Read Online Taking Flight by Sheena Wilkinson - Free Book Online Page B

car in a lay-by opposite a tatty terrace of houses. It was so different from Sandringham Park that it felt like a different city. It was still raining which didn’t make the streets any nicer, though I guessed they would look grotty even on a sunny day. The sun would just show up the graffiti more, and the litter and the bricked-up houses. They weren’t all like that – some of them were actually very smart, with fresh paint andimmaculate gardens, the way Gran’s had been. A little statue of the Infant of Prague used to sit on the windowsill and I always thought he was welcoming people. I wondered where the Infant of Prague had gone. There was nothing like that in our house. Mum seemed to have given up on religion when she married Dad, I suppose with him being a Protestant. Not that he was religious either.
    I sighed my way out of the car after Mum and Declan. It didn’t take three people to pick up more of Declan’s manky stuff.
    â€˜OK, let’s go,’ Mum said, clicking the remote to lock the car. She shot an uneasy glance at a couple of steeky-looking lads hanging round on the corner.
    We trooped up the path to the peeling front door. Declan was holding Mum’s old gym bag, banging it against his legs.
    â€˜What about her, love?’
    We all swung round. An old lady shuffled to the gate of the house opposite. She had a snipey face and a bad greyish-ginger perm. Declan and I both shrank in behind Mum – it was the closest I’d ever been to him – while the old bag leaned on her gate.
    She was a nosy old cow but Mum told her as little as she could – just that Theresa wouldn’t be home just yet and that Declan would be staying with us.
    â€˜And where is it you are exactly these days, love?’
    â€˜Malone.’
    â€˜Oh. Very nice.’ Then her harsh voice went all creamy. ‘Och, it’s a pity of her too, isn’t it?’
    Mum made a non-committal noise.
    â€˜Sure her and our Mairéad used to be as thick as thieves. Our Mairéad would still call to see her, you know; sureshe’s only round the corner. But she says she’d got a wee bit funny lately. You know, not answering the door and that. I think she was a wee bit depressed.’
    Well, Nobel Prize for psychology to you, I thought and I felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Declan having to listen to this. I took out my phone and started texting Fliss to show I wasn’t earwigging and kind of jiggled my feet a bit to encourage Mum to hurry up.
    â€˜She liked a man around, didn’t she?’ the old woman went on.
    â€˜I really couldn’t say,’ Mum said, all prim.
    Declan leaned against the front door and shot the old bag a pretty mean look. I didn’t blame him.
    â€˜And how are you getting on at your auntie’s?’ she asked him.
    Declan grunted.
    Mum leaped in. ‘Fine. Vicky here is just the same age.’ She made it sound like the Waltons.
    â€˜Look, can I go in?’ Declan said. ‘I have to get my stuff. Only you have my key –’
    â€˜Here you go.’ Mum handed him a key and he let himself in.
    As soon as Declan was away the old bag lowered her voice – like she was getting down to the real gossip – but as she wasn’t exactly softly spoken I didn’t miss a word.
    â€˜Och, I think he’s settled down a bit since the trouble. That lad who was with him, now, he was bad news – that Emmet McCann.’ She sniffed. ‘But your Declan seems to have kept his nose clean.’ She sounded like she regretted this. ‘Mind you, the kids round here’s desperate these days. I was only saying to our Mairéad the other night…’
    â€˜And how is Mairéad?’ Mum interrupted.
    I left them to it and went into the house. The hallsmelled of smoke and cooking fat and seemed to have shrunk in the last year. The stairs rose straight up to a narrow landing. I could see an open door and a