Unspeakable (9 page)

Luke texts to let us know his mum can bring us home afterwards, and we arrange to meet at the war memorial to catch the bus into town.

Carino’s is a really cool place with a chilled-out atmosphere and great music. Our gangly waiter seems quite taken with Jasmine, and we get free garlic bread to share. When he brings
it, the waiter makes some rubbish joke about Luke getting all the girls. I think he’s fishing to find out if Jasmine is available.

‘We’re all just friends,’ Jasmine says sweetly. When Luke looks down at the menu, she arches an eyebrow at me, but I pretend not to notice.

Luke tries to prove his manliness by scoffing an ‘inferno’ pizza, but he ends up sweating and having to order a not-so-manly milkshake to soothe his mouth.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s fine,’ Jasmine says, taking a massive bite of Luke’s abandoned meal. Luke gives her a really cold look for stealing from his plate, but seconds later, when she’s coughing and spitting into a napkin, he and I are both cracking up.

Jasmine declares that she wants to practise some accents for her Drama project. They range from an appalling Scouse, which sounds more like Scottish, to a passable American. She plays games with the besotted waiter, who has absolutely no idea that, every time she speaks to him, she’s trying out a different one. I can’t look at her, or I’ll just collapse into laughter.

As we’re leaving, the waiter tells Jasmine she has a lovely voice and asks where she’s from. We have to rush outside, where we explode with hysterics.

By the time Sandra arrives, we’re all very giddy.

Sandra is a sweet, timid woman. I’ve known her for years, without really knowing her at all – she’s just so shy. Several inches shorter than Luke, she flits around like a nervous little chaffinch.

‘You haven’t been drinking, have you?’ Sandra leans in to sniff Luke’s breath, much to his embarrassment. His mood seems to have shifted again and he rounds on his mum when she tries to ask how I am. ‘What are you asking her that for? You know Megan can’t answer. I told you. Jesus!’

Sandra blushes. Luke storms ahead on the short walk back to the car, and she quietly apologises, saying something about him ‘growing more like his father every day’.

At the car, Jasmine not-so-subtly offers to go in the front, so Luke and I can sit in the back. Luke hesitates for a moment, but I think he feels bad for the way he spoke to his mum, so he slips into the passenger seat. He doesn’t seem to be very comfortable, and keeps shooting little glances at me and Jasmine.

On the way home, Sandra asks Jasmine a couple of questions about Cyprus. I wonder if she’s sizing her up as a potential girlfriend for Luke. I don’t know why, but the thought makes me squirm.

Sandra suggests that we take the scenic route back, so Jasmine can see a different part of the forest. Luke grumbles that we won’t be able to see anything in the dark, but Jasmine thinks it’s a great idea.

We’re driving down a narrow, winding country lane when Sandra brakes suddenly. ‘Oh, look!’ she says, pointing towards a small village green where her headlights are illuminating a herd of deer. The stag stands in the centre, his antlers rising majestically into the night. His breath steams out of his nostrils, forming little clouds of moisture in the air.

I’ve seen deer at night before, silhouetted against the moonlight, but never so many, and it’s never felt so magical. Perhaps it’s the expression on Jasmine’s face as we watch in rapt silence. Or maybe it’s because she grabs my hand and clutches it tightly, as if she wants to check that this is real, that it’s actually happening.

After a few minutes, the herd moves on. Jasmine doesn’t let go of my hand, and I have a huge grin on my face all the way back to Brookby.

Sandra stops in the High Street to pick up some milk.

‘Why don’t I walk Megan home?’ Luke offers. ‘It’s not far.’

Sandra looks surprised. ‘I can drive you, it’s no problem.’

‘Er – well, I need a few things in the shop, too,’ Jasmine says. ‘Don’t know how long I’ll be. These two might as well get off.’

Get off
. My face reddens – I’m glad of the dark.

Luke clears his throat and pretends to study the window controls.

‘Head off!’ Jasmine says quickly. ‘I mean head off!’

As we leave, Jasmine winks at me. I don’t know why she keeps going on about the two of us. Luke always liked Hana, not me. Besides, he knows enough about me to understand he’s better off not going there.

I’ve often wondered why we stayed friends, after what happened. I thought it would be too painful, but it’s actually kind of comforting to have someone who knows everything. Someone I can trust.

Just imagining for a second that Jasmine’s right, I wonder
how I’d feel if he made a move tonight. Weird, probably. God, I hope he doesn’t.

Luke starts to tell me about his nephews and how they terrorised the poor babysitter the last time his aunt and uncle went out. The youngest, James, is three. ‘He peed all over the bathroom floor. When my aunt asked him why he’d done it, he said, “It wasn’t my fault. It was my willy.” ’

I laugh so much it makes my tummy ache.

Luke nudges me gently and says, ‘It’s nice to hear you laugh.’

We reach my house and I hesitate, unsure how to end things. I find my notepad.
Thanks for walking me home. Very gallant of you!

When Luke smiles, a dimple creases his cheek. ‘No probs. Any time.’

I glance up. Luke takes a step towards me, his expression unsure, then he stops, shakes his head with a rueful smile, and steps back again.

‘Sleep well, Megan.’

I walk down the garden path, pausing on the doorstep. Was that …? Was he going in for a kiss? No. Jasmine’s wrong. She’s so wrong.

I realise that Luke’s waiting for me to get inside before he leaves. I pretend I can’t find my keys, then wave them at him like a dork.

When I open the front door, a blast of sound hits me. The TV’s turned up to full volume. Great. Mum’s drunk.

In the lounge, she’s draped across the sofa like a scruffy old blanket. The tang of wine is so strong I can almost taste it. Sure enough, there’s an empty bottle on the floor. Her stilettos have
been abandoned halfway across the room, like she just stepped out of them and flopped on to the sofa.

When she sees me, Mum reaches for the TV remote, but she’s clumsy and it crashes to the floor. She huffs and tries again. I step in, retrieve it and press the mute button.

‘Was that Luke out there?’ she slurs. ‘He your boyfriend now? About bloody time! I haven’t seen him in ages. When you bringing him round?’

I shake my head.

‘Why not? You embarrassed of me?’

I use the TV guide to write her a note:
Just a friend. It wasn’t a date. Jasmine was there
.

She gets this nasty look on her face. ‘Jasmine. Your new best buddy.’

I take a startled step back.

‘Where you going? I’m talking to you. Am I too old for you to hang around with? Not cool enough?’

This is ridiculous!
I think.
Why are you jealous? You’re my mum, not my friend
.

‘I’ve been sitting here on my own.’ Her face falls and she says quietly, ‘I used to have loads of friends.’

Used to. Before you had me. I’m sorry, Mum. Sorry I screwed it all up for you
.

I storm towards the hallway.

‘You know the worst thing about having a daughter who doesn’t speak?’ she screeches.

I pause at the door.

‘There’s no one to have a decent argument with.’

I slam it behind me.

‘Megan!’ she wails as I fly up the stairs. ‘Megan, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. Come back and gimme a cuddle.’

Upstairs, I chuck my pyjamas on, then throw myself on the bed.

She hates you. You ruined her life.

My eyes sting with unshed tears.

My phone buzzes. It’s Jasmine:

What happened? Spill! Xxx

I frown. How does she know I argued with Mum? Then I realise she means Luke. I reply:

Nothing happened! And nothing’s going to happen. We’re just friends xxx

I’m getting tired of repeating this. But I’m less convinced now. There was something going on tonight. Could he …? No, he couldn’t, he really couldn’t.

Jasmine texts:

How boring! I wanted juicy details! Xxx

I could make some up? Xxx

LOL! :) xxx

Several minutes later, Jasmine texts again:

I’m so sleepy. Night night xxx

I smile.

Night xxx

How did she do that? Without even trying, she’s calmed me down, taken all the anger away. More effective than an hour-long session with Mr Harwell.

The TV rumbles beneath me. Some stupid show where celebrities pamper and preen their dogs and enter them in a kind of beauty competition. Eventually, Mum switches it off and I hear her stumbling and giggling up the stairs.

My door creaks open. I clamp my eyes shut.

‘My beautiful girl,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m always messing up. I love you.’

She plants an awkward kiss on my forehead.

When I wake the next morning, I’m instantly alert, though I don’t know what woke me. Then I hear Mum crashing around and swearing in the bathroom. It’s 6 a.m. Not her favourite time. Not her usual wake-up time, either. She’s early.

I get up. Luckily, Mum left the door unlocked. I find her in the bath, sprawled on her back like an upended beetle, with the collapsed shower curtain wrapped around her. She’s still got her nightie on, though it’s rucked up around
her hips and I get a glimpse of silky black knickers before I look away.

Thanks, Mum. That’s exactly what I want to see first thing in the morning!

‘What you doing in here?’ she groans.

I don’t respond. Obviously.

‘I was trying to turn the shower on, but I slipped and the stupid curtain came down. I’m all right. I can manage.’

I look at her. A whisper of mirth winds through me. I try to bat it down, but I can’t help it. My giggle quickly turns into a full-blown laugh.

Mum starts to glare, but the corners of her mouth pull up and soon she’s laughing too. ‘I’m hopeless!’ she gasps. ‘Will you help me up?’

As I heave her to her feet, Mum clutches her head and groans. ‘Ooof. I’m never drinking again.’

She sees my expression. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know I always say that, but this time I mean it. I’m really not in the mood for work today. I feel like crap.’

I leave her and plod back to bed. When I emerge later, the scent of burnt sugar drifts through the house. I’m still full from last night, but follow my nose downstairs, where Mum is poking a knife into the toaster, muttering under her breath.

I grab the knife before she electrocutes herself, and set it down on the work surface. A waffle is gently steaming on a small plate, its corners a little blackened. Mum’s used squeezy chocolate sauce to draw a smiley face on it. It’s quite sweet,
really. She must have dragged her hangover to the shop this morning to buy supplies.

Mum hands me the plate with pride and we sit at the table together, her clutching a giant mug of coffee. ‘So, you and Jasmine are getting on well, then?’

I nod, cramming a piece of sticky waffle in my mouth.

‘I know I was completely out of order last night. I’m glad you’ve found a new friend, after everything that happened with …’

I shake my head. We’re not talking about that.

‘OK, OK.’ She holds up her hands in a gesture of peace. ‘I’m just saying, I think it’s really good for you to have a new friend.’

At school, we have a presentation about starting sixth form. We made our choices last term. I can’t wait to start my Photography A-level. I can’t believe I actually get to study something I love so much.

When I get home, I tip my shoebox of photos on to the bed. I flick through several shots, looking at them critically. One shows a single shaft of sunlight piercing through heavy clouds. Another is a blackbird perched in a tree, the oily sheen of its feathers glinting in the weak, early winter light. One of my favourites is an autumnal scene of ponies grazing in a clearing, their coppery coats in perfect harmony with the rust-coloured bracken and ochre leaves.

There are no photos of people. It’s not really my thing. Grandpa was good at portraits. I drag out one of his massive albums and look through it. I laugh at a shot of Mum, standing
in Grandpa’s kitchen with a cheeky grin on her face. I’m behind her – a chubby toddler clutching a cake bowl, the mixture smeared across my mouth. I remember the TV was blaring in the background. It must’ve been a Sunday because the
EastEnders
omnibus was on.

I start to hum the theme tune. The sound starts off hoarse and rough, but then it smooths over like shiny, polished wood as my voice awakens.

Stop it!

I stop. I take a deep, shaky breath and wait for my heart to stop galloping.

In Grandpa’s album, there’s a picture of him kneeling beside his vegetable patch, trowel in hand, looking up at the camera. I can tell by the look in his eyes that it was Gran who took the photo. Grandpa’s face, with its many shadowed wrinkles, always reminded me of tree bark. As a child, I longed to press my fingertips into the grooves to see if they were as scratchy as they looked.

I turn back to my own shots and compare them to Grandpa’s. He used to tell me I had a talent. I hope he was right, especially now I’m signed up for this Photography A-level.

I spent weeks agonising over my sixth-form application. I could’ve opted to stay at safe, familiar Barcham Green. They don’t do Photography, though, so I chose a scary new place, about twenty miles away, where no one knows about my
problem. Mum said I shouldn’t worry about it. I think she was hoping I’d be speaking by now.

Just the thought of September – of the new routine, the new people, the bus ride without Jasmine or Luke – makes me feel sick. I wonder if I’m going to regret this. I wonder how many other decisions in my life are going to be more complicated because I don’t speak. I wonder if there will ever be an end to it.