Birdy (9 page)

The next week or so at school was all about the lead-up to Christmas. Tinsel sprung up in the classrooms, draped along windowsills and framing the board, kids and those teachers who liked to think of themselves as ‘fun’ started wearing Santa hats, mobile phone ringtones were set to tinny renditions of Christmas songs. Bert joined in the festivities with gusto, declaring Christmas her ‘absolute most favourite’ time of year, but despite her cheerful exterior, despite the foam reindeer antlers and the flashing Christmas tree brooch, I still felt there was a little bit of an atmosphere between the two of us.

Neither of us had mentioned our drunken night since that weekend, and neither of us had mentioned Richard. Her confession was definitely on my mind though, and I had a feeling Bert was thinking about it too. There was something about the way she was around me – sort of tentative and on edge – that told me she was nervous. I thought perhaps she was worried that I’d get cross with her again. Or maybe she was just scared that I might give her little secret away and everyone at school would realise what she was like.

I didn’t like it, that uncomfortable feeling. We were still the best of friends on the outside but it felt like there was an invisible wall between us and I couldn’t work out how to get round it. But then, quite by chance, something happened that seemed to break the wall down. Something that flung us back together again.

We’d just finished maths and we’d headed over to our lockers to dump our textbooks and collect our painting shirts before going up to art. Bert was moaning about trigonometry and how it was all totally pointless and I was nodding along and agreeing even though to be perfectly honest I’d never had any problems with it. She was so up in arms about the whole thing that she didn’t even see it at first. She just grabbed her lock and started fiddling with the combination. It was only because I was staring at it that she looked up at all.

It was written across her locker, right from the top to the bottom, the words scratched into the paint in angry, spiky letters:

Stuck up bitch!!!

The exclamation marks were an odd choice, I thought. Made the message look a little bit too enthusiastic, made the person who wrote it seem more excitable than menacing.

‘Oh!’ Bert said, reeling back. She turned to me. ‘What’s this? What’s happened? Who would do this?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘And
why
would they?’

I looked at the words, my eyes narrowed slightly, trying to work through the possibilities.

‘Don’t know,’ I shrugged eventually. ‘Could be anyone.’ Then I realised how that sounded. ‘Well, I don’t mean
anyone
as in lots of people might think … I just mean … Oh, I don’t know, Bert.’ I shook my head. ‘People are idiots. It probably doesn’t mean anything. It might not have been for you at all. Might just be a random thing.’

If I’m being completely honest I wasn’t totally convinced of this myself. If it’d said something else – just the ‘bitch’ perhaps – then maybe it might have been a random attack, but if there ever was anyone to criticise Bert – and as I’ve said before, there weren’t many who did – ‘stuck-up’ would often be the phrase that was used. It wasn’t totally fair, I didn’t think, but I could see where it’d come from. It was that slightly plummy way of talking she had, the little bit of haughtiness about her. I suddenly felt very protective of her. Poor old Bert, so cheerful and innocent. Why pick on her? It was like kicking a puppy.

I could see Bert still fretting about it as we shared a tray of sausage rolls and potato smiley faces in the canteen at lunchtime. I wasn’t sure what to do to put her mind at ease.

‘Bert,’ I said gently. ‘You’re just going to have to forget it. Everyone gets that kind of crap at some point. It’s not a big deal. Let it go.’

She looked down sadly at her plate, picking at a bit of pastry.

‘I just … I just try really hard to be nice to people. Why would they be so … so mean? I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this kind of treatment.’

I sighed. I felt sorry for her but I also worried that she was making too much of it. I mean, I’d seen some quite vicious stuff at school – harassment campaigns going on for years, violent attacks, the works – so I knew that a bit of casual graffiti was pretty small fry. And I knew that the truth was, she needed to learn to be a bit more resilient if she was going to really fit in at a place like Whistle Down. I realised that a good friend would tell her that. I had to be careful about how I phrased it though. Tough love didn’t really work on people like Bert and I really didn’t want to upset her any more when she was already feeling fragile. I realised I was going to have to go for a softly-softly approach.

‘Bert,’ I said, putting down my fork and giving her my undivided attention. ‘You’re a lovely, kind, generous person. I know that. Anyone who knows you at all knows that.’

She opened her mouth to say something but I carried on before she could get a word in.

‘But you need to realise, most of the people here aren’t like you. They don’t go out of their way to be kind, to see the best in people. They get their kicks from seeing other people suffer. Like I said, they might even have picked a locker at random. They’re just bored, most of the people in this place. Bored idiots. You’re just going to have to accept that some people … some people just aren’t that nice.’

Bert puffed her cheeks out and blew air out slowly. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK, I know you’re right. I need to toughen up. Not be so sensitive. It’s just such a … such a disappointing realisation to come to terms with, isn’t it? I suppose I just wanted to believe that … everyone liked me …’

Even Bert could see that this sounded a tiny bit conceited and she gave me a bashful little smile. I laughed, but not in an unkind way.

‘No one’s liked by everyone, silly,’ I told her. ‘But
I
like you. A lot. And you’ll always have me on your side.’

‘I know,’ she said, nodding. ‘And I’m so pleased about that.’

She slid out of her seat and gave me a hug.

And as it turned out, having that little crisis to overcome together – me having the chance to deliver some honest but well-meaning advice – seemed to clear the air between us a bit. That afternoon, for the first time since the champagne night, Bert brought up her Richard confession.

‘You know I am sorry,’ she said as we sat together in our usual seat at the back of the science lab. ‘I know you’re still cross with me.’

‘I’m not!’ I lied.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m cross with me too. I know I was an idiot … but it was ages ago. I’m different now, honestly.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘People make mistakes. I just wish you hadn’t lied to me.’

‘I didn’t lie,’ she protested. ‘I told you about the brick, I just …’

‘Left out some fairly crucial details?’ I raised my eyebrows, just a little.

Bert looked down. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’ Although I did want Bert to know I was disappointed in her, I didn’t want a repeat of the awkwardness there’d been between us when she first told me. It was time to move on, I thought. Put it behind us. ‘I understand. I do. But just … don’t keep secrets from me again, OK? We’re supposed to be friends.’

She nodded hard. ‘We are,’ she said. ‘Best friends.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Birdy, I just want to fit in here at school. I want to do well at my exams and that’s
all
. No getting into trouble, no boys, no drama. No
nothing
.’

I nodded and gave her an encouraging smile, but she still looked a bit stressed.

‘I have an idea,’ I said suddenly. I took her hand and pulled it towards me, setting it just in front of me on the bench. I took my black Biro and on the back, just by her thumb joint, I drew a tiny symbol. A silhouette of a bird in flight.

‘It’s a blackbird,’ I explained. I pushed the pen into her hand. ‘Here, you do one on me.’

Bert shrugged and nodded and did the same on my hand.

‘Now we’re tattooed!’ I told her with a grin.

She looked at the neat drawing on my hand and the slightly more lopsided one on hers. ‘Until we wash our hands …’

‘That’s my idea,’ I said. ‘We keep redrawing it on. Every night. Every morning. Then it will be like it’s permanent. Blackbirds forever!’

Bert smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sure. Blackbirds forever!’

I ran my fingers over the little drawing, being careful not to smudge the ink, and I smiled to myself.

I couldn’t help feeling a little bit grateful to the mysterious exclaiming graffiti artist.

I was invited to spend Christmas Day with Bert and her parents. Although I was obviously delighted by the invitation to start with, my joy quickly began to fade away as I realised that I’d have to turn it down. There was no way that Nan – who didn’t like me accepting so much as a chocolate digestive from a ‘stranger’ – would allow me to spend the whole of Christmas Day in someone else’s house, eating their turkey and sprouts, pouring their cream on my Christmas pudding. That didn’t stop me thinking about the idea though – fantasising about being in Bert’s big house, sitting around the dining table in the kitchen, pulling crackers and groaning as Charlie read out the terrible jokes. Bert’s parents would ask me questions in their kindly and interested way. Bert would insist that I had first pick of all the food on offer. I’d feel like one of the family, only better. I’d be like a VIP.

I enjoyed these daydreams so much that the idea of them never coming true seemed to become really quite painful. I didn’t want to upset Nan by suggesting I didn’t want to spend Christmas with them, but then Nan had never made any secret of the fact she thought the whole festive period was a total waste of time and money. Anyway, two days before Christmas I thought, What the hell, there’s no harm in asking. I’ve got to at least try.

‘On Christmas Day?’ Nan said, frowning as she scraped the bottom of a saucepan clean with a knife. ‘They don’t want a stranger in their house on Christmas Day.’

I couldn’t be bothered to point out I was hardly a stranger, having been to the house at least fifteen times over the past three months. Besides, Nan didn’t know about most of those visits. She just thought that the pressures of GCSE coursework meant I’d had to start staying late at school several times a week.

‘They do, Nan. They asked me. It’s fine.’

‘I’m doing a perfectly good dinner here,’ she said. ‘Butcher’s saving me a bit of lamb’s neck. We don’t need their charity.’

I didn’t reply. There was no point. There was no reasoning with her. She wasn’t open to negotiation. I missed Granddad then, the real Granddad, how he used to be. Sometimes when Nan was being rigid like this he’d step in and fight my corner. It didn’t normally get him anywhere but it was nice to have him on my side. Then, if Nan was being particularly severe, he’d come and see me in my room, to check if I was all right I suppose, to explain. ‘She does love you, Frances love,’ he’d tell me. ‘I’m sure of it. I know she’s strict about rules and what have you, but she’s just scared … scared of what happens when she’s not in control. You understand, don’t you?’ I suppose I did understand, but it didn’t make me like it any more.

I took a tea towel from the drawer and started drying the plates on the drainer, telling myself I’d been stupid to let my imagination run away with me like that. But then, fifteen minutes later, as I was spraying the worktop with cleaner, Nan sighed and said, ‘OK, fine. If you’re going to sulk about it, you can go over after dinner. In the afternoon. Just for a couple of hours. I don’t want you eating their food.’

I froze mid-wipe, wondering if I’d heard her right. But before I could check, she’d marched out of the kitchen and I could hear her grumbling and cursing as she tried to squeeze the Hoover back into its tiny space under the stairs. I smiled to myself, and sprayed the kitchen cleaner extra hard onto the kitchen table – five jubilant, celebratory pumps. Then I quickly wiped the foam away before Nan came back and caught me being so frivolous.

I’d already been working on Bert’s Christmas present for a few weeks. It was a detailed pencil sketch of a blackbird, standing on a branch with a worm in its mouth that I’d copied from the old
Encyclopaedia Britannica
Nan and Granddad kept on the shelf in the hall. On Christmas Eve, I added the finishing touches to the beak and eyes and carefully positioned the sketch in the frame I’d bought from the 99p shop a few Saturdays ago. The 99p had technically been Bert’s – she hadn’t asked for her change back when she’d sent me to the canteen to buy doughnuts one breaktime – but I didn’t think that mattered too much. The sketch was the important bit.

Then, in a swell of panic, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I should be taking Genevieve and Charlie a present too. Was that the right etiquette? I wasn’t sure. I was hardly a seasoned Christmas Day guest. I decided that, as I was in doubt, it was better to take something than to not, but that left me with the problem of
what
I could possibly take.

I had precisely thirty-two pence in my purse and even if I managed to think of anything reasonable that could be bought for that price, it was Christmas Eve evening and all the shops were bound to be shut by now. I expected that the paper shop on the way to school might be open – I don’t think I’d ever seen that one close – but what would I get from there for thirty-two pence? I couldn’t exactly present the Fitzroy-Blacks with a packet of chewing gum or half a box of value Jaffa Cakes.

I sat down on my bed and chewed on my nail, looking around my bedroom for inspiration. Maybe I could just give them something of mine and pretend I’d bought it. Would they want a Bible? A jigsaw? I half-wondered if I could wait until Nan had presented me with the standard-issue pair of socks that I got every Christmas morning, then re-wrap them and take them round. But even if I could get away with that for Genevieve, it wouldn’t do for both of them. What would I do – tell them to wear one each?

I mentally pictured their house, hoping that something would jump out at me, some kind of clue as to what they’d like. Suddenly I remembered something. On perhaps my second visit I’d been staring up at a big painting in the kitchen. It was just big blocks of colours really – a smudgy pink rectangle with a rough yellow rectangle on top and a black line across the middle. I’d assumed that Bert had done it, when she was much younger probably. It looked like something a four or five year old might produce the first time they were let loose with a set of powder paints and big sheet of paper. But luckily I didn’t say anything out loud because Bert had come and stood alongside me.

‘It’s Mark Rothko,’ she said. ‘It’s splendid, isn’t it? Mum and Dad love him. It’s just a print, of course. The original’s in the Guggenheim I think.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, not wanting to appear uncultured. ‘It’s magnificent.’

In the library the following day I’d found a book on Mark Rothko and flicked through, trying to familiarise myself with his most famous works in case he ever came up in conversation at Bert’s house. I was a bit surprised to see that all his paintings were like the one in Bert’s kitchen – just squares of random colours. They weren’t even neat squares and the colours didn’t even match half the time. Strange, I thought, closing the book up. Talk about the emperor’s new clothes.

But now I was suddenly grateful to Mark Rothko and his primitive style. I thought back to that book, trying to picture one of his pieces. I remembered there was one that I’d found particularly odd – one big square of orange together with a big square of navy. That was it. That was his whole ‘work of art’. I tore a page out of my school sketch book and got out my chalk pastels. I wasn’t sure exactly what media Mr Rothko used to bring his genius to life but I thought chalks would be best for getting those smudgy edges.

I drew a big block of orange and below it a big square of navy. Then I rubbed the sides with my finger to give them the trademark Rothko blurred look. When that was done, I shook the loose chalk dust from the page and in the bottom right corner I wrote
Mark Rothko
in tiny, squiggly letters with a Biro.

With the piece complete, I rummaged around in the drawer next to my bed until I found what I was looking for – a picture of Mum slouching in an armchair, her hair tumbling over her eyes. The only picture I had of her, in fact. The photo was sitting in a clear plastic frame, so I undid the clip at the back, tipped Mum out and slotted my drawing in its place. I held it out in front of me to survey my handiwork.

Yes, I thought. That’ll do nicely.