Cold Comfort (3 page)

We did talk about his mum occasionally. “Why
does she live in America?” I’d finally summoned the courage to ask as we hammered
the final nails in to the roof. He knew I was talking about his mum. He’d
already mentioned that she lived there.

“She moved there when they split up.”

“Are they divorced?”

“Yeah, years ago. Can’t say I blame her. He’s
horrible.”

“So why are you here and not with her?” Mama
always told me I was too nosy. I asked questions before I thought about how
they might make the other person feel. I didn’t mean to. It was just that, when
I wanted to know something, I asked. He looked at me for a long moment before
answering.

“She’s getting married again,” he said and
stopped. He seemed to think those few words would explain everything, but now I
was even more confused.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Why aren’t you
with her?”

“She didn’t want me there. Thought I’d get
in their way and spoil their honeymoon.”

For once I was struck dumb. I couldn’t
think of a single thing to say. The idea of a mother thinking her child could
be in the way was completely alien to me. Horrific. Something about my
expression must have communicated what my mouth seemed unable to, because I
watched as his face closed down.

“Where’s your father?” he suddenly asked. I’d
never spoken about him. I had told Hardy about Mama a lot but had never said anything
about my dad.

“He left us,” I explained.

“Didn’t he love you anymore?” he asked. It
hurt to think of it like that, even though it was probably the truth.

“He had another family and left to live
with them. He didn’t want us anymore.” It had always upset me to say the words
out loud. I never liked to talk about him, but I wasn’t trying to hide it. Hardy
didn’t look at all surprised by my words. I think he’d already guessed it was
something like that – something sad. And then I realised he had wanted to
hurt me. He’d deliberately asked about something he knew would upset me because
he wanted to hurt me like I’d hurt him. I guessed now at least I knew what it
felt like when people asked questions without thinking about the other person’s
feelings.

I stood and started to climb down the tree.
I didn’t want to spend any more time with him today.

“Where are you going?” he barked, sounding
a lot like his dad.

“Home,” I answered shortly.

“You can’t. We’re not finished yet.” He
sounded cross with me. Well, I was cross with him too.

“I can. You’re not the boss of me,” I told
him once I reached the bottom, hands firmly on my hips. He smiled like he was amused
by my words, which just made me more cross, so I walked off, ignoring his
shouts from behind me. I didn’t look back at all until I was safely inside the
cottage and hidden behind the net curtains.

I could see him standing for a long time at
the edge of the bushes and staring at our house. He looked confused.

The very next day I met him again as if
nothing had ever happened between us. I could tell he wanted to talk about it
again but didn’t know how. I just wanted to get on with painting the inside of
our house. He had arrived with some beautiful yellow paint, having finished
putting the roof on after I had left. The house was nearly finished, and I loved
it.

I sang as I painted; it was a Simon and
Garfunkel song that my Mama loved and played all the time at home so I knew all
the words. It wasn’t until I paused to refill my paintbrush that I realised Hardy
was staring at me. “What?” I asked, annoyed by his stare.

“You have a nice voice.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Thank you. I like
music and singing. If I can’t join the circus, I think I’d like to play music. I’ve
always wanted to learn the guitar.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“I don’t have one, and we can’t afford it
yet. Mama says maybe next year I can borrow a guitar and then I can start
lessons. We don’t have much money – well, we didn’t until she got the job
here. It’s getting better, though,” I said defensively. It felt disloyal to say
anything bad about Mama. She had always done her best for me. He nodded and didn’t
say anything else, but I could feel him watching me every time I started
singing again. I decided to stop.

“Don’t stop. I like it,” he said quietly. He
didn’t seem like he was making fun of me. Finally I nodded and started to sing again.

When we finished that day he thanked me. I wasn’t
entirely sure what for – we were just doing the usual treehouse work. Then
when we reached the usual point where our paths split, he leaned forward and kissed
me on the forehead. I just stood there watching him run off in the direction of
the big house, my fingers touching the place his lips had touched me.

*

“I leave in a week,” he told me one day when
August was almost at an end. The treehouse was done; we’d spent the remaining
summer days sitting inside it reading when the weather was bad, or, on the warm
days, swinging on the new, improved trapeze he had built for me. It launched
from our platform. Every day, since that first time, he asked me to sing for
him.

“Already?” I despaired. I liked having him
around to play with. I knew from what he’d told me that it might be ages before
he came back again. He tended to spend all his holidays with his mum in
California, or with school friends. I’d gotten used to having him around, and I
was going to miss him. I’d known it would happen, and Mama had been warning me
it would be soon, but it still felt sad. “Not before my birthday,” I insisted. He
looked up, surprised.

“When is your birthday?”

“Thursday. Mama told me I could go to the
cinema with a friend. I wanted to take you. Will you come with me?”

“I don’t know. I guess, if I’m allowed.” He
seemed uncertain, but I could tell he wanted to.

“I’ll get Mama to ask your dad,” I assured
him. “She’s good at asking people nicely. I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I hope so.”
He looked kind of wistful.

“He will,” I said with more certainty than
I felt. “He has to. It’s my birthday.”

“What do you want?” he asked. I was
confused what he meant. “For a present,” he clarified. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing, thanks. Just for you to come
with me to see The Princess Diaries 2.”

“Princess Diaries 2? Jesus, really?”

“Don’t swear, it’s rude,” I automatically
replied. “Anyway, it’s my birthday, and that’s what I’d like to see. Please?”

He smiled at me – one of the ones with
both dimples showing. “Anything for you, Delilah.” His words made me feel warm
inside.

*

Mama worked her magic on Mr Somerville, and
miraculously Hardy was allowed to come. He arrived at the cottage looking
nervous, a huge rectangular wrapped box under his arm. He greeted my Mama very
formally, shaking her hand, which made her smile, before he handed me the box. “Happy
birthday, Delilah,” he said.

I gasped, which made him smile. “I’ve never
received a present this big before.” I ripped the paper off and gasped again at
what I found inside. It was a guitar. My own guitar. A child-sized one that would
be perfect to learn with. “There’s a thing to help you tune it in there too,”
he told me as I gawped at the gift.

“It’s too much, Hardy. Does your father
know?” my mother scolded from behind me, when she saw what he had given me.

He huffed in frustration. “It has nothing
to do with him. I bought it with my own money, and to be honest it wasn’t much
at all. I wanted to buy it for her,” he insisted. “I want her to learn so she
can play it and sing for me again the next time I come back.” I nodded
earnestly, promising to be really good by the very next time he saw me.

We then had what I always remembered, when
I looked back on it later, as one of my happiest birthdays; eating pizza before
going to watch The Princess Diaries 2. He was one of the only boys in the
entire audience, but he didn’t seem to care. At the end of the day, when I was full
to the brim with happiness, he smiled at me and asked if I’d had a nice time. I
had assured him it had been the best birthday ever, which made him smile again.
Then he hugged me tight and kissed me in his place on my forehead.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he told me. I
had known it was coming, but I hadn’t expected it would be so soon. I was glad
he hadn’t told me earlier and had let me enjoy my birthday treat without any
thoughts of how much I was going to miss him. “Promise me you’ll learn the
guitar,” he continued as he stared at me.

“I promise, I will,” I swore. I meant every
word. I intended to make sure I was the best guitar player he’d ever heard when
I played for him the next time he came home.

“You play the guitar while I dance,” Emily bossed.
I sighed. We’d been doing this almost every day we’d seen each other over the
summer holidays. She was really annoying. She seemed to think she was a great
dancer, modelling herself on Rihanna. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she
was nothing like her.

It was the day before my birthday – I
hadn’t even reminded Emily because I didn’t want to have to spend it with her. She’d
manage to put the focus on herself, regardless of the fact it was
my
birthday. I’d be happy just to spend the day with Ma.

Emily had forced me to learn ‘Umbrella’. So
I’d managed to create an acoustic version that sounded quite good. I played,
singing the lyrics to myself, as she twirled around like a whirling dervish. When
she’d completed her final turns as I strummed the last chords, she collapsed in
a heap beside me on the grass. “So, I was thinking,” she began. That was never
a good start to a conversation with her, and it invariably ended in trouble for
at least one of us. “It’s your birthday tomorrow… Don’t look so surprised,” she
scolded when she noticed the expression on my face. “So,” she carried on, “I
think you should come for a sleepover.”

“Aren’t we getting a bit beyond pyjama
parties?” I wondered out loud.

“Well, obviously we wouldn’t be staying
in.”
Here it comes
, I thought. “My parents will be in bed by half ten. There’s
a party about twenty minutes away from mine. At the house of one of the kids
from St Andrew’s. I know her from that special ballet class I do. She invited
me and said I could bring a friend if I wanted. Naturally, with it being your birthday
and all, I thought of you.”

“I don’t know. I promised Ma I’d stay in
with her.”

“You did no such thing, you liar. I already
asked her and she said she was fine with you coming to mine for a sleepover. Come
on,” she wheedled, “it’ll be fun.” She must have really wanted to do this if
she’d already approached Ma. I’d been outmanoeuvred.

“Why would they even want any of the local kids
at their party? They’re a bunch of snobs and you know it.” We both knew it. Emily
had tried on numerous occasions to get in with the kids from St Andrew’s, but
they’d knocked her back every time. They were a cliquey bunch and wanted
nothing to do with the rest of us. There had to be a catch to this invite.

“Well,” she began, looking guilty as I
rolled my eyes. “I kind of promised you’d bring your guitar and play for them. They
wanted some live music for out by their bonfire. I told them you were great.” Her
praise amazed me. What didn’t surprise me was it had been bestowed only because
she needed something from me. She might have been my only friend, but I knew exactly
how manipulative she could be.

“I don’t know. I don’t like playing in
front of strangers.”

“Well, you’re going to have to get over
that fear,” she announced. “What’s the point of knowing how to play if you
never play for anyone?”

“I play for myself.”

She huffed in frustration. “Come on, Lila,
it’ll be amazing. Massive house, with a pool, loads of rich boys. We have to
go. You’ll ruin my life if you don’t say you’ll do it. I already promised them.
You can close your eyes and pretend no one’s there, only me,” she pleaded.

“I don’t know,” I said again.

She placed her hands on her hips and
scolded me; “What are you, sixteen or sixty? Honestly, I think you’ll become a
nun at this rate. Either that or maybe the stories about your love affair with
Mr Morgan have some truth to them?” It was a low blow.

I’d been plagued throughout school with
rumours about a supposed love affair with Mr Morgan, the music teacher, because
I’d chosen to spend all my free time in the music rooms. Recognising a kindred
musical spirit, he’d welcomed my passion and enjoyed being able to share his
vast knowledge with someone who actually wanted to learn. He’d taught me the
piano and guitar, despite my not being able to afford formal lessons. He’d even
lent me a full-sized guitar, when I outgrew my little one, until Ma had managed
to buy me one of my own.

He was kind and thoughtful, and he allowed
me access to the music rooms whenever I wanted it, which was often. But it was
that favouritism that led to the rumours. The fact he was nearly fifty and had
a shock of white hair and big yellow rings under his armpits from excessive sweating,
whatever he was wearing and regardless of the temperature outside, did not
dampen the school gossips. I’d been labelled as weird, which had made me fear
playing publicly, despite Mr Morgan’s encouragement.

He’d regularly told me that I was good and
that my talent was wasted. But I just couldn’t face the sneers from my classmates,
who resented anyone who stood out from the crowd. Emily had remained my friend
in private, but even she kept her distance when we were in school for fear of
being tarred with the same ‘weirdo’ brush.

“If you’re trying to persuade me to help you
out, you’re going about it the wrong way,” I snapped back at her. I hated to be
reminded of the prospect of my miserable return to school now the summer had waned.
It loomed on the horizon and filled me with dread. The only saving grace was that
now I was going into the sixth form, I could spend more time with my beloved
music as I studied for my A’ levels.

“Sorry,” she whined, immediately contrite
as she witnessed a rare display of the backbone I usually kept well hidden. Mostly
I just fell into line with whatever she wanted – anything for a quiet life.
“Please,” she wheedled again. “It will be the most fun ever, and I really want
to meet Charles Taylor. They say he’d give Robert Pattinson a run for his
money.” I’d heard rumours, mostly from Emily. She’d lusted after Robert
Pattinson ever since Twilight, and forced me to watch the films to the point I
could recite them word for word. Charles Taylor was the closest thing we had to
it in Cambridgeshire, if the rumours were to be believed. She looked so pathetic,
as she fluttered her big blue eyes at me. I knew I was being played, but for
some reason I couldn’t say no to her. Almost no one could.

“Alright,” I heard myself saying, as I
wondered what I was getting myself into.