The Son-in-Law (16 page)

‘I think I’ll have to let the kids go.’

Akash let fly with a long, loud and colourful string of expletives. ‘You’ve been reading that bloody woman’s letter again, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, you stupid jerk. You spent three years planning this day, right? You came out of Armley and you went straight to your solicitor, right? I tried to talk you out of it because I thought you were totally off your head but no, you weren’t even going to stop for a pint before you’d seen that bloody solicitor. You couldn’t wait a single hour longer, because you knew how much your kids needed their dad. Okay! And finally you’ve got your day in court. Today’s the day, the big day, your one and only chance. Don’t you fucking dare walk away!’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Frigging hell, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You live for your rugrats. I ought to know! I had to listen to you banging on about them twenty-three hours a day for nine hellish months. You even talked about them in your sleep.’

‘They’re scared of me.’

Akash changed tack. ‘What right have you got to abandon those kids?’

‘I’m not abandoning them. I’m—’ ‘You bloody well will be if you don’t get down there and fight for the poor little sods.’

‘No, I—’ ‘Your girl—Scarlet—she never grassed you up for waiting outside her school, did she? Why not? Ever think it might be because she actually
wants
to see her old dad?’

That pulled Joseph up short. It was a good point.

‘Christ almighty, mate,’ roared Akash. ‘Stop fannying around! You’ve come this far, you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest—the least you can do is see it through. If the judge tells you to fuck off—well, then you can fuck off. But if you don’t get down there and have a go, your kids will know that you just walked away. Is that what you want them to think, that you walked away from them? No it isn’t! So grow a backbone, you piss-poor apology for a dad! Get yourself down there on the fucking double!’

A young mother appeared at the top of the steps. She was talking animated nonsense to her toddler as she knelt to unstrap him from his pushchair. The little boy could have been Ben, three years earlier. His cheeks were obscured by a multi-coloured hat, and he wore tiny wellington boots. A bag of bread was tucked beside him. As if at the sound of a dinner gong, ducks appeared from every side. Some hopped onto the steps, tapping the ground with rounded bills and waggling their tail feathers.

Akash was still bellowing. ‘Scott, you daft bastard! D’you hear me?’

Joseph’s coat flapped around his calves as he leaped up the steps. ‘Okay. Okay. I’m running. Can you phone Richard O’Brien back?’

‘Fuck off! So I’m your PA now?’

‘Thanks. Tell him five minutes.’

Fourteen

Scarlet

Oh my God. Oh . . . my . . . God. It was court day. He sang all night in my head, that devil. I woke up in a pile of towels on the bathroom floor, freezing cold and knowing this was the day. I could still hear his voice. Not the tune, not the words, just the voice. It brought me terror and darkness all rolled together. It made me feel as though the world was about to end.

When Hannah wasn’t looking I dumped my breakfast cereal in the bin. There was something wrong with my stomach: worse than a pain, more like strangling. Like when you twist a rubber band.

Gramps and Hannah were freaking out. First Flotsam threw up cat food on the kitchen floor. Then Theo couldn’t find his gym kit, and his shoelace broke. Hannah coped with all that, but when Ben spilled a whole bowl of cereal down his front I honestly thought she was going to cry. Gramps got Ben a new shirt, but he was trembling more than usual. Even his poor face seemed to be shaking. They were short of time, so they asked me to walk the boys to their school on the way to mine. I was doing this more and more often.

‘Good luck,’ I said to Hannah as I left. ‘I’ve got my phone—let me know as soon as you can.’

She’d messed up her lipstick and was wiping it off again, blinking and twitching in the hall mirror. Gramps saw us to the door and hugged each of us in turn. I felt shivery.

‘Don’t worry, my little Scarletta,’ he said. ‘Everything will come out in the wash.’

It was another almost-snowing morning, white and sunless and aching-fingers cold, and my brothers were especially annoying. The pair of them argued all the way to school.

‘I can start going there soon,’ boasted Ben, when we were walking past the building where Theo goes to gymnastics club. ‘I’ll be with Theo.’

Theo looked very sulky. ‘You won’t, because you can’t even do a forward roll. You’ll have to learn for years and years before you can be in my group, and by then I’ll be with the seniors.’

‘I bet I learn really fast,’ crowed Ben.

‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Let’s count all the red things that we see.’

That worked for a while. We yelled every time we saw a red postbox, or a red car, or someone wearing anything red. It kept the boys distracted. Then, just as we were arriving at the school, everything went wrong.

‘Red nose!’ yelped Ben, pointing at Theo’s face. ‘Theo the red-nosed reindeer!’

‘Shut up, you little knob.’ Theo’s nose
had
turned a shiny cherry colour in the cold.

Ben didn’t shut up. ‘Your ears are red too, and they stick out like Dumbo’s.’ To demonstrate, he held his own little ears out on each side.

‘Stop it now,’ I warned him.

‘Jumbo dumbo with a big bumbo,’ he giggled, flapping his ears.

‘I hate you, Ben,’ shouted Theo. ‘I really, really hate you! I wish I didn’t even have a brother.’

‘Theo, the red-eared bumbo!’ sang Ben.

Theo completely lost it. He screamed, ‘I’ll kill you,’ rushed across the pavement and clobbered Ben on the shoulder. It was an awful thing to do because Ben was half his size and it almost knocked him over. Before I could stop Theo, he’d done it twice more, shouting, ‘I’ll effing kill you!’ Then he grabbed hold of Ben by his anorak and shook him. I saw Ben’s head going backwards and forwards. His eyes and mouth were wide open.

I rushed over and grabbed hold of Theo’s arms. ‘What are you doing?’ I yelled. ‘He’s only four years old! He’s tiny! You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Theo’s face had turned a strange colour, and he looked like an adult, not my little brother. He pulled away from me, stormed off and sat on a wall further up the street. Meanwhile, Ben was screaming so loudly that passers-by turned to look. Even my cuddles couldn’t calm him down. In the end I had a brainwave—I offered him the cake from my school lunch, which magically turned down the volume. Then I carried him into school and delivered him to a big bosomy teacher.

‘He’s had a tiff with his brother,’ I explained, and she made kind, bosomy-teacher noises.

I gave Theo a real bollocking once I got outside again. He didn’t say anything, but I saw him rub his sleeve across his eyes.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ he gulped. ‘Just . . . nothing.’

I asked if he felt sick, but he shook his head. I asked if he was scared of somebody at school, and he shook his head harder. I asked if it was to do with Dad, and he ran away from me and into the school.

Because of all the drama with my brothers, I was late myself. The first lesson was French, which started at nine o’clock. I rushed into the classroom at five past and Madame Girard looked around from the whiteboard with her pencilled eyebrows all elegant and murmured, ‘’Ow kind of you to join us, Mademoiselle.’ She’s a
vache
. Someone should explain to her that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.

I couldn’t concentrate on irregular verbs. I kept thinking about Hannah and Gramps, and what they’d be doing at that moment. It was time to set out for court. Gramps would be giving his shoes a last-minute polish. Hannah would be clipping on her earrings. Then she’d get out her compact and dab on another bit of powder (she called it ‘putting on her face’), and straighten Gramps’ collar. They’d be scared and trying to reassure one another. It was a sad thing to imagine. The rubber band in my stomach tightened another ten turns.

Our second lesson was maths. It began at nine forty-five, and I knew Hannah and Gramps would be meeting their lawyer at the court around then. I pictured them parking the car and making their way there together. I thought about my dad, who would be parking his car too and walking over to court, and all because he wanted to see us. I wondered what expression he might have on his face. I wondered whether he was hopeful or worried, and whether he cared about the fact that he was ruining our lives. The rubber band twisted again. My maths teacher gave me a detention because I hadn’t even begun the work she’d set us. I’d never been given a detention before, and I would have been mortified if my mind hadn’t been on more important things.

At ten thirty we had break. I knew they were due to go into the actual courtroom. I tried texting Hannah, but she didn’t reply. Eating was out of the question, so I gave everything in my lunchbox to Vienna, which made her day.

Vienna had just got back from a holiday in Lanzarote, with her real dad. She showed me the photos on a flashy iPhone he’d given her for Christmas.

‘What did you get?’ she asked me, as an afterthought.

‘A violin.’

‘Cool,’ she murmured, sounding unimpressed. ‘Here’s one of me waterskiing.’

It was a beautiful antique violin, which must have been very expensive. I knew Hannah and Gramps had done their very, very best. All the same, it wasn’t what I’d have been getting if Mum had been in charge.

We had music after break, which should be fun but generally isn’t because Mrs Hague is in league with violin bitch. I call her Mrs Hag. I’m prepared to bet they’re in the same coven, since they both wear the same kind of trendy over-the-top clothes, with long hair like ancient Barbie dolls. Hannah says they are mutton dressed as lamb. I feel sorry for Mr Hag, if there is one.

On court day, Mrs Hag was wearing a charcoal tunic and thigh-high boots—a combination which did her no favours whatsoever—and what looked suspiciously like a string of orange ping-pong balls around her neck. She had us playing a freaky version of ‘Yellow Submarine’ that she’d adapted herself. It sounded truly terrible, because she insisted even people who didn’t play an instrument must do what she called ‘having a go’, and the result was that people squawked away on recorders—which sounded like an alley full of tortured cats—and bashed cymbals and triangles. I was playing my beautiful new violin and she had the nerve to stop the class and suggest that I was out of tune. Me!

I didn’t argue the first time. I just raised my eyebrows to show I thought she was off her head. Teachers hate that. She tapped with her baton, and away we went again. While we played I looked at the clock and saw it was after eleven fifteen. It might be all over by now. My insides felt so tight that I could hardly breathe. One more turn, and the rubber band was going to snap.

The next moment I realised that everyone was looking at me. Mrs Hag had stopped us all again. ‘Scarlet,’ she said in her witchy voice, ‘you’re still a little flat, darling.’

I lowered the violin and narrowed my eyes at her. ‘
What?
’

‘Let’s try it again from the beginning.’ She smiled. ‘And Scarlet, darling, do try to listen to what you’re playing.’

‘I’m not flat.’

‘Just a touch.’ She has a fake posh accent. Her smile looks fake too, as though she’s painted it on.

I raised my voice. ‘No, not even a touch.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get a more musical ear if you practise. Rome wasn’t built in a day!’

That did it.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’m actually the only person in this room who can play in tune. It sounds awful because it’s a stupid piece, and this class is full of people who are tone deaf and know nothing about music. And that includes you, Mrs Hag.’

She exploded, of course. I ended up in the head’s office for the first time ever, and I’d been given my second detention of the day.

The head’s name is Gilda Grayson. When she sits on the stage during assembly she has a calm, cold voice and looks very impressive. She has big blow-dried hair and wears silky blouses and very boring shoes. The school has nicknamed her ‘Maggie’, because she looks like a painting we have in the hall of Mrs Thatcher who was the prime minister once. Apparently Mrs Thatcher wasn’t scared of anybody, whereas Mrs Grayson hardly ever ventures from her office because she has a phobia of girls.

‘Pull your socks up, er . . . Scarlet,’ she said. She hasn’t been at our school long, and she had to look at the note from Mrs Hag to find my name.

‘Mrs Hague kept telling me I was playing flat,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t playing flat, so she was actually libelling me.’

‘Slandering.’

I gaped at her.

‘Libel would be in writing,’ she explained.

‘Oh. Whatever. I’ve been learning the violin since I was five years old. Most of the class don’t even know what “flat” means. Or “sharp”. Or “music”, for that matter.’

Maggie looked shifty. I could see she didn’t want to get involved. ‘Never mind the ins and outs,’ she said. ‘I have two detention forms on my desk, and they both have your name on them. If you get into any more trouble I shall have to contact your parents.’

‘Good luck with that.’

She did a double take. ‘Why will I need luck?’

‘Well, to contact my mum you’ll need to hold a séance. And if you want to contact my dad you’ll have to ask the police for his address.’

‘Wait here, Scarlet.’ She nipped out of the office, and I heard her talking to the school secretary, who is the person who really runs the school. I took the opportunity to sneak my phone out and send Hannah another text. It was eleven fifty, so I was sure there must be some news.

When Maggie returned, she was carrying a cardboard file. She sat down, opened it and quickly flicked through the pages. I sat and watched her. I didn’t mind. It was better than being in PE, which was where my class would be right then. I had my phone on vibrate in my pocket, and I secretly checked the screen twice, but there was still no reply from Hannah.

Finally, she closed the file. ‘I owe you an apology,’ she said. ‘I should have been aware of your story. There are five hundred and thirty-two girls in this school, and I haven’t yet got to know you all.’