Summer Secrets (5 page)

“Denis isn’t very good with balconies,” Prue tells us. “I’ll put him in the Lilac Room until your boyfriend arrives, Clover, dear.”

Clover hisses in my ear, “I’m sure the spawn child is
very
good with balconies – trying to push people off them, that is.”

I giggle into my hand.

Chapter 8

As
soon as Prue has skipped off, we troop downstairs to the kitchen. “It’s outrageous,” Mum says, propping her hip against the granite counter. Her eyes are flashing like Halloween fireworks. “Prue gets,” – she counts on her fingers – “a jacuzzi bath, a sea view and a four-poster bed. What do I get? A sickly yellow room, that’s what. And rubbish white curtains that let the light in. The room’s so small, Evie’s cot will just fit beside our bed, but we’ll have to put Alex’s travel cot in the en suite. Which means I won’t even get one flaming bath in the evening. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet and the odd bath.”

Dave looks confused. “Sylvie, I think you’re over-reacting. You can have your bath during the day. And the room’s the same colour as our bedroom at home. You like yellow; you think it’s calming.”

Hot red spots appear on Mum’s cheeks. “We’re on holiday,” she hisses; “I wanted a change. Not the same. Something different! Why did
she
get to pick the rooms, tell me that?” She thrusts her hands on her hips.

Dave seems a bit alarmed and I can’t say I blame him. Mum looks like a volcano about to erupt. She’s pacing the kitchen tiles, her lips pressed together, hard.

Just then Prue skips into the kitchen. (Can the woman not walk like normal mortals?) Unlike Mum she looks calm and happy, with baby Bella balanced on her hip and a jaunty red and white polka-dot nappy bag slung over her shoulder. “Hello, all,” she trills, tinkling her fingers at us. “Just making Bella a little snack. Does Evie-Deevie like organic rice cakes and carrot sticks? Carrots are so good for their teeth, don’t you think?”

Mum opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets a chance, Prue adds, “I’ve already stocked the fridge, Sylvie, so there’s no need to worry. Now, I don’t let my three near processed food or sugar.” She shudders and makes a funny face, as if she’s constipated, and I try not to laugh. “So it’s porridge for breakfast,” she continues. “I’m sure little Evie loves porridge, don’t you, angel?”

She crouches down and puts her finger out to stroke Evie’s cheek – but Evie’s too quick for her and gives it a little nip with her teeth.

Prue squeals and jumps back in fright, knocking over the kitchen bin with a clatter and almost dropping Bella.

Evie starts to wail. Mum picks her up and jiggles her around on her hip, but she won’t stop. She’s like a little fire engine.

Mum sighs. “I’ll just take Evie for a little walk around the garden to calm her down. And Prue, I’m sorry, but I can’t stand porridge. I’m more of a Sugar Puffs girl myself.” She gives a tight smile. “And I agree, there’s far too much sugar and salt in processed foods, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m on holidays and I plan to spend as little time as possible cooking. My lot will happily eat beans and sausages every day, so don’t worry about them. They won’t starve. And by the way, congratulations on bagging the biggest room for yourself. Way to go, Prue.”

Prue gasps but Mum ignores her and marches outside with a still bawling Evie in her arms. Prue puts Bella into a high-chair, then folds her arms across her chest. “Well,” she says in a breathy voice, staring at Dave; her eyebrows are so high they’re almost halfway up her forehead.

Clover hops up on to the counter, dangling her brown legs (fake-baked only last light, she told me in the car) and yawning. “Any chocolate or Coke, Dave? My blood sugar’s all over the place.”

Prue’s eyebrows rise even further.

Dave just smiles. “Nope. Fancy a shopping trip later? Amy can go with you to help, if she likes.”

Clover’s eyes light up. “Can we use the boat on our own?”

“Yep.”

“Excellent.” She puts her hand up to high-five me. “You on, Beanie?”

“You bet.”

Half an hour after Mum and Prue’s encounter in the kitchen, Mum still isn’t back from walking Evie. Dave is starting to fret. He’s already searched the whole house for them.

Clover is lying on the sunlounger, lapping up the rays, Alex is napping in his new en suite bathroom/nursery and Prue’s stooped over some sort of evil-smelling bean-and-vegetable concoction on the Aga, like a witch stirring a cauldron. I keep half-expecting her to start chanting “Hubble bubble, toil and trouble” like one of the old hags in
Macbeth
. I caught her stroking the Aga earlier – which is weird behaviour, if you ask me. Bella is sitting on a rug at Prue’s feet, chewing away happily on a cardboard copy of
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
.

Dan is outside, watching Ollie and Denis on the trampoline. Denis is larger than the average nine-year-old (he’s the size of a small mountain!), so poor old Ollie, who’s small for three, is being boinged all over the place. Every now and then Denis suddenly stops jumping, making Ollie land awkwardly and wail in protest. No wonder Dan’s watching them so intently.

As everyone else is busy, I offer to help look for Mum. There’s no sign of her in the garden, so I megaphone my hands and roar “Mum!” at the top of my voice.

Still nothing.

Then I hear a creaking noise to my right and notice a gap in the ivy-covered wall. A tall, dark-haired boy of about fifteen or sixteen walks through the old metal gateway, a green canvas sack slung over his back, a black and white dog at his heels. Through the gate behind him, I spot a hedge.

The boy dumps the contents of the sack into a wheelbarrow by the wall and wipes his hands on the front of his cut-off jeans. The dog waits obediently by his side. The boy lifts his head. “Lost yer mam?” he asks with a strong West Cork lilt.

He’s so good-looking my breath catches and I blush instantly. Unable to speak, I nod wordlessly, just gawking at him. I can’t help it. His face is nutty brown, and he has intense, hypnotic eyes, the colour of a stormy sea – a swirl of green, blue and gunmetal grey. I can feel my blood racing through my veins and
thud, thud, thud,
my heart pumping in my chest.

He’s not wearing a top, and his broad tanned chest is all sweaty and heaving, his arms strong and muscular. Judging by the tan on his legs, he must wear shorts all the time. His nose has a distinct bump and his jeans are grass-stained but, be still my swooning heart, he certainly has … something.

“She blonde? Carrying a baby?” he continues.

I nod again.

“Down there.” He jabs a thumb towards the sea. “On the beach.”

“Um, thanks,” I manage.

“No bother.” He walks back through the gate towards the hedge. Looking closer, I see there’s a gap in it. Then it comes to me – it’s not a hedge at all; it’s a maze. Wow! How cool!

I’m about to go and investigate when I hear Dan call from the garden. “Amy!”

Reluctantly I turn towards his voice, the strange boy’s face still swimming in front of my eyes.

Chapter 9

The
following morning I’m sitting on the patio with Clover. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Clover snored all night, like a slobbery dog with adenoid problems, and I’m hoping to have a nice snooze in the sun after breakfast. The sky is cornflower blue with only a few high, wispy clouds, and we’ve already planned to cut loose from the noisy babies and their even noisier mums later and hit the beach.

It’s a bit nippy to be eating outside, but we’re avoiding the mayhem in the kitchen. We picked up our cereal bowls and skedaddled just after Mum and Prue launched into a heated argument about television-watching during mealtimes.

It’s their second disagreement of the morning and it’s not even nine o’clock yet. The first was over being dressed at the breakfast table. This morning Prue is once again perfectly turned out in pristine jeans with a crease ironed down the front, a crisp white shirt and another velvet Alice band, red this time. She looks like an American soccer mum from the telly.

She insisted on her brood being washed and dressed before they ate. Mum’s still in her raggedy grey PJs and pink towelling dressing gown with wild Amy Winehouse hair. She hasn’t fully woken up yet, let alone washed and dressed either herself or Alex and Evie.

They’d barely finished that argument when the great telly debate began. They’re still at it. The French doors are open and their heated voices are carrying all the way out here.

“But it rots their brains, Sylvie,” Prue is saying. “And it over stimulates them. I only let my boys watch educational programmes.”

Through the open doorway I see Mum grab the controller off the kitchen counter and channel-hop until the
D-D-D-D-D-Dora the Explorer
theme tune rings out. “Now!” she says triumphantly. “Dora’s very educational. All that Spanish and map-reading.”

Prue presses her lips together into a tight line and says nothing.

“Do you think they’ll be bickering for the entire holiday?” Clover asks me in a low voice, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles. (We’re sitting on spindly-legged metal chairs. Mine nearly froze my bum when I sat down, but it’s warmed up a bit now.) Clover gives a huge yawn and I can see her wisdom teeth. “It’s very tedious,” she adds, then winks. “But quite entertaining. Hey, in a mud wrestle, who would you bet on, Sylvie or Prue?”

I don’t even have to think about it. “Mum! Prue would be afraid of getting filthy. And I bet she’d do that girlie slapping thing.” I demonstrate for Clover, flapping my hands in the air like a seal’s flippers and making high-pitched girlie squeaks.

Clover cracks up and falls about laughing. “You’re probably right. But I think old Prudie has hidden depths. After all, she did shoot Denis out from between her legs. He must have been a
giant
baby.”

“Clover!” I scrunch up my nose. “Do you have to be so graphic?”

“Sorry, Beans. Changing the subject, do you think Denis will break his vow of silence?”

So far Denis hasn’t uttered a word – not yesterday, not this morning. Not a peep. When Clover tried tickling him earlier, to make him laugh or even just squeak, he only scowled, grunted and squeezed her hand so tightly he nearly broke it. Then he made a rude sign with his fingers and waggled them in her face.

I snorted into my hand and even Clover looked a bit shocked. She tried to wrestle his hand down and, of course, Prue caught her at it.

“What are you doing, Clover?” she raged.

Quick as a flash, Clover said, “Teaching Denis sign language.” She crossed her hands in front of her body and tipped her hips, giving Prue a sugary sweet smile.

I laughed so much milk went up my nose and I spat my mouthful of Rice Krispies all over the table. I couldn’t help it. You see, we’ve been watching this CBeebies programme with Alex –
Something Special
. The smiley presenter is teaching children how to sign. (We’ve been trying to make Alex copy the gestures, but he’s far more interested in his toy trains.) And Clover had just told Denis to change his nappy.

“What did you just say in sign language, then?” Prue asked suspiciously, one hand on her hip as if she was about to do “I’m a Little Teapot”.

“Put on your shorts,” Clover lied effortlessly before signing again. “Put on.” She crossed her arms. “Your shorts.” She touched her hips. “He’ll boil in those heavy combats.”

“That’s really cool, Clover,” Mum said, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know you could sign.”

Prue just sucked in her cheeks. I don’t think she’s taken to Clover.

“Do I look like I’ve got the plague?” Clover asks. She’s stuck soggy Rice Krispies all over her face. She puts her hands out in front of her like a zombie, closes her eyes and moans like one of the evil undead.

“Hello! Anyone home?” A singsong voice suddenly pierces the air. A girl a few years older than Clover is walking towards us. She has a short crop of hair, the colour of blackberries. A stocky grey Labrador with a bit of a limp is following closely behind her. When I look at his bright, loyal eyes, I think of our old dog, Timmy. He was a black Lab too. He died just after Mum and Dad’s separation. Great timing. I was devastated. First my gran died, then my parents split up, then Timmy died – bang, bang, bang, one after the other – and my whole life came tumbling down like a run of dominoes. If it wasn’t for Clover and Mills, and Mum, I suppose, I would have gone crazy. I still miss Gran and Timmy.