Summer Secrets (12 page)

Chapter 20

It’s
the day after the Golden Lions gig and Mum and Prue are knocking lumps out of each other in the kitchen. Not literally, although from the dragon look in Mum’s eyes earlier, it might not be all that long. The two of them have been itching for a fight all day.

Clover is listening in, her ear pressed against the gap between the wall and the kitchen door. She looks shocked. And believe me, it takes a lot to shock Clover.

“What are they arguing about this time? Fizzy drinks. Or eco-nappies versus Pampers. Yawn.”

Clover waves me quiet with her hand. “Shush. This is getting interesting.”

I crouch down beneath her and press my ear against the crack.

Mum is snorting with laughter. “Are you really accusing me of flirting with Dan?”

“What’s wrong with Dan?” Prue asks, her voice sharp.

“He’s just not my type, that’s all. He’s too clean-cut. I’ve never been into safe men in baggy cords and button-down shirts.”

“What is your type? Grubby.”

“
Grubby?
He’s your brother, for God’s sake,” Mum says. “Have you no family loyalty?”

Prue harrumphs like a horse. “Family loyalty? Don’t make me laugh. I’ve been keeping Dave afloat for years. Who do you think paid his way through medical school before he dropped out?”

“Medical school?” I whisper to Clover.

She shrugs. “News to me.”

“That would have been me, Syl
vie
.” Prue drawls out the end of Mum’s name. “And I paid for the bloody wedding when he jilted poor Simone.”

I look at Clover again; her eyes are the size of saucers.

“Dave Marcus, heartbreaker,” she whispers; “who’d have thought? I mean—”

“Shh,” I hiss. “I’m trying to listen.”

“That would be the poor Simone who married Dave’s best friend, Paudie, six months later,” I hear Mum say. “The poor Simone who had been seeing Paudie all along – behind Dave’s back. That
poor
Simone.”

“All speculation,” Prue says tightly. “It was never proved. And regardless, it’s another in a long line of Dave’s failures. He keeps making a mess of his life, time after time. Just look at him now. Working all hours to pay half of someone else’s mortgage. It’s pathetic.”

“One day we’ll buy the other half of the house off Art,” Mum retorts and from the ice in her voice I can tell she’s about to snap. “And our financial affairs are none of your concern, Prue, so why don’t you just keep your nose out of our private family business and worry about your own family?”

“My family are all perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“Really? You seem to have conveniently forgotten about Denis’s comfort eating. He’s going to be the size of an elephant soon unless you do something about it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Denis.” Prue sounds outraged. “Nothing. He’s been to the very best dieticians and child psychologists. He does
not
comfort eat. How dare you!”

“I’ve found him in the kitchen almost every night, Prue. Wolfing down slices of bread or biscuits.”

“Stop! I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that because your own life is such a mess. Your parenting skills are appalling and you have a boyfriend who can’t commit. If Dave really loved you, he’d ask you to marry him. And as for having children with two different fathers, talk about irresponsible. If you ask me—”

“That’s it,” I hiss. I’ve been getting more and more angry, but this is final straw.

Clover tries to grab my arm, but I’m too quick for her. I storm into the kitchen and go to stand beside Mum. “Mum’s right,” I tell Prue. “Denis is always eating. I’ve seen him too. Mum’s not lying. And for your information, Dave is forever proposing to her. Mum’s just not ready to get married again yet. She needs some time after Dad and everything. Isn’t that right, Mum?” (The bit about Dave proposing isn’t true, but everything else is.)

Mum just stares at me, her face twisted up. She looks angry and upset. Her hands are balled into fists and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Mum,” I say again, more gently, but she runs out of the room.

“Sylvie!” Prue shouts at her disappearing back. “I’m sorry. I was out of order.”

Mum pounds up the stairs and a few seconds later her bedroom door slams shut.

Prue makes to follow her, but I put a hand on her arm. “It’s probably best to leave her alone.”

Prue collapses on to a chair. She puts her head in her hands and starts sobbing. Oh my God. They’re both crazy.

“Prue?” Clover says gently.

She lifts her head. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hard on Sylvie. She just winds me up so much sometimes.” She hiccups through her tears. “She makes me feel so boring and pedestrian. Everything about her is more interesting – her job, her clothes, her friends. I wish my own life was a bit more exciting. I thought having a few drinks the other night might help, but I just felt really ill the next morning and ended up with a stain on one of my favourite tops.” She sobs again.

“If it’s any consolation, I think you wind Sylvie up too,” Clover says. “Look, it’s not easy sharing a house with another family – especially a family that’s as mad as ours. There are bound to be disagreements.”

“Here.” I hand Prue a piece of kitchen roll. Luckily, she doesn’t believe in wearing make-up, otherwise she’d have mascara running down her face with all the waterworks.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, flashing me a teary smile. “She’s done such a good job with you, Amy. Even as a lone parent.”

I don’t really like the way she says
lone parent
– it makes Mum sound like a charity case – but I let it slide. I don’t think she means it in a bad way.

“Being a parent is so hard,” she says. “I love Denis, but I don’t find him easy. Sometimes I’d just like to hand him back. Isn’t that dreadful?”

“He’s a good kid,” Clover says kindly. “Smart too. He’ll grow out of the weird behaviour.”

Prue smiles through her tears. “Thanks, Clover. I do hope you’re right.”

Chapter 21

The
following morning I find Gramps sitting on a deck chair in the greenhouse reading the
Irish Independent
.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” I say.

“It’s like a zoo in there.” He points at the house with the top of his newspaper.

“No kidding.” I sit on the edge of a red-brick potting shelf.

There’s a loud scraping noise outside and we both look over. It’s Kit. He’s pulling a huge terracotta pot with a giant sunflower in it across the patio. The flower must be about four metres tall – its head is as big as a tyre.

Gramps smiles. “Esther told me about Kit and his sunflowers. He feeds them seaweed.”

“Have you been speaking to her again?” I ask, very surprised. “I thought you said she tried to kill you.”

Gramps looks sheepish. “Ah, well, I may have exaggerated. She apologized for all that, anyway, said she got a bit carried away.”

“But I don’t understand. Did she explain why she did it?”

“No. She wants to call over. To talk. But I’ve asked her not to.” He sighs. “There’s no point. She made it perfectly clear how she feels about me the other night. And who knows what she might do to me this time!”

“Gramps, maybe you should see her. Clear the air. I’ll come with you if you like, to keep you safe.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Amy. But to be honest, she always was a tricky one. Full of life, but if you crossed her…” He draws a finger across his throat and whistles. “I’m sixty-five; I just want an easy life. She’s a wonderful woman, but—” He shrugs. “You, on the other hand, have your whole life ahead of you, so go and talk to the young man with the sunflower; I know you’re itching to.”

I smile, my cheeks burning. “See you later, Gramps.”

Kit has disappeared round the corner of the house so I follow him. I gasp when I see what’s there. A dozen towering sunflowers – some at least three metres tall – are standing along the side wall; their heads, supported by solid, slightly furry stalks, are tilted towards the gentle morning sun.

Some of the flower-heads are turning to seed, and I run my fingers over the nubby roughness of the only one within reach. There’s a bark to my right; it’s coming from the maze. I’ve been itching to explore it since we got here and now’s my chance. And if that’s Jack barking, then Kit’s bound to be with him. My heart
thump-thump-thumps
just thinking about him.

I walk through the gate, feeling a little nervous at seeing him again, and come to a stop in front of the neatly pruned gap in the hedge – the entrance to the maze.

Jack barks once more, as though drawing me on.

But how do I navigate the maze? Then I remember what Mrs Sketchberry told us in Classics, about the Labyrinth of Crete and the Minotaur. Apparently, in most mazes the walls are connected, so if you put one of your hands on the wall and keep it in place – never lifting it – you’ll eventually find the exit.

I really hope it’s as easy as that.

I start to walk, trailing my right hand along the scratchy hedge. It’s giving off a bitter, tangy smell that catches at the back of my throat.

Jack barks again. I walk on more quickly, taking a few more turns. The walls seem to be getting taller with each step and the path narrower. The hedge presses in on either side, catching my shoulders.

It’s completely airless in here and the smell is becoming overpowering. I must be nearing the centre by now, surely – but maybe Miss Sketchberry was wrong. Maybe I’m completely off track. Lost. I should have never stepped inside.

Then I hear Jack to my right. He seems to be luring me further in.

Speeding up, I follow the noise. But what if Kit’s on his way out of the maze? I don’t want to get stuck in here by myself – trapped and alone until I die from heat exposure and dehydration. I pat my pocket: nothing. My mobile must be in my room, and in here no one will hear my screams. The hedge might grow up and over my head, sealing me beneath its boughs, like something out of Harry Potter. The way it’s towering over me, it really feels as if it could.

OK, now my imagination is running away with itself. There’s no such thing as an enchanted hedge.

Crunch!
Hang on, what’s that? I hear it again, louder this time. It sounds like a twig breaking. Maybe it’s a mouse – or even worse, a rat. My mind goes into overdrive. There’s something in here with me, following me. What if all that Minotaur stuff is true? Maybe a bull-headed maze monster really is after me!

I begin to run, dashing round the corners completely randomly, not caring whether I turn left or right, just wanting to get away from whoever or whatever is chasing me. And then suddenly I stop dead.

Miraculously I’ve found the centre of the maze. I hinge at the waist, panting; my hands rest on the tops of my thighs as I gasp for air. When I look up I see a green metal bench and an old stone pond, its curved sides covered in moss.

“Amy, are you all right? Why were you running away from me?”

Kit comes out of the maze behind me at a run. He stops to catch his breath, his chest thrust out, hands on hips and a T-shirt dripping with fresh sweat. Jack is right behind him, his pink tongue hanging out.

I stagger over to the bench and flop down. Yikes, what can I tell him? I can hardly say, “I thought I was being chased by a Greek monster,” can I? “I’m claustrophobic,” I say, improvising. “I get panic attacks in lifts or … um … mazes, apparently, as I’ve just found out.”

He nods silently, seeming (to my delight) to accept my lame explanation.

A drop of sweat trickles down my back, making me wiggle. I gaze longingly at the pond. The water looks cool and inviting.

“Water’s clean,” Kit says, reading my mind. “Stick yer feet in if you like.”

I stare down at my hot, dusty feet, kick off my flip-flops and dip a toe in the water. It’s heavenly. I sit on the edge of the pool, then take a step in.

Whoosh!
My feet go from under me and I end up on my bum, water up to my stomach. I scream, putting my hands down to steady myself. The granite feels weedy and slimy under my fingers. No wonder I slipped. I feel so stupid.

A grin splits Kit’s face and he starts to chuckle. He’s even cuter when he’s laughing; I want to reach up and touch the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes.

“What?” I demand, mortified. “It could happen to anyone.” I splash some water at him. “Besides, it’s lovely. You should try it.”

“When it’s hot, sometimes I have a soak to cool off.”

I picture Kit splashing about in this very pond, starkers. I blush and then to distract his attention from my tomato face I say, “Prove it.”

Kit sits down on the edge of the pool, slides his feet out of his flip-flops, pulls off his grubby T-shirt and steps carefully into the pool, leaving his shorts on. The water only reaches his mid-calves.

He sits down beside me, soaking his shorts, leans back against the pool’s edge and shuts his eyes. “Satisfied?” he asks.

I check him out. He’s broad and solid, more heavily built than Seth, and he’s so close I can smell his fresh sweat. “Oh yes,” I murmur.

He opens his eyes and catches me staring at him.