Birdy Page 5

  She leant forward and kissed me on the cheek. I froze, not quite sure how to respond. My nan had probably only kissed me twice in my entire life so I wasn’t used to these kinds of spontaneous displays of affection.

  ‘Yes, this is Frances,’ Bert said, stepping into the hall and kicking off her shoes. ‘I call her Birdy. But that’s our thing really so you should probably just call her Frances. Is that OK with you?’ she added, turning back to check with me.

  I said it was fine and Genevieve laughed. ‘Right-oh,’ she said. ‘Can you help yourselves to a snack or whatever you want? I’m just finishing up in here.’

  Genevieve disappeared into a room off the hall that smelt like varnish and glue.

  ‘Mum’s studio,’ Bert explained. ‘She spends most of her life in there. She’s an artist. Genevieve Fitzroy – have you heard of her? She does these ginormous paintings – all bright colours and splashes of paint everywhere. She sells them for thousands.’

  I shook my head. It didn’t exactly sound like the kind of artwork we’d be likely to have in my grandparents’ house.

  Bert’s kitchen was warm and smelt like coffee. I sat at a huge wooden table and watched as Bert poured us big glasses of lemonade and made us jam on toast. I couldn’t imagine Nan ever letting me raid the cupboards like that. Especially not before dinner. As we sat at the kitchen table, the back door opened and a tall, thin man with curly orange hair and muddy green wellies came in.

  He seemed surprised to see us. ‘Ah, hello there! Is it that time already? I thought it was still morning!’ He stopped in the middle of the kitchen and looked at me, his head on one side. ‘And who have we here?’

  ‘Frances,’ Bert told him through a mouthful of toast.

  ‘Of course, of course! The wonderful Frances!’

  He went to the sink and washed his hands, soaping himself right up to the elbows like a surgeon getting ready to go into theatre, then he turned back to me.

  ‘I’m the father,’ he explained. ‘Also known as Charlie. Sorry about the attire.’ He pointed down to his dirty knees and boots. ‘Been planting hyacinth bulbs for hours. Got carried away.’

  He seemed younger than his wife, I thought. But then maybe that was just because he had one of those fresh, jolly faces that redheads often seem to come with. He filled a glass with water and downed it in one, then headed towards the hall.

  ‘Just getting in the shower,’ he said.

  From the hallway, we heard Genevieve shout, ‘Charlie! Get those boots off the carpet!’ and Charlie mumbling his apologies as he pulled them off.

  Bert rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘Dad’s a gardener,’ she said. ‘Although he mostly only does our garden. He’s too scatty to run a business really. He does have a van though.’

  I nodded and chewed my toast.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ Bert went on. ‘Mum’s dad was super-rich. An actual millionaire. He was horrible apparently and he’s dead now, but he left Mum pots of money.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said. ‘Sounds good.’

  I was slightly taken aback by this frank disclosure. I’d always been taught that it was rude to talk about money. Especially to show off about it. But the way Bert had said it, it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like showing off at all.

  ‘Hey,’ Bert said, grinning when we’d finished our snack. ‘Do you want to see my den?’

  10

  Bert’s house was huge. There were four floors. Bert led me up to the third floor, and then up a further set of stairs, narrow and winding, that led to the attic.

  Her den took up the whole of the attic space and it was completely amazing. In my eyes, it was as close as you could get to paradise within the confines of a family home. Three of the walls were sloping, making the room feel all cosy and snug. In one corner there were three beanbags nestled in between two fully stacked book shelves. On the one vertical wall of the room, there was a big flat-screen TV with a whole pile of technological boxes and gadgets on a shelf below it. The whole room was decorated with framed prints of old-fashioned sketches of ballet dancers and trapeze artists. Most had French captions written along the bottom of them in swirly lettering.

  In the middle of the room there was a kind of chair that looked like a giant wooden ball on legs. It had a stand that curled right around the back of it and the main chair – the ball – was suspended from a chain.

  Bert went over to it and ran her hand over the smooth, dark wood. ‘This,’ she said proudly, ‘is the Egg. Dad made it. Fab, isn’t it? It’s like a work of art, I think. But so comfy too. Like heaven. Look.’ She hopped up and climbed inside. ‘Come on!’

  I hesitated. ‘Will we fit? Will it hold us both?’

  ‘Yeah, easy!’ Bert said. ‘This thing could hold a baby elephant.’

  I took my shoes off and clambered in, letting myself sink down into the soft cream cushions. It really was comfortable.

  ‘It’s like a little hamster’s nest, isn’t it?’ Bert said, lying back and resting her head against the cushions. ‘It always makes me want to go to sleep.’

  The Egg opened up taller on the inside, with the lip of the wood narrowing over the entrance, giving it a closed-in, cosy feel.

  ‘It is lovely,’ I said, shutting my own eyes and leaning back.

  We lay in the Egg for an hour or so I suppose, half-watching cartoons but mostly just chatting. Then Bert announced she was ‘ravenous’ so we went downstairs to investigate when dinner was going to be ready.

  Charlie was in the kitchen wearing a clean pair of jeans and a pink shirt that matched his cheeks but clashed with his hair. He was unloading the dishwasher, piling coloured bowls into a cupboard.

  ‘When’s dinner, Dad?’ Bert said as I followed her in. ‘We’re starved.’

  Charlie put his hands on his hips and looked around the kitchen, frowning. ‘Uh … I hadn’t really thought about it …’ he said. ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘Something massive,’ Bert said.

  Genevieve appeared at the door. ‘Have we got anything in?’ she said. ‘I meant to go to the market today but I got side-tracked …’

  Charlie opened a cupboard and shuffled tins about. ‘Beans?’ he called out. ‘Mushroom soup? Or … more beans?’

  ‘Takeaway it is then,’ Genevieve said with a laugh.

  Charlie poked his head out from behind the cupboard door and grinned at me. ‘Good heavens, Frances,’ he said. ‘What must you think of us? Invited for dinner and no dinner in sight!’

  I shrugged and smiled shyly. ‘It’s OK,’ I said.

  I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live in a house where you didn’t know what was going to be for dinner, right up until the last minute. Where people hung about in clothes covered in mud and paint. Where people laughed and joked and teased each other. I thought it was all totally brilliant.

  I thought of Nan and Granddad at home, sitting down to Tuesday’s meal – fried liver and onions – and I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. I don’t know if it was the dread of going back there that night, or guilt at the thought of them alone. As Granddad got worse, Nan would veer between attempting to keep things normal, trying desperately to think of questions to ask that wouldn’t confuse him, and giving up, losing her temper and snapping at him, which only made him blink in confusion. I hated both. I pushed the image away.

  I’d never had a takeaway before and I loved it all, the whole process. I loved choosing exactly what I wanted from the paper menu (not that I had any idea what any of the foreign-sounding names meant – I went for Kung Po and Foo Yung in the end, because I liked the way the words sounded). I loved listening to Charlie order it all, reading out the string of numbers like it was a code. I loved it when the doorbell rang and Charlie carried in a plastic bag full of foil trays and spread them out across the table. I suppose the bit I liked most of all was the way it was all so relaxed – dishes passing between us, great piles of noodles slopped onto plates, everyone talking with their mouths full and laugh
ing.

  On the wall next to the table, above a dresser that was stacked with the kind of brightly coloured plates that make you think of an African tribe, there was a photo of a much younger Charlie. A baby with a squashed-up face was perched on his knee, scowling at the camera.

  I nodded towards the photo. ‘Is that you?’ I asked Bert.

  She pulled a face. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Hideous, wasn’t she?’ Charlie said, with a grin. ‘As soon as I saw her I said to the midwife, “Take her away. Send her back to where she came from. She’s an eyesore.”’

  ‘Charlie!’ Genevieve cried, and punched him playfully on the arm. ‘Don’t say that about my baby!’

  Bert did an exaggerated comedy pout, her bottom lip sticking out. But then she laughed and her parents smiled back at her. Charlie pulled her in close and kissed her on the top of the head and I knew there was no way that anyone in this family could ever really know what it was like to be unwanted.

  After dinner, Bert and Charlie scraped the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, Bert shrieking as Charlie pretended to try to juggle three plates. Genevieve and I stayed at the table. She leant back in her chair, swilling her red wine around in her glass. I sat on my hands and looked around the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with myself without Bert there.

  Genevieve looked over towards Bert. ‘I’m so pleased, you know,’ she said. ‘At how well it’s all going for her. With the school, I mean.’

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Genevieve breathed out and shook her head, then she looked up towards the ceiling. ‘I wasn’t at all sure how it would work out, you know. Such a leap of faith.’

  It was more like she was talking to herself than to me, so I just tried to listen politely.

  ‘I mean, is it really OK to send a kid who’s never really had to conform, who’s never really had to be part of anything, into that kind of … institution? And to just expect them to take to it – to the rules and social hierarchy? God, I don’t know if I could do it. But then, on the other hand, look how things were going here. Maybe it was a mistake, teaching her at home all these years … maybe if she was more streetwise then that Richard business wouldn’t have got so out of hand. But then, well, I always think that someone’s weak points are usually a by-product of all their best qualities and I wouldn’t change Bertie’s exuberance for anything really …’

  I wasn’t sure if I’d call throwing a brick through someone’s car window ‘exuberance’ but I didn’t like to say anything. Genevieve trailed off. She shook her head quickly and then she leant forward again, looking at me now.

  ‘Anyway!’ she said, smiling. ‘Anyway. It all seems to be going marvellously, doesn’t it? And, young lady, I have a pretty good idea that you have something to do with that. You’ve been such a good friend, looking after her like this. I’d so hoped she would meet someone like you. A clever girl. Someone grounded. We’re very lucky she found you.’ Genevieve reached forward and squeezed my hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking me right in the eyes.

  I shrugged, feeling rather pleased with myself, although perhaps just a little uncomfortable. I really wasn’t used to this kind of talk from an adult, this kind of openness. ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’m lucky too. Bert is really nice.’

  Genevieve laughed and looked over at Bert again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes she is.’

  When dinner was over, we went back up to the den and climbed back into the Egg. We had the TV on in the background – some American programme Nan would never have let me watch, about beautiful tanned people driving around LA in open-top cars – but mostly we just talked. I can’t remember what about now, I don’t think it was anything particularly serious or important. I just remember that the time seemed to tumble by. I knew it was getting late and Nan would be working herself up into a stew but I so badly didn’t want to go home. When it got to about half past eight though, I couldn’t take the guilt any longer so I told Bert I needed to get going.

  ‘Ohhh,’ she moaned. ‘OK … if you really have to.’

  I said that unfortunately I did, and we hauled ourselves out of the Egg. As we did so, Bert’s hair got tangled in her necklace, holding her head at an awkward angle and making us laugh. I stood behind her and undid the clasp to free her. I dropped the gold chain into her hand.

  ‘Hey,’ she said suddenly, holding the necklace up by its gold chain, dangling the charm in front of my eyes. ‘Look!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at what it is – I’ve never really thought about it before.’

  I peered closely at the tiny bird shape with its outstretched wings. It was black, apart from a tiny speck of gold where its beak was. ‘A bird?’

  ‘A blackbird!’ Bert said, her eyes shining. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m Bert Fitzroy-Black. You’re Frances Bird. Birdy. So this is like, what we are together. A blackbird!’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Sort of like … our symbol? Our emblem.’

  Bert shrugged and smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ She held the necklace out to me, the delicate metal bird swinging from side to side. ‘Here. You should have it.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I couldn’t take it. It’s yours.’

  ‘Of course you must!’ Bert said, holding me by the shoulders and spinning me round. ‘I want you to. I insist.’ She passed the end of the chain between her hands in front of me and fastened it at the back of my neck.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure … Thanks,’ I said, turning round to face her. I held the tiny bird between my thumb and finger. ‘I’ll look after it. Until you want it back, I mean.’

  Bert laughed. ‘I don’t want it back, silly. It’s yours forever!’

  11

  Looking back, I think those autumn months were probably the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.

  What with our matching timetables, our dawdling walks across the field and our after-school trips to town, Bert and I were barely apart. Bert seemed to have a never-ending supply of cash and was quite generous about buying me cans of Coke and bags of pic ’n’ mix. I never accepted any more than that – I suppose Nan’s reluctance to take gifts from others had rubbed off on me – but that didn’t stop Bert offering. Sometimes when we were in shops I’d comment that I liked a particular top or had always wanted to read a certain book and she’d immediately offer to buy it for me.

  There was only once when I was really tempted – when we were trying on clothes in one of the designer shops I’d never even looked at before I’d met Bert. It was a jumper made of the softest cashmere in the loveliest shade of blue I’d ever seen. It oozed quality and luxury. And expense. Bert insisted that I try it on and I didn’t see any harm in that, at least.

  ‘Oh, Birdy,’ she said, reaching forward and stroking the soft fabric of the sleeve. ‘It’s simply gorgeous on you. You’ve got to have it. Here, give it to me. It’ll be my treat.’

  I hesitated for just a moment, letting myself imagine holding a carrier bag, the jumper neatly folded inside, then taking it up to my room and placing it lovingly on the top shelf of my wardrobe. But that’s as far as it would ever be able to go really. There was no way I could wear it around the house – how would I explain to Nan where it’d come from? I shook my head firmly.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you, honestly. But no. I don’t need it. I’ve got plenty of jumpers. I’m just being silly.’

  Almost as if to torture me, I saw the same jumper a few weeks later in the fashion pages of one of Nan’s magazines. I gazed at it, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Maybe I should’ve just let Bert buy the thing – she seemed to have plenty of money, after all. But the moment was gone; I certainly couldn’t ask her for it now. I folded the corner of the magazine to mark its place, though I wasn’t sure why.

  There was one big thing I did accept from Bert though and that was a mobile phone.

  Bert had been incredulous when she’d asked to take my number a few weeks after we’d met and I’d admitted that I didn’t have one. Of cou
rse, the truth was that Nan would never have let me get one, even if she had been able to afford it – ‘What makes you think you’re so special that you need to be contactable at all hours of the day? Who do you think you are, Barack bloody Obama?’. I thought I’d played the whole thing quite well though, making it look like deliberate aloofness on my part – some kind of demonstration of my independence and individuality.

  ‘But what if someone wants to speak to you?’ Bert had said, frowning as she tried to get her head around the idea.

  I shrugged. ‘Then they can come over and talk to me. I don’t want people pestering me all day and night.’

  I’d almost laughed as I’d said that, at how ludicrous it was. I couldn’t think of a single person who’d be interested in contacting me at all, let alone all day and night. Bert obviously hadn’t been satisfied with my position on communications though, because when we met to walk to school together the next day, she handed me a small carrier bag.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she said quickly. ‘I know you don’t want people phoning you and whatnot but then just don’t give them your number. But I want to be able to contact you. That’s OK, isn’t it? I mean, it makes sense really. What if I’m late to walk to school or something? I’ll need to get the message to you somehow.’

  I reached into the bag and pulled the phone out. It wasn’t one of the really swish models that people have these days – it was just a little boxy thing really with round plastic buttons – but even so, I could feel my heartbeat quicken. Blimey, I thought, an actual mobile phone of my own. And a hotline to Bert too. How brilliant, to be able to talk at any time. In fact, I was so overcome with glee that I almost forgot to do the polite thing and refuse to take the gift.

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s a bit of a tatty old thing,’ Bert said. ‘It’s my old one. But it’s in full working order. We can text and ring and everything.’