Birdy Read online

  ‘I think he likes me,’ she said that afternoon after school. We were in her den, sitting in the Egg and drinking big mugs of hot chocolate. ‘Jac, I mean. Do you think he likes me?’

  ‘French Jac?’ I asked lightly, although I already knew who she meant.

  Bert nodded and blew on her chocolate to cool it down. Then she giggled. ‘I think he’s handsome.’

  I scrunched my nose to one side. ‘Really? Do you? But he’s got that … tail thing in his hair.’

  Jac almost had a neat short back and sides, but right at the back, at the nape of his neck, he had a little straggly rat’s tail hanging down. It was a bit odd, really.

  ‘I like it,’ Bert said. ‘It’s exotic. Do you think he likes me? I think he might like me.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ I said, not quite meeting her eye.

  ‘Or do you think he doesn’t? I don’t know about this … about boys our age. Am I misreading the signs?’

  I didn’t say anything. I concentrated on trying to suck up a marshmallow from the top of my hot chocolate.

  ‘Oh, I am, aren’t I? I’m taking him too seriously. All those things he says … those comments … they’re just part of his comedy routine, aren’t they?’ Bert said, shaking her head. ‘Of course they are. What a wally I am.’

  Conversations with Bert were often like this. I wouldn’t necessarily need to say anything at all. She’d just gallop along on her own, jumping from one thought to another, making connections and drawing her own conclusions. I could just step in if and when I wanted to. I decided to step in now.

  ‘I think it’s just his way,’ I said. ‘He likes girls. Girls like him. I think it’s because he’s French.’

  ‘I see,’ Bert said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘A veritable Lothario. Understood.’

  We were quiet again as we sipped our drinks and listened to the rain on the skylight above us.

  ‘Goodness, imagine if I’d said something,’ Bert said after a while. ‘He would’ve laughed in my face. Quite rightly too.’ She shook her head and sipped her drink. ‘And anyway, what am I thinking? What am I thinking? The last thing I need is to be getting into that kind of trouble. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just …? Honestly, what on earth would I do without you, Birdy? You must never leave me to my own devices. Think of the pickle I’d be in.’

  I laughed. I wasn’t totally sure what she was talking about, couldn’t quite keep up with her leapfrogging thoughts, but I figured it didn’t matter too much. Whatever idea about Jac she’d been briefly entertaining seemed to have been snuffed out. She’d managed to talk herself out of it. I was relieved. I could do without Bert getting us dragged into the middle of some hormonal cat-fight about boys.

  And to be honest, I could do without anyone disrupting our peaceful little twosome.

  13

  So you’ll probably remember earlier in the story when I told you about the two girls in primary school rejecting me when I tried to join in their chalk-drawing playground project. One of those girls – the bigger, darker one – was Pippa Brookman and, as bad luck would have it, she and I seemed to end up being thrown together almost every year – in the same classes at St Paul’s and the same tutor groups at Whistle Down. I worked out pretty quickly that I’d had a lucky escape that day in the playground: Pippa was horrible.

  She was annoying even to look at – she had a big moony face and the kind of smile that was about eighty per cent gums with little stubby shark teeth just peeping through. She was one of those people who fancy themselves as incredibly important, putting herself forward for anything and everything, from peer bullying counsellor to PE captain to recycling monitor. She had this loud, hooting voice that she’d use to broadcast whatever ever-so-important crusade she was on at the time. She could be mean too, in a really sneaky way. Even though she liked to make a big deal about all her fundraising and charity work, she never seemed that bothered about actually being a nice person.

  This one time, in Year Eight, I’d come to school with a new haircut. It was just something I thought I’d try out to make me look a bit older – a bit shorter and a few layery bits. It didn’t really work out as I planned though, partly because as soon as my hair gets shorter than my shoulders it puffs up like a mushroom but also because I’d tried to cut it myself and things had got a bit tricky around the back. I was feeling a bit self-conscious as I walked into school that morning, but I’d been trying to reason with myself: No one cares about your hair, Frances. No one looks at you at all. They wouldn’t notice if you walked in without a head. But then, when I stepped into our tutor room and slipped into my seat, Pippa did this loud ‘Woooo’ noise and everyone looked over to me.

  ‘Look at you,’ she called, making sure her voice was loud enough for the whole room to hear. ‘New look, is it? Well, well, well. Very brave.’

  I just ignored her and pretended to look for something in my bag.

  She came over to me and made a big thing about circling around me, trying to get a look at me from all angles, everyone else still watching too.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said, doing a wincey face and shaking her head. ‘It’s so hard, isn’t it? When you’ve got so much body in your hair. Does have a tendency to make you look like you’ve stuck your fingers in a plug socket if you go too short.’ She shook her head again in mock sympathy. ‘Still,’ she said. ‘Well done, you, for trying something new. You’ve got to try things, haven’t you, before you can know they don’t work.’

  I glared at her but she just turned away from me and headed back to the other side of the classroom, pulling an exaggerated horrified face as she went.

  Luckily, by Year Ten, although we were still in the same tutor group, our timetables were different enough that I only really had to see her in registration. Even then we ignored each other. I knew we’d always remember the chalk day in the playground. I hoped she was ashamed. She probably wasn’t.

  In our school, assemblies were held every Thursday and, at the end, there was a five-minute slot for students to deliver messages to the school – stuff like updates on the football team’s performance, requests for sponsorship for charity walks, that kind of thing. One Thursday in late November, Pippa Brookman stepped forward together with Ana Mendez, a dark, mousey girl from my French class. I rolled my eyes and looked out of the window.

  Pippa pulled down the projector screen at the front of the hall.

  ‘Sorry, could we … could we do the lights?’ she called, looking around for someone to follow her command.

  A sixth-former stood up at the back of the room and flicked the switch. Pippa gave Ana a nod and Ana darted forward to switch on a laptop on the table in the middle of the hall. An image flicked onto the screen of an old woman. She had one of those faces that’s so crinkled and toothless it looks like it’s going to crumple right in on itself. A couple of Year Sevens giggled at the sight of her, but Pippa shot them a fierce look to shut them up.

  Pippa paused, waiting for everyone to have a good look at the woman, then she said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Edna.’ Another pause. She’d obviously been practising her dramatic delivery. ‘Edna is ninety-four years old. She’s lived through two world wars.’ I did some fast maths and looked around me to see if anyone else had picked up on the obvious mistake here. It didn’t look like they had. I looked at Bert, but she was staring intently at the image of Edna.

  ‘She was married to George for sixty-two years, until his death ten years ago,’ Pippa went on. ‘She had one son, Jimmy, but he was killed in a motorbike accident in the seventies.’

  At the side of the hall, our head, Mr Jeffrey, pointedly tapped his watch but Pippa wasn’t put off. She was on a roll, and I was sort of fascinated by where she was going.

  ‘So Edna is all alone. She has no family except for the family she’s made for herself amongst the staff and residents of the Meadowrise Residential Care Home, up near the racecourse.’

  She paused again, giving everyone a moment to take in this solemn news.
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  ‘Now,’ she said, in a brighter tone. Hopefully she was getting to the point. ‘As part of my Silver Duke of Edinburgh Award, I’ve been fortunate enough to work with some of the lovely elderly residents at Meadowrise and I’ve seen first-hand just how much the home means to them. So you can imagine my dismay when I learnt that the home was to be closed down due to cuts in council funding.’

  Another pause. I suppose people were supposed to gasp or something but most people just looked at their feet, probably wondering when someone was going to shut her up.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree that this can’t be allowed to happen.’

  Pippa gave Ana a small nod and Ana quickly replaced the picture of Edna with a slide showing text that said:

  Save Meadowrise!

  Action Group meeting, Saturday 1 p.m.

  We will not be moved!

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll be leading a protest outside the gates of Meadowrise. We need to show the council that we, the people, care about the elderly, that we won’t be ignored. If you think vulnerable people like Edna have a right to live peacefully in the place they call home then join Ana and I. Meet us outside Meadowrise at ten to one. Bring banners, bring placards, bring enthusiasm!’

  I think this last bit was meant to be rousing, but she was met with an echoey silence and the odd yawn.

  Luckily, Mr Jeffrey stepped in before she had a chance to go on.

  ‘Thank you, Philippa,’ he said. ‘Most … inspirational. I’m afraid we’ve run out of time this week, so any other student notices will have to wait till next week. Off to classes please, everyone.’

  ‘Me,’ I said to Bert as soon as we were out in the corridor. ‘Why does she always say “I”? She means me.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Bert said, frowning.

  ‘She said, “Join Ana and I.” It’s not I in that context, it’s me. It should’ve been “Join Ana and me.” She always says I. Always. It’s like she thinks it makes her sound more intelligent. Sometimes I just want to tell her, I just want to say, “It’s not always I! Sometimes it’s me!”’

  ‘Oh right, yes,’ Bert said.

  Bert and I had already discussed our shared intolerance of bad grammar so I’d thought this little rant would make her laugh but she barely seemed to be listening at all. She was frowning into the distance. ‘Don’t you think it’s awful, though? About Edna?’

  I shrugged. ‘S’pose.’

  ‘Oh, Birdy, I think it’s dreadful! Don’t you? After what happened to her son, and her husband, and now … being uprooted like this. She won’t have a clue what’s happening to her, poor love.’

  ‘Won’t she?’ I said, looking at Bert out of the corner of my eye. ‘I don’t think Pippa mentioned that she was senile.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Bert said. ‘I still think it’s awful. We should go, Birdy. To the protest. We should make a stand!’

  I couldn’t think of anything I’d less like to do at the weekend than stand with Pippa Brookman outside an old people’s home in the freezing cold, waving banners while Pippa would probably want to lead us through a selection of embarrassing chants. The truth was, I wasn’t totally sure I was all that bothered about the old people. Is that terrible? I don’t know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, when for all the excuses you might make about why you can’t do something, the simple truth is you just don’t want to do it. I had a feeling Bert would just see that as me being a bit mean. She didn’t know Pippa well enough to see it from my point of view. She didn’t know what she was really like. So that meant excuses were in order if I was going to get out of the protest without looking like a grouch.

  ‘I can’t, unfortunately,’ I said, doing my best to put on a such-a-shame face. ‘I’ve got to help my nan with some stuff. She wants to sort out the loft and she can’t get up there now. Doesn’t like going up the ladder.’

  This was partly true, although it probably wouldn’t take much more than an hour and Nan hadn’t specified it had to be done on Saturday afternoon. Still, I thought it was the perfect excuse. Got me out of the ridiculous protest without making me look unkind. Luckily, this was exactly how Bert saw it.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said, turning to look at me. ‘You’ve got quite enough on your hands, dealing with your own grandparents. Sorry, Birdy, I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said with a modest shrug. ‘It’s just … you know, they can’t do everything they want any more. I need to be there for them sometimes.’

  I was worried I was laying it on a bit thick, but it seemed to work quite well on Bert.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, putting her hand on my arm. ‘Of course. I understand. You are good, you know. The way you look after them.’

  I gave her a small, put-upon smile and assumed that would be the last I’d hear of the Meadowrise old folks protest. So you can imagine my surprise when, as Bert and I crossed the field on our way home that evening, Pippa cycled past waving and calling out, ‘See you tomorrow, Alberta. Don’t be late.’

  ‘See you!’ Bert replied, smiling and waving back.

  I spun round to look at her. ‘What?’ I said. ‘You mean, you’re going to the protest?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Bert said, wide-eyed. ‘Of course. How could I not? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Edna all day.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to keep the indignation out of my voice. ‘Right.’

  I desperately wanted to talk Bert out of it. I thought about suggesting the two of us do something together instead but I’d already shot myself in the foot by telling her that I was busy with Nan and Granddad so that wasn’t an option. What I really wanted to do was launch into a massive rant about what a cow Pippa Brookman was and how Bert really shouldn’t be encouraging her by taking part in any of her stupid little projects. But I held my tongue. I knew if I looked like I was being bitter about things it would make her get all haughty, and would probably only make her think badly of me rather than Pippa.

  I just sulked all the way home, saying a bit of a cool goodbye to her at the top of the hill where we went our separate ways.

  14

  The next day, I was distracted for a while when I was helping Nan heave Granddad’s power tools up into the loft. She said it was just ‘for the winter’ but I think we both knew they wouldn’t be coming out again anytime soon. When we were finished I spent the rest of the day with one eye on the clock.

  I kept my phone by my side, picking it up to check it every few minutes and throwing it down in frustration when I saw that I had no new messages. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to see exactly. I suppose it was a message from Bert, saying that she’d realised just in time that Pippa Brookman was an idiot and asking me if I wanted to meet up today instead. That message never came of course, and I imagined Pippa and Bert arm in arm, clinging to the railings of Meadowrise and chanting, ‘What do we want? To keep the old people! Where do we want them? Here!’ This, I was sure, was the beginning of the end for me and Bert. She’d attach herself to Pippa now. They’d be the special friends now, not us. They’d spend their weekends saving the planet and rescuing people in need and I’d be discarded, the selfish, unkind one. On my own, just where I belonged.

  But then, just after five, when Nan had gone to top up the electric meter and Granddad was dozing in his armchair, I got a message:

  What a day. Not exactly what I thought. Meet at the park?

  I replied at once.

  OK. See you in ten minutes.

  I quickly checked on Granddad then let myself out of the house.

  I found Bert sitting on the swing, gently swaying from side to side, poking at the dirt with the toe of her boot.

  ‘How was it then?’ I said, taking a seat on the swing next to her. ‘Manage to save the world? Save Edna at least?’

  I hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic and I regretted it straight away, but it didn’t seem to matter. Bert was preoccupied.

  She sighed. ‘It was all rather disappointing.’

  ‘Not many people turn up?�
� I asked, trying to be gentle about it. I didn’t want to crow over her too much. That wouldn’t have been very dignified.

  ‘There were a few. Not a crowd as such, but maybe twenty or so. And the press were there too.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, imagining BBC news reporters and photographers jostling to get a good shot.

  ‘Well, yes. A man from the Echo anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’

  The Echo was the local newspaper. Its idea of ‘news’ was a minute-by-minute account of a family of ducks crossing the road. I wasn’t sure I really considered it ‘the press’.

  ‘Well yes, and that’s it really. I’d say Pippa was more interested in talking to the journalist guy and having her photo taken than anything else.’

  I had to stop myself from grinning. That sounded like Pippa all right.

  ‘And to start with, I thought, you know, fair enough. She’s just trying to get the word out. That’s the whole point really, isn’t it? Raising awareness and all that. So they were doing that for a while, and everyone else was just sort of milling around. It felt like things hadn’t really started yet, so I thought, I’ll go inside and talk to the old people. I wanted to meet Edna, really. So I snuck in behind a man delivering potatoes and went into the lounge where they were all sitting around, watching the telly and playing cards and whatnot.

  ‘There was a woman in a big cardy, sitting by the window, looking out at Pippa and the others. She was sort of chuckling and shaking her head. Then she looked up at me and said, “You know, when I was a teenager, Saturday afternoons were all about going down the pier and getting drunk. Lie there all day, we would. Hanky-panky too, sometimes, if you were lucky. We knew how to have fun. Not like this lot. What are they playing at, eh?”