Alice in Time (22 page)

I try three more times before I finally admit defeat.

I get off and try to think myself back to where I was before all this happened. If I remember rightly, I was in a desperate situation. I couldn’t go home where I’d rowed with Imogen and Mum and I couldn’t go to Dad’s because he wasn’t there. I had nowhere to go and was considering staying the night in the park. Great. Here I am again. It obviously wasn’t will power that made me go back in time, and it can’t have been sheer desperation or it would have worked again just now.

I consider my options. If I’m stuck here and fourteen again, what am I going to do? I remember how awful it was sitting here in the park and the row and Trisha being scary and Dad not being there for me. The old Alice felt like it was the end of the world and would never have considered going home and apologising to Mum. This time, though, it doesn’t seem like quite such a catastrophe. I don’t have a problem with apologising to Mum, especially if it means I can have a nice hot bath and go to bed. I’m seriously freezing out here. Also, I’m looking forward to seeing her again. It’s seven years
since I last saw her, if you see what I mean. I feel guilty that I messed up and didn’t get to fix her and Dad after all. I feel cheated. I mean, what was the point in all that? Why go through the bother of being seven again if nothing’s changed?

If I’m totally honest with myself, I’m quite relieved that I’m not seven any more. I’ve escaped the aftermath of Dad walking out on us. I know I should be worried about getting back and fixing Mum and Dad’s marriage, but deep down I’m glad that I don’t have to face it again. I did my best, and even though I failed it’s hardly my fault. I mean, I would have stood a better chance if I hadn’t been lied to (by Dad) in the first place. All that crap about Mum throwing him out! He doesn’t deserve us.

I feel a bit disorientated. Here I am, back in my old life, but I’m not the same person any more. In fact – I’m a bit ashamed of the old Alice. She was such a brat. She behaved more like a seven-year-old sometimes than a fourteen-year-old. I think of all those fights she had with Mum. She wasn’t a very nice person. In fact, I wonder if by being seven again, I’ve actually grown up a bit. How perverse is that?

I pick myself up off the ground and brush myself down. It’s then that I get a funny feeling that everything is not quite as it should be. Although it seems like a lifetime ago, I know exactly what I was wearing when this whole thing started. I had some black jeans that I got at the charity shop with Imogen and a tie-dyed Joe Bloggs top. Also, I wasn’t wearing a jacket, whereas now I am.

I won’t deny that I feel a bit scared. Not because I’m on my own in the park – in the dark – but because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

The rails on the roundabout gleam in the moonlight. I think about trying it one more time, but deep down I know it’s not going to work. I’m stuck here, so I’d better get on with it. The first thing to do is get back home.

As I make my way through the bent railings and back towards George Street, my mind is still on what just happened. I think of Mum wrapped up on the sofa cuddling Rory, abandoned by Dad. I’m so furious with him. Should I have explained to Mum that he wasn’t coming back?

It’s no good thinking about that, because it all happened seven years ago, not an hour ago. I need to think about what’s happening
now
. I turn into George Street and slow down to give myself time to adjust.

Last time I was here I had rowed with Mum and Imogen and then run off. I’m halfway down the street and I can see that there are no police cars outside our house, so I assume there isn’t a full-scale search going on for me. What am I going to find at home? Will Imogen still be there? Will Mum still be mad at me?

When I get to number twelve I nearly walk right past it. I stop and check the number on the gate. It’s definitely the right house, but it’s not like it was when I left. The hedge has been cut right down and there’s a new gate. The front garden has things planted in it, which I assume are flowers, although as it’s February they’re not in bloom. Looking more closely, I can see that the window frames are no longer rotting. In fact, all the windows have been replaced with new ones. The whole house looks more inviting and it’s only when I’m halfway up the path that I suddenly realise that it’s probably because we
don’t live here! Oh my God! That would explain the different clothes. I haven’t come back to the life that I left. I’ve come back to a different one, and I don’t even know where I live!

I go hot and then cold. I creep up to the front door and peer through the letterbox. The hall light is on and I can see that the floor has been sanded and varnished and there are nice rugs down the hallway. The walls are no longer green; they’ve been painted a nice creamy colour. I’m wondering what to do when the sitting-room door opens and a woman comes out into the hall. I look desperately to see if it’s Mum, but it most certainly isn’t, not unless she’s put on about six stone in weight.

Before I can stand up and get myself down the path and away, she’s steamed down the hallway and opened the front door. She lets out a little scream when she sees me kneeling on the doormat and puts her hand over her heart. God! I hope she isn’t going to have a heart attack. Then I realise that I know her. It’s Mrs Archer from down the road. What’s she doing here?

‘Is everything all right?’ There’s another woman coming out
of the sitting room. It’s Mum! I could cry with relief!

‘Alice, what are you doing home?’

They’re both looking at me. I bend down and pretend to pick something up.

‘I . . . um . . . dropped my key. I’m sorry if I startled you, Mrs Archer.’ I move out of the way so that she can go.

‘Bye, thanks again,’ says Mum as Mrs Archer lets herself out of the gate.

I walk into the house and follow Mum down the hallway.

‘Mrs Archer came round to keep an eye on Rory. I had to go to the nursing home in a hurry.’ Some things haven’t changed, then, I think as I follow Mum into the sitting room.

It’s much nicer in here too. All the heavy furniture has gone and the horrid, dark wallpaper. I’m just taking it all in when Mum comes up and gives me a hug. For a moment I think I’m seven again and glance down at myself to check. No. I’m fourteen and I hug Mum back tightly. I’m so glad to see her. I do wonder what happened to Imogen, though. She obviously isn’t here.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Mum is saying, ‘I had to go to the nursing home because Miss Maybrooke took a turn for the worse and she was asking for me. I only just got there in time. I’m afraid she passed away.’

‘OK,’ I say hesitantly. I’m not sure what’s expected of me.

‘I’m sorry you weren’t here, I expect you’d have liked to have seen her. I bet you’re glad you visited her yesterday. I know she was like a grandmother to you, but at least she’s not in pain any more.’

I sit down on the sofa to take all this in. Why would I have
visited Miss Maybrooke? The old me would have had to be carried into the nursing home, kicking and screaming, before she would have visited an old lady. This me is clearly a nicer person.

I try and look suitably sad. And, to be honest, I
am
sad. I’m sad that the old me didn’t make friends with Miss Maybrooke and go and visit her, that the old me was too busy being angry with Mum and self-obsessed and selfish to actually go out and get a life.

‘I’ll go and make us some hot chocolate,’ says Mum.

I’m relieved to be alone for a bit. My head is spinning. Where am I? Am I in a parallel universe? This is clearly my life, but it’s not the one I left behind. There’s a clock on the mantelpiece and it says eight-thirty. Time. It always seemed so constant and yet I’ve just travelled through it – twice. And now I don’t know where I am.

I go out into the hall to hang my jacket up and I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. Oh my God! It’s not even me! I’ve come back as a different person! When I’ve calmed down a bit and really looked at myself, I realise that it is me. Of course it’s me. Mum’s been calling me Alice, and she is my mum, so I am still me. I just didn’t recognise myself in the mirror because my hair is dead short! I run my hand through it. There are some longer bits framing my face but the top is sticking up like I’ve put gel in it and I swear it’s been dyed because it’s really blonde. I look ‘elfin’ and, at the moment, a bit like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights.

The more I look at it, the more I like it. It suits me. I definitely look more sophisticated and older than the old
me. It’s weird, though. The old me would never have dared have a hairstyle like this. It makes me wonder exactly what this new Alice is like. I mean, I like this style, but am I going to be able to carry it off? I certainly feel more confident than I used to, but am I as confident as this? It’s all very confusing.

I check out the hair one more time and use a bit of mascara from the wand that’s lying on the shelf below the mirror. I look great and resolve to live up to this ‘new’ image if it kills me.

Mum comes out of the kitchen carrying two mugs and I follow her back into the sitting room.

‘So, what happened?’ she says. ‘Was the party no good?’

I nearly choke on my hot chocolate. What party? The only party I know about is Sasha’s, and why would I be going to that? Unless . . . Oh my God! Don’t say I’m part of the Handbag Brigade in this life!

Mum’s looking at me expectantly.

‘I . . . um . . . changed my mind. Decided not to bother.’

That’s when I see something glowing in the corner of the room. It’s a computer. In our sitting room! I go over to check it out.

‘Oh, I was just finishing off some work when I was called to the nursing home. I’ll switch it off if you don’t need it,’ says Mum.

I hit one of the keys and the screensaver disappears. There’s a load of words on the screen but the ones that jump out at me are
Key Stage 2
. Are they introducing SATs into the nursing home? Then I spot a pile of exercise books beside the computer. The penny drops.

‘You’re a teacher!’ I say out loud before I can stop myself.

Mum gives me a funny look. ‘Well, duh, it was your idea,’ she says in an exaggerated teenage voice which makes me laugh. ‘Where have you been for the last seven years?’

This makes me laugh even more. I stop suddenly when I realise that there’s a slightly hysterical note in the laughter. I consider telling Mum where I’ve been, but decide against it. She’ll only think I’ve gone mad. As it is she’s staring at me through narrowed eyes.

‘Were there drugs at the party?’ she says. She’s trying to sound casual, but I can detect a hint of fear in her voice. I go over and give her a hug.

‘I didn’t go to the party, Mum, and I haven’t taken any drugs.’

‘Sorry, darling. It’s just that you have been acting strange ever since you got in.’

I smile at her in what I hope is a reassuring way. I really have to get a grip. Act normal. Pretend everything is fine. In a way, this is harder than going back to being seven. I need to find out some stuff, like who I am now, and why Imogen isn’t here and why the house looks different and how Mum got to be a teacher, and whose party was I meant to be at, and . . . the list seems endless and I feel like my head’s about to explode.

It feels weird sitting here drinking hot chocolate with Mum. The old me would never have done this – we’d have been arguing within minutes. I try and remember what it was exactly that we argued about. It makes me tired just thinking about it. I must have wasted so much energy on hating Mum. It’s so much better sitting here with her having
a normal conversation. Except it isn’t normal, because I don’t know what to say. I lean back into the cushions and try to relax and enjoy the moment. The trouble is, I’ve got all these questions and I need to ask them without her thinking I’m mad.

I look around the room. ‘Do you remember all that old, dark furniture that was here when we moved in?’

‘Oh, heavens, yes,’ says Mum. ‘Wasn’t it gloomy?’

‘What happened to it?’

‘Well, if I remember rightly, you were a bit scared of it, so I plucked up the courage to tell Miss Maybrooke that it didn’t really suit us and it all went down to the auction house.’

The mention of Miss Maybrooke has just made me remember something.

‘Oh no! Miss Maybrooke! The house! Are we going to have to move?’

‘What are you talking about? Why would we want to move?’

‘I just thought that maybe . . . with the house being hers and everything . . .’

Mum’s giving me that look again. ‘Alice, I bought the house off her years ago. You remember? She gave us such a good deal . . .’

‘Oh yes . . . of course . . . I remember now. Silly me.’ I decide to change the subject quickly before she starts worrying about drugs again.

‘Mum?’ I’m wondering how to put this. ‘Can I talk to you about Dad?’

‘I hope you’re not regretting that you didn’t go to his
wedding, because it’s a bit late now.’

Ah, so in this life I refused to go to the wedding from hell. Thank God, I think, remembering the hideous ordeal of the pink dress and the sleazy pub.

‘No, no, I’m not regretting that.’

‘So, what do you want to discuss then?’

Good question. I don’t really know. Luckily I don’t have to worry, because Mum fills me in anyway.

‘Look, Alice, I’ll be totally honest with you. The main reason I’ve insisted that you see your dad is really for Rory’s sake. I know, if you’d had your own way, you wouldn’t have had anything to do with him, but he is still your dad and I felt that Rory needed a male role model.’

A picture of Dad in the pub showing Rory how to use the one-arm bandit springs to mind.

‘I’m not sure he’s the world’s best role model,’ I tell Mum.

‘Well, no – you’re probably right, but he is Rory’s dad, and that will never change. Still, I recognise that as you’re nearly fifteen you do have a right to make up your own mind and I won’t insist that you stay there any more if you’d rather not. But don’t write him off completely, because you might regret it one day. Just keep in touch, OK?’

‘I don’t understand how you can forgive him for what he did to us,’ I say. Dad walking out the door is still very fresh in my mind.