See If I Care (5 page)

Nobody at all phoned him, the week after he dropped in the leaflets. Nobody seemed interested in getting a proper car wash from a real human.

The next Saturday he got his uncle Jack to drop him in town again, and he went into the newsagent’s.

The same man was behind the counter. He looked up as Luke walked in. ‘Hey there.’

‘I’ve come to wash your car,’ said Luke, wondering if he remembered him. ‘I did it last week, and you said to come back.’

‘I did indeed,’ said the man. ‘She’s out the back, waiting for you.’

As the man was paying him afterwards, Luke got
an idea. ‘Can I put a notice in your window about car washing?’

The man nodded. ‘No problem. And I’ll tell you what – if you’re looking for business, my wife’s car could do with a good wash. She’s out at the moment, but she’ll be here in about an hour, if you want to call back.’

That evening, Luke got three phone calls. Two of them were from people who’d seen his notice in the newsagent’s window. The third was from Miss Lynch on the next street, who’d got his leaflet in her door the week before.

The next day, he got two more calls.

Over the next two weeks, he washed seven cars. He made thirty-five euro. With the thirty euro Jack gave him, he was only short seventy-four euro for the washing machine, and there was still nearly a month to go to Christmas.

He might just make it.

He spent most of his Sundays washing cars, but he didn’t mind. It gave him a reason not to be at home.

Since the night she stayed out, Helen was forbidden to leave the house on school nights. Mam rang home three times on the evenings she was working late. When the phone rang, Helen waited for
Granny to answer it and call up to her, and then she stamped down the stairs and spoke in a sulky voice to Mam.

When Luke asked her if she’d ever heard of a pop star called Vanessa-Mae, Helen just ignored him. Nobody was allowed into her room. Sometimes when she passed Luke on the stairs, he smelt cigarettes. One morning he thought he heard her getting sick in the bathroom.

She never smiled. He couldn’t remember what her smile looked like.

‘Did you know there’s more than one kind of gravy?’ he asked Granny one evening.

She lifted her eyes from her book and thought. ‘Well, I suppose you can make it with the meat juices, or just use gravy powder and water,’ she said. ‘But it wouldn’t be very different really.’

‘Would you buy a cookery book that just had gravy recipes in it?’ Luke asked her.

She looked at him in amusement. ‘I don’t think so. What’s brought all this on?’

Luke shrugged. ‘Just something my penfriend said.’

His mother dropped two eggs on the kitchen floor one evening. They slipped out of her hands as she was taking them out of the fridge. She looked at the mess on the floor and then she burst into tears. She
put her head in her hands and bent over the sink and cried and cried.

Luke put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Please don’t,’ he told her. ‘I’ll clean them up, it’s OK.’ Her body shook with crying. They were the only two in the kitchen. ‘Please, Mam,’ he said. ‘Please don’t cry.’

He pulled two sheets off the roll of kitchen paper and gave them to her, and she dabbed her eyes and asked him what she’d do without him.

The eggs were slimy and hard to clean up. Mam took the mop from him. ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it.’ Her face was blotchy and all around her eyes was red and damp. ‘Sorry, love – it’s just been a long day.’

‘Can’t you phone work and tell them you’re sick?’ he asked. It was one of her overtime nights.

She shook her head. ‘There’s nobody there but me in the evenings – and anyway, we need the money. I’ll be OK.’ She’d started doing overtime after Luke’s father had his accident – three extra hours in the evening twice a week – doing whatever could be done without the customers there.

‘I’m saving up for a surprise for Mam,’ Luke told his father. ‘A big surprise.’

His father looked at his reflection in the window. He rubbed his chin and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

‘Did you hear me?’ Luke asked him. ‘I’m getting a surprise for Mam.’

His father turned to look at him. ‘Luke,’ he said. ‘Good boy.’ Then he turned back to the window and watched Luke’s mother getting into her car. His face didn’t change as he looked at her.

Mrs Hutchinson suggested that they send Christmas cards to their penfriends. ‘I know there’s still a few weeks to go,’ she said, ‘but you won’t be writing again till after Christmas. It would be nice for a change, instead of your usual letters.’

Luke looked through the cards in the newsagent’s shop on the way home from school. The cheapest he could find cost three euro. He decided Elma would be just as happy with a letter.

He asked the woman in the post office if she had any special stamps for Christmas. She gave him one with a picture of a candle on it. It looked good upside down on the envelope, like a firework – or a rocket, just about to blast off.

Luke wrote Elma’s name and school address. Then he turned the envelope around and drew a snowman on the flap. That was nearly as good as a card.

He looked out the window as he thought about what to write. Her last letter was pretty girly, with all that talk about sleepovers and stuff.

He really wished she was a boy – and although she lived in Manchester, he bet she didn’t even follow Man United.

But for a girl, he supposed she wasn’t too bad. He began to write.

Elma walked slowly home from school, with Zac and Dylan trailing even more slowly after her. She gave a big, long, feeling-sorry-for-herself sigh. Two and a half weeks till Christmas, and what did she have to look forward to? A big fat nothing – that’s what.

That morning Tara had invited her to an early Christmas party in her house. It was going to be on Friday, straight after school. But how could Elma go? Who’d mind the boys?

The more she thought about it, the crosser she got. It just wasn’t fair. All the girls in her class were going, even the ones who weren’t one bit friendly with Tara. Even the ones who made fun of her London accent behind her back.

It just wasn’t fair
.

Soon Elma was stamping along the pavement, viciously kicking stones out of her way.

She felt a small hand slip into hers. It was Zac. ‘What’s wrong, El?’ he asked.

Elma gave another big sigh. She didn’t usually confide in the boys, but this time she couldn’t stop herself. ‘I want to go to Tara’s party, and I can’t.’

Zac squeezed her hand tighter. ‘Poor Elma,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she invite you? That’s very mean. You should tell your teacher on her.’

Elma stamped her foot so hard it hurt. ‘Of course she invited me! She’s my best friend! But I can’t go, can I?’

Dylan slid alongside her. ‘It’s because you have to mind us, isn’t it?’

Zac smiled brightly. ‘But Daddy can mind us.’

Elma and Dylan looked at each other. Poor Zac, too young to realise that their dad could hardly look after himself, much less take care of anyone else. Dylan stood on his tiptoes and whispered into Elma’s ear. ‘Go to the party. I’ll mind Zac until you get home.’

Elma shook her head miserably. ‘I couldn’t.’

Dylan whispered again. ‘Sure you could. Zac and I will be fine. I am nine, you know. We’ll walk home,
and play quietly until you get back. Dad won’t notice, and Mum need never know. You can be back before she gets home.’

Elma looked thoughtfully at her brother. Maybe he was right? It could work. And she deserved to have some fun.

And so she made up her mind.

She was going to the party.

It was the best party she had been to for years. (Actually it was the only party she had been to for years.)

Tara’s house was decorated with balloons and ribbons and flashing fairy lights. They had a disco, and a Karaoke competition, and lots of fun games. Then they had pizza and a huge gooey chocolate cake and heaps of sweets.

At seven o’clock, when it was over, and all the other kids had been collected, Tara’s mum offered to drive Elma home. That would have been a disaster – imagine if she saw the neglected front garden – imagine if Elma’s dad was standing near the window with his stubbly chin, and nothing on besides raggy old tracksuit bottoms and a dirty vest.

So Elma smiled her best smile and said, ‘No, thank you. My mum is doing her shopping, and I’m meeting her at the supermarket.’

But no matter how she protested, Tara’s mum insisted on driving her to the supermarket, where she had to go in as if she was looking for her mother, hang around until she was sure the coast was clear, and then sneak out and walk all the way home.

She hummed as she walked home, clutching the piece of chocolate cake she’d saved for Zac and Dylan. It had been a lovely afternoon. Just perfect. Maybe she could do it again soon. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be the class loser who never went anywhere after all.

She stopped humming as she turned the corner and saw the worst thing ever. She blinked hard, and looked again, but nothing changed – the worst thing ever was still there, parked in the weed-choked driveway. It was her mother’s car, all red and shiny and horrible.

Elma checked her watch. It was still only quarter past seven – her mother never got home before half past. Something must have happened.

As she ran up the garden path, Elma had a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the three slices of pizza and two pieces of cake she had eaten. She had left the boys with Dad, and gone to Tara’s without permission, and now she was in the hugest trouble ever.

The front door was half-open, and her mother was waiting in the hall for her. As she stepped into the light of the hallway, Elma could see that her mother’s face was streaked with tears. She had expected shouting and promises of a long grounding, and no treats for about a hundred years. Tears were worse, though. Tears were just too scary.

‘What is it, Mum?’ she whispered. ‘What’s going on?’

Her mother shook her head sadly. ‘It’s not your fault, really it isn’t. And he’s going to be fine. So you don’t have to worry.’

Elma suddenly felt very cold. ‘What’s not my fault? And who’s going to be fine?’

Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I won’t let them take you into care. I couldn’t.’

‘Mum, please …’

Her mother’s voice was faint. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.’

Zac appeared at her side. ‘Dylan got hurt. He got burned.’

Elma’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Where … where is he?’

‘Upstairs.’ Zac pointed with an ink-stained finger.

Elma raced up the stairs. Dylan was in bed. All she could see was his pale face, and a huge bandage around his arm.

He gave a weak smile. ‘I’m fine, Elma. They gave me a big injection in the hospital, and it doesn’t hurt any more.’

Elma sat on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding Dylan’s bandaged arm. ‘What happened?’

A big tear rolled down Dylan’s pale cheek.

‘I’m sorry, Elma. I got you into trouble, didn’t I?’ Elma shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m used to being in trouble. Just tell me what happened.’

Dylan wiped his eyes. ‘Zac was hungry, and I didn’t want him bothering Dad, so I decided to make him some pasta. I always watch you, so I knew what to do. But when I was straining it, the pot slipped, and the hot water went all over my hand, and it hurt like anything. I–’

Elma interrupted. ‘Did you call Dad?’

Dylan shook his head. ‘I think he was asleep. I told Zac to ring Mum, so he did. And when Mum came, she asked where you were, and I told her you were at Tara’s party. I’m sorry, Elma, my hand was hurting and I couldn’t think of any lies. Mum wasn’t cross with you, though, she just said lots of bad things about Dad. And at the hospital, after I got my bandage, a lady came and asked me and Zac lots of questions.’

‘Like what?’

Dylan thought for a minute. ‘Like, where was Dad? And why was I making pasta? And why didn’t Dad bring me to the hospital? And how did Zac hurt his face that time? And what time did Mum come home every day? And who usually makes the tea? Stuff like that. And then she took Mum into another room, and they talked for ages, and then we all came home. I’m sorry, Elma. I was only trying to help.’

The tears rolled down his face quickly now. ‘The lady kept saying something about “alternative arrangements”. What does that mean? Does it mean we’ll have to go to an orphanage? But we have a mum and dad. We’re not orphans. They couldn’t make us, could they?’

Elma turned away. How was she supposed to know? What good was a mum who was always at work, and a dad who was always in bed?

She leaned over and wiped Dylan’s tears with her sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, Dyl. It’ll be fine. You just wait and see. Here, I brought you some cake.’

Dylan smiled and sat up. Elma felt like crying. If only all their problems could be solved with cake.

She went downstairs. Zac was sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. Elma smiled at him. ‘There’s cake upstairs. Go up and ask Dylan to share with you.’

Zac grinned at her and ran upstairs. Elma looked through the glass door into the family room. The TV was off, so things must be very bad indeed. Her dad was sitting on the couch, and her mum was standing by the door. Elma started to tidy up the kitchen, straining to hear what was going on next door. Soon she didn’t have to strain any more, as her parents’ voices got louder and louder. After a while she tried not to listen, but she could still hear scraps of sentences.

‘… two accidents … bound to ask questions …’

‘… not my fault …’

‘… they’re sending someone around …’

‘… they’re going to find out the truth, and then we’re all in trouble.’

‘… my bad back …’

‘… get over it!’

After a while, Elma couldn’t take it any more. She went upstairs. Zac and Dylan were both asleep in Dylan’s bed. She sat on her own bed, and heard the crinkle of Luke Mitchell’s latest letter, which was still in her jeans pocket. She pulled it out. She didn’t even smile when she saw the upside-down stamp with its candle burning the wrong way up. She wished her penfriend was a girl. Maybe she could have told a girl all her problems. But how could she
tell a boy? How could she tell Luke Mitchell what was really going on in her life?

She ripped open the envelope, barely noticing the snowman Luke had drawn on the flap. She read through the letter quickly. All of a sudden, Luke Mitchell sounded like a nicer person – or maybe after what had happened that evening, anyone who wasn’t totally horrible would have sounded nice. She wondered why he was so caught up with The Beatles. She really didn’t care how many were dead, and what they’d died of. But she wished she hadn’t told him so much made-up stuff. She was tired of writing lies about vegetables and cookery books and non-existent sisters and a cuddly cat that was really a vicious dog. It would have been nice to tell Luke all about Dylan’s arm, and her mum’s three jobs, and how she was so worried about the future. But there were so many lies that she didn’t know how to go about setting them right.

Then she had a thought. She reached under her bed and took out the Christmas card she’d made for her mother. She rubbed her finger along the glittery pink and purple star. She looked at the swirly Happy Christmas that she’d carefully written on the inside. She decided that her mum didn’t deserve such a nice card. Her dad was sick; he couldn’t help it that he
was useless. But her mum wasn’t sick, and she was the adult. She should sort things out. She should be there so Elma could go to parties without leaving her brothers to mind themselves. She started to cry at how unfair it all was. Tears dripped down her face and onto the glittery star, making it slightly soggy. Then Elma picked up her pen and wrote inside the card:

To dear Luke
,

Have a happy Christmas, from Elma
.

She shoved the card into its envelope, addressed it, and stuck on her stamp (upside down of course). Then she tore a page from an old copy, and watched as yet more lies flowed from her pen.