Keep the Faith (14 page)

I’m feeling very positive today. Obviously, there’s plenty of time for me to make some money before the summer and how hard can it be to convince my parents I
am extremely mature and responsible before then?

When Dad forced me to lay the table for lunch, I said, ‘I need a job.’

Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you’re already fulfilling all your obligations at home and school so well?’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

‘What is it then? You want to contribute to the functioning of our society?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I want some money, you turnip!’

‘I don’t think you’re old enough to do most jobs.’

‘How can I be too young to work? I’ve been slaving away at the coalface of learning for the last ten years.’

Dad handed me the place mats. ‘Indeed. And I’d happily send you down a mine, but there are laws. They seem to think the children of today are too weedy for such work.’

‘Weedy? Listen, you’ve got to be made of pretty stern stuff to cope with double Chemistry on a Friday afternoon.’ I frisbeed the mats into place, demonstrating my considerable
physical skill.

‘I think they worry about you getting too tired and not having enough energy for your education.’

‘And where are these concerned people when Killer Bill is forcing me round the athletics track?’

‘You could do some more chores around the house.’

I clanked the cutlery down on the table. ‘I want a proper job.’

‘I’m not sure I can think of anyone who’d want a fourteen-year-old—’

‘
Fifteen
. I’m going to be fifteen in about five minutes and I can’t think of anyone who
wouldn’t
want an energetic and enthusiastic teenager in their
workplace.’

‘Yes, but that’s not really an accurate description of you, is it?’

‘Dad, you are forgetting the first rule of parenting. Remember that the child
you
know is completely different to the child that the world sees. I am generally known as a helpful
and hardworking type.’ I grabbed some glasses out of the cupboard. ‘Except for at school and Granny’s house obviously.’

‘What were you thinking of?’

‘How about a supermarket?’

‘You can’t work in a supermarket.’

‘Yes I can! Watch.’ I demonstrated how I am quite capable of swinging a scanning arm and looking hacked off at the same time.

Dad whisked the water jug out of the way before I sent it flying. ‘While it’s true that you do look remarkably like those girls in the orange uniforms, I’m pretty sure you have
to be at least sixteen to work in a supermarket.’

‘Who wants to work in a supermarket when they’re sixteen?’

‘I thought you did.’

‘I want to work there
now
, not when I’m sixteen. I’ll have been spotted by then.’

‘Spotted? Spotted for what?’

‘I’ll leave that to the spotter. No one likes being told how to do their job. I know I won’t. When I get one.’ I sighed. ‘So what can I do? I’m prepared to do
anything, absolutely anything.’

Dad handed me a dish of vegetables to put on the table. ‘How about a paper round?’

‘I’m not doing that.’

‘You said anything.’

‘I meant anything that doesn’t involve getting up at the crack of dawn.’

‘Maybe you could go to work with Mum. She was saying that they need someone to sort out their stockroom.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I can’t do that I’m afraid.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know what they say. Never work with animals or parents.’

‘That’s not what they say! It’s animals or children.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

The conversation went on like that all through lunch. My idiot family were extremely unhelpful. Between them they only suggested seventeen different jobs and none of them were realistic. Mum got
quite shirty in the end and said I was being too fussy. I said, ‘I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. There’s nothing wrong with having aspirations.’

‘It’s a Saturday job. It is unreasonable to say that you won’t do any washing, cleaning or tea making and that you can’t work with old people.’

‘Or pets or snivelling babies,’ I reminded her.

Mum shook her head as if my phobia of bad smells counted for nothing.

‘Well, if you could think of some sensible suggestions, I’d appreciate it,’ I said. ‘Try focusing on the fashion world or the cutting edge of the pharmaceutical industry.
That sort of thing.’

Mum and Dad exchanged a look that I’m choosing to believe was a shared expression of their pride in my high standards.

I’ve done a bit of research. There don’t seem to be any suitable vacancies at Yves Saint Laurent or Pfizer. It’s crazy that no one wants to employ a
hard-working, responsible fifteen-year-old like me. It’s selfishness, that’s what it is. Old people want to have all the money and all the fun.

This morning was our first day of half-term freedom and to celebrate I went with Megs to feed her grammy’s cat.

‘How is Grammy?’ I asked.

‘She’s hoping to come home soon. She doesn’t like the hospital food. I’m going to see her tomorrow.’

‘It’ll be good if she comes out this week because then you’ll be able to visit a lot.’

‘Yeah, if I find out when she’s coming home tomorrow then I could put some flowers in her room.’

We gave the gnomes a polish, but there was nothing else to do. Grammy is a very tidy lady. I suggested we could clean out the biscuit tin, but Megs reminded me that Grammy is also a lady who
counts snacks.

When Mum got home, she said, ‘If you’re serious about getting a job then I might have one for you.’

‘Is it a diamond model or a crisp taster? Because I’m not really considering anything else at the moment.’

Mum did some of her extremely rude ignoring me. She behaves like a teenager sometimes.

‘Oh, forget it,’ she puffed. ‘I’m not sure that you’re a suitable babysitter anyway.’

‘Babysitting?’

‘Yes. You know Skye who works in the shop sometimes? She needs a babysitter. One afternoon a week, I think. But the way you’re raising your eyebrows as we speak is making me think
that you haven’t really got the levels of patience required for this sort of thing.’

Honestly. It’s not very nice when your own mother thinks you’re lacking, is it? I decided to revise my no babies policy just to prove her wrong.

‘Of course I can babysit,’ I said. ‘I’ve been a baby, haven’t I? Also, once, when I was doing a history project, I had one of those toddler-taming programmes on in
the background. I learnt tons about what to do with children from that.’

‘Like what?’

She had me there. The only thing I could remember about that programme was that they had such ugly curtains and sofas that I thought they should concentrate on sorting out their hideous decor
before they worried about the children.

‘Come on, Faith, what do you do with small children?’

‘Erm, give them some broth without any bread, then whip them all soundly and send them to bed?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Seriously, Mum, don’t worry. Any old idiot can look after children. After all, they let you and Dad do it, don’t they?’

Mum eventually agreed that I have definitely got the required skill set to provide care and entertainment for a toddler. Well, what she actually said was,
‘There’s no denying that you are still quite childish yourself.’ Either way, I managed to convince her to ask Skye if I can have the job.

I rang Megs this afternoon, but she didn’t have much to say. So I thought I’d cheer her up by talking about the good times ahead. I said, ‘Now that
it’s February, it’s practically the summer holidays. Maybe we could plan a trip to somewhere exotic. Of course, I might be going surfing with Finn. He usually goes to
Cornwall.’

I could almost hear Megs’s eyebrows go up. ‘Cornwall?’

‘I hear it’s very nice in the summer.’

‘You think you’re going to go to Cornwall with Finn?’

I didn’t much like her tone. ‘Well, nothing’s finalised.’

‘Yeah, because your parents will definitely let you go off on holiday with your boyfriend.’

‘His brother and his friends will be there.’

Megs laughed in quite an unkind way. ‘I’m sure that the addition of some eighteen-year-old hotties will make the whole thing more acceptable to your mum and dad.’

‘Good job I’ve got a while to talk them round then,’ I said.

‘For goodness’ sake, Faith! Why do you have to live in the clouds all the time? There’s no way you’ll be going on holiday with Finn; do you even think you’ll still
be with him in the summer?’

‘Of course, I mean—’

‘You’ve already told me that he’s boring.’

‘I did not! I just said that sometimes he tells me the same thing twice, but—’

‘And what about Ethan?’

I stiffened. ‘What about Ethan?’

‘See! You can’t even be honest about that. You live in a fantasy world; you just pretend everything’s brilliant, but it isn’t and I’m sick of it.’

And she hung up on me.

I was furious. I rang her back ready to tell her exactly what I thought of her, but when she picked up the phone and said, ‘What?’ there was a little wobble in her voice.

I found myself saying, ‘Is everything all right with Grammy?’

It turned out that Grammy had had a bad night last night. The doctor said they can’t talk about her going home at the moment.

‘She looks terrible,’ Megs gulped. ‘She’s lost more weight. I hate to see her like this . . . and . . .’ She let out a sob.

‘It’ll be all right, Megsie. Grammy is a very strong lady. When can you see her again?’

‘I said I’d go back tomorrow.’

‘Shall I go with you?’

Megs took a deep breath. ‘Yes, please.’

I hope Grammy will be all right.

I know it’s a bit late to make resolutions, but I might make one to ask people how they are before I launch into everything that’s happening with me.

And I might make another one to be a bit nicer to my granny.

Megs is feeling happier. Grammy had a better night and was feeling a bit perkier when we saw her today. She had enough energy to tell us that hospital staff ought to take
an exam in how not to talk to old ladies like they’re children, but she got tired quite quickly so we didn’t stay long. The doctor told Megs’s mum that he thinks Grammy is
‘progressing’. That sounds positive.

When we were walking home, Megs said, ‘I’m sorry if I was mean to you yesterday.’

‘You don’t have to apologise. I know that you were worried. I’m sorry that I was banging on when you were thinking about more important things. I should have asked you about
Grammy.’

‘I should have told you. I just didn’t know what to say.’

‘You know that you don’t even really need to use words, don’t you?’

She nodded. There may have been some cuddling.

I took her back to my house for a snack.

‘What is that?’ she asked when I presented her with a tiny scene featuring a mini gingerbread man standing next to his Bourbon and chocolate finger cottage.

‘It’s biscuit art.’ I screwed up my nose. ‘Do you really think that I’m living in a fantasy world?’

‘Well, obviously,’ she said, biting into a Bourbon door, ‘but that’s part of your nutty charm.’

‘You can always bash me over the head if you need me back on earth, all right?’

She tapped me on the forehead with a chocolate finger. ‘Thanks.’

I went to meet Skye and her rug rat today. I was pleased to find that her ramshackle house is massive. This means that if the brattling is noisy I can just pop it five
rooms away. I was surprised to find a hippy like Skye living in a big house; I thought that they mostly went for yurts and solar-panelled caravans and that, but Skye told me that she inherited the
house from her uncle. Also, it’s mostly falling apart; there are bits of plaster missing from some of the walls and damp stains on the kitchen ceiling. Skye herself could do with a bit of
sprucing up. She reminded me of my mum – tassel-skirted and hair all over the place.

‘I just wanted to get to know you better, Faith,’ Skye said, grasping my arm.

My elbow is an area that I usually reserve for Finn and for jabbing people with, but I didn’t want to seem unfriendly so I just smiled.

‘
Faith
,’ she said, drawing it out. ‘Such a solid name. Earthy.’

This sounded a bit like she was calling me muddy, which I think was hypocritical coming from someone who later told me that clothes don’t need washing nearly as much as people think they
do and that it’s kinder to the planet not to use washing powder.

I had to be careful in the hallway. There were bits of crystal dangling from the ceiling, twirling about and nearly blinding me every time they caught the light. Fortunately, Skye soon waved me
into the sitting room, which seemed to be constructed entirely of books, and I don’t mean the good kind about vampires or dystopian societies where teachers are kept in cages. I mean the kind
that my mum sells in her shop. They all had words like ‘spiritualisation’, ‘empowerment’ or ‘cosmic’ in the title.

Mini-Skye was much as I expected. He looked like he was made of unbleached organic cotton. And grime.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked in the voice I normally use on Lily when she’s had too much Fanta.

Mini-Skye spat at me.

Skye clapped her hands. ‘He’s really getting the hang of interaction, isn’t he? His name is Tolde.’

‘Toad?’

‘Tolde. Tol-
duh
. It’s the name he whispered to me when he first started communicating with me from the womb.’

I didn’t have anything polite to say about her whispering womb so I tried a smile at Tolde the Toad and he held out the book he was chewing to me.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’ve just had lunch.’