.”
I can’t listen anymore. Have to make the noise disappear. “I’m leaving, anyway,” I blurt out.
The voices cut out abruptly.
“What?” Dad looks at me, confused.
“I’ve got an audition. At the Lab. It’s a drama school.” I pause. “In London.”
“Oh, Jude, that’s wonderful —” Gran is glowing again. Victorious.
But she hasn’t won. Dad plays his trump card. “No,” he says.
“What?” It’s my turn now.
“You’re not going.”
“Why?”
“How are you going to pay for it?” he says. “They don’t give out grants anymore. How much do you think it costs to go to stage school?”
About three thousand pounds a term,
I think. But I don’t say it. I don’t need to. We all know where the money will come from.
Gran smiles. “You can’t keep her here forever, Tom.”
Dad drops his head. Then looks up at her. “I’m not trying to. Do you think I want her to end up like me? But she’s a kid, Margaret. She’s too young. She’s too”— he looks over at me, searching for a word —“fragile.”
“No, I’m not.” I retort. I’m strong. I’m invincible. Like Stella. Aren’t I?
But Dad’s still going on at Gran. “She needs stability. Normal things. A normal life.” He pauses, searching for the words. “Look at what it did to her,” he says finally. And he doesn’t mean me now. “Those people. Every time she went up to London . . . the state she was in when she got back.”
“Because she saw what she was missing,” Gran says.
Dad shakes his head. “Because they got her drunk. Gave her —” He stops.
I can feel the tears prick my eyes again and I choke back a sob. But Gran waves her hand. Dismissing it as lies.
Dad turns to me. “I’m sorry, Jude. You’re too young.”
“I’m sixteen,” I cry.
“Exactly. Sixteen. How can you even know what you want to do at this age? Who you want to be?”
I know exactly who I want to be. So does he. And that’s what he’s scared of. But I don’t say that. I use another weapon.
“You did,” I spit. “You wanted to be Turner or Whistler or . . . or Monet. What happened to that?”
“Life happened,” he says. “And, anyway, I wasn’t good enough.”
“What if I am, though?”
Dad says nothing. Alfie is crying. Dad tries to pick him up, but he fights and wriggles out of his grip and holds on to my legs. “Don’t go.” Snot is running down his nose and sticking to my leg. A snail trail.
“It’s all right, Alfie,” I say, wiping his face. “It’s all right.” But it isn’t.
Lunch is ham and potatoes, pushed around plates. Only Alfie is really eating. And talking. Back to his endless chattering now. “Did you know that potatoes were the first food grown in space?” Dad clears the table and gets everyone ice cream from the shop freezer. Ice cream. Mum’s answer to bad dreams and scraped knees and bee stings. And rows.
I don’t go to the hotel with Alfie and Gran. I go back to my room. Back to my bed and the Rolling Stones. Ed calls, but I don’t come to the phone. Because it’s not him I need now. It’s Stella.
But Stella has other plans.
IT’S MONDAY. Two days since that night at the Point. Two days since I saw Stella. Gran has gone, Alfie’s at school, and Dad and I are working in the shop. Me putting out cans of tuna, boxes of cereal. Him behind the counter, doling out stamps and pensions and explaining passport forms to Mrs. Saunders, who is going to Germany to see her son. “He’s got four medals, you know.”
And no brain,
I think,
joining the army.
Mrs. Hickman comes in at noon to do the afternoon shift. “You two not talking?” she huffs.
We are talking. But about nothing. About me spilling tea on the stack of
Daily Mail
s. About whether he should move the tinned peas up a shelf to make more room for olives and stuff for the tourists. The audition doesn’t come up. But I know he’s thinking about it. We both are.
At lunchtime I walk down to the beach, hoping I’ll
I can’t listen anymore. Have to make the noise disappear. “I’m leaving, anyway,” I blurt out.
The voices cut out abruptly.
“What?” Dad looks at me, confused.
“I’ve got an audition. At the Lab. It’s a drama school.” I pause. “In London.”
“Oh, Jude, that’s wonderful —” Gran is glowing again. Victorious.
But she hasn’t won. Dad plays his trump card. “No,” he says.
“What?” It’s my turn now.
“You’re not going.”
“Why?”
“How are you going to pay for it?” he says. “They don’t give out grants anymore. How much do you think it costs to go to stage school?”
About three thousand pounds a term,
I think. But I don’t say it. I don’t need to. We all know where the money will come from.
Gran smiles. “You can’t keep her here forever, Tom.”
Dad drops his head. Then looks up at her. “I’m not trying to. Do you think I want her to end up like me? But she’s a kid, Margaret. She’s too young. She’s too”— he looks over at me, searching for a word —“fragile.”
“No, I’m not.” I retort. I’m strong. I’m invincible. Like Stella. Aren’t I?
But Dad’s still going on at Gran. “She needs stability. Normal things. A normal life.” He pauses, searching for the words. “Look at what it did to her,” he says finally. And he doesn’t mean me now. “Those people. Every time she went up to London . . . the state she was in when she got back.”
“Because she saw what she was missing,” Gran says.
Dad shakes his head. “Because they got her drunk. Gave her —” He stops.
I can feel the tears prick my eyes again and I choke back a sob. But Gran waves her hand. Dismissing it as lies.
Dad turns to me. “I’m sorry, Jude. You’re too young.”
“I’m sixteen,” I cry.
“Exactly. Sixteen. How can you even know what you want to do at this age? Who you want to be?”
I know exactly who I want to be. So does he. And that’s what he’s scared of. But I don’t say that. I use another weapon.
“You did,” I spit. “You wanted to be Turner or Whistler or . . . or Monet. What happened to that?”
“Life happened,” he says. “And, anyway, I wasn’t good enough.”
“What if I am, though?”
Dad says nothing. Alfie is crying. Dad tries to pick him up, but he fights and wriggles out of his grip and holds on to my legs. “Don’t go.” Snot is running down his nose and sticking to my leg. A snail trail.
“It’s all right, Alfie,” I say, wiping his face. “It’s all right.” But it isn’t.
Lunch is ham and potatoes, pushed around plates. Only Alfie is really eating. And talking. Back to his endless chattering now. “Did you know that potatoes were the first food grown in space?” Dad clears the table and gets everyone ice cream from the shop freezer. Ice cream. Mum’s answer to bad dreams and scraped knees and bee stings. And rows.
I don’t go to the hotel with Alfie and Gran. I go back to my room. Back to my bed and the Rolling Stones. Ed calls, but I don’t come to the phone. Because it’s not him I need now. It’s Stella.
But Stella has other plans.
IT’S MONDAY. Two days since that night at the Point. Two days since I saw Stella. Gran has gone, Alfie’s at school, and Dad and I are working in the shop. Me putting out cans of tuna, boxes of cereal. Him behind the counter, doling out stamps and pensions and explaining passport forms to Mrs. Saunders, who is going to Germany to see her son. “He’s got four medals, you know.”
And no brain,
I think,
joining the army.
Mrs. Hickman comes in at noon to do the afternoon shift. “You two not talking?” she huffs.
We are talking. But about nothing. About me spilling tea on the stack of
Daily Mail
s. About whether he should move the tinned peas up a shelf to make more room for olives and stuff for the tourists. The audition doesn’t come up. But I know he’s thinking about it. We both are.
At lunchtime I walk down to the beach, hoping I’ll
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