Infinite Sky (10 page)

‘Bitch!’ he shouted.

Dad had put his arm around me at some point, and he was trying not to let me know he was crying, and it was making my breathing so uneven that my whole diaphragm got out of synch. I
couldn’t believe she’d done it. She’d gone. I couldn’t understand what was happening.

‘Breathe,’ Dad said. ‘That’s it, breathe.’ And I thought I’d breathe a bit easier if Sam would stop acting so mental.

He crouched in the middle of the lane, his hands running over the stones like he was feeling the surface of the sea, and he had this awful expression on his face, like he didn’t even know
what he was doing.

I’d heard him shouting at her, the night before. The two of them had been sitting in his room, and out of nowhere I’d heard his voice.

‘If you aren’t leaving
us
, why can’t I come? If you’re
coming back
, why can’t I come too?’

When his door slammed, I went to have a look, and she was just standing outside his room, staring at the door.

‘
Sam
. Sam, come on, listen. Sam! Let me . . . Let me . . .’ she said, but he wouldn’t let her anything. He turned his music up.

She’d stared at the floor, and I could see from the way her shoulders moved that she was doing her breathing exercises. She did them every morning, cross-legged in the living room if it
was raining, in the garden if it was dry. It was another one of her new things.

After she’d driven off, we drank sweet tea at the kitchen table, but it felt wrong being together. We couldn’t look at each other. We ended up in our own rooms.

I re-read
The Darling Buds of May
because after a while it always stops me from crying. Later on, Dad bought chips for tea.

The next day came, and the next week, and we went on with our lives, which were just the same except for being messier and less organised and much, much quieter.

When I woke the morning after Sam’s outburst, I had a plan. It was as clear as if I’d dreamed it. I was going to make him feel better. I rooted through the pantry.
We had flour and milk. I took some change out of the dusty fruit bowl and walked to the shop with Fiasco. The sun was in the middle of burning off a layer of cloud. It was going to be another
boiling day. I bought lemon, bananas, eggs and two kinds of chocolate.

I looked through our ancient cookbook, and got out all the apparatus I needed. It was still only eight o’clock so I wiped the kitchen table down and swept the floor and put the pots away.
I even stood on Dad’s armchair to get rid of the tomato sauce on the ceiling.

I fed Fiasco and the cats, and hit the ball as far as I could a hundred times, and then I couldn’t wait any longer. I made two cups of tea and carried them upstairs.

Dad was reading in bed. ‘Good girl,’ he said, sitting up, surprised.

Sam was less grateful. ‘What are you doing in here? Get out.’

He pulled his pillow over his head and turned over.

‘Oi! I’m making pancakes. And chocolate sauce. I’ve been to the shop. I’ve got bananas and everything.’

He lifted his pillow and peered at me.

‘You can’t make pancakes.’

‘I can.’

‘What, and chocolate sauce?’

‘It’s easy!’

He rolled over as if he was going back to sleep, but I’d got him, I knew.

By the time Sam came down, I’d made the batter. It
was
easy, just cups of flour and milk and a couple of eggs. I don’t know why I hadn’t done it
before. The butter had reached the perfect point. It fizzed gold, filling the kitchen with deliciousness. The thing was to get the fat really hot. Everyone knew that. I ladled the mixture in and
tilted the frying pan round like Mum did. Sam sat at the kitchen table, flicking his fork between his fingers so it knocked with both ends on the wood. The chocolate melted slowly in bowls on top
of the Aga.

The first pancake was perfect. I let Sam have it. He peeled a banana halfway down, sliced it on, then spooned both types of chocolate over. He folded it in half, then half again.

He hummed while he ate it with his hands.

The next one was ready when Dad walked in. ‘Pancakes? What are you after?’ He moved the spoon through the batter, nodding his approval. ‘Here. You have that one. I’ll do
mine.’

The pan hissed as Dad ladled in a new pancake. He whisked the mixture, even though I knew for a fact it was lump-free, and put the radio on.

I lemon-and-sugared my pancake. Sam shook his head at me. He had chocolate on his chin.

His scalp was so pale it was almost blue. The sun shining through the windows turned his ears coral.

‘Do you like it?’ I asked, pointing at his head with my fork.

Sam laughed. ‘You obviously don’t.’

He ducked his head, rubbing at it.

‘Yeah. It feels good.’

I reached over and rubbed his scalp. It did feel pretty good, especially when you stroked the hair the wrong way.

‘Punky said this would happen. Girls can’t resist a skinhead.’

I pulled a face. ‘Matty’ll cry when she sees it.’

‘Then she’s an idiot. It’s only hair.’

‘
That’s
a record!’ Dad said from the Aga, after an especially impressive flip. Fiasco watched him, drooling. Sam rolled his eyes.

‘Did Punky do it?’

‘No, Leanne did. She loves it. She’s even got her own clippers.’

‘Weird.’

‘I know.’

He couldn’t stop touching it, and it was so strange how different he looked, just because he’d got rid of his hair.

‘Jesus, Eye! It’ll grow back,’ he said, and I didn’t even feel stupid because he’d used my nickname.

When we’d eaten more pancakes than was okay, and Dad had gone to work, I told Sam my plan.

‘We’re going to finish the drawing. In your room.’

‘
We?
’

‘Yeah. I’ll help.’

He did one of those raspberry laughs, where you keep your mouth shut and let it explode through your lips. He looked out the window, like maybe he’d had something else planned.

‘You’ve been saying you’ll finish it for ages.’

‘Yeah, I know but . . . I dunno. I’d like to draw
something
maybe. Don’t think I’m in the mood to finish . . .
that
.’

‘Oh.’ I made a pattern on the table with some lemon juice.

‘I don’t know if I even like it any more. It’s a bit . . .
shit
.’

I watched the goldcrests and blue tits on the bird table. They were all so twitchy. They never stopped turning their heads for a second. Everyone thought birds were so free but they must be the
least relaxed creatures on the planet.

I realised Sam was looking at me, and tried to smile, but I was disappointed. He was just going to go meet Punky and Leanne like he always did. As if buying two types of chocolate would mean
he’d stay in all day drawing with me.

‘Could draw something else though,’ he said. ‘Go and get your bird books.’

I ran to get them, and we sat at the table, looking at birds of prey.

‘This is the best one,’ I said, turning to a photo of a buzzard. Sam looked at it for ages. He went upstairs to get his pencil case and his new pens.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll draw it on your wall. But you can’t annoy me.’

I didn’t even promise not to in case that was annoying.

I sat on my bed, watching as he traced lines across the wall with his finger. He emptied his pencil case onto the floor. It was full of black pens with different-sized nibs. He told me to go and
put his music on, loud, and leave the door open. When I got back, he was still staring at my wall. I wondered what he could see. I wasn’t good at drawing. I could never get the pictures from
my head onto the page.

I hugged my knees as he started sketching with a pencil. Every few minutes, he stepped back to see what he’d done. It was all circles and triangles and lines.

‘There’s no point putting in the detail until you know the shapes are right,’ he said. ‘That’s where you go wrong. You do it too soon.’

It was true. I always started with the detail straight away. I couldn’t resist. By the time I realised it was wrong, it was too late. My people always had wonky eyes and a squashed
head.

All day, he bossed me about but I didn’t mind. I changed the music when he got sick of it, and made us cups of tea and cheese toasties. He clasped and unclasped his hands sometimes to get
rid of the cramp. When he was happy with his sketch, he swapped his pencil for a pen. The drawing got bigger and more detailed. Hills and trees and a stormy-looking sky appeared.

Sam pressed his lips together when he was concentrating, and it made his dimple pop. He was working on the foreground of the picture now. He had my book open, and looked at the buzzard
occasionally. In its talons he drew a dead baby rabbit that wasn’t from the book. The buzzard carried it through the sky.

‘I love it,’ I said.

He stopped what he was doing, and stepped back. He put his pen in his mouth and smiled. The plastic knocked against his teeth.

At some point I stopped worrying about being annoying and started talking. I told Sam all about Matty, and how she thought she was so incredible because she wore a bra with underwire, and he
told me about how nice Leanne was, when you got to know her. I tried to believe him. I didn’t say anything about Mum. I didn’t want to ruin it.

When Dad and Austin got back from work, I made them come and look.

‘Wow,’ Austin said, brushing sawdust from his eyebrows. It was probably the most he’d said all day.

Dad whistled. He was sawdusty too. The two of them smelled of petrol and sweat and leaves.

Sam didn’t stop drawing. He was finishing off the baby rabbit. Its eyes had been pecked out, and there was blood around its slack mouth. The background was a more dramatic version of the
Dark Peaks. A small girl stood on a big hill staring out. Her brown curly hair blew in the wind.

‘I’ll never paint over it,’ I said, when Sam was putting his pens away.

‘You better bloody not,’ he said, and he looked so happy I wanted to hug him.

Dad and Austin went back out to unload the pick-up, and I heard myself say something I hadn’t been meaning to.

‘I won’t speak to her if you want,’ I said. I spoke really quietly, and Sam looked surprised, and for a horrible second I was worried that I’d wrecked everything, but
then he shook his head.

‘Don’t be stupid, Eye,’ he said, in a gruff way that reminded me of Dad, and he zipped up his pencil case.