left the room to speak to Cherie, and I use the time to dispense chocolate HobNobs. It’s definitely a chocolate HobNob kind of night. By the time he returns, we’re all munching away, and covered in crumbs.
“She says it’s fine,” he announces, “as long as he doesn’t steal the silver candelabra or pee on the Persian carpets.”
I laugh as he says this – of course there are no silver candelabra or Persian carpets in Saffron – but it’s such a Cherie thing to say.
“I promise, I won’t!” says Peter, taking it seriously, which makes me laugh even more.
“Okay. Well, short-term, we’re sorted. Now we all need to have something proper to eat, and then Peter, you can head over with Cal. Then me and Martha can have a nice talk …”
She grimaces as I say this, and had obviously hoped she was off the hook. As if.
I stick a couple of pizzas in the oven, manage not to burn them, and we all eat from plates on our laps. Peter puts it away like he’s starving – no table manners at all, just like Barbara remembers me – and says ‘thank you’ approximately twenty thousand times during the course of the evening. Eventually, after hugging Martha so hard I fear her head might explode, he takes off to Saffron. Cal even lets him wear his cowboy hat, which makes him look like something from the Walking Dead as they battle their way through the wind.
As soon as we’ve waved them off, Martha makes a smart exit – scrambling up the stairs doing a theatrical series of over-emphasised yawns, just to let me know how absolutely exhausted she is. Way too tired for a conversation, of course.
I grin, and clear away the plates, and spend a few minutes pottering around downstairs before going up. I am lulling her into a false sense of security, just for fun. I have the urge to let out a demonic evil-villainess cackle as I climb the stairs, but show super-human restraint.
I knock once on her door, but go straight in. I catch her unawares before she can even pretend to be asleep. She’s in her PJ trousers, but sleeping in my David Bowie T-shirt, I see. Honestly, the girl’s a magpie. Her phone is on her lap, and she’s propped up against the headboard. I can smell the rich scent of Kate’s Burberry perfume, and I inhale as I sit down next to her, on the edge of the bed. She looks nervous, and twitchy, and is obviously anticipating a huge bollocking. Maybe I was even anticipating dishing one out – but the perfume has killed that idea.
“You know,” I say, taking the phone from her hands and placing it on the bedside cabinet so she can’t get distracted, “that you should have come to me, don’t you?”
She nods, and chews her lip, and considers what she’s going to say.
“Yeah. I suppose I do. But it was a weird situation, and you brought me here to get away from that gang, and … and well, you can be a bit scary sometimes, can’t you?”
“This is true. I can. Mainly because I’m scared – I’m scared for you, Martha. I know we don’t do deep and meaningful very well, but maybe we should at least try. I love you, babe – so much. Not just because you’re Kate’s daughter – but because you’re you. I was there when you were born. I was there when you started walking, and talking, and even when you started swearing, which wasn’t much later. And I didn’t just move us here to get you away from ‘that gang’ – I moved us here so we could both have a fresh start. We both needed it, didn’t we?”
She nods again, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like agreement.
“And with Cal turning up like he did, it’s turned out to be even more of a fresh start than we expected,” I say, reaching out to stroke her hair while her guard is down. “How do you think it’s all been going, honestly? Are you happy here?”
She scoots her pillow from behind her back, and holds it to her, cuddling it. She looks about 12, and it breaks my heart.
“I am, happy … or as happy as I can be right now. Cal is great. Lizzie’s great. This place is great. But … I just miss her so much, you know? Mum. Some days it’s worse than others. Some days I don’t think about her for ages, and then I feel guilty, like I’m forgetting her, so I make myself remember things that I know will upset me, like I deserve to be upset for forgetting her … it doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“It does, sweetheart. It makes perfect sense. I do it all the time. Neither of us will ever forget her – but she wouldn’t want us to live the rest of our lives in pain, would she? She’d want us to at least try and be happy, even if we don’t quite manage it.”
Her eyes are closed, and I know she’s fighting away tears. So am I. We’re a useless pair, really – we should probably just both give in and have a good sob. It’d probably make us feel better.
“You’re right. I know you are. And she told me that, before … before she died. But it’s not as easy as it sounds, is it? Sometimes I can’t even go round to Lizzie’s because I feel so jealous of her having her mum there with her. That’s so mean and horrible of me, but I can’t help it. So I just stay away until it passes – it always does, eventually.”
“That’s because you’re basically a good human being who doesn’t have it in you to be mean for too long. And Lizzie maybe feels the same way when she sees you with Cal, you know – sad about her dad?”
Martha looks at me with dark, shining eyes, and I can see that she’s never considered this possibility before. It seems to make her feel better, and she gives me half a smile. Half is better than none.
“Maybe. It’s weird here, isn’t it? In a good way. It’s like we’ve all got various parts missing, but between us, we have everything – Lizzie has a mum and no dad; except an almost-dad with Matt, and I have a dad and no mum, except an almost-mum with you. And Cherie has no kids of her own, but she’s adopted us all …”
She’s right, of course, now she points it out. This place is more than the sum of its parts. I came here with no friends, and no-one to turn to – and now I feel love and support at every turn.
“And now Peter’s here as well,” continues Martha before I can respond. “I’m really sorry, you know. That I didn’t tell you. Partly I was worried about it, but if I’m honest, it was a bit exciting as well …”
“Yeah, I know,” I say – because I do. Me and Kate were terrors for intrigue and drama. “Sneaking around, stealing food, being all Miss Mystery Teen 2017. I get it, I do. But … well, I don’t know how much your mum ever told you about my childhood. Enough, I’m sure. I understand what he’s going through, and I’m proud of you for trying to help him. He needs help. We all need help sometimes. For me, that came from your mum – and she taught me not to always expect the worst from people. Sometimes, you just need to reach out and see what happens. It isn’t always bad.”
Martha thinks it over, and eventually replies: “I know. And it must be awful for you, not having her here anymore. I’ve never thought about that. I hope … well, you’re not on your own now, are you? I know I’m not much use, but there’s Laura and Cherie and everyone else, and Cal’s here for now anyway, so … you’re not on your own.”
“No,” I say, kissing her on the forehead and standing up. The scent of Burberry is all around us, and I feel Kate closer than ever – through the perfume, through Martha’s words, through my own memory of her kindness and the gifts she brought into my life.
“I know. I’m not on my own, and I will always be grateful for that. Now get some sleep, super-girl.”