The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean (8 page)

Then I realise there is somebody sitting next to me on the bench.

Oh, surely not. Could this day get any worse?

My ghost is perched beside Bronx’s model digger, her face turned towards me. I can see her colourless features as if through frosted glass. She has wide eyes, a small, heart-shaped face and long, wavy hair. Today she’s wearing what looks like a school uniform. That’s weird. Do ghosts change their clothes? Do ghosts go to school?!

She is clutching something tightly in her hands, but I can’t tell what it is.

I still can’t place who she reminds me of. I can see that she looks very unhappy though.

“What’s up with you?” I ask her quietly, trying to speak like a ventriloquist so the parents nearby don’t think I’m talking to myself. I am presuming nobody else can see her and that she is
picking exclusively on me, since nobody is screaming and pointing out that there’s a ghost sitting on one of the park benches.

“Lily, can you really hear me? Can you really see me? Is this real?”

Oh great. I’m being haunted by a ghost who doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

“Well of course I can hear you. I’m not deaf and you keep hissing in my ear! And I can sort of see you, but you’re a bit fuzzy, to be honest.” I’m really going for it now. “And why are you always so flamin’ worried looking?” I snap at her when she doesn’t reply, forgetting for a moment that I’m not alone in the park. “Why don’t you want me to go to Millport? I go every year with my gran, and you haven’t ever interfered before. It’s not really your business, is it, what I do? I don’t even know you. Leave me alone.”

“It
is
my business,
listen
to me,” she replies sadly. “Don’t go to Millport. Stay away from the water, Lily.”

She looks at me beseechingly and as I stare back into her wide dark eyes, trying to remember where I have heard her voice before, she fades and disappears. I am left on my own, sitting in the drizzle on a park bench.

“It’s getting wet! My digger will be ruined!” screams Bronx. “Cover it up, Lily!”

He runs over to rescue it from the rain, which is now falling hard.

“Ha! Your model’s all mushy,” taunts Hudson as he skids up to us.

Ignoring both of them, I scoop the digger and our school bags into my arms and we start to race out of the park and up the road towards Gran’s house. Our hair is getting soaked and our clothes sodden. We will all be a crumpled, soggy mess by the time we get there, digger included.

“Harry says he was fastest, but it was definitely me,” Bronx shouts as he runs. “Did you see me, Lil? Sure I was faster than Harry?”

“Yes, you were fast as an asteroid heading straight for Earth!” I call back, and Bronx grins happily.

I glance down at my school bag with its water lily charm. “Stay away from the water, Lily.” Were the ghost’s words some kind of code? Or is she a figment of my imagination? Gran is always telling me that I have an overactive imagination. But if I am inventing a ghost, and managing to scare myself with it, there’s definitely something wrong with me.

I think that, on balance, I would rather she was real.

Today’s major events:

• Millport! Yay!
  
• Gran is a nightmare. An embarrassing nightmare.
  
• I meet a girl on the ferry, and she’s real, for a change.
  

My holdall doesn’t do anything of the kind. There are loads of other things I want to pack and there’s no more room in the stupid thing. And anyway, I’m out of time. Gran will be here any minute to whisk me away to a tropical paradise. (I wish.)

I stand at the window, bulging holdall at my feet, and wait. The holdall looks good: black and glossy, with my water lily charm attached to the zip. I’m wearing a Peanuts t-shirt, my new skinny jeans and my bright orange shoes.

“You look great, Lily,” says Mum. “Really cool.”

I wish my mum would not try and use words like ‘cool’. It’s just embarrassing.

Mum is on the couch, holding Summer firmly on her lap while she struggles to dress her. Summer has learned some new words and is using them all at once.

“No, no, no, no!” she yells furiously. “No socks. No shoes. Feet!”

Mum sighs deeply.

“Come on, Summer, co-operate with me. You can’t walk about in your bare feet.”

“No socks! Bad socks! Bad Mum!”

“It was easier when she couldn’t speak,” grumbles Mum, as Summer pulls the tiny socks off her feet and stuffs them down the front of Mum’s jumper.

“No socks,” she burbles happily. “Socks gone ’way. Bye-bye socks.”

Bronx and Hudson come charging in, throw themselves on the couch and almost catapult Summer into the air.

“For goodness’ sake, be careful,” shouts Mum, but Summer just laughs and bounces up and down on Mum’s knee. She seems happier since she started to talk. Life is probably a lot less frustrating when you can explain what you want. I hope she isn’t too lonely this week without me. I’ll miss her.

“Lily, will you bring me a present from Mapes?” wheedles Bronx, tugging at my hand. Mapes is the toy shop in Millport – the boys are obsessed with it. “I’d like a lightsabre, or a sword, or a gun that shoots foam discs. Or one with real bullets would be better.”

“I’m sure you would, Bronx, but I don’t have enough spending money for a big present. I’ll get you some sweeties or maybe a lucky bag from Mapes, as long as you’ve been a good boy for Jenna and Mum.”

“Me, too?” pleads Hudson. “Can I have an ice cream with a flake and raspberry sauce?”

“I think that might melt by the time I get it home on the ferry,” I laugh. The boys are quite funny when they’re not rampaging around, causing havoc.

I worry suddenly that a week is quite a long time for them to manage without me.

“Right lads,” I say sternly. “What are the Three Unbreakable Rules?”

Bronx waves his arm in the air, as though he’s in the classroom, but Hudson shouts out excitedly.

“We must change our pants and socks every day cos else we’ll
get smelly!”

“Yup. And Bronx?”

“We need to brush our teeth twice a day cos if we don’t they will get yellow and disgusterous.”

“And the Third Unbreakable Rule?”

“I know, I know!” screeches Hudson. “We must never cross roads on our own, even if there’s a zillion pound note on the other side.”

“Because a zillion pounds is no use if we are squished flat, like that hedgehog you showed us,” finishes Bronx.

I might even miss my wee brothers this week. They are quite cute looking, with their floppy fair hair, big grey eyes and freckled noses.

“Can I use your bed as a den while you’re away, Lil?” asks Bronx.

“No, I’m having it!” yells Hudson and he flings himself on Bronx and starts to pummel him with his fists. “I need it for Swampfire.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t sound good. My brothers are aliens. Not cute at all.

Bronx bawls and aims a flying kick at Hudson, who crumples, wailing and clutching his stomach.

I take it all back. I won’t miss them one bit. Not one tiny subatomic particle.

“If either of you lay one finger on my bed, or on any of my stuff, the television remote will magically dissolve and you will never be able to find it again,” I warn them and then quickly shoo them to the side as the doorbell rings. Gran’s here!

I rush to the door and fling it open. She is standing on the step, wearing her beige raincoat and carrying her enormous patent-leather handbag. Her battered brown case is propped at her feet, and she already looks puffed out from the effort of carrying it.

“Right, Lily. Are you ready to go?” she asks brusquely. “I’m not coming in. So get a move on.”

I rush back into the living room and grab my holdall and anorak. Mum puts Summer down and gives me a big hug.

“I hope you have a lovely time, pet,” she says, kissing my forehead. “Take care of yourself. Be good for your gran.”

“I will, Mum, promise,” I say brightly, and bounce backwards towards the door, waving frantically.

Bronx and Hudson are now sitting together on the couch, smiling sweetly and waving, a suspicious picture of grey-eyed innocence. As soon as the door closes behind me, I know they will be dragging the covers off my bed to make their den. I click an imaginary remote to remind them of my threat.

Jenna is standing at the foot of the stairs. She reaches out, grabs my hand and shoves a five-pound note into it.

“Have a good time, Lil. Better you than me,” she whispers, waving at Gran, who is still standing in the doorway, her face grumpy with impatience.

Jenna runs back up the stairs and I stand dumbly watching her, too astonished to shout thanks.

The walk down to the pier takes a long time, as I am lugging both my heavy holdall and Gran’s case, which I can barely lift. We have to keep stopping so I can have a wee rest. My arms feel as though they are being wrenched from their sockets.

“Come on Lily. Get a move on, girl,” urges Gran as she strides ahead, her big bottom wobbling as she walks. “We haven’t got all day.”

When we finally arrive at the pier, the ferry is just coming in. Gran goes to buy our tickets and I watch the big bow door clank like a monster’s jaw onto the stone ramp and spit the cars out one by one.

There are a lot of foot passengers and cyclists waiting to hand over their tickets and Gran is determined to be at the head of the queue.

“Hurry up, Lily. Follow me!” she shouts. “I need to get a seat on the ferry, or my old legs will swell up like balloons.”

She shoves her way to the front and I cringe with
embarrassment. Then she drops her tickets in the man’s outstretched hand, and stomps down the ramp. I scuttle after her, dragging both bags. Once on board, Gran finds a seat downstairs and I plonk the bags down beside her.

“Oh, I’m shattered,” she gasps, fanning her face with one plump hand. “That walk was exhausting. The ruddy case weighs a ton.”

I shake my head in amazement and rub my sore arms.

“I’m going to sit up top, Gran. Is that ok?” I ask, and she nods in agreement, clearly keen to engage the elderly lady in the seat across from her in conversation. The poor old woman is trapped, wedged in by Gran’s heap of bags and jackets. I hope for her sake she has a hearing aid she can switch off.

“You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have with my digestion,” confides my gran, in a stage whisper. “I’m a martyr to migraine, too. And as for my blood pressure. The doctor says he’s never seen such…”

I shake my head again in disbelief at Gran’s idea of a conversation opener. The old woman tries to edge closer to the ferry window.

It’s only when I’m standing at the railings, the sea breeze whipping my hair and salt spray splashing the sides of the ferry, that I remember the ghost’s warning to stay away from water.

Oh dear. I’m not exactly taking her advice. But what harm can I possibly come to?

I look nervously over the rail, down at the frothy, churning firth. I could lose my balance and topple in. Somebody could deliberately push me and I’d plunge down into the dark, foaming water and perhaps be sucked under the hull of the ferry. These are scary thoughts.

I turn my head towards the green hills of Cumbrae. It’s going to be ok. We’re nearly there already. The slipway is ahead and I can see the familiar blue bus waiting at the stop. It will be weird being in Millport without Jenna, but I am determined to enjoy myself. There are no alternative holidays on offer, so I need to make the absolute best of
this one. And I can get away with not going in the sea. Swimming in it isn’t that enjoyable anyway, as it’s so piercingly cold. I cross my fingers and hope that I have left the ghost behind in Largs.

“Wishing yourself luck, are you?” says a voice at my ear. I jump in the air, startled. There’s a girl standing next to me. Not a ghostly girl, a real live one, with short jet-black hair and eyes as soft and brown as chocolate buttons.

“Wow, that’s an overactive startle response,” says the girl, frowning mock-seriously. “I diagnose some kind of terrible trauma requiring a long period of rest and recuperation. How long are you staying for? I would recommend a month for a full cure.”

“Oh, just a week,” I reply, a bit warily. “I come every year with my gran. What about you?”

“I live here,” says the girl. “All year round. I’m a prisoner on this island. The guards let me out on occasional accompanied visits to the mainland, if I’ve been well behaved and kept my cell clean.”

I giggle. She is funny, this girl, and I’m always impressed by people who can make me laugh. I also love her bright, eccentric clothes. She wears a loose apple-green cotton top and fuschia-pink velvet shorts with rainbow-striped socks and lace-up walking boots.

“My name’s Lily,” I tell her. “I’m from Largs. My mum believes I need to see the world so she has sent me on this eight-minute voyage to a faraway land. I’m only to come back if I succeed in making my fortune.”

“There aren’t many ways of getting rich in Millport,” grins the girl. “You might be here for a while, after all. Where are you staying?”

“My gran has booked a caravan, out towards Fintry Bay,” I reply, suddenly wondering how Gran and I are going to make it there with our luggage.

“Maybe I’ll see you around. The guards allow me a short period of daily exercise,” she says, grinning widely at me. “I live on Stuart Street, next to the Wedge. Britain’s skinniest house! I’m Aisha, by the way.”

She turns away and clumps down the metal ferry steps, two at a time. The doors are being lowered. They clang onto the slipway, and I follow Aisha down the steps, back to Gran.

As I lug the cases up the slipway and on to the bus, followed by a puffing, red-in-the-face Gran, I hear a shout and turn to see Aisha waving from the open back window of a silver Audi.

“Good luck with seeking your fortune!” she yells. “Let’s meet up tomorrow. About eleven o’clock, by the pier!”

I wave back, and can feel myself grinning widely. Maybe I won’t be lonely on this holiday after all.

Gran shoos a boy off his seat so she can sit down near the front of the bus.

“Move your lazy carcass,” she demands. “You shouldn’t be sitting down when there’s a poor frail old lady having to stand.”

The boy’s mother glares and mutters, but doesn’t argue with my gran. Few people are brave enough to do that. The bus rumbles along the narrow, winding road and I cling to a metal post to prevent myself being tossed to the floor. The driver seems determined to break our necks and as the bus swings round every bend, I imagine us swerving off the road onto the rocky shore. Gran clutches the bar in front of her seat and criticises the driver’s skills loudly enough for everyone, including him, to hear.

“Lily, don’t let go of that bar. The man’s a maniac!” she yells, and I blush with mortification.

I gaze out at the rocky foreshore, hoping for a glimpse of a grey seal, but the only wildlife I can see are the hordes of gulls and a small group of pretty sandpipers, their heads bobbing as they search for insects on the rocks. As the bus drives past an enormous lump of volcanic rock shaped like a squatting lion, I squirm with excitement in my seat. We’re nearly there!

“Gran, look, there’s the Lion Rock!” I can’t resist saying, even though she can hardly miss seeing it.

An elderly man looks up at me from his seat and smiles. “It was meant to be a bridge to the mainland, but when the elves realised they couldn’t finish it, they kicked big holes in it,” he told me, his eyes twinkling. “That’s why there are no elves on this side of the island. But there are plenty left in Fintry Bay.”

“Bill McInnes, don’t you be telling my granddaughter daft fairy tales,” retorts my gran. And then, delighted to find someone she knows, she starts relaying all of her ailments to him.

“I’ve had a terrible year, Bill,” she begins, with grim satisfaction. “My arthritis has been playing up something terrible. You would not like to see how swollen my joints are on a bad day…”

I bet the poor man wishes he hadn’t opened his mouth to speak to me.

Finally, the bus arrives in Millport town and I stare out of the grimy window at familiar landmarks: Crocodile Rock, the garishly painted boulder which only vaguely resembles a reptile; the ancient crazy golf course; the smartly renovated Garrison library and museum; Mapes’ bike hire and toy shop; the Ritz café and, at last, the old pier, so crumbly that it is due to be demolished.

“Gran, we need to get off the bus,” I say urgently, because she is so busy discussing her aches and pains with old Bill that the bus could turn and head back to the jetty before she’d notice.

“Oh, you’re right enough, Lil,” agrees Gran amiably. She is being unusually pleasant to me and I wonder if she is trying to impress Bill. Maybe she fancies him. What a gruesome thought.

We stagger off the bus when it stops at the pier and begin the difficult trek to the caravan site, me lugging both bags and Gran wheezing along behind me, complaining with every step. Then, to my huge relief, a car slows down beside us and the driver shouts for us to get in.

It’s one of the local ladies Gran has got to know over the years and the woman kindly gives us a lift out to the site. I can’t thank
her enough, as I think I would have ended up carrying Gran as well as the bags if we’d had to walk.