slipped?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Skip smiled like Stan Laurel, slapped her head, and sent debris flying: cut grass, ash, a sticky wrapper. All the way down Volcano Street she had imagined pouring out her sufferings to her sister, calling down curses on the Lum’s Den. Suddenly she knew she would say nothing.
In a corner of the room was a sink. Wrenching the tap into wailing life, she doused her hair and her bent neck. The water thrilled her: so clean, so cold. She shrugged off the bomber jacket and wet that too. Red slime (an icy pole, squashed?) spread and dispersed.
‘You’ve run off, haven’t you?’ Marlo said accusingly.
‘Lunchtime. Aren’t you having lunch?’
Marlo gestured around her. All across the desk and the floor surrounding it were papers, folders, suspension files. ‘Do you know how long this lot’s going to take? So much for Auntie Noreen keeping an eye on things! Uncle Doug’s been shoving things any old place, waiting for some mug (that’s me) to sort it all out. I’m going to have to ring half our suppliers and ask if we’ve paid them – that, or sit back and wait for the bailiffs.’
‘I could help,’ Skip said brightly. She slung herself into a chair and made it swivel. The desk opposite Marlo’s was larger, almost twice the size, and entirely clear but for a chocolate-brown telephone, a none-too-clean ashtray, and an inverted V of plastic embossed with the legend MR D. PUCE, GENERAL MANAGER . Filling the remaining space was an easy chair in caramel-coloured vinyl, a filing cabinet, and shelves heaped with bathroom-fittings catalogues, old copies of Pix , and paperback books by Harold Robbins and Alistair MacLean. A Mobil calendar hung on a wall; in the window, pulled back dustily, were floral curtains that looked as if they might crumble at a touch.
‘Lunch?’ Pavel stood in the doorway. Skip was glad that he expressed no surprise to see her there. Test-tube head frothing, he advanced on Marlo and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on! Old man Puce can hold the fort for a while.’
Relenting, Marlo allowed herself to be tugged out of the office, Skip pulling one hand, Pavel the other. Out the back, on a strip of driveway, Pavel’s Land Rover glimmered greenly. Skip scrambled into the front seat.
‘Piggy in the middle.’ Pavel flicked a finger in her hair.
They swung into the street, narrowly avoiding a Ford station wagon. As the day had advanced, the sky had grown brighter, the clouds turning from black to greyish-white.
‘Chicken and chips? I’m buying.’ Pavel drew up at Chickenland. The enormous fibreglass chicken on the roof loomed above him like a science-fiction monster as he vanished through glass sliding doors. Skip thought how much he resembled Honza: a larger edition. But his character could hardly have been more different. Pavel was that rare thing, a boy who wasn’t a bastard. She had thought at first that he was stupid. But he was really just kind.
‘Is he always so happy?’ she asked Marlo.
‘First thing Monday morning! I don’t know how he stands it. Uncle Doug’s on at him all day – fetch this, carry that, shift those shovels, unpack those crates, drive these sacks to the other side of town. And he’s got his feet up half the time. If I were Pavel, I’d tell him to take a running jump.’
‘Won’t you tell him anyway?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not?’
Two young mothers passed by on the pavement, pushing strollers. Lightly, Marlo touched her sister’s shoulder. ‘Skip, I’m sorry. I’ve been horrible to you. I don’t mean to be. I’m worried – hell, I’m scared out of my wits. You know we can’t count on Karen Jane coming round?’
‘She always comes round,’ Skip said.
‘She’s worse this time. The social worker said so. I don’t know what will happen. None of us can know. But we may just have to make the best of things, you and me – here in Crater Lakes.’
Dread blocked Skip’s throat. With twitching fingers she
‘Uh-huh.’ Skip smiled like Stan Laurel, slapped her head, and sent debris flying: cut grass, ash, a sticky wrapper. All the way down Volcano Street she had imagined pouring out her sufferings to her sister, calling down curses on the Lum’s Den. Suddenly she knew she would say nothing.
In a corner of the room was a sink. Wrenching the tap into wailing life, she doused her hair and her bent neck. The water thrilled her: so clean, so cold. She shrugged off the bomber jacket and wet that too. Red slime (an icy pole, squashed?) spread and dispersed.
‘You’ve run off, haven’t you?’ Marlo said accusingly.
‘Lunchtime. Aren’t you having lunch?’
Marlo gestured around her. All across the desk and the floor surrounding it were papers, folders, suspension files. ‘Do you know how long this lot’s going to take? So much for Auntie Noreen keeping an eye on things! Uncle Doug’s been shoving things any old place, waiting for some mug (that’s me) to sort it all out. I’m going to have to ring half our suppliers and ask if we’ve paid them – that, or sit back and wait for the bailiffs.’
‘I could help,’ Skip said brightly. She slung herself into a chair and made it swivel. The desk opposite Marlo’s was larger, almost twice the size, and entirely clear but for a chocolate-brown telephone, a none-too-clean ashtray, and an inverted V of plastic embossed with the legend MR D. PUCE, GENERAL MANAGER . Filling the remaining space was an easy chair in caramel-coloured vinyl, a filing cabinet, and shelves heaped with bathroom-fittings catalogues, old copies of Pix , and paperback books by Harold Robbins and Alistair MacLean. A Mobil calendar hung on a wall; in the window, pulled back dustily, were floral curtains that looked as if they might crumble at a touch.
‘Lunch?’ Pavel stood in the doorway. Skip was glad that he expressed no surprise to see her there. Test-tube head frothing, he advanced on Marlo and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on! Old man Puce can hold the fort for a while.’
Relenting, Marlo allowed herself to be tugged out of the office, Skip pulling one hand, Pavel the other. Out the back, on a strip of driveway, Pavel’s Land Rover glimmered greenly. Skip scrambled into the front seat.
‘Piggy in the middle.’ Pavel flicked a finger in her hair.
They swung into the street, narrowly avoiding a Ford station wagon. As the day had advanced, the sky had grown brighter, the clouds turning from black to greyish-white.
‘Chicken and chips? I’m buying.’ Pavel drew up at Chickenland. The enormous fibreglass chicken on the roof loomed above him like a science-fiction monster as he vanished through glass sliding doors. Skip thought how much he resembled Honza: a larger edition. But his character could hardly have been more different. Pavel was that rare thing, a boy who wasn’t a bastard. She had thought at first that he was stupid. But he was really just kind.
‘Is he always so happy?’ she asked Marlo.
‘First thing Monday morning! I don’t know how he stands it. Uncle Doug’s on at him all day – fetch this, carry that, shift those shovels, unpack those crates, drive these sacks to the other side of town. And he’s got his feet up half the time. If I were Pavel, I’d tell him to take a running jump.’
‘Won’t you tell him anyway?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not?’
Two young mothers passed by on the pavement, pushing strollers. Lightly, Marlo touched her sister’s shoulder. ‘Skip, I’m sorry. I’ve been horrible to you. I don’t mean to be. I’m worried – hell, I’m scared out of my wits. You know we can’t count on Karen Jane coming round?’
‘She always comes round,’ Skip said.
‘She’s worse this time. The social worker said so. I don’t know what will happen. None of us can know. But we may just have to make the best of things, you and me – here in Crater Lakes.’
Dread blocked Skip’s throat. With twitching fingers she
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