Breakfast at Sadie's Read online

  ‘Oh, you don't have to tell me; I know what she's like. I wish I could go shake some sense into her, but of course if I could do that I wouldn't be in here, would I? I can't even ring her myself now, my arms have got so bad.’

  I swallowed, glancing down at her arms. ‘Can't . . . can't you move them?’

  ‘No.’ Mum glared at the ceiling. ‘God, I'm going mad already, and it's only been a few days! Never mind . . . how are you doing? How was your day?’ Her brown eyes bored into me.

  I managed a smile. ‘Oh – it was great.’ And it actually hadn't been bad, apart from worrying about how I was going to manage on my own for three weeks without anyone finding out about it. I'd rather clean rooms with Marcus than go to school, any day.

  I didn't tell her that bit. Instead, when she asked how I had done on my homework, I told her that I had done really well. Ten out of ten on my maths and Mrs Green had read my English essay out loud to the class.

  It sounded so good. I wished it were all true, and not just a lie to cheer Mum up.

  ‘Sadie!’ Mum beamed. ‘You'll have to bring it in and read it to me.’

  My stomach lurched. Oh God, of course she'd want to see some of this fabulous work. What had I done? ‘Well – she's displaying it on the board at school now, but yeah, I'll bring it in soon.’

  She was still smiling when I left.

  Fun with Learning

  Thirty-eight pounds sounds like a lot, but it doesn't buy a whole bunch of groceries, as I found out when I went to the store on my way home. I shopped for ages, frantically doing sums in my head (which were probably all wrong anyway) and getting the cheapest of everything I could. But I was still only able to buy enough breakfast stuff for the next few days, and that came to £36.38. I almost broke my arms dragging it all home, too.

  I was just putting everything away in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I froze, my hand on one of the cupboard handles. What if it was someone wanting to check in? I was still wearing my school uniform! I ran to my room and threw on my black trousers, yanking a red T-shirt over my white school shirt.

  The doorbell rang again, and I went out to the door, holding my head up and trying to look at least eighteen.

  Marcus's mum stood there, wearing baggy trousers and a faded blue shirt. ‘Hello, Sadie,’ said Mrs Marcus. (I didn't actually know Marcus's surname; it was something so boring that I forgot it every time I heard it.)

  ‘Is your aunt in?’

  ‘No, she's at the shops,’ I said quickly.

  Mrs Marcus looked exactly like her son – very thin, with big glasses and lank brown hair. ‘Well, I just wanted to thank her for letting Marcus research his project here. He's so excited to be analysing a business close up!’

  ‘Oh, that's OK.’

  ‘It really is extremely kind of her, when she must have so much else on her mind – with your mum in hospital.’

  I couldn't think what to say to that. If I agreed that Aunt Leona was extremely kind, I might throw up. I managed a smile.

  ‘Do you think she'll be home soon?’

  My fingers tightened on the doorframe. ‘No, she was going to stop by the hospital and see Mum.’

  Mrs Marcus looked concerned. ‘Oh, of course. Well, maybe I'll catch her tomorrow . . . are you sure she doesn't mind if Marcus is here all day again? He says she doesn't, but it seems such an imposition that I just wanted to check.’

  My nails gouged into the black-painted wood. ‘No, not at all! She said he's so . . . so bright and outgoing, and such a big help – she loved having him here! He can come for as long as he wants, she said!’ Talk about over the top. I could have stapled my tongue to my lips.

  But Mrs Marcus beamed. ‘Oh, that's very kind of her! Yes, Marcus is a special boy, isn't he?’

  That's the word for it. I nodded.

  ‘Oh—’ She pulled something out of a plastic carrier bag tucked under her arm. ‘I got him this, by the way. You can show your aunt.’ She handed me a bright blue book. How to Run a Perfect B&B, by Greg R. Smeed. ‘I thought it would be fun for him to compare the theory with the practice.’

  ‘That . . . sounds great,’ I said, staring down at the book.

  She backed away a step. ‘Tell your aunt I'll see her soon. And if I can do anything to help out, with your mum so poorly, just tell her to let me know.’

  ‘I will.’ I watched Mrs Marcus head down the path towards her own house, the orange streetlights glinting off her spectacles.

  I bet life is just so educational at Marcus's house.

  Canary Yellow

  Just as I was about to close the door, a grey car pulled up in our drive. I ducked back quickly, shutting the door, and pressed against it with my heart crashing about in my chest. Those really were guests!

  Right, stay calm. Remember the plan of action. When the doorbell rang again I took a shaky breath and opened the door, wiping my clammy hand on my trousers.

  A young dark-haired couple stood on the doorstep smiling at me. ‘Hi, we're Mr and Mrs Hoffman,’ said the woman. ‘We've got a room reserved.’

  ‘Come in.’ I held the door open, and they trundled into the hallway, rolling a matching set of blue leather luggage after them.

  ‘Can you check us in, or do we need to see your mum?’ asked Mr Hoffman.

  I kept a pleasant smile on my face. ‘No, I can do it. I help her out a lot.’

  Before they could argue, I went into our flat and got Mum's red reservations book. I flipped the pages open to the week of July 3rd, and found their name scrawled across the boxes for Wednesday and Thursday in Mum's loopy handwriting. I took the book back out into the hallway. ‘Right, um – so you're staying for two nights, right?’

  Mr Hoffman nodded, glancing behind me at the door to our flat. ‘Are you sure we don't need to see your mother?’

  ‘She's not here, she's in hospital.’ My voice came out sharper than I had meant.

  The Hoffmans looked taken aback. ‘I hope it's nothing serious—’ started Mrs Hoffman.

  I gripped the book. ‘No, I mean – my aunt's here, helping out, but she's gone to the shops. I help out all the time, though. I've checked people in loads of times.’

  Mr Hoffman nodded quickly. ‘Yes, sorry. I mean, that's fine.’ He looked as though he seriously wished he had never brought the subject up.

  I stared down at their reservation, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. What did Mum do next? I cleared my throat. ‘The room's thirty pounds a night . . .’ And then I saw that Mum had written chq recv'd under their name. Cheque received, maybe? ‘. . . but – but you've already paid?’

  ‘Yes, that's right,’ said Mrs Hoffman.

  ‘So, um . . .’ I looked down at the book again, but it didn't give me any clues as to what came next. I could feel them both staring at me, and heat crept up my neck and arms. Then, like a lifeline, I saw the sheaf of canary-yellow check-in forms stuck into a flap at the back of the reservations book.

  I tugged one out with a smile of relief, and handed it to them. ‘You just need to fill one of these in – there's a pen on the table over there. And then I can escort you up to your room.’ That was what Mum always said, only it sounded a lot better coming from her. I saw Mrs Hoffman hide a smile.

  Never mind. I ducked back into our flat, and grabbed the key to Room Six from the row of hooks hanging above Mum's desk. A few minutes later we were climbing the stairs.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ exclaimed Mrs Hoffman as we rounded the curve and she saw the stained-glass window of the sailboat. Its colours in the sun shone like half-sucked lollies.

  Suddenly I saw Dad standing up on a ladder, grinning down at me and saying, ‘Pretty good, eh? Just like being in church.’

  A lump lodged in my throat. ‘Thanks,’ I said, looking away. ‘Um – your room is on the second floor.’

  Splurge on the Jam

  ‘“Breakfast at a B&B establishment is, for many guests, the focal point of their visit, the thing that they will remember as positive or negative
through-out their entire stay.”’ Marcus stood in front of the fridge, reading aloud with one finger trailing along the page.

  I swore as a splash of grease from the frying pan leaped out. The yolk had broken on one of the eggs, slithering out in a yellow ribbon. The baked beans bubbled away in a saucepan next to them, splattering the hob.

  ‘“Therefore, it is of utmost importance that a good impression is made. Splurge on the expensive jam, the silver toast rack. The very best farm-made sausages should not be too good for your guests.”’

  ‘Marcus, stop reading that thing at me!’

  He squinted at the grill, where a row of sausages sizzled. ‘What kind are those?’

  I shoved him away with my elbow as I prodded at the sausages with a knife, jumping back as they spat grease at me. ‘Oh, the very best farm-made, of course. Haven't you done the toast yet?’

  He put bread in the toaster with one hand, still reading out loud. ‘And, listen to this: “Ensure that the food on the plates is laid out in a pleasing manner. Remember that your guests will first devour their food with their eyes, and you want their first impression to be a favourable one.” Sadie, you haven't even thought about this; yesterday you were just slapping everything on the plates!’

  I was about to slap him on the head. I waved my hand in the smoky air, and turned the grill down. ‘You need to slice the mushrooms for me, Marcus. Which means you need to put that stupid book down and get on with it.’

  His glasses were two circles of mist. He tutted, not even looking up. ‘My mum said that if I'm to get the most out of this experience, I need to compare the theory with the practice, and—’

  God! I grabbed up a knife myself, chopping mushrooms. ‘Well, in practice, everything else is ready, and it's going to all be cold if I don't get the mushrooms fried!’

  Finally it was all done. A quick last check of Dad's list, and then I scooped up the first two plates and took them into the dining room, plastering a smile on my face. I'm just so happy to be here. I love helping out my aunt at our happy B&B.

  Mr Morrison, the man in Room Five, stifled a yawn as I put his plate in front of him. ‘Why did your aunt decide to change the latest time for breakfast? Eight-fifteen's quite a jump from nine o’clock.’

  I wiped my hands on my apron. It was one of Mum's, with blue and white stripes on it. ‘Oh – because my mum's in hospital, and my aunt's just helping out. She has to get to work in the mornings.’

  Mrs Morrison made an oh, that's too bad face, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands. ‘What's wrong with your mum?’

  I hesitated, and refilled her husband's coffee from the pot on the sideboard. Five of the other tables were full, and half of the guests were yawning and clutching their coffee cups like lifelines. They had all got our note, obviously – printed out by Marcus on our ancient computer and slipped under their doors yesterday.

  ‘Oh, she'll be fine . . . she just has to stay in hospital for a while.’

  ‘What's wrong with her, though?’

  I stiffened, and glanced over my shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘Oh, sorry – I think I hear my aunt calling.’

  Any Time, My Dear

  When I got to school that morning, Hannah and the others were hanging about outside the doors in a laughing blue cluster.

  ‘Sadie!’ Hannah waved me over. ‘Did you see that makeover show last night?’

  Alice's eyes gleamed. ‘We were just talking about that first woman's outfit – what a mistake! Did you see it?’

  ‘Oh – um, just the last bit.’

  ‘Did you see the bit where they gave her a makeover, and she burst into tears?’ asked Tara, tucking a bit of red hair behind her ear.

  I made my eyes go big, shaking my head. ‘Blimey, how bad was she to start with if she cried after the makeover?’ Everyone laughed. I hadn't actually seen the show; I had been too busy having fun with our industrial iron, pressing all the clean sheets I had washed.

  When there was a break in the conversation, I turned to Hannah, touching her arm. ‘Listen, um – I sort of didn't get a chance to do my history worksheet last night. Do you think—’ My face caught fire. Hannah didn't even seem bothered.

  ‘Sure, here.’ She pulled it out of her bag and handed it to me. While the others kept talking, I sat on a bench to one side and hurriedly copied the answers, my pen wobbling a bit on the wooden slats. Don't think about what you're doing, just do it! Think how happy it'll make Mum to see a good paper for once . . .

  The bell pierced through the air just as I scrawled the last answer. I handed the sheet back to Hannah. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Any time, my dear,’ she drawled.

  Scientific Hoovering

  ‘Sadie, how are you feeling?’ Mrs Clark beckoned me over to her desk as I walked inside.

  She wouldn't mention Mum, would she? I glanced back at the others, and let out a breath when I saw they hadn't waited for me. But I felt a bit empty, too. Tara would wait for Hannah, or Alice for Jan.

  ‘Oh, I'm OK. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing, my aunt said.’

  ‘Yes, there's some of those going around at the moment . . . and have you heard any more news about your mum?’ Her eyes widened.

  ‘No, nothing,’ I said tonelessly.

  She nodded, her plump face just a little disappointed. ‘I see. Well, you'd better hurry and get to your first lesson.’

  When the bell rang for lunch, I avoided Hannah and Tara and ran out to the courtyard. I made my way to the back gate, weaving through groups of kids laughing, talking, playing football. I had found out the day before that Marcus couldn't make a bed to save his life, so our plan of action called for him to do as much of the cleaning as he could on his own in the mornings, and then for me to come home at lunch and do the rest of it.

  Nobody in the courtyard paid me a blind bit of notice. I let myself out onto the footpath and started to run.

  A few minutes later I burst through the back door of Grace's. ‘Marcus?’

  No answer. I found him sat in front of our ageing computer in the corner of the lounge, typing away with his feet swinging off the edge of the chair.

  ‘Marcus, what about our plan of action? You're supposed to have all the hoovering and everything done by now!’

  He turned round, squinting at me. ‘I've already done it. I'm just setting up a website for Grace's.’

  ‘What? What for?’ I grabbed up a pile of fresh towels.

  ‘Because it's important.’ Marcus scooped up the book and flipped through it. ‘“It is vital that you stay current with certain trends. Some customers depend solely upon the Internet to book their holidays, and you don't want to miss out on their business through being a technophobe! A website can—”’

  I took the book away and pulled him up by his arm. ‘I'm going to shred that thing if you don't stop reading it at me! Now come on, help me!’

  He ran after me as I pummelled up the stairs. ‘Did anyone see you?’ I asked as we made up the double bed in Room Two. Or as I did, really.

  His thin face turned smug. ‘No. I did it exactly like we planned. I kept really careful watch, and then when each room left for the day I snuck into it and started hoovering with the door shut. It's actually very scientific, you know. Hoovering.’

  ‘Great.’ Snap, snap – I pulled the sheet and duvet firm, fluffing the pillows up. Room Two was decorated in a soft blue, to go with a big watercolour of the sea that Dad had picked up at a local auction. Mum hated it, but she hadn't touched it since he died.

  I rushed into the bathroom to give everything a quick wipe and a tidy. Marcus was still talking.

  ‘I bet no one's ever done a proper study on it. But you can increase your efficiency loads, probably as much as twenty per cent, if you're careful to do it all at right angles, and—’

  God, it was enough to know he hadn't been seen; I didn't need to hear all the scientific details! Using the master key, I let myself into the next room and started again. Thankfully only four rooms had people staying ov
er that night; I could leave the rest the way they were for now.

  The moment I snapped the last duvet into place, I scooped up the dirty towels and ran down the stairs. Throw them in the washing-machine, chuck some soap in, punch it on—

  ‘Can I stay and work on my website?’ asked Marcus, adjusting his glasses. ‘I've got a great idea for it. See, I'm going to—’

  ‘Yes, that's great!’ I grabbed an apple from our fruit bowl and took off at a run, banging the door shut behind me.

  The P Word

  My lungs on fire, I pounded up the hill and turned into the school drive, my bag whacking against my legs with every step. The building looked like a ghost town.

  The second bell rang just as I got to the front steps. No! I jogged around the side of the building and slipped in the door next to the canteen. It creaked shut behind me.

  I just had to get to science. And Mr Jenkins was on his own personal planet half the time, so I might, just might, be able to slip in without him noticing. I walked quickly through the corridors, keeping my head down.

  Which was how I almost walked straight into Vampira.

  ‘Oh!’ I started, stopping up short.

  She stared at me with her dark, emotionless eyes. ‘Why aren't you in class, Sadie?’

  ‘I'm sorry, miss. I was in the loo.’ Oh, please God, don't let me still smell of bathroom cleaner, or she'll wonder what I was doing in there.

  Vampira frowned. ‘Are you sure? You're five minutes late to class, and you look very flushed. Have you been running?’

  ‘No, I was in the loo! I was— I was crying.’

  Her frown faded slightly, and I hurtled on. ‘I didn't want anyone to know, but I'm just really worried about my mum – she can't move her arms either now, and . . .’

  I gulped. I thought I really might start crying then.

  Vampira nodded. ‘I understand. Would you like to sit in my office for a bit, until you feel better?’

  ‘No! I mean, no, please, miss – I should just get to class.’