Indigo Blue (6 page)

I flash her a fake, cheesy smile, a told-you-so grin, and she starts smiling back before she twigs I’m not being friendly. Her face falls, and she takes her tray over to a table where Miss McDougall is sitting with a couple of Year Five girls.

I feel kind of mean, but then Aisha’s not really a friend or anything. She thinks that hanging around grinning a lot and trying to tag along can change that – bet she thought her luck had changed when I was off school. All she had to do was move seats and she had a ready-made mate.

It’s not like Jo is missing her, though. Not like she missed me.

Tough luck, Aisha.

At home time, Jo sprints off the minute the bell goes – she’s got swimming class right after school. I dawdle through to the corridor, shrug on my fleece and then mooch back to the classroom for my bag.

‘Got no home to go to, Indigo?’ Miss McDougall asks brightly.

‘Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.’

‘Your cold’s all better now, then?’ she presses.

I nod, sniffing loudly for good measure.

‘Well, anyway, I’m sorry I got the wrong idea about your gran being ill. That’ll teach me to listen to Kevin Parker. And by the way, your mum called the office this morning about the change of address. I hope it’ll be a happy home for you, Indigo. I hope things will be better now.’

I blush to the very roots of my hair. What does she mean? What does she know?

‘If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, Indigo…’

‘Yes, Miss. No, Miss. I mean, there isn’t. I have to go…’

Miss McDougall means well, but I think I prefer her when she’s all tweedy and strict, dishing out lines and homework and confiscating nail varnish.

I slouch across the playground, and though I should be chirpy because Mum promised sausages for tea, I’m not. I hate this walk home. I hate the estate. I hate 33 Hartington Drive. I hate…

Max
.

It’s Max, over the road from the school, leaning against his van, smoking lazily. My heart thumps and I try to look away, walking faster.

‘Hey, Indie!’

I look round, lost, and he’s walking over, the ciggy chucked to the gutter, his face all smiles, his blue eyes sparkling like there’s nothing wrong in the whole wide world.

‘Indie, how’s it going? Good to see you! I had a job just over the road, thought I’d just hang on and say hi…’

‘Hi!’ I try to stop my face from grinning, but fail. I’m pleased to see him. Scared but pleased. Sick but happy.

‘So… how’s your mum? Calmed down a bit, d’you think? I mean, Indie, it was just a row, you know, grown-up stuff. Nothing to make such a big deal of. No reason to go uprooting you and Misti…’

I’m still smiling, but I can remember the night of the row pretty clearly, and the morning after. I remember Mum’s face. Nothing to make a big deal of.

‘Look, Indie, pet, I
love
you and Misti. I love your mum. She’s made her point, so why can’t she just come home now? Why don’t I give you a lift back to wherever you’re staying, talk to her?’

Max reaches out to throw an arm round my shoulders, but I flinch away. Mum doesn’t want to talk to him. Mum doesn’t want to see him.

I
don’t want him to know where we live.

‘Come on, Indie. We’ll get chips on the way, surprise the girls…’

‘
No!’

Max takes a step back, still grinning, holding his hands out in surrender.

‘Just an idea. Another time, maybe. Hey, just tell your mum you saw me, OK? Tell her I miss her. Tell her it’s OK to come home. Will you do that for me?’

I nod, staring at my feet.

‘Look, I’ve gotta go, Indie, but I’ll see you again. It’s OK, really. Just a silly row, nothing serious. We’ll get it sorted out. Tell your mum.’

I give him a shaky wave and start walking. I feel sick, I feel bad, I feel scared.

What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? Take the lift?

What do I tell Mum?

I look back as I turn the corner, and Max is sitting at the wheel in his van, watching me. He waves as I tear my eyes away again.

Why didn’t Mum tell me this might happen? Why didn’t she tell me what to do? Will she be cross I didn’t bring him home? We could have had lemonade and chips and Mum and Max could have talked things through, made it up. Max could have rescued us from damp walls and brown lino, taken us back home in the back of the blue builder’s van.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Mum loves him, she said that the other night. But she doesn’t want to live with him. She doesn’t want him to know where we live, I know she doesn’t.

I’m halfway round the dodgy estate before the bad feeling starts to fade. It’s OK. Max had a job near the school, that’s all. It wasn’t like he was lying in wait for me. He was just being thoughtful. Mum won’t be cross.

He wouldn’t follow me, he
wouldn’t
.

But when I look behind, there’s a blue van, way, way in the distance, parked in at the kerb. Too far away to see if it’s Max. It
can’t
be.

I start to hurry, walking fast, but when I reach the next corner and look back the same blue van is crawling closer.

I’m running then, faster than I ever would in any race, dodging between the cars, thumping along the pavement, hurtling round the corner into Hartington Drive.

I look back and there’s no blue van, no Max, and I’m into the driveway of number 33, round to the back, down the steps and into the flat. I’m shaking and my breath comes in great gasping sobs that burn my lungs and throat.

My face is wet with tears.

Mum strokes my hair and hugs me tight, and tells me I did the right thing. She wipes my face with a tissue and makes me hot chocolate.

I let its sweetness seep through me, calming, warming. Mum sits across the table, drinking black coffee, and Misti sprawls on the carpet, unpacking my school bag and swishing books, papers and pens across the floor.

‘Maybe you were wrong about the blue van,’ Mum says. ‘Could you have been wrong? It was far away, you said. Maybe it was a different van.’

‘Maybe,’ I say. But I know it wasn’t.

‘Max wouldn’t follow you. He wouldn’t want to scare you. He wouldn’t want to hurt us.’

Her fingers stray to the faded bruises along her cheek and jaw.

‘He says he loves us,’ I tell her. ‘He says it was just a silly row, and we can come back any time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Mum says. ‘But, Indie, it was just one silly row too many. We’re better off here, love. I’m sorry for what happened at the school, but you did right. You did right.’

And though it’s not even five o’clock yet, she stands up and moves around the flat, pulling across the blue velvet curtains, shutting out the light. Shutting out Max.

‘Mum…’

‘Yes, love?’

‘It’s just… Max was going to give me a lift back. He was going to get chips for us all, come and see Misti, talk to you. What if I’d said yes?’

Mum takes in a deep breath. ‘If you’d said yes… well, that would have been OK too,’ she decides. ‘We’d have coped. But I’m glad you didn’t, Indie.’

‘So am I.’

I finish my hot chocolate and try to change the subject. ‘We’re learning about the Victorians at school,’ I tell Mum, who is staring blankly at her empty coffee mug. ‘I’ve got to make a project book, work on it at home.’

‘Mmmm.’

She’s miles and miles away, her face all sad and anxious. It makes me nervous.

I spend a while drawing out an elaborate title page, with a lady in a big crinoline dress and
The Victorians
written out in big, old-fashioned letters. I add my name at the bottom, then a border of daisies for good measure. I colour it in with pencil crayons, because Misti is using my felts to draw huge, psychedelic swirls all over her arms and legs.

I’m hungry, but Mum seems to have forgotten about tea. I raid the biscuit tin and find three crumbly fig rolls. I eat one, give one to Misti, one to Mum. It’s kind of a hint.

Mum gets up abruptly, but even I can tell she’s not thinking food. Misti grabs the abandoned fig roll.

Mum opens the door and starts up the steps in the dusk.

‘Mum? What are you doing?’

She looks back at me, forehead creased. It’s like it’s taking an effort for her to see me at all.

‘I just wanted to check that it wasn’t Max’s van… make sure he’s not hanging around somewhere, looking for us. I’ll feel safer if I know he’s not there.’

I’m frowning now. If Max
is
out there watching for us, looking for him isn’t a brilliant plan. If Mum spots
him
, the chances are he’ll spot her.

‘Is that a good idea?’ I ask.

Mum must think so, because she runs across the drive and into the street, her eyes searching up and down the road. I duck inside, grab Misti and bundle her outside, grizzling. We stand a few feet away from Mum, watching.

There is no blue builder’s van. She stares into the distance for a long time, jumping every time a car turns the corner. In the end the light has gone, and she leans against one huge gatepost, looking sad, lost, alone.

I lean against the other, feeling worried. Misti is asleep on my shoulder, and my back is aching.

Mum jumps forward again as something scoots round the corner, engine slowing as the headlights get closer. For a moment, the sick, scared feeling is back, and then the headlights whirl round into the drive and I can see it’s just a car, the smart red Fiat I’ve seen parked here before.

The Fiat parks neatly, the engine dies, the lights fade and a young bloke in a suit gets out, struggling with a briefcase, a newspaper and two bulging bags of shopping.

‘Hello there… everything OK?’ he says to his weird welcoming committee.

‘Yeah, fine,’ I mumble, dragging Misti round so she’s resting on my other hip. ‘We were just…’

Then Mum’s at my side, and the sad, anxious look is gone from her face. She’s OK again.

‘Just looking out for someone,’ Mum says, hauling Misti out of my arms and cuddling up to her. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sorry if we startled you.’

‘No problem! You must be the new people in the basement flat,’ he grins. ‘I’m Ian Turner. I live in the attic flat. I think it was the servants.’ quarters once.’

He holds out a hand and we all shake it, dutifully, while Mum introduces us in turn.

‘See you around, then,’ he says, with a special smile at Mum. ‘If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or whatever, come on up – I’m your man!’

‘Thank you,’ Mum says, smiling politely. ‘I’ll remember that. Come on now, girls, it’s time to get indoors. It’s turning chilly.’

We’re down the steps and into the flat, and Mum’s bustling about like nothing was ever wrong, switching on the leccy fire and rustling up emergency beans on toast for everyone. She glances at my project title page as she clears the table, and gives me a big thumbs up, so I know she approves.

‘This house is Victorian, you know,’ she tells me.

‘It looks it,’ I say. We both laugh.

Later, when Misti’s asleep and I’m shuffling around in pyjamas, getting my gym kit sorted for tomorrow, I decide to get brave.

‘Mum…’

She looks up from the sink where she’s washing clothes by hand because the flat doesn’t have a washing machine. ‘Yes, pet?’

‘Jo was asking… can she come over to tea one day? We could work on our projects together. I’d love to show her my new room.’

Mum frowns, and for a minute I think she’s going to say no, but then she’s smiling, telling me that’s a great idea, why not, any day this week would be fine.

I can’t wait to tell Jo. It’s going to be great.