of course. There was something I wanted, but it would have been far too selfish to ask for it at that time. Mum was driving around in a car only fit for the scrap yard and going to work in suits more than fifteen years old. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought herself anything new. Meanwhile we always ate well, there was always money for new clothes and shoes for me, for a book or a magazine I wanted, a DVD or a trip to the cinema. I saw how she always put my needs before her own, and there was no way I was going to abuse that.
But there was something I wanted. Something I wanted very much – as much, if not more, than I’d wanted a flute when I was a little girl. I wanted a laptop: one of those sleek new laptops I’d seen when I was out shopping with Mum that were so slim, so light you could slip one into a shoulder bag and it’d take up no more room and weigh no more than a file of papers.
We already had a desktop computer in the small front room of Honeysuckle Cottage that Mum used as her office. This computer was nearly ten years old (Dad, of course, had taken the newer computer with him when he’d left), which made it prehistoric. It was already displaying the idiosyncrasies of the aged – it regularly froze up for no good reason, it often wouldn’t shut down properly, and it was slow, slow, slow ! I used it when I needed to go on the Internet, but I never felt very comfortable when I was on it; I knew it was really Mum’s work computer, and I was terrified of accidentally deleting a client’s statement or a complicated schedule of damages that had taken her hours to work out. I preferred to write my essays in longhand rather than struggle with the beast, as we nicknamed it, but I knew how much easier having my own computer would make my homework. I’d be able to move paragraphs around, delete whole sections I didn’t like (rather than scribbling them out like a four-year-old), check my spelling and know exactly how many words I’d written at a glance, which would save a huge amount of time when Roger set a strict word limit.
My thoughts were already starting to move beyond A levels to university. A laptop would be a huge advantage with all the essays I’d be expected to write, and I even saw myself taking notes on it during lectures if I could learn to type fast enough.
But what really excited me was the thought of how a laptop could improve my own creative writing. With a laptop, I might be able to embark on something really long – I might even be able to write my very first novel . . .
I said nothing, though. I knew that if Mum had even an inkling that I wanted a laptop, she’d buy it for me – even if it meant she had to go to work with holes in her shoes and ladders in her tights.
11
March ended and April began. Our routine carried on pleasantly – Roger came in the mornings, Mrs Harris in the afternoons. I studied hard and was on course again to do well in the exams that were now only two and a half months away. Mum still did the work of three people and put up with Blakely’s rudeness and his wandering hands with meek resignation.
My birthday grew closer, and I felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of turning sixteen. I received money from my elderly grandmother in Wales, and some far-flung relatives sent birthday cards that Mum displayed on the sideboard. A really sweet card came from the hospital, signed by the nurses who’d looked after me there. I was stunned to get a letter from the police forwarding a cheery ‘Birthday Greetings!’ from my school, signed with ‘heartfelt best wishes’ by the head teacher. I tore it into pieces and threw it straight in the bin.
Even though I tried not to, I couldn’t help looking out for something from my dad. But nothing came. This splinter of petty cruelty worked its way deep under my skin, and the harder I tried to ignore it the more it irritated me. I still couldn’t really believe that our relationship was
But there was something I wanted. Something I wanted very much – as much, if not more, than I’d wanted a flute when I was a little girl. I wanted a laptop: one of those sleek new laptops I’d seen when I was out shopping with Mum that were so slim, so light you could slip one into a shoulder bag and it’d take up no more room and weigh no more than a file of papers.
We already had a desktop computer in the small front room of Honeysuckle Cottage that Mum used as her office. This computer was nearly ten years old (Dad, of course, had taken the newer computer with him when he’d left), which made it prehistoric. It was already displaying the idiosyncrasies of the aged – it regularly froze up for no good reason, it often wouldn’t shut down properly, and it was slow, slow, slow ! I used it when I needed to go on the Internet, but I never felt very comfortable when I was on it; I knew it was really Mum’s work computer, and I was terrified of accidentally deleting a client’s statement or a complicated schedule of damages that had taken her hours to work out. I preferred to write my essays in longhand rather than struggle with the beast, as we nicknamed it, but I knew how much easier having my own computer would make my homework. I’d be able to move paragraphs around, delete whole sections I didn’t like (rather than scribbling them out like a four-year-old), check my spelling and know exactly how many words I’d written at a glance, which would save a huge amount of time when Roger set a strict word limit.
My thoughts were already starting to move beyond A levels to university. A laptop would be a huge advantage with all the essays I’d be expected to write, and I even saw myself taking notes on it during lectures if I could learn to type fast enough.
But what really excited me was the thought of how a laptop could improve my own creative writing. With a laptop, I might be able to embark on something really long – I might even be able to write my very first novel . . .
I said nothing, though. I knew that if Mum had even an inkling that I wanted a laptop, she’d buy it for me – even if it meant she had to go to work with holes in her shoes and ladders in her tights.
11
March ended and April began. Our routine carried on pleasantly – Roger came in the mornings, Mrs Harris in the afternoons. I studied hard and was on course again to do well in the exams that were now only two and a half months away. Mum still did the work of three people and put up with Blakely’s rudeness and his wandering hands with meek resignation.
My birthday grew closer, and I felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of turning sixteen. I received money from my elderly grandmother in Wales, and some far-flung relatives sent birthday cards that Mum displayed on the sideboard. A really sweet card came from the hospital, signed by the nurses who’d looked after me there. I was stunned to get a letter from the police forwarding a cheery ‘Birthday Greetings!’ from my school, signed with ‘heartfelt best wishes’ by the head teacher. I tore it into pieces and threw it straight in the bin.
Even though I tried not to, I couldn’t help looking out for something from my dad. But nothing came. This splinter of petty cruelty worked its way deep under my skin, and the harder I tried to ignore it the more it irritated me. I still couldn’t really believe that our relationship was
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