Only We Know

The fridge looks all wrong in this tiny kitchen, as if a family of giants has moved in. And there’s only room for two at the breakfast bar, so Tilda has taken her Crunchy Nut cornflakes into the lounge and stretched out in front of that new TV channel that only runs repeats of game shows.

My sister isn’t best pleased by the whole situation. It’s safe to say that moving to a rubbish house in the most boring town on earth was not on Tilda’s to-do list. Plus, the new uniform looks crap on her too. So I’m not exactly amazed that she totally blanks me when I smile at her through the serving hatch.

‘You need to eat something, Lauren. How about I fix you a milkshake?’ says Mum.

‘No thanks,’ I say, pushing a plate of burnt bacon across the fake marble. ‘I feel a bit sick actually.’

The worry lines on Mum’s face form an intricate pattern of First World War trenches. ‘You don’t have to go today
if you don’t want to, my love. We could always leave it until next week.’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s … you know.’

Dad’s not a great fan of ‘girlie talk’. To save him his blushes, I fix her in the eye and nod at my nether regions. ‘I still get slightly … nauseous.’

‘Of course,’ says Mum, obviously angry with herself for not picking up on it. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’

Dad downs the rest of his coffee and looks up from his mobile. I know he loves me, but I sometimes think he’d have more luck finding the lost city of Atlantis than suitable subjects for conversations with his eldest daughter.

‘I see Arsenal are looking for a new keeper, Lauren. That Ukrainian guy is a good shot-stopper, but he can’t kick a dead ball to save his life.’

‘Is that right, Dad?’

‘Yeah, well, he’s a —’

‘There’s your water, love,’ says Mum, flashing Dad a dirty look as she whips away the charred remains of his omelette. ‘Now, Lauren, are you
sure
you’re ready for this?’

According to my sister, slag bags and rucksacks are in. But from what I’ve read of the online prospectus, St Thomas’s Community College isn’t exactly the fashion capital of Europe, so I’ve chucked the least flattering PE kit in history and a couple of ballpoints into my Beatles messenger bag and hoped for the best. ‘Yes, Mum. Ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘I’ll get the car started,’ says Dad. ‘Come on, Tilda, turn that rubbish off and get a move on.’

‘What? No,’ I say, the image of turning up for my first day in Year Eleven with an overanxious parent in tow already scarring my imaginary future. ‘Thanks, Dad, but I think we’re going to walk.’

‘Are you sure about that? Wouldn’t it be better if I ran you up there at the last minute?’

‘No. I’d rather take my time if that’s okay. And anyway, shouldn’t you have left, like, hours ago?’

‘I thought I’d go in late this morning. I wanted to make sure you got there okay.’

‘I’ll be fine, Dad, promise. And the walk will do us good.’

‘Is that right?’ says Tilda, who has a talent for creeping into rooms without anyone noticing. ‘How do you know I don’t want a lift?’

‘I just thought —’ Surely turning up with Daddy for your first day in Year Ten isn’t the greatest look either. ‘Well, you don’t mind walking, do you, Tilds?’

My sister thinks for a moment. A relieved smile flits briefly across her face. ‘Yeah, all right. It might be for the best actually.’

‘I suppose I should get off to work then,’ says Dad, wincing as he frees himself from the breakfast bar and pecks Mum on the cheek. ‘Bye, Nikki. I’ll call you at about four, just to see how —’

‘Right,’ says Mum. I’ll text you if anything …’

Dad nods. It’s a one-hundred-and-fifty-mile round trip to the office these days, and his dodgy back is suffering already. I can see the pain in his eyes as he turns towards me. ‘So, this is it then.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘I’d just like you to know that …’

There’s egg on his face. The question is, do I tell him? ‘Dad, I think you might have some —’

But he obviously wants to make a speech. ‘I’d just like you to know that, well, we’re all really proud of you, Lauren.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘I know things have been … difficult,’ he says, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘But … with any luck, the worst part is over now. Let’s concentrate on the future, shall we?’

Mum is tearing up. ‘Your father’s right. You’ve got to get out there and go for it.’

Dad winces again, but this time it’s probably down to Mum’s weakness for ‘inspirational’ advertising slogans and not his back. ‘Now as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got nothing to apologise for.’ He takes out his Statue of Liberty key ring and starts passing it from one hand to the other. ‘But we talked about keeping a low profile, didn’t we? Maybe that’s the way to go for now. Just promise you won’t do anything silly.’

‘Yes, Dad, I promise.’

He hasn’t kissed me since I was, like, ten years old,
so I should probably point out what a big deal it is when he bends down and plants his lips on the top of my head. ‘I’ll see you later then, Lauren. I hope it all goes … Have a great day. You too, Tilda … and look after your sister.’

Well, that was awkward. He tries so hard to say all the right things – and I love him for it. The trouble is, after Dad’s little pep talk I’m even more terrified than I was before.

‘Right, let’s get going then, shall we?’ says Tilda. ‘I want to have a snoop around before lessons start.’

‘Wait,’ says Mum, handing me a plastic container and a carton of juice. ‘I made you some sandwiches, Lauren. I’ve put some money on your ParentPay account so you can have lunch in the canteen if you feel up to it. But if you don’t want to eat with everyone else, I’m sure you’ll be able to find a quiet corner somewhere.’

‘What about me?’ says Tilda.

‘You’ll want to eat in the canteen, won’t you?’ says Mum. ‘It’ll give you a chance to make new friends.’

‘I quite liked the old ones,’ murmurs Tilda.

Mum pretends not to hear. ‘Well, I must say, you both look … lovely.’

‘We look like complete dicks,’ says Tilda.

‘Tilds’s right,’ I say. ‘It’s about the worst colour ever. And this polyester skirt is … urghh.’

‘You should have worn trousers like me then, shouldn’t you?’ says Tilda.

Mum reaches ominously for her phone. ‘Well, I think you look really nice,’ she says. ‘So how about a quick snap of my two gorgeous girls?’

Enthusiasm levels in the Wilson household reach an all-time low.

‘Come on, Lauren, go and stand next to your sister.’

I inch reluctantly towards Tilda. We face the firing squad without a smile between us.

Mum points and shoots anyway. ‘Lovely.’

‘Well, that’s that then,’ I say, taking a polite glance at our grim faces on the photo Mum flashes at me. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

‘About time too,’ says Tilda.

Mum just about holds it together until we reach the front door, where she choreographs the three of us into a tearful group hug. ‘Look after each other, won’t you, girls?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Now don’t forget, Lauren. You’ve got a meeting first thing with the Student Welfare guy. Mr … Catchpole, is it? He’s actually very … professional.’

‘I won’t forget, Mum.’

‘And if anyone asks you any difficult questions, just keep calm and —’

‘Carry on?’ suggests Tilda sarcastically.

‘Something like that,’ says Mum, reaching for the front door.

A warm shaft of light floods the dingy hallway. Why
is the first day of the school year always so much sunnier than the summer holidays? Not that I’ve been out much: just a couple of shopping trips and ten minutes with that doctor who kept calling me Laura.

‘Goodbye then, girls,’ says Mum.

Old habits die hard. I scan the other side of the road for potential persecutors. Two blue-uniformed girls are enjoying a friendly discussion.

‘Give me my fags, you slag.’

‘Sod off, Ella, they’re mine.’

They don’t look particularly threatening, but it’s enough to send me scuttling back inside. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t.’

‘Of course you can, Lauren.’

‘I’m not ready, I —’

Tilda yawns. She’s heard it all before. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘She’s coming, aren’t you, love?’ says Mum.

I take a couple of deep breaths. It’s supposed to be relaxing. So why do I feel like I’m going to faint? ‘Yes, right … I just have to – I need the loo. I’ll be two seconds, okay?’