Friends Forever! Page 7

  That’s when I tell him, in my very best, noncomplaining voice, that Fleur and Claude are planning to go to Destiny Bay.

  “Destiny Bay?” Dad says, replenishing the bottled lagers in the main bar’s refrigerator. “Isn’t that where they hold that Crash Bang Wallop Wobble Your Bottom Party in the summer?”

  “The Big Beach Booty Quake,” I say. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Saw something ’bout that today in The Sun,” Dad mutters. “That Psychic Billy bloke is coming, isn’t he?”

  “Psycho Killa,” I correct him. “He’s a rapper.”

  “That’s him!” Dad says. “And that bunch of twerps who always sit on tall stools wearing jackets with no shirts?”

  “God Created Man,” I sigh, thinking of the lead singer Sebastian Porlock’s oiled chest. “They’re a boy band.”

  Dad works away in silence for a while, but I can see his brain clanking. “What about you, then? Don’t you fancy gallivanting on MTV with your booty quacking then?” he says dryly.

  “Pah! Me in a thong bikini?” I tut. “I’m far too short and squat for that.”

  Dad gazes into the middle distance, as if he is mulling over something. I feel selfish now for even mentioning Destiny Bay. “You’re not short, Ronnie . . . you’re perfect,” Dad says sagely, wandering off to collect some ashtrays. “You’re just the right height to rest a beer on.”

  The following afternoon, I’m in my bedroom clunking away on my bass guitar when Mum summons me to the den. She is sitting on the sofa, wearing a chunky dressing gown over a track-suit with her hair scraped into a wonky bun, watching 30-Minute Home Revamp Madness! with a zombielike enthusiasm typically reserved for the long-term unemployed or the recently bereaved.

  She looks terrible.

  I don’t think she’s slept properly for days. Dad said she’d been up all Thursday night because she kept having a recurring dream that Nan was calling to say good-bye but she couldn’t find the cordless phone.

  “Hey, Ron. How’s tricks?” Mum asks. Beside her on the sofa, Seth lies flat on his back in a scarlet rompersuit, his soft little snores punctuating the living room’s sad silence.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “How are you?”

  “I’m . . . strange,” Mum says, shaking her head slowly.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask. All we’ve done for the last week is make and drink tea. It feels constructive.

  “Nah . . . I’ve had about eighteen cups today,” says Mum, nodding at the mugs strewn all over the lounge table. “My back teeth are floating.”

  We sit in silence staring at the TV, watching someone in wacky dungarees going buck wild with a potato printer. Finally Mum speaks. “Oooh, God yeah, that was it,” she says distractedly. “I need to talk to you about the summer. About that hotel job.”

  “Oh, Mum . . . forget it,” I blush, feeling petty and self-centered. “It’s nothing. I’m cool about staying here.”

  “Really?” asks Mum, looking straight at me, furrowing her brow.

  “Yeah, really,” I lie.

  “Oh . . . well, that’s ironic,” Mum says. “Because I was about to tell you to go for it.”

  I nearly fall face-first out of the armchair in surprise. “Pardon?” I splutter. “Mother, don’t be daft.”

  “I’m not being daft,” she says. “You’re not hanging around here for a summer being miserable, watching me being miserable. I’ve been thinking . . . about everything. About the whole point of being here. About this whole stupid life business.”

  “What about it?” I say.

  “Well . . . It’s just over so . . . so quickly! Puff! Gone!” Mum tuts. “So you may as well enjoy yourself.”

  “But what about Wacky Warehouse?” I splutter. “What about looking after Seth?”

  “Stuff Wacky Warehouse!” Mum says vehemently. “Oh, and as for babysitting, I’ve decided I’m finding a good part-time nanny for Lord Fauntleroy here.”

  “Splghgh?” I gasp. “Really?”

  “Yes,” she says, sounding scarily driven. “And I’m going to revamp that menu downstairs in the Fantastic Voyage, start cooking more pan-European and Thai dishes from now on. Experimenting! That’s what used to make me happy. I want to be happy.”

  Mum looks at me and bites her lip. I think she might start crying again.

  “Well, Toothless Bert won’t like any of this,” I tell her, naming a regular barfly who lives on Mum’s burgers and scampi.

  “Toothless Bert can go and walk in the River Lees till his bobble hat floats for all I care!” announces Mum defiantly.

  I stare at her in disbelief.

  “Look, Mum,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Are you totally sure about this? Because if you’re not, I’ll stay. I’m worried about you, Mum.” My voice begins to crackle too, although after the week we’ve both had, I feel like I have no more tears left to cry.

  “Ronnie, I’m 110 percent absolutely completely sure,” Mum says, grabbing my hand back. “It’s what Nan would have wanted. She hated people moping about feeling sorry for themselves.”

  At that point, a tear falls down my face. I reach forward and give Mum a big hug. She feels cold and fragile. She gives me a huge cuddle back, just like she used to when I was a little girl. I can’t believe it is possible to hate someone and then love them and worry about them so much in the space of a few days.

  “Go and have an adventure,” Mum whispers. “Just do it. I packed a suitcase and went to Playa Las Americas in Tenerife when I wasn’t much older than you. It was the best summer of my entire life.”

  I sit back on the sofa and look at Mum curiously.

  Tenerife?

  Now, that reminds me of something. I know this isn’t the correct moment to bring it up, but I absolutely can’t help myself.

  “Mum?” I begin.

  “What?” she says, playing with one of Seth’s tiny feet. He stretches and gurgles a little.

  “Y’know when you were at catering college?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I was just wondering . . . Did you actually finish your diploma before you ran off to Tenerife with Dad?”

  Mum looks at me, flabbergasted. She shuffles nervously in her seat. “Why?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Who’s been talking?”

  “Erm, well,” I say, trying to suppress a smile, “it was just something, er, Nan said the last time I saw her.”

  Mum’s cheeks flush pink, but then a smile spreads across her face, the first that I’ve seen for a week.

  “I can’t believe it!” Mum chuckles, a tiny tear falling down her face. “I can’t believe that little old lady grassed me up.”

  “Thank you for calling Harbinger Hall, Precious speaking. How can I direct your call, please?” says the operator.

  “Shh!” hushes Fleur. “Personnel Department, please. Miss Scrumble’s office.”

  “Connecting you now, madam,” says the operator.

  Fleur, Claude and I gaze anxiously at the telephone’s speaker. “Miss Scrumble,” announces a rather dull, nasal voice.

  “Er, good morning, Miss Scrumble,” says Fleur, with a very sweaty top lip. “This is Fleur Swan speaking. Do you remember me? We spoke the other day about a summer vacancy beginning next Wednesday?”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Swan,” Scrumble says drably. “Thank you for calling. I’ll just locate that application form. . . . You’re our new waitress, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right!” beams Fleur.

  “With the impressive resume?” Scrumble says, sounding like she’s never been impressed by anything in her life. “Three years’ waitressing experience with silver service skills, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s me!” smiles Fleur.

  “What!?” mouths Claude in disbelief.

  “Shut up!” mouths Fleur back.

  “Fluent in French, German and with some conversational Japanese too?” Scrumble says in her monotone.

  “Oui! Bien sur! Zut alors!” Fleur says. “Oh, I’m like a sponge
when it comes to languages.”

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. Five years of French lessons and Fleur can still hardly find her way to a Parisian bathroom and back.

  “But, you see, the thing is, Miss Scrumble,” Fleur begins, “since I spoke to you, two of my equally dynamic friends, Claudette Cassiera and Veronica Ripperton, have also expressed an interest in working at Harbinger Hall. Are there are any other vacancies coming up?”

  After a very long silence, Scrumble speaks. “Hmmm, well,” she grumbles. “There’s irony in your questioning. I sacked three waiters this morning. They’re being marched off the premises as we speak.”

  Miss Scrumble sounds like she really enjoys that side of her job. Her voice turns a little giddy at “marched off the premises.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” Fleur says, giving us the thumbs-up. “I’m so sorry to hear that . . .”

  “I’ve no time for laziness, Miss Swan!” blurts out Miss Scrumble, sounding a little unhinged. “And these three vile articles, Saul, Clemence and Stephen, hmmpgh, well, they tested the absolute limit of my patience! They may have sounded applaudable on their resumes. However, one week at Harbinger Hall and it turns out they’re in Destiny Bay only to surf and party. No work ethic whatsoever.”

  “Disgusting,” Fleur says, cutting straight to the chase. “So you’ve not replaced them yet?”

  “Er . . . no,” says Miss Scrumble, sounding a little breathless from her outburst.

  “Fantastic!” Fleur says.

  Claude and I have to stop ourselves from squealing!

  “If your friends are interested,” Scrumble drones, sucking the joy out of the air with her voice, “tell them that the jobs are live-in positions. I would be housing you and whoever the other two successful applicants are in the West Turret.”

  “The West Turret?” repeats Fleur, trying to muffle her excitement. “Is that like a separate apartment?”

  “It’s a fully contained three-person apartment with beds, bathroom, TV, kitchen and a sea view,” Scrumble sighs. “It’s basic but clean.”

  “That sounds . . . great!” says Fleur, going almost purple with glee.

  Claude and I can hardly breathe. The LBD sharing our first apartment?

  “I’ll speak to my friends right now, Miss Scrumble!” Fleur garbles. “And I’ll . . . I’ll ask them to e-mail resumes to you! And then I’ll call you to check you’ve got them! And I’ll do it right away!”

  “Not so fast, Miss Swan,” Scrumble interrupts crossly. “Now I’ve remembered what I needed to say to you. I’ve made a note here on the last page of your application. There’s a problem with your character reference.”

  “Er, really?” says Fleur. “But I included one! Mr. Patrick Swan. He knows all about how hardworking and trustworthy I am!”

  “I’m sure he does, Miss Swan,” Scrumble says dryly. “He’s your father.”

  “Hmmm,” says Fleur flatly. “That is also true.”

  “Family members do not make suitable references, Miss Swan,” Miss Scrumble whines. “And I was going to request that you simply find another willing body, but after today’s unfortunate sackings, the rules are being tightened.”

  “Oh?” gulps Fleur.

  “From now on,” says Scrumble. “All prospective Harbinger employees under the age of eighteen must provide an exemplary reference from their headmaster. Now, will that be a problem?”

  “Er, pah, pgghhhgh . . . mmm, well, I’m not sure . . . ,” splutters Fleur.

  “Because you appear to be the model pupil, Miss Swan. Let’s see . . . spelling bee champion two years in a row? Chairwoman of the Blackwell Debating Society too?”

  “Erm,” winces Fleur. “Doesn’t that excuse me from getting the reference?”

  “No. Rules are rules,” grumps Scrumble.

  “But we’re already on vacation!” Fleur pleads. “How will we find our headmaster? Maybe he’s gone away on a cruise. What if—”

  “You and your chums have till six o’clock today,” interrupts Scrumble, almost as if she’s enjoying being a right royal pain up the bum.

  “Six o’clock?” Fleur gasps.

  “Six o’clock,” Scrumble repeats. “Don’t be late. Good afternoon to you.”

  “But, Miss Scrumble!”

  The line goes dead.

  “We’re doomed,” I groan, placing my forehead on Paddy’s cold desk and beginning to bang the surface slowly.

  I’d have given up then, but Claude refuses to be beaten. “Right, let’s not panic!” she announces as the LBD paces nervously around Fleur’s bedroom. “All we need to do is find McGraw . . .”

  “Chloroform him,” I mutter. “Give him a frontal lobotomy, then get him to give us references.”

  “He’ll give me a reference anyhow,” Claude announces rather capriciously.

  “Well, whoopie-do you!” Fleur retorts. “Is that, perhaps, because you’ve spent five years with your nose wedged up his bum crack?”

  Claude doesn’t even flinch at this abuse. “Look, Miss Conversational Japanese, do you want us to live in the West Turret or what? Do you want a summer adventure?”

  “Of course I do,” groans Fleur. “More than anything in the entire world!”

  “Good!” says Claude. “And while you’re thinking about that, can I also add that I bumped into our ex-guru Miss Cressida Sleeth in the mall this morning, with her new best friend Panama Flipping Goodyear. They were shouting remarks about that Moulin Rouge video Cressida saw of us dancing in our underpants! I wanted to crawl under a bus.”

  “Oh my God,” groans Fleur, flushing crimson. “I forgot about that!”

  “Well, Cressida hasn’t!” Claude says. “Look, let’s go and find old grumblechops McGraw, shall we? Let’s get away from this town. Away from Cressida Slime and Panama Bogwash!”

  “But be realistic, Claude,” I say. “The last time Fleur saw McGraw was when he caught her photocopying her bum cheeks in the IT lab!”

  “Uggghhh! That’s right,” sighs Fleur. “You were supposed to be watching the door, Ronnie!”

  “Yes, Fleur, silly me,” I say dryly. “That was my fault, wasn’t it?”

  “Okay, no arguing!” implores Claude. “Girls! Let’s be logical here. McGraw’s a very busy man. Surely he has better things to do than remember every petty little prank his pupils have committed. He’ll have forgotten all about the photocopier by now, surely.”

  “I suppose so,” Fleur says. “There are nine hundred and fifty pupils at Blackwell. He’s got plenty of other pupils to worry about.”

  “Hmmm, okay, that’s a good point,” I say, brightening a little. “But where do we start? It’s 2 P.M. now.”

  “Easy!” says Claude. “We know where McGraw lives, don’t we? Pomfrey Manor! It’s near Gelt Woods, about nine miles away. It’s down a little private road. Let’s get the bus over there and visit him.”

  “Okay,” agrees Fleur nervously. “Let’s do it.”

  Frankly I’d rather remove my own wisdom teeth with pliers, but there is no other way.

  their fluffy little faces

  “This just makes no sense,” sighs Claude, gazing up at Pomfrey Manor’s intimidating green cast-iron gates. “How can someone not own a doorbell?”

  “Hmph! Well, he hates the human race, doesn’t he?” Fleur tuts, slumping defeatedly against the manor’s impenetrable ten-foot-high brick wall. “He likes being uncontactable.”

  “Well, I think it’s sad,” Claude says. “Apparently his phone number is a closely guarded secret too, nowadays, because of the number of prank calls he gets. Who’d be pathetic enough to do that?”

  Fleur shoots me a “please shut up” look.

  “Beats me, Claude,” I shrug, scowling back at Fleur. “Some people just have no respect.”

  I stand on tiptoes, pushing my face up to the gold letter box. Inside, a long dusty driveway leads to a detached, rather disheveled mansion surrounded by junglelike lawns. The luscious grass is ankle deep. Trees
and bushes grow wild, and numerous flowers and shrubs grow every which way they please. It’s hardly the prim, neatly kept garden I was expecting.

  “He’s obviously not short of a few quid, is he?” mutters Claude. “This place seems huge.”

  “Well, my nan reckoned that his parents were loaded,” I say. “I think he inherited the house. He’s lived here all his life.”

  “Wow,” says Claude. “So your nan knew him when he was a little boy?”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling a little. “Nan knew everyone.”

  “What was he like?” Claude asks.

  “A right little misery, apparently,” I laugh, picturing Nan saying it. “She said he used to walk down the street when he was seven, eating his licorice pennies with a face like he was off to his own execution.”

  Claude and Fleur chortle merrily at the idea.

  “Do you think he’s home?” Claude asks.

  “Difficult to say,” I sigh. “There’s no car there. But the upstairs windows are open. There are a few lights left on too.”

  “Mr. McGraaaaaaaaaw!” yells Fleur, her voice echoing redundantly through the surrounding meadows. “Helllllllllooooooooo!”

  This is hopeless. He could be on holiday. Or have killed himself. Or be away visiting equally suicidal relatives. But—and it’s a major but—there’s also a small chance he might be home. There’s an even more minuscule possibility that we can persuade McGraw to sing our praises to Scrumble.

  Claude looks at her watch again anxiously. “Oh no! It’s nearly 4:30 P.M.!” she groans. “We’ve got an hour and a half! We’re totally scuppered now.”

  “Nonsense,” says Fleur, with a tiny mischievous smile. “I think we’ve got to get a little proactive.”

  “How?” says Claude, rattling McGraw’s letter box again uselessly.

  “Watch me,” says Fleur, looking determinedly at the wall before walking over and taking the black drainpipe in both hands.

  “Fleur! What are you doing?” I ask.

  She doesn’t reply. She simply grips the pipe firmly, thrusts one sneaker into a gap in the bricks and pulls herself a few feet up the pipe.