I'm on the train! (11 page)

‘We're coming up to Camden now,' her father was explaining to his pupil. She was beginning to look distinctly bored, but since she could hardly move away, he was making the most of his captive audience.

‘It was a peaceful rural area until 1820, when the Regent's Canal was extended eastwards and brought quite a bit of industry here – coal-wharves and the like. Camden Town itself is full of history. Charles Dickens used to live here, when he was a boy, and the last fatal duel was fought near the Brecknock Arms in 1843.'

Who cared? Not Sydney-Sue, for one, judging by the glazed look in her eyes. She probably didn't even know who Dickens
was
. The best thing about Camden wasn't duels or coal-wharves, but the market and the shops, which sold everything from herbal skunk and Jimi Hendrix T-shirts to eyebrow studs and belly-button rings. In fact, once the bus had nosed into the High Street, she was tempted to get off and browse the stalls. Except it would only lead to
arguments
and, anyway, she could just about endure one more lousy picnic on the Heath, because she had secretly decided that this was her last bus-holiday – last
ever
, in point of fact. Next year she would be eighteen, which meant officially an adult, so she had every right to go off on her own, for once, to some exotic foreign hot-spot. Apart from anything else, she would need an escape from the gloom and disappointment bound to follow in the wake of her A-level results. It was actually quite pointless to be doing them at all, when she knew she would fail the lot, but her father had laid down the law – couldn't bear the thought of any child of his not getting four straight A's. And he kept arguing the toss about her refusal even to try for university, despite the fact she hadn't the slightest wish to study any longer, let alone sit any more exams. Let
Tim
be the star, win an Oxbridge scholarship, fulfil her parents' dreams. She had other plans. In fact, she might stay abroad for good; find a job in Italy or Spain; fall in love with some tall, dark, hunky guy and refuse to come home even for the wedding. If her father wanted to lead her up the aisle, then he and Mum would have to take a plane, stretch themselves, for once. Even the amazing, brilliant,
culture-brimming
number 24 didn't go quite as far as Italy and Spain.

‘Goodbye, darling.'

‘Bye, Mum.' She'd said goodbye three times already, but her mother seemed unable to tear herself away. Her parents had insisted
on seeing her off, which really was a pain. With them in tow, she couldn't explore the concourse – all those shops and cafés just begging her to step inside: order a drink, buy a top, try on trendy shoes. In any case, she needed time and space to relish the sheer excitement of being in an airport for the first time in her life. Seeing all the destinations flashing on the departure-boards not only gave her a buzz; it was a valuable reminder that the world stretched slightly further than from Pimlico to Hampstead Heath. Besides, her mum was spoiling everything by continually fussing and fretting, and had been issuing dire warnings about every sort of danger, the entire way to Heathrow.

‘Promise me you'll be careful. I can't help worrying.'

‘Mum, I'm only going to
Rome
, not Iraq or Afghanistan. Europe's pretty tame, you know. Lisa's backpacking in India, and Christie's trekking right across the Australian outback.'

‘It doesn't matter. There's danger everywhere. And don't forget to phone us the minute you arrive.'

‘I've said I will, OK?'

Her mother peered at her hand-luggage, as if convinced a terrorist had already slipped a bomb inside. ‘Are you sure you've got everything you need?'

‘Well, if I haven't, it's too late now.'

Her father had been uncharacteristically quiet, refraining from any lectures on the history of aviation, or the design of the terminal, although he had taken charge, of course: carried her cases, breathed down her neck at check-in, warned her (twice) not to lose her boarding pass. All at once, he unpeeled a
£
20-note from his wallet and pushed it into her hand. ‘Here's a little extra, to buy yourself a drink.'

‘I don't want her going to bars, Kenneth. Not with all those scares about people spiking drinks.'

‘I'll buy an ice-cream, OK, Mum?
They're
not laced with drugs. And thanks a lot for the cash.'

‘I just wish it could be more.' Her father dodged a bruiser of a bloke, who, loaded down with baggage, had all but cannoned into him. ‘Now listen, Hayley, dear, make sure you see those churches I
mentioned – St Balbina, and Saints Neruus and Achilleus. They may be off the beaten track, but you'll find they're well worth the effort.'

‘Yes, Dad.' If her father really thought she intended wandering round fusty old churches, with her nose glued to a guide-book, he was seriously deluded. Still, wiser to say nothing about her actual plans: to find some hot Italian footballer and spend her free time groin to groin with him, flashing about in his sports car. She was getting sick of Jason. OK, he was faithful, unlike Luke, last year, but he sometimes seemed like a soppy spaniel puppy, racing off to retrieve the sticks she threw and dropping them adoringly at her feet. A macho type would be much more up her street – some feisty, hardcore sort of guy, who wouldn't fawn or slobber, or crawl submissively to heel if she so much as raised her voice.

‘Oh, Lord! They're calling your flight.' Her mother sounded close to tears. ‘You'd better hurry, darling. Give me one last hug.'

The hug was horribly embarrassing, especially in a public place. All those people watching must imagine she was about to start a life-sentence in some sleazy foreign gaol, rather than simply going on a jaunt. Even her father clung to her for ages, like he believed he'd never see her again. Her parents meant well, of course. They were just fussed about her going off on her own, as if they thought she was five, instead of eighteen-and-a-half. Anyway, once she got to Rome, she wouldn't
be
on her own, but surrounded by the buzzy crowd at Melissa's uncle's restaurant. It was a real stroke of luck, in fact, that things had panned out so well. Federico wanted extra help for the summer, and
she
wanted a job and somewhere to stay. The only disappointment was that Melissa had already left for her
gap-year
in Bangkok, so wouldn't be there herself. But at least her friend had provided her with a respectable Italian family, who would help her learn the language – indeed, who had made the trip possible at all. Her parents would have gone berserk if she'd just buzzed off on spec, with no proper base or forwarding address.

‘Ciao, Mamma, ciao, Papa,'
she carolled, showing off the Italian she had learned from phrase-books and CDs.
‘Non ti preoccupare. Ti chiamo sta sera.'

And, with a last determined wave, she strode ahead through
security
,
refusing to turn round; refusing to listen to any more warnings about food poisoning, contaminated water, dangerous drivers, handbag-snatchers, or mad Italian bottom-pinchers. In just an hour, she would be flying at 30,000 feet, above France, above the clouds; free, at last; unchaperoned, at last, and never – repeat never – having to clamber up the stairs of another 24 bus.

‘I thought you said you weren't coming with us again.'

‘People are entitled to change their minds, Tim.'

‘Sorry – I don't get it. I mean, you still haven't told us why you came back from Rome so soon, when you'd planned to stay a year.'

Hayley didn't answer. Since she'd arrived in England, two days ago, everyone had asked her the same question, and she'd been forced to resort to lies: Federico already had too many staff and couldn't really use her, and it was impossible to live in Rome without a proper wage. And she'd been unwell, with a nasty case of sunburn, after a seaside trip to Anzio. Oh, and she'd had cystitis, too, and an infected mosquito-bite.

Thank God she was sitting next to Tim. Being grilled by her brother was marginally better than being grilled by her parents, who were a good six rows in front on this more-than-
usually-crowded
number 24. Yet, despite the crowds, despite the constant cross-questioning, she had to admit she felt overwhelming relief – yes, even with a bunch of kids squalling right behind her and aiming vicious kicks at the back of her seat. In fact, more than just relief – she felt very nearly happy, without a trace of her normal
grouchiness
. The weather was fantastic: breezy, bright and not too hot for August – nothing like the blistering heat of Rome – and they were heading for Camden Lock, for a walk along the canal, followed by a guided tour of Lords. Nothing wrong with that. OK, she wasn't a wild cricket fan, but her father said you could see the players' dressing-rooms and even the urn that held the Ashes.

Tim was jogging her arm. ‘Why can't you tell me more about the trip? Or is it top-secret or something?'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Well, that Italian geezer – what was he like?'

‘Which Italian geezer?' she asked, warily. There had been a few too many, and she was still reeling from the experience.

‘The one you stayed with, of course – Frederico, or whatever he's called.'

‘
Frederico
. He's big and fat and and hairy, and angry all the time.'

‘And what about his wife?'

‘Big and fat and hairy, too! Better-natured, but talks non-stop.'

‘Did she teach you much Italian, then?'

‘A bit.' She fished
Grazia
from her bag and pretended to be reading it, but, undeterred, Tim returned to the fray.

‘Know what
I
think?'

‘No.'

‘That Federico fired you, but you're too scared to tell Mum and Dad, which is why you're being so edgy.'

‘Shut up, Tim! I wasn't fired – no way. I just decided to come back because …' Her voice tailed off. There were so many different reasons, most of which she would never admit to anyone. She'd been homesick, for God's sake – she, the intrepid traveller, pining for her mum and dad; even missing her usual goodnight kiss. How pathetic was that? And she'd hated flying, which wasn't fun at all, just terrifying at the start, then boring and uncomfortable – and even more cramped than the bus. And she'd proved hopeless as a waitress; muddled all the orders because her Italian was so sketchy and, once Federico twigged, he had demoted her to skivvy, after just three days. Even then, she couldn't seem to please him. He was always going mental and yelling the place down in great scary sort of rages. In fact, it made her realize how good-tempered her own father was. He never swore or shouted, or broke cups and plates on purpose, just to vent his temper on everybody else.

And the younger guys she'd met had all been nasty. One had all but raped her, and another thrust his tongue so far down her throat, she very nearly threw up. And, although most of them spoke English, they liked to pretend they didn't, so that when she said, ‘Look, I barely even know you. Can we take this a bit slower?', they translated it as ‘Go full steam ahead'. Jason was an angel in
comparison
; a decent sort of bloke who never forced the pace and
understood if she was feeling a bit off. She'd text him again this evening; tell him she loved him, again. She
did
love him – madly – even loved her geeky brother; loved everyone in London, just because she was home and safe and no longer exiled in an alien land. She wouldn't say a word, of course, about such shameful
feelings
, for fear of being thought a total wimp. Yet, mixed in with the shame was a sense of celebration, because the experience was over now and she was back where she belonged.

As the bus swerved round a corner, her father came swaying down the aisle towards them, clutching at the rail, to keep his balance. ‘Two seats have just come free, kids, so do join us at the front. I want to point out a couple of things in Whitehall.'

Having grabbed the empty seats just across from their parents, she and Tim – along with the Indian couple in front – listened to him explaining how King Charles I was executed on the exact spot they were passing. And she actually felt proud of him for being so clued-up on history (and art and books and architecture), and not an uncultured yob like Federico, who wouldn't know King Charles from Charlie Brown. In fact, she had come back just in time. There were five more bus-trips left and, for the first time ever, she was really looking forward to them. Tomorrow they were getting off at the stop for Kentish Town, for a visit to St Martin's church – famous for some reason – then to three old staging inns and a flat where George Orwell had lived. Also, her dad was going to show them the course of the River Fleet, when it used to flow freely from Hampstead down to Blackfriars Bridge, before being caged up underground. And the day after that, they were going to the National Gallery, to see an exhibition, chosen in her honour, because it was all Italian artists – people called Divisionists,
whatever
that might mean. Perhaps she'd listen, for a change; learn a bit about them, and, even if she didn't, every painting would give her a real kick just because she was here in England, and not in Italy.

Weird as it might sound, since returning from her month in Rome, it actually seemed a good idea to take holidays on a bus. No lost luggage, to start with. Hers had gone missing for a whole five days, and the only clothes the airline had dished out, to make do
with while she waited, were a gruesome T-shirt, printed front and back with
Alitalia
, and a pair of passion-killer knickers that came down beyond her knees. And, on a bus, you didn't get
mosquito-bites
or sunstroke; didn't have to queue for hours at check-in and, best of all, there wasn't that hideous feeling of being completely alone in the world, because you were miles away from everyone you loved. In fact, she didn't really care if they did this same bus-trip every year – for ever. And if she got married and moved away, she might even take her own kids; choose a different bus-route, but follow the same basic plan of setting out seven days in a row. Perhaps she could make it a family tradition – something a bit crazy, but original and fun, which should be carried on right down the generations by her children's children's children.