The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean (4 page)

But as I speak, I realise with a start that there is someone else here, standing beside us on the pebbles and sand. I start to shiver, even though it’s really warm. I can’t see a ghostly figure or anything, but I can feel a shadow, as if a cloud has drifted across the sun. The voice whispers suddenly and insistently in my ear.

“Lily, did you say something?” it says. “Is that you, Lily?”

I shudder with shock and distress. The voice has followed me. I can’t get away from it. I can feel my face crumpling and tears start to fall. Rowan hugs me, totally bewildered, as I begin to sob.

“What’s wrong, Lily? Do you not want to go on holiday with your gran?” she asks anxiously. “Is it because you’ll miss the dance? Please don’t cry, Lil.”

I shake my head.

“I
do
want to go to Millport. And I really don’t care about missing the dance,” I say in a trembling, muffled voice.

“Well, why are you crying? Please tell me. What’s the matter, Lily?”

But how can I tell her what’s wrong? How can I tell her that I’m being haunted?

I make a feeble excuse about having a headache, grab hold of Summer, fasten her into her pushchair and hurry home, afraid that if I tell my best friend the truth, she’ll think I’ve gone crazy.

Reasons I’m not happy today:

• I am still being stalked by a disembodied voice.
  
• I have to wear repulsive pink cast-offs that don’t even fit properly, and have ruffles.
  
• I worry a lot that my step-dad will come back.
  

When I finally get home, I am half blinded by tears and swelteringly hot from running while pushing a buggy. I fling the front door open, leave Summer asleep in her pushchair in the hall and run upstairs.

Mum is in her bedroom, brushing her hair, getting ready for her Sunday evening shift at the café. I enter before I have time to talk myself out of it.

“Mum, I’m scared,” I blurt out. But then I can’t think what to say next. I’m really afraid that she’ll think I’m going mad.
I
already think I’m going mad.

Mum looks really upset when she sees me. I catch sight of myself in the mirror propped on the chest of drawers and I can see why. My face, which can’t have been one hundred per cent clean, is streaked with tears. My eyes are red and swollen and my hair is damp with sweat. There are dribbles of ice cream down my front. I am not a pretty sight.

“Come here, sweetheart,” says Mum. “Come and tell me what’s wrong.”

Mum draws me towards her and we sit together on the bed. Mum’s bed is unmade and strewn with her clothes. She likes to wear long, floaty cotton skirts with black leggings and
lots
of scarves. She thinks she looks romantic but sometimes she just looks odd.

Summer’s cot, an untidy jumble of soft toys and blankets, stands in one corner of the room and a huge old-fashioned wardrobe stands against the wall. There is hardly room to move.

“I’m just scared,” I say pathetically, cuddling up to her as if I was Summer.

“It’s ok, Lily, I understand,” Mum says quietly, arm tight round my shoulders. “It was a scary, upsetting time and of course you’re not over it yet. But he’s gone, I promise you.”

She’s talking about my step-dad. She thinks I’m afraid he’ll come back. I suppose that does worry me sometimes, but he isn’t my main problem at the moment, not by a mile.

“Your step-father isn’t allowed to come within a five mile radius of Largs, Lily. We will never see him again. I’m just so, so sorry I brought him into your lives in the first place.”

I’m sorry she ever met him, and sometimes I’m angry too. It was a bad five years, and five years is nearly half of my life. Living with an alcoholic is a horrible thing that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. (Not that I have a worst enemy. I avoid conflict at all costs, and will always apologise first, even when it clearly isn’t my fault. Basically, I’m the world’s biggest wimp.)

Anyway, back to the part I didn’t really want to talk about.

My step-dad was unpredictable. Sometimes he would just drink himself into a stupor and fall asleep, snoring and ugly, on the couch. But other times, completely without warning, he would fly into violent, terrifying drunken rages. He would jerk around like an out-of-control robot, limbs flailing and voice thick and slurred. Ornaments would smash, plates would get thrown, ugly words
spat at whoever got in his way. Personally I think Mum should have flung him out long, long before she did.

It was the worst, scariest, saddest night of all, the night Mum called the police and they came and arrested my step-dad. Mum was in hysterics, Jenna was screaming blue murder, I was sobbing and terrified. But it was also one of the best nights I can remember. After all the drama was over, we all piled, tearful and shattered, into Mum’s bed and snuggled under her duvet with mugs of hot chocolate while she cuddled us tight and told us he would never be back. Jenna and I had avoided Mum’s bedroom for five years, because that was his territory. It felt so lovely to be back.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Well, not quite; this isn’t a fairy story. But when he’d gone, we could breathe freely again. Sure, we had to move into a smaller, rented house, which can be a nightmare, and we are always short of money, but the joys of breathing freely should not be underestimated.

“You know Lily, I don’t say thanks to you often enough. You are such a big help to me and the wee ones and you never complain. What would we all do without our Lil?” asks Mum. There are tears in her eyes.

I sit there with my mum, enjoying the hug, and not wanting to spoil things by telling the truth. And the truth is that this isn’t about my step-dad. This is new. Still scary, but much weirder. I am crying because the voice followed me out of the house and down to the seafront. I am afraid that I will never be free of the voice and I will never breathe freely again.

The doorbell rings and Mum jumps up, wipes her eyes and goes downstairs to answer it. I hear her opening the front door and then
closing it quietly behind her. She has gone outside to talk privately to whoever is there. I guess that it’s Gran and that Mum is outside now explaining that Jenna doesn’t want to come on holiday to Millport with her this year. I’m pretty sure that won’t go down well.

Sure enough, I hear my gran’s loud, strident voice and bury my head under Mum’s duvet. I don’t feel up to coping with Gran, especially if she’s on the rampage.

“Lily!” she yells. “Jenna! Come here, girls, please!”

I run upstairs to the bathroom and give my face a quick wash. I stick my tongue out at my red-eyed reflection and remind myself that I am a strong person. Rowan is always telling me that. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much. She is completely honest and always says what she feels, like Anne of Green Gables, and unlike me. If Rowan tells you something about yourself, you’re sure it must be true.

“Lily!” shouts my gran. “Come when you’re called!”

I amble casually through to the living room, where Gran is standing, the image of a cartoon battleaxe, face grim and arms folded round her large chest, glaring at the clothes draped over the chairs and at the toys scattered on the carpet. Bronx and Hudson sit awestruck on the couch, silent for the first time today. Thank goodness they’re dressed at least. Gran is a frightening sight when she is preparing for battle.

“You girls should be more help to your mother,” she snaps, as Jenna slouches in behind me. “Look at the state of this place. It’s a disgrace!”

Mum flushes crimson but says nothing.

I pick up a small jumper and fold it neatly, then run over and hug my gran around her ample middle.

“I am so excited about going to Millport, Gran!” I say, with rather sickly enthusiasm. Sure enough, when I turn around, Jenna is sticking her fingers down her throat and pretending to vomit.

“You’ll need a swimming costume and some decent summer clothes,” says Gran, looking disparagingly at my grey joggers and hoodie. “You can’t come with me looking like that.”

“She looks fine to me,” blurts Mum, and Jenna snorts rudely.

“She really doesn’t, Mum,” she says witheringly.

You can all stop talking about me now
, I think fiercely, but say nothing as usual.

“Doesn’t the child have
clean
clothes to wear, at least?” asks Gran, turning on Mum.

“Of course she does,” replies Mum, which is an absolutely made-up fiction. Virtually every bit of clothing I own is in the dirty laundry bin.

The growing tension between Mum and Gran is making me a bit anxious. What’s wrong with me today? I’m not usually such a drip. I think Mum realises, because she puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Lily can wear that lovely pink swimming costume… the one you bought for Jenna a couple of years ago. Jenna’s grown out of it now. And we’ve already arranged a shopping trip to buy more summer clothes, haven’t we, Lily? We’re getting the train into Glasgow next Saturday,” she adds.

This is all news to me, but I nod and smile in agreement, pleased at the thought of a trip into town with Mum. But inwardly I’m groaning at the thought of yet another of Jenna’s pink cast-offs. I’m sure that awful swimsuit has ruffles too.

Jenna looks outraged that Mum and I have planned a shopping trip without her, but she can hardly complain that she isn’t being included in a trip to buy clothes for a holiday on which she is refusing to come.

I smile innocently at her and she glares back icily. If looks could kill, I’d be on a mortuary slab.

Gran nods and smiles and I know she’s just getting started. She
starts to unbutton her beige raincoat. My gran always wears a coat, even on the warmest of days.

“That’s great, Claire. I would like to help pay for the clothes, as I want Lily to look really smart on this holiday.”

Gran says this while looking me up and down in a way that suggests I look the exact opposite of smart at the moment. I can feel my face blushing fiery red as Jenna grins meanly.

“And Jenna can babysit for the wee ones when you go into Glasgow,” Gran adds spitefully. “I’ve got a coffee morning at my church next Saturday.”

“But I’ve got plans for Saturday,” Jenna yammers, the grin on her face dissolving instantly. “Jess and I are going—”

“You’ll need to cancel your plans. You’re babysitting,” snaps Gran.

Gran dumps her shiny handbag on the floor and plonks her big behind down on the couch between a startled Bronx and Hudson, who have to leap out the way to avoid being squashed.

“Make me a cup of tea, Jenna,” she barks. “Lily and I have our holiday plans to discuss. And I’d like a chocolate biscuit with my tea.”

Jenna flounces out, looking torn between fury and relief at having to leave the room. She must have been worried that Gran would drag her unwillingly to Millport or roar at her for being an ungrateful brat. But Gran seems relatively resigned. Maybe she is secretly relieved, like I am.

“You need a bath and hair wash, madam,” says Gran to me firmly. “A lady’s hair is her crowning glory, you know.”

She turns to Mum and shoos her, as if she were an annoying insect.

“Off you go to work, Claire. I’ll take over here. And why are you letting the baby sleep at this time of day, for heaven’s sake?”

Five minutes later, Mum leaves for work, her eyes flashing with annoyance and her mouth full of bitter words which will spill out
later when Gran isn’t around.

As soon as Mum has slammed the door behind her, Gran sets us all to work. Sunday evening is its usual whirl of tidying, cleaning and washing. I don’t complain. In fact I relish those Sunday nights. They restore some order to our lives and ensure that, at least on a Monday morning, we all look clean and respectable.

“You girls need to help your mother more,” Gran complains repeatedly, and while Jenna stuffs her fingers in her ears, I’m listening guiltily.

It’s not that I don’t want to be helpful. I know Mum is tired when she gets home from cleaning other people’s houses. I know she needs help to keep this house looking nice. It’s just that housework is so dull and repetitive. You can spend ages making a room all tidy, clean and vacuumed and then a few minutes later Bronx and Hudson will have scattered action figures, lego blocks and biscuit crumbs over every surface. All your hard work is ruined and you are back to square one.

Sometimes – ok, most of the time – I’d rather read a book or listen to the radio. But on Sunday nights, I’m happy to put in the effort and even Jenna, who usually grudges every moment spent away from her precious laptop, scrubs the kitchen floor and washes down the tiles in the bathroom without an excessive amount of moaning.

“Well done, girls,” says Gran, when we collapse in a heap on the couch. She is bashing our clothes into submission with an iron, thumping it against the board as she turns tangled heaps of laundry into neat, organised piles.

“Now, doesn’t it feel good knowing you’ll be nice and smart for school tomorrow?” she asks nobody in particular. “Go and pack your bags and lay out your uniforms. Lily, you get Bronx organised for the morning.”

Gran runs a bath for us all using some of Mum’s Christmas
bubble bath. Jenna gets the water first because she is oldest and grumpiest. I am bitterly jealous of all the frothy, fluffy mango-scented bubbles. It looks bliss.

“Get out of here,” snarls Jenna, pushing past me into the bathroom and shoving me towards the door. “Give me peace.”

I wonder if she and I will ever be friends again, or if we will be at each other’s throats forever. I miss the big sister I had before she metamorphosed into a monster. Even if she was a werewolf like the ones in her stupid vampire books, then at least she would be normal for most of the time, and we’d only live in terror of her when there was a full moon.

“Lily, get in that bath and give yourself a good scrub!” yells Gran, ten minutes later.

The water is a bit lukewarm and scummy with shampoo and soap by the time I get in. But lying back in the deep water is peaceful and relaxing. Gran has brought some coconut shampoo from her own house and I use it to wash my hair. When it’s washed and blow-dried, my wispy gingery hair will look all glossy, light and fluffy. I will be able to toss it carelessly from side to side like those daft girls in the shampoo adverts.

Eventually, I drag myself out of the bath, dry myself on a damp towel and look in the bathroom mirror. That’s better. My face is flushed and pink and I look almost pretty, though my nose is still too long and my face is thin and pointy. My eyes are an odd, light-grey colour, like beach pebbles.

“Lily?” says the voice, right into my ear. “Is that you, Lily?”

I whirl around, trying to catch the voice in the act. I think I catch a glimpse of a vague, shadowy outline of a person, but can’t be sure.

“Who are you?” I whisper. But nobody answers. The only sounds are the dripping tap and the distant whirring of the washing machine.