Saturday 6th June
‘Can I have a car hoover for Christmas?’
Mum looked at me with the annoyed face, thin-lipped and beady-eyed. She’d been looking at me with the annoyed face all morning. And all of yesterday. All week, really. She was cross that I’d lost my Tinkerbell pendant, a gift from Auntie Someone in America who doesn’t have the money to be wasting on spoilt little girls who don’t look after things properly.
She’d be even more cross if she knew I’d given it away.
‘Course you can, sweetheart,’ said Dad, fishing crisp and fag packets out of the side pockets of the car. ‘Or you could have it for your birthday, that comes first?’
Problem was, I wanted a leaf blower for my birthday. A great big red one with cruise control throttle like the one ‘Uncle’ Frank used for clearing his posh drive. And I couldn’t have a leaf blower AND a car hoover for my birthday because Jesus said we shouldn’t be greedy. I’d learned that in Holy Communion class too.
Mum stuck her head into the back seat, pulled out a banana skin. ‘This is disgusting. It’s only been two weeks and look at the state of the car.’
I jumped in beside her. ‘It hasn’t been two weeks, actually, it’s been twelve days.’ I counted them out on my fingers. ‘Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.’
‘All right, smart-arse, less cheek to your mum,’ said Dad, pulling a map of Ireland out of the glove compartment. ‘Here, Ellen, do you think your mam will use this?’
Mum gave Dad the annoyed face. ‘What would Mammy want with a map of Ireland, Mike? She hasn’t left the county since I-don’t-know-when. She hasn’t left Mulderrin for over a year.’
We hadn’t left Mulderrin in twelve days. I didn’t know why Dad needed a map of Ireland either.
And I didn’t know why Mum insisted on calling Gran, ‘Mammy’. It made her sound like a baby.
‘Mum,’ I said, stressing the word. ‘Can Gran come back with us? I think she might like London.’
Dad laughed, shouted over the top of the car hoover, ‘She might, she loves EastEnders!’
I thought it was a good point but Mum put her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Catrina, where would she sleep?’
But I was ready for this. I’d thought it all through. Gran could have my bed, I said, which meant they’d have to get me a new one and if they weren’t sure which are to get me, I’d seen one shaped like Buzz Lightyear in the Argos catalogue. Or, I suggested, Gran could have their bed because Mum often stayed at Auntie Carmel’s anyway and Dad was well used to kipping on the couch. Then, and this was my favourite idea, I said maybe Noel could move out and Gran could have his room (only after we’d opened the windows for a week though!). My last (and to be honest, least favourite) suggestion was that I give up my room and share with Jacqui again, like I ALWAYS had to do when one of our barmaids lived in.
Not that anyone had lived in since Alina – our Latvian barmaid – had moved out.
That last suggestion was definitely Mum and Dad’s least favourite too because they looked at each other funny and Mum popped the car boot open, saying something grumpy under her breath.
Dad turned off the car hoover, walked over to me and gave one of my curls a ping. ‘It’s a lovely idea, sweetheart, but the World Cup’s starting in a few days and it’d be much too noisy for Gran. And she’d never make it up the stairs. We’ve got a lot more stairs at the pub than Gran has here, haven’t we?’
We had. Fourteen up the fire escape to get to the front door. Another fourteen to get to the kitchen and the living room. And then ANOTHER fourteen to climb when it was time to go to bed.
Dad was right. Gran would never make it.
I was disappointed but at least Dad thought about things and made good points. He didn’t just stand there with a grumpy face or whisper grumpy things under his breath like Mum did.
But suddenly Mum didn’t have a grumpy face anymore.
‘Look, Cat,’ she said, pointing in the boot. I ran over to see what was making her less grumpy. ‘It’s amazing what you find when you actually look for things properly, isn’t it?’
I peered closer. Saw it glittering in between a wellie and one of those sealed brown boxes that Dad warned me I was never to touch.
My Tinkerbell.
But I’d given my Tinkerbell to Maryanne Doyle?
Maybe she’d heard that Mum was cross with me for losing it so she’d done a kind thing and snuck it back? Ever since she’d disappeared people had said mean things about her but if she’d done that, she definitely wasn’t all bad.
Stupid place to leave it, though. In the boot of Dad’s car.