Breakfast at Sadie's Page 11

  ‘Yes! It's nothing like that, she just—’ I pressed my lips together.

  Brenda paused, looking at me. ‘Sadie?’

  ‘She just . . . doesn't seem very happy to see me.’ Tears threatened, and I jerked my head away, staring at a blood donation poster on the wall. It sounded so daft once I said it, as though Mum should be doing cheers every time I walked in the door!

  Brenda sighed, her eyes softening. ‘Oh, Sadie . . . come here, let's talk for a minute.’ She took me over to the waiting area, and we sat down on a pair of horrid green plastic chairs. ‘Listen, your mum's reaction is nothing personal, OK?’

  I wiped my eyes. ‘OK.’

  She touched my arm. ‘No, honestly. The thing is, patients with GBS can often feel very depressed. I mean, think about it – she's trapped in there, she can't move or talk, she doesn't know what's going on.’

  Her words echoed like stones dropped in a well. I hadn't really thought much about what it must be like for Mum, locked in her body. Once I did, I couldn't stop.

  It must be like hell on earth.

  Brenda kept talking. ‘We do our best to keep her stimulated, but obviously it's a very difficult time for her. She loves seeing you, though.’

  I stared at her. ‘She does?’

  ‘Yes, she does. She always seems much more cheerful after you've been.’ Brenda glanced at her watch, and stood up. ‘Sadie, I have to get back to work. You should have a word with Tricia though; she's in most days. She can tell you what it's like.’

  No thanks; that was just the person I was trying to avoid.

  Brenda squeezed my shoulder and walked away, her steps trim and brisk. I took a shaky breath and went back into Mum's room. She hadn't moved, of course, and lay exactly where she had been, still gazing out the window. I sat down and took her hand, and her head moved listlessly towards me.

  I didn't say anything for ages, just sat there and held her hand. Her fingers felt cool, with no movement at all to them.

  And we just looked at each other. It was like I was seeing her for the first time.

  ‘It'll be OK, Mum,’ I whispered finally, brushing her hair back from her forehead. ‘It'll be OK.’

  An Original Feature

  I stayed up for ages on Thursday night, making sure that we had enough clean sheets and duvet covers for the hen party coming the next day. Because when someone checked out, I had to totally remake the bed, with everything completely clean, and everyone who was staying with us was checking out in the morning.

  Including the Dumonts, thank God.

  Ever since they had checked in, I had thought about taking the special offer sign down and burning it or something, because if they were the sort of customers it brought in, I seriously did not want any more.

  Just the night before, Mrs Dumont had knocked on the lounge door, asking whether we had a hot water bottle. In July.

  ‘Um, I'm not sure . . .’

  Her nostrils twitched. ‘Well, can you ask? There's a definite chill coming in through our window. You don't have double glazing here.’

  No, because the sash windows were an original feature of the house, and my dad would have slit his wrists with a rusty bread knife before he tore them out and replaced them with plastic rubbish.

  I didn't say that. I just smiled and said, ‘I'll ask.’ I shut the door in her face and went over to Mum's bedroom door, calling, ‘Aunt Leona! Have we got a hot-water bottle?’

  And we didn't, but I got the electric blanket down from the shelf in Mum's wardrobe and took it back to the door. ‘Sorry, we can't find one, but she says you can use this.’

  Mrs Dumont sort of huffed. ‘You mean I have to re-do the bed?’

  ‘I'll come and do it—’

  She grabbed the blanket from me. ‘No, that's all right; I'll do it myself!’

  And so on. Every time I saw her, she had a look on her face as though she could smell rotting fish. Couldn't my aunt do this or that, and other B&Bs gave customers discount coupons for restaurants in town, and blah blah blah. I was terrified that she was going to insist on speaking to Aunt Leona if she didn't get her way, and I leaped to do everything she said.

  So I wasn't exactly heartbroken that they were checking out. I reckoned having a whole hen party staying with us would be child's play compared to her.

  Marcus Knows How to Cross the Street

  Dear Miss Bodley,

  I'm extremely sorry, but I won't be able to meet with you today as planned. Sadie is very unhappy here with her mother in hospital, and so I've decided to take her up to Scotland to see her grandmother for a few weeks, to cheer her up. (I'm sorry that she'll miss the last day of term, but if school is anything like it was in my day, not much will have been going on anyway!)

  Let me assure you that everything is all right, and that I'm sure Sadie will start the new term in September feeling refreshed and ready to go.

  Yours sincerely,

  Leona Harris

  Milly and I had spent hours on the letter – she wrote it on the computer, and then I forged Aunt Leona's signature. I thought it was a complete work of genius. I mean, it didn't sound the least bit like Aunt Leona, but it was so perfectly adult.

  Even so, I could hardly concentrate as I did the breakfasts on Friday morning. I served everyone automatically, keeping a big smile on my face, but inside I felt like a jar lid that's been twisted on too tight. What if our plan didn't work?

  Mrs Dumont was the last guest down. She sat by herself beside the window, looking grim. ‘My husband isn't feeling well this morning.’ She snapped her napkin open on her lap, eyeing me like it was my fault. ‘So please hurry with my breakfast, so I can get back to him.’

  ‘I'm sorry Mr Dumont's ill,’ I said as I took in her breakfast ten minutes later.

  ‘Yes, it's probably something he ate.’ She poked at her eggs with a fork, scowling.

  I'm sure it's nothing to do with stress. I went back into the kitchen. At least that was everyone finished with breakfast for now.

  Which meant that it was time.

  My hands trembled slightly as I carefully folded the letter up, putting it in a plain white envelope and sealing it. For Miss Bodley, I wrote on the front, using my left hand and writing in a quick, adult scrawl.

  Then I took a deep breath and rang Mrs Marcus.

  ‘What's your surname?’ I hissed at Marcus as the phone rang.

  He adjusted his glasses. ‘Bowers.’

  That's right, Bowers. Thankfully, Marcus's mum answered the phone before I could forget it again.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bowers?’ I said in my Aunt Leona voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Leona Harris, from next door—’

  ‘Oh, hello!’ Her voice warmed. ‘I'm so glad to speak to you at last— you must think I'm awful, not coming round sooner! I did try a few times— in fact, I was going to pop over a few nights ago, but Marcus said you were probably too busy.’

  Thank you, Marcus. I tried to laugh. ‘Yes, we do keep pretty busy here.’

  ‘I suppose you're ringing because it's the last day of his project?’

  I had forgotten all about that. I glanced at Marcus. ‘Oh – yes, I just wanted to say that— that he's done a great job, and been a big help, actually—’

  ‘Well, he's been very keen about learning all he can these last couple of weeks, and it's been really good of you to have him there. We've been combining all sorts of fun lessons with it in the evenings – maths, and history, and English—’

  She gushed on for ages, and I felt pretty sorry for Marcus by the end of it. Finally I was able to clear my throat and break in. ‘I was just wondering, do you think you might be going out today?’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Yes, I— you see, there's a form for Sadie's school that she was meant to take in with her, but she's forgotten it, and I think they need it this morning. I have to stay here and do the rooms, but Marcus said you might—’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded taken aback. ‘Well, Marcus could
drop it off for you. It's only two streets away.’

  No! My heart jammed my throat as I clutched the phone. ‘Oh, I don't think so – I mean, the streets are so busy around the school—’

  She laughed. ‘They're not that busy. And Marcus knows how to cross the street; he'll be fine.’

  I stared at Marcus across the kitchen. ‘ What? What?’ he was mouthing. Utter doom, that's what.

  ‘All right. Thank you, I'll have him take it,’ I said finally.

  ‘Yes, he'll be fine. And thank you for being so good about his project!’

  Click.

  ‘What now?’ I banged the phone down and slumped against the counter, hugging my elbows. ‘She won't do it, she says you can drop it off!’

  Marcus perked up. ‘OK!’

  ‘It is not OK. We have to have an adult do it! If they see you instead, they'll ask loads of questions; it'll ruin everything!’

  His eyes glowed behind his glasses. ‘But no one would see me, I promise! I'd choose my moment really carefully, and sneak in and—’

  I gripped my temples, trying to think. Could I get one of the guests to do it, maybe? Tell them it was my little sister who went to school there? No, it would look too weird; they'd wonder why I couldn't take it.

  I bit my lip, and looked at Marcus.

  He stood on tiptoes, almost trembling, like a dog who'd heard the word walkies. ‘Please! I won't get caught, I promise! I'll just sneak in and put it on the desk!’

  There was no one else.

  Slowly, I watched myself hand him the letter. ‘Marcus, listen to me. This is so important. If you're caught—’ I stopped. ‘Just – don't be caught.’

  I Think You'll Find

  I couldn't stand listening to the silence after he left. I put a Robbie Williams CD on and did the dishes, dreading with every swipe of the sponge that the phone would ring, and it would be Vampira announcing she was on her way over.

  After half an hour, I had dried all the dishes and put them back in the cupboard, and there was still no sign of Marcus. Where was he? The school was only about two seconds away! I imagined him tied up in Vampira's office, refusing to speak while she tortured him.

  One by one, I heard the guests leaving, putting their keys on the hall table. Finally it was half-nine, and I thought my brains were going to leak out of my ears. What was going on? Had he been caught, or what?

  I grabbed up the pile of fresh sheets and duvet covers and went upstairs. I might as well get the rooms done for the hen party while I died of anxiety. Dumping the clean laundry on the first-floor landing, I went from room to room, stripping all the beds.

  Then I opened the door to Room Seven, and my heart jammed into my throat.

  ‘Oh!’ I started, jumping backwards. ‘Oh, I'm sorry—’

  Mrs Dumont was sitting in the armchair drinking a cup of tea, and Mr Dumont was lying in bed reading a paper. She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I'm sorry – it's just that it's almost checkout time; I thought you'd gone—’

  She sipped her tea. ‘I forgot to tell you; we're going to stay over tonight, as well. And possibly tomorrow night, depending on how my husband's feeling.’

  The key gouged into my palm. ‘I'm— I'm really sorry, but you can't.’

  She stared at me, unblinking. In the bed, Mr Dumont turned a page of his paper.

  ‘I mean – we're completely full tonight. We don't have any rooms left.’

  Mrs Dumont very carefully put her teacup down. ‘Yes, but my husband is ill.’

  A cavern opened up in my stomach. ‘I'm sorry, I really am, but we just don't have any rooms. I could ring another B&B for you—’

  You know how in horror films, monsters can just whoosh straight at you? That's what it was like. One second she was sitting in the soft cream-coloured armchair, and the next she was right in front of me, staring up into my face with hard, glinty eyes.

  ‘Shall we step outside?’ she said pleasantly. ‘I'd prefer not to disturb my husband.’

  I swallowed, and went out into the corridor. Mrs Dumont followed, closing the door.

  ‘Now, you listen to me,’ she hissed, planting herself in front of me. ‘My husband is ill with some sort of stomach upset, and for all I know he got it from the cooking here! I'm not moving him until he's feeling better, and I think you'll find that the law is on our side.’

  She spun on her heel and went back into the room. Bang. The door closed in my face.

  ‘All right, darling?’ A male voice. My God, he talked!

  ‘Yes, fine. Go back to sleep, dear.’

  I stumbled through the rest of the guest rooms in a haze, tugging sheets and duvet covers off. My fingers had turned as clumsy as Marcus's. What was I supposed to do now? The hen party had already paid to stay here; they'd be furious when they didn't have all of their rooms!

  They'd demand to speak to someone in charge . . .

  My head jerked up as I heard the faint echo of a door banging shut. I pelted downstairs, almost losing my footing on the landing, and exploded into our flat.

  Marcus was sitting at the computer, booting it up. He started backwards on the seat when I burst in.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I shouted. ‘What happened?’

  His eyes widened. ‘Nothing! I just had to hang about outside until the woman at the desk went away for a few seconds, that's all. Then I snuck in and put it on her desk and left.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Oh, thank God! I was getting so worried—’ I collapsed onto the sofa and tried to calm down, pushing my hands through my hair.

  Marcus stared at me. ‘Sadie . . . is anything wrong?’

  A laugh like you might hear on a mental ward escaped me. ‘Yes, Marcus. Yes, you could say that.’

  I looked past him at the door to Mum's room. And I knew that I didn't have any choice.

  A Real Girly Slumber Party

  Dad said once that a guest room wasn't really a bedroom; it was more like an ideal of a bedroom – because they look so gorgeous and perfect, as if no one's ever set foot in them before. Real bedrooms, he said, were completely different and no one would ever want to stay in them, which was why people liked leaving their own bedrooms once in a while and going somewhere else.

  Once Marcus and I had cleared Mum's room out, I saw exactly what Dad had meant. The carpet looked flat and grubby. There was a scratch on the front of the wardrobe. A white ring on the bedside table where she had put a glass of water.

  It was a mess even though it was totally empty.

  ‘We're never going to get away with this,’ I whispered.

  Marcus shoved damp hair back, staring around him. ‘What's wrong with it?’

  ‘What's wrong with it? Are you mad? It needs new paint, new furniture, new . . .’ I trailed off, staring around me. ‘No one will want to stay here; it looks totally knackered! They're going to want to speak to Aunt Leona when they see this—’

  The phone on Mum's bedside table rang.

  A bath bomb of panic hit my stomach. What if it was school, checking up on me? I clutched my elbows as it rang and rang, like a headache that wouldn't go away.

  Then I heard the machine in the lounge pick up, and a bright female voice said, ‘Oh, hi, this is Kathy Marks – I'm the bridesmaid who's organizing the hen party tonight—’

  I hesitated, feeling ill. Finally, slowly, I picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello, this is Grace's – sorry, I didn't get to the phone in time.’

  Kathy laughed as the machine beeped, turning itself off. ‘Oh, that's OK! Is that Celia?’

  I twisted the cord around my hand. ‘No, this is Leona, her sister. Celia – Celia's away right now, so I'm running Grace's for her.’

  ‘Oh, right. Off on holiday, eh?’ She laughed again. ‘Listen, I was just ringing to check that everything's OK for tonight.’

  I looked around me at the faded wallpaper, the scruffy carpet. ‘I – um, there's a bit of a problem, actu
ally.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Well – there's a guest who was supposed to be checking out today, but he's ill, and can't be moved . . . so we're, we're . . . sort of short of a room.’ My throat had turned to cold lead.

  ‘Oh, no! Well, listen, I'm sure we can sort something out – we had a couple of the girls in singles, so two of them can just double up.’

  It took me a second to realize that she was saying it was OK. That she wasn't going to call the police and press charges against us. When I did realize it, I was so relieved that I almost forgot to sound like Aunt Leona. ‘Really? Are you sure it's all right?’

  ‘Oh, sure. It'll be more fun that way, anyway. We can have a real girly slumber party.’ She giggled.

  ‘Thank you so much! I'll give you the money back for the room—’

  ‘Yeah, we'll work it out. These things happen. Listen, I'll be getting there around four or so, so if you have the keys ready, I can just hand them out to everyone, so you don't have to hang about.’

  ‘Oh, that's fine!’ I said, smiling. ‘And by the way, my sixteen-year-old niece Sadie is here, helping out. You'll probably be seeing a lot of her.’

  Kathy laughed again. ‘Great! She can join the party.’

  Paint the Town Red

  By six o’clock, Grace's sounded like a girls’ dormitory at a boarding school. I sat in our lounge trying to watch TV, but I could hardly even hear it. You'd think that people who had to be at least thirty would be a bit more mature, but the house teemed with shrieks and laughter and high heels pounding up and down the stairs.

  ‘Becky! I haven't seen you in ages!’

  ‘Heather, you're looking fabulous!’

  ‘Right, is that everybody? Who's not here?’ I heard Kathy raise her voice over the crowd in the front hallway. When she checked in earlier, she had looked exactly as I'd pictured – short black hair and a pixieish face.

  ‘Sam's not here,’ called someone.

  ‘Oh, right, Sam . . . God, and she's local! No excuse! Right, hang on . . .’ A pause, and then, ‘Sam! Where are you? You're not still at work, you big girly swot? Just because you're this form head hotshot now doesn't mean – oh, good. She's almost here now,’ called Kathy to the others.