Wednesday Night- Uncle Simon and Aunt Libby

Uncle Simon had said, “Libby, I don’t think the world is going to collapse if a twelve-year-old girl likes to listen to Westlife now and then,” but it was too late.  Aunt Libby had already turned the car radio’s dials away from Radio One and towards the Classic Rock station.  She was determined to improve Sandy’s mind.

Libby listened for a moment or two, then let out an excited yelp.  “Steely Dan!  One of the great songs of our time!”  As she said this, she glanced behind her, as if to make sure that Sandy was taking notes for the test later.

Sandy listened to the song, which was about a guy playing Blackjack.  It was OK, but she’d really rather have been listening to Westlife.  Try telling that to Aunt Libby, though.

“Listen to the lyrics, Sandy,” said Libby, “They’re real.  Not just I-love-you-baby nursery rhymes.  This is poetry.”

“Yes, this song is much more relatable than I-love-you-baby,” said Uncle Simon, “We’ve all gone on the run after shooting a man.  I did that twice last week.”  He could say things like that in the car, because it meant Aunt Libby couldn’t kick him under the table.

Beside Sandy in the back, Cousin Finn was asleep in the car seat.  Sandy wondered what kind of music he’d like when he was older.  Maybe he wouldn’t really care one way or another- most of the boys at Sandy’s school were more into football than music.  Sandy wondered what would horrify Libby more; that, or Finn being into Britney Spears or something.  But you never knew- maybe she’d be lucky.

“Listen to the chord progressions, Sandy,” Libby instructed.  Sandy pretended to do exactly that, even though she didn’t exactly know what chord progressions were.  She’d have to ask her Music teacher when she got back to school.

The Steely Dan song ended, and, before Simon could put in any requests, another one started up.  “Nirvana!” yelled Libby, turning up the volume.

“Oh, God…” muttered Simon, not quite under his breath, “Can’t we listen to something a bit more cheerful?”

“No,” said Libby firmly.

Sandy listened.  “Hang on, I think I know this song.  We used to sing it at school, back at St Margaret’s.”  It was about a little bird who couldn’t find a warm place to sleep.  The version playing on the radio definitely made it sound less mournful and sinister than the school choir had.  The way they’d sung it, you knew for a fact that the little bird would be frozen to death by morning.

Aunt Libby nodded.  “It’s traditional” she said proudly, “They’re reinterpreting it.”

“Like a cover version?”

Aunt Libby frowned.  “Not exactly…”

“Well, what’s the difference?” asked Uncle Simon, a big grin spreading across his face.  Aunt Libby didn’t take the bait.  She glanced backwards at Finn, then turned the volume down a couple of notches so as not to wake him up.

Uncle Simon drove on in silence until they hit a red light.  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looked out at the pavement next to them, and tutted.  “God!  Why are there so many leaves on the road?”

“Because it’s autumn,” said Libby patiently.

“Well, why don’t they clean them up, then?”

Libby raised an eyebrow.  “‘They’?”

Simon turned to her.  “You know what I…” Unfortunately, by taking the time to say this, he missed the lights changing, and the drivers behind him began to beep their horns insistently.  Simon went pink and stepped on the accelerator.

Libby could probably have dropped it, but that just wouldn’t have been her.  “You think the council should pay somebody to clean up after the trees every year?”

“I don’t see why not!” said Simon, sounding a little hurt.

“They can barely afford to have the roads gritted when it snows.  They’re not going to pay someone to, I don’t know, stand under the trees with a sack.”

Simon shook his finger at her.  “That’s not what I was talking about, and you know it.”

“Then what were you talking about?  Chopping down all the trees in town so that you don’t get offended by the sight of leaves lying around?”

“I just think somebody should clean them up, that’s all.”

“God, yes,” said Libby, with a smile, “They’re covering up all the litter.”

Simon let out an annoyed grunt, fixed his eyes on the road, and said nothing else.  After about a minute, Libby turned the volume up again.

&&&

Sandy had found out that Cousin Finn got very concerned when you pretended to cry.  All you had to do was cover your face with your hands and make sobbing noises, and he’d make an alarmed noise and pat your shoulder until you stopped.  This was a very useful tactic to stop him from pinching you or pulling your hair, as toddlers sometimes did.

Finn’s bedtime was in about ten minutes, but until then, he was sitting in the kitchen, keeping Sandy company while Simon sorted out some bills upstairs and Libby talked to whoever that was at the door.  This suited Sandy just fine.  It was always really fascinating to talk to a kid Finn’s age, and wonder which bits of what you were saying would be things they’d remember when they were older without knowing why.  For example, Sandy just spent the last few minutes explaining all the plots going on in Eastenders at the moment, in the hope that ten years from now, he’d still see Grant Mitchell as some kind of mythological hero.

Sandy heard the front door close, and an unfamiliar voice echo down the hallway.  “…wouldn’t want to put you out at all.”

“No, no,” said Libby’s voice, “God, no.  Stay as long as you like.  Did you say it was…?”

“Jaeger, love.  Like the rum!”

Libby laughed.  She opened the kitchen door, and came in with the other woman.  “Right!”  She looked at the able to check that Sandy and Finn were still sitting where she’d left them, and continued.  “Sandy, this is Mrs Jaeger, from down the road.  She’s been locked out of her house, and I said she could use our phone.”

“You’re too polite,” said Mrs Jaeger, “I locked myself out of my house- that’s the sad truth.  Let the door slam shut behind me and realised I’d forgotten the key!”  She smiled at Sandy, whose blood froze.

She knew that face.  Those yellow teeth.  That straggly grey hair.

“Sandy, was it?” asked Mrs Jaeger.

“My niece,” explained Libby, “She’s staying for the evening.”  She winked at Sandy.  “Needed some help with the baby, didn’t I, San?”

“Yeah,” said Sandy, “Hi.”  She’d forgotten that Finn was there until Libby had reminded her.  As quietly as she could, she moved her chair closer to his.  If Mrs Jaeger came anywhere near him, she’d…  Well, she didn’t know what she’d do.  Scream a lot probably.

Mrs Jaeger had turned away from them, for the moment.  “Now… Libby, wasn’t it?  I don’t mean to trouble you for more than a minute or two.  Just enough time to phone my husband, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.  Where does your husband work?”

“Macadam and Gould Furnishings, just around the corner.  He won’t be more than about five minutes, really.”

“Well, that’s enough time for a cup of tea.”  Libby turned away to put the kettle on.  “Come on, I’m not just going to let you make the phone call and then turf you out to wait on your doorstep.”

“Oh, well…  If you insist…”

So Aunt Libby made a cup of tea, Mrs Jaeger phoned her husband (who may or may not have actually existed), and then they talked.  They chatted like old friends about their husbands, about the news, about people they knew.  And all the time, Sandy sat at the table, next to Finn, staring into her own cup of tea and wondering exactly when Libby would have to leave the room and leave them alone with the old lady.

Finally, it happened.  Libby went outside to watch for Mrs Jaeger’s probably-made-up husband, and, as soon as she closed the door, Mrs Jaeger grinned.  “Hello, Alexandra Faith.  We didn’t get to talk last time.”

Sandy shifted up closer to Finn, who gave her a confused look before going back to playing with a spoon that somebody had left on the table after dinner.  She could have asked the old lady a million and one things- who she was, what she was up to, how she even knew where Sandy was tonight- but the question she actually ended up asking was almost boring.  “You don’t really live down the road from here, do you?”

Mrs Jaeger shrugged.  “I live wherever I like,” she said, with a touch of swagger.

Sandy looked down at the old lady’s hands.  There was that long, sharp thumbnail again.  “What do you want?”

“Well!”  The old lady grinned.  “You see, to me, you’re competition.”

“What?  Why?”  How could Sandy possibly be a threat to a woman fifty or sixty years older than her?  Especially when she hadn’t even known that woman existed until last Sunday?

Mrs Jaeger tapped her fingernails on the table, and looked thoughtfully around the room.  “How many people do you think there are like us?” she asked eventually, making eye contact with Sandy again, “Honestly?  What are the chances of any given baby being born with the gifts we have?”

(At the word “baby,” almost without realising it, Sandy shifted her chair so that she was blocking Finn from Mrs Jaeger’s sight.)

“One in a million,” the old lady answered her own question.  She paused, then added with a laugh, “So there’s about six thousand of us worldwide, give or take.  So tell me, Alexandra Faith, is there room for two of us in this kitchen?  Can I afford to take that chance?”

Sandy swallowed.  There were certain bits of what Mrs Jaeger had said- the gifts we have, about six thousand of us worldwide– that Sandy knew would seem important later, but right now, she didn’t care.  Right now, the only things she could think about were those long, dirty nails, inching closer and closer to her and Finn.

“You and your hailstones…”  The old lady leaned towards Sandy, so close that she could smell her breath.  “You’re more powerful than I thought.  But maybe not as powerful as you think you are.”

There was nothing else for it.  Sandy shut her eyes as hard as she could, and prayed that it would work.

She didn’t know how long she kept them shut.  Long enough for the muscles in her eyelids to ache with the strain of keeping them screwed up so tight.  When she finally dared to open them, Mrs Jaeger was lying with her head on the table, fast asleep.

She checked on Finn, and saw that he’d nodded off, too.  For all she knew, she’d sent Simon and Libby to sleep as well.  For all she knew, she’d managed the whole street.

Gently, she lifted Finn from his seat, and carried him out of the room.  She’d take him upstairs and put him to bed, and not come back down until it was safe.  With any luck, before Mrs Jaeger had a chance to wake up and look for them, Libby would find her and deal with her.

(Two months later, I’ve finally finished the next bit!  Sorry it took so long.)

Tuesday Night- Great-Grandma and Great-Aunt Pauline

Great Aunt Pauline was Gran’s younger sister, and her arch-nemesis.  Gran’s snide comments about Aunt Caroline were nothing compared to the grudges that could be nurtured by spending the first eighteen years of your life cooped up in the same house.  “Goes to pieces when she runs out of eyeliner,” Gran would say whenever Pauline was mentioned, “Can’t cook without a frying pan.”  Gran complained about everything Pauline did, from her perfume (“smells like a bloody bordello”) to the way she walked (“attention-seeking.”)  Luckily, their relationship had improved a bit since Great Grandma had moved in with Pauline last year, because Great Grandma took delight in winding her daughters up, and Gran and Pauline usually had to join forces to get her to stop.  So she was kind of a peacemaker, in her way.

At the moment, though, Great Grandma was behaving herself.  It was just after dinner (which, alright, had involved a lot of olive oil and burnt bits), and she was introducing Sandy to the newest cat.  “This is Billy,” she said, tickling the ginger ball of fluff under his chin.  “He’s my little boyfriend, aren’t you, Billy?”

Sandy might have been more weirded-out by that if she hadn’t heard it before.  Great Grandma referred to a lot of people and things as her boyfriends, including various actors on TV, the waiter at the Chinese down the road, and Sandy’s Cousin Finn, who was two.  Nobody else thought it was as great a joke as she did, but they all tended to smile and nod.  When you were ninety-two, you were allowed to make people feel uncomfortable.  “He’s very cute,” said Sandy, scratching the top of Billy’s head.

“He’s a lot friendlier than that one,” said Great Grandma, nodding towards Pepper, the little black cat, who was staring at them from under the table, “Won’t come near you unless you’ve got food in your hand.”

“Well, there’s only one solution to that,” said Sandy, getting up and going over to Pepper so she could stroke her.  Pepper gave her a long-suffering look, in the way that cats did, but didn’t bother to move out of the way.

Great Grandma laughed.  “Now, where’s Gus got to?” she said, looking around for the third cat.  Sandy shrugged, and turned back to Pepper.

Pepper had always been her favourite, but lately, Sandy had really started to wonder about her.  She was a black cat, after all.  Those were the kind that witches had.

Sandy had first noticed the… things that happened… just over a year ago, around the time she’d left primary school.  She’d noticed, but back then she’d still been able to tell herself that it was just her imagination.  Yeah, it had seemed like she’d known what the guy on the news was going to say before he said it, but that could have just been a lucky guess.  Yeah, it had seemed like that boy in the park had tripped over and twisted his ankle just after swearing at her, but that could have just been a coincidence.  Yeah, it had seemed like that power cut had happened just as she’d lost her temper with Gran… or that her friend Amy’s stomach cramps had eased off as soon as she’d patted her shoulder… or that all the spiders in the house seemed to turn away at the threshold of whatever room she was in…

She’d finally had to admit that something was going on last Easter, after that thing with the tree.  She still couldn’t think about it without shuddering.

I need to know what you are, that old lady had said on Sunday, but Sandy had a nasty feeling that they both knew already.  It had to do with black cats.

Pauline strode into the room, clearly on a mission.  She was wearing a leopard-print top that Sandy kind of wanted for herself, and a whole lot of gold jewellery that she didn’t (it looked heavy).  “Mum, why are there three paintings of cocker spaniels in the dining room?”

Great Grandma smiled innocently.  “They’re not all of cocker spaniels…”

“Has that salesman been to the door again?”  Pauline put her hands on her hips, trying to cut an intimidating figure.  But you couldn’t intimidate Great Grandma if your life depended on it.

“What, Alan?  Lovely young man.”

“Mum, how much did you spend on those?”

“Did you know, he spent three years in the army?  He was telling me…”

“Mum…”

Sandy stroked Pepper’s back with one hand, and lifted her chin with the other. She looked into her eyes (bright green- probably something supernatural about that, too), and thought about what she wanted to ask.  She wasn’t going to say anything out loud- Great Grandma and Aunt Pauline were still in the room, and they weren’t too busy arguing to hear.  She was just going to… think it really hard.  That would have to do.

OK, Pepper.  Go up to my room, and bring me…  Sandy thought through the things she’d brought in her suitcase.  Her pink gel pen?  No- cats were colourblind, weren’t they?  Pepper wouldn’t be able to tell which one she meant.  Alright, then, what about one of her books?  No- the last thing she wanted was a book covered in toothmarks and cat saliva.  She thought through the rest of her things, and finally came up with something.  Bring me my necklace.  The one with the red heart on the chain.  It’s on the bedside table.

Sandy let go of Pepper, and she sprang away from her and out of the room.  Even though that was exactly the result Sandy had been looking for, it made her shiver a bit.

Sandy went back to her chair to wait.

“Look, Mother,” said Pauline, rubbing her temples, “just because somebody comes to the door doesn’t mean you have to give them all your money.”

“And I don’t, dear!” said Great Grandma, maintaining a benign, sunny tone of voice because she knew that was what annoyed Pauline most, “I just thought they’d brighten the place up!”

“How?  Where were you planning to put them?  Because they’re not going in here.”

Great Grandma frowned.  “I don’t see why not.”

After a few minutes, Pepper still wasn’t back, and Sandy began to feel a strange sort of relief.  She didn’t know why.  Even if she didn’t have some kind of bizarre hold over black cats, all that other stuff had still happened.  The old lady and the hailstones on Sunday, for a start.  But at least it meant that this particular thing wasn’t happening.  At least it meant that Great Aunt Pauline’s cat was still just a normal cat, instead of a familiar out to do her bidding.  She didn’t have to deal with that, at least.

Great Grandma looked up from her crossword.  “Were you thinking of making a cup of tea, Pauline?”

“Nope,” said Pauline decisively.

There was a pause as Great Grandma considered her options.  “Sandy, were you…”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mother, she’s our guest!” snapped Pauline, “I’ll make it in a minute, alright?”

Great Grandma nodded.  “Take your time, dear,” she said sweetly.

Sandy felt a movement near her ankles, and her heart sank.  Sure enough, when she looked down, she saw Pepper standing at her feet, with her heart necklace in her mouth.  Sandy leaned down to take it… and felt a nudge at her elbow.

She looked around, and saw Billy, Great Grandma’s little orange boyfriend, standing on the arm of the chair, holding her pink gel pen.  And as she turned, she saw Gus on the windowsill, with… yes, that was definitely the Goosebumps book she’d been reading last night.  He was holding it gently by one corner, as if he’d been warned to be careful with it.

Great Aunt Pauline looked up, and saw.  “Oh, you thieving little buggers!” she said, standing up and waving her hands at the cats, “Drop it, now!  All of you!”

Pauline and Great Grandma fussed around the cats, picking up the things they’d taken, apologising to Sandy and blaming each other for not keeping an eye on them.  Sandy barely noticed.  It was all she could do not to scream.

Monday Night- Aunt Joanie

In Year Four, Sandy’s class had done a topic on Ancient Greece, and Sandy had read the big illustrated book about the gods and goddesses and mythical creatures about fifty times.  The picture of Athene, the goddess of war and wisdom (grey-eyed, troubled-looking and surrounded by owls) had always made her think of Aunt Caroline, which was weird, because two pages later there was a picture of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, with her long golden curls, magnificent bosom, and expression of inner peace. That picture had always made Sandy think of Caroline’s sister, Aunt Joanie.

Actually, Joanie wouldn’t have made a bad goddess of the harvest.  She lived out in the country, in a little cottage just on the edge of a farm, and she kept a flock of fat, moody-looking chickens in a run just by her back door.  At mealtimes, when she wasn’t just cooking the chickens’ eggs, she’d make weird concoctions out of the fruits and berries she picked in the woods.  These usually tasted more of the spices in the back of Joanie’s cupboard than anything else, but Sandy had to give her points for being resourceful.

Over dinner (an apple-and-blackberry pie with plenty of cinnamon), Sandy told Joanie how things were going at school.  She told her how she’d given up answering questions in French lessons, because every time she did, Mr Marshall (who thought he was a comedian) insisted on singing, “Sandy, baby, I am feeling blue!” and that got really annoying after the third or fourth time.  Joanie said to tell him that she wasn’t named after Sandy from Grease, anyway- she was named after Sandy from The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, which had been her mother, Tamsin’s, favourite book. That Sandy was a lot smarter and more ruthless than the one from Grease, although less likely to sing catchy 50s-style songs, which was a bit of a drawback.

Sandy told her about the girl who sat next to her in Maths, who’d lost her calculator and tried to convince Sandy to give her hers, on the grounds that they didn’t know for sure which one had been lost.  Joanie told Sandy that Bible story about the Wisdom of Solomon, although she admitted that trying it out in this case would probably just get them both detention for getting broken calculator parts all over the classroom.

Sandy told her about the “Everyday Technology” video they’d had to watch in IT, and how angry her friend Amy had been that the dad in it had got to use various bits of technology at work, but the mum had just scanned her credit card at the supermarket and then been picked up by a speed camera.  Joanie told her about her Year Eight and Nine Geography teacher, who’d always spent the first ten minutes of the lesson screaming her lungs out at the class for not coming in quietly enough.  At first, Joanie had found this upsetting, but then she’d worked out that it meant every time she had Geography, she could bring in a CD player and listen to exactly three songs she liked without being caught.  For two whole years, she’d got away with it- the teacher was always too busy venting her spleen to notice.

“You know, Sandy, one of the biggest lies adults tell children is that they know what they’re doing,” said Joanie, finishing off her drink, “And we all do it.  Even if it’s just because we want you to feel safe.”

Sandy smiled.  “One of the biggest lies?”  If Joanie was spilling sinister adult secrets, Sandy wanted to hear as many as possible.

“Oh, yeah.  Right up there with Santa and the Tooth Fairy.”

Sandy remembered being eight, losing a tooth, putting it under her pillow, and pretending to be asleep when her granddad had snuck into the room.  “And then, the next morning, when he found out I’d seen him, he still tried to tell me it had been the tooth fairy who’d left the money,” she told Joanie, “He said, You must have fallen asleep after I left the room and missed her.”

Joanie laughed heartily.  “Do you want to help me with the washing-up?”

Sandy didn’t want to help her with the washing-up, but she knew that saying so wouldn’t get her anywhere, so she said yes.  She ended up doing the drying, while Joanie fiddled with the taps and cursed her unreliable boiler.  “I’m lucky to get two minutes of warm water in the shower every morning,” she said, looking forlornly at the stubborn sticky stains in the middle of the plate she was holding.  “And as for central heating, forget it.  Those radiators have never once been more than lukewarm since I moved in here.”

Sandy made a sympathetic noise, and thought about what she’d done with Gran’s plant on Friday afternoon.  She didn’t know if she might be able to do the same thing with Joanie’s pipes, or if it only worked on living things.  Probably worth a try, anyway.

“And you know the worst thing?” Joanie continued, “Every time Caroline visits, she finds something wrong.  She barely even has to say anything- she just gives me that sad, long-suffering look that…”  Joanie let out a huff of breath, and shook her hands in the air, calming herself down.  “Oh, I shouldn’t complain.  She only wants to help.  But God, does she interfere…”

“It’s a big sister thing,” said Sandy, as if she knew anything about that.  After all, Roma was Keeley’s big sister, and she definitely wasn’t interested in interfering in her life.  Or acknowledging her existence, if she could help it.

“I know, I know.”  Joanie started to pick the dried fruit juice off the plate with her fingernails.  “I guess if someone knew you as a little kid, they have trouble remembering that you’re not anymore.”  She looked up at Sandy and smiled.  “I know I can’t quite believe you’re in Year Eight already.”

Sandy laughed.

“Jesus, it seems like the day before yesterday that I picked you up from playgroup every Thursday and took you to see the animals.”

“Yeah,” said Sandy, “It was nice of them to put up with me all those times.  You know, the people who run the farm.”   As soon as Aunt Joanie turned away, she reached towards a cold little water droplet on the handle of one of the mugs.  There was something she wanted to try out.

“Nah, they were glad to have you.  I think they were hoping I’d let them train you up, so you’d be like those three-year-olds who can deliver lambs.”

There was a little spark, like a static shock, from Sandy’s finger.  And then the water droplet was gone, leaving behind a little wisp of steam.

“Some farmers say they can do that better than adults, you know,” Joanie continued, still scratching at the same plate, “Little hands, see?  They can reach in and make sure the lamb’s pointing the right way.”

Sandy smiled.  “Thanks for not making me deliver a lamb.”

“Hey, don’t thank me yet- I might still do it.”  She put the plate back in the basin, and added some more hot water.  “You’re going to want an after-school job one of these days, you know.”

Sandy looked at the mug, where the droplet had been, and at the water in the basin, full of congealing dishes.  “Do you want to swap?”

“Nah, that’s OK.  I think I can get these taps to behave now.”  She turned on the hot water again, and gave a satisfied nod when a little bit of steam rose from the sink.  “It’s just a matter of letting them know who’s boss.”

Sandy nodded, and carried on drying.

“They’ve still got Lady,” said Joanie, handing her a clean plate, “You know, the shire horse?”

“I was terrified of her!”  Sandy remembered a furry white mountain with massive hooves, whose neigh had always sounded more like a growl.  “I kept thinking she was going to trample me to death!”

Joanie smiled ruefully.  “Yeah, maybe you were a bit too young to be introduced to her.  She’s a perfectly nice horse, but, you know, those hooves…”

“They looked like they were made out of rock.”

“I’m glad you were so safety-conscious.  Not many four-year-olds know to be careful around horses.”

Sandy gave an exaggerated shudder.  “Demon horse,” she mumbled.  Her gaze settled on the radiator in the corner, and she wondered what she could do if she got the chance to be alone with it.

(Note- My spellcheck recognises “Keeley,” but not “Fredo.”  It’s very uncultured.)

Sunday Night- Cousin Keeley and Cousin Roma

Aunt Bernie had named her daughters, Roma and Keeley, in honour of the places where they’d been conceived.  Gran said that this was a pretentious thing to do, to which Bernie usually replied that at least she hadn’t given her oldest daughter a boy’s name like some mothers she could mention.  (And then Gran would say that Bernie was actually a very common girl’s name in Ireland, and Bernie would say that they weren’t in Ireland, were they, and Gran would go on a tirade about how children were never grateful for the sacrifices their parents made for them, and then Sandy would get tired of listening in and go off to do something else.)

This evening, Sandy had gone out to help Keeley and Roma walk their dogs.  Keeley, who was two and a half years older than Sandy but didn’t look it (or act it, most of the time), walked beside her, swinging the end of the lead from side to side, while Roma, who Keeley had been winding up all afternoon, strode out two yards ahead of them, glowering.  Meanwhile, Sonny and Fredo (the springer spaniels) bounded around their ankles, gazing up at them in adoration.

“Sandy, Roma doesn’t love me anymore,” said Keeley mournfully.  She was the same height as Sandy and wore similar round Penny Crayon glasses, so, from a distance, you could only really tell them apart by the hair (Keeley’s was brown and Sandy’s was red.)  “We no longer share a deep, self-sacrificing sisterly bond like in ‘Goblin Market’.”

Roma, currently visible only as a head of dark curls at the top of a long black coat, hunched her shoulders and walked faster.

Keeley did her best to close the distance.  “Roma, I’m sorry I said your boyfriend looked like a serial killer.”

“You are really annoying me now,” said Roma, without turning around.

“While we’re on the subject, I’m also sorry that your boyfriend looks like a serial killer.”

Roma let out a sound a bit like a kettle coming to the boil, and strode ahead, tugging Sonny’s lead (not that he needed much encouragement to race ahead), until she reached the side gates and left the park.

Keeley, not sorry at all, turned back to Sandy.  “It’s the hair that does it.  Never trust a man with a bowl cut, that’s what I say.”

“You shouldn’t tease her like that,” said Sandy- a little uncertainly, because she had been enjoying it.  She was never sure whose side to take when Keeley and Roma fell out.  Whichever one she picked, she always ended up feeling bad about the other one.

“Well, if she will go out with serial killers…”  At this point, Fredo was straining at his head in an attempt to drag them out of the park and see what his brother was up to, so Sandy and Keeley obeyed.

They caught up with Roma outside the newsagent on the corner, where she was waiting with Sonny.  As soon as she saw Keeley, she shoved the end of the lead into her hand.  “Mum said to pick up some bread and milk.  You stay outside with the dogs.”

Keeley turned round, a big smile on her face.  “Hear that, Sandy?  Mum said to pick up some bread and milk.  You stay outside with the dogs.”  And she presented Sandy with both leads.

“I wasn’t talking to Sandy!” snapped Roma.

“It’s OK,” said Sandy, taking the leads in her hand, “I don’t mind looking after them.”  As soon as Keeley had given her the leads, both dogs had fixed her with a look of sheer, worshipful love.  It was nice to be wanted.

Roma threw up her hands, in the same way that Gran did sometimes.  “Fine,” she muttered, and went into the newsagent.  Keeley followed her, hopefully not to carry on taunting her about the serial-killer-boyfriend thing.  Stuff like that only stayed funny for a little while.

Sandy crouched down to scratch the dogs behind their ears.  And at some point in between standing and crouching, the old woman appeared at her side.

The old lady was taller than Sandy, but not by much.  She had a rough, leathery face, and straggly grey hair that reached her shoulders.  She wore a long brown coat, and carried two overloaded shopping bags.  Sandy had never seen her before in her life.

“Sandy, isn’t it?” said the old lady with a grin.

Sandy straightened up, her grip tightening on the dogs’ leads, as if she thought the old lady was going to try and steal them.  “Um…”

“Alexandra Faith Buckland, if you want to be formal.”  The old lady grinned wider.  Her teeth were so yellow that they almost looked orange.  “Am I right?”

Sandy looked up at the clouds, which had gone slightly grey but didn’t look exactly threatening yet.  Beside her, Sonny let out a low growl.  “Are you a friend of my gran’s?” she asked, but she knew that couldn’t be it even as she said it.  She knew all her gran’s friends.  There weren’t that many.

The old lady chuckled.  “I’m a friend of yours, Alexandra Faith.  Or I can be.”  She lifted her hand up, and stroked her chin thoughtfully.  The nail on her thumb looked a lot longer and sharper than any of the others.  “I heard about what happened yesterday, you see.  At the fete.”

Sandy thought about the man who’d yelled at Aunt Caroline, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.  Almost without meaning to, she looked up at the clouds again.

“It’s a mistake to draw too much attention to yourself,” said the old lady.  The dogs were both growling now.  Maybe that was why she hadn’t come any closer.  “I don’t think you quite know what you’re dealing with.  But you will.”

Sandy looked at the clouds.  They were greyer now.  There seemed to be more of them.  I don’t want to be here.  Come on, come on…

The old lady gave another tight grin.  “I need to know what you are.  Before I decide what to do with you.”

And then, in a split-second, the hail started.  It burst out of the sky as if the clouds had been straining to hold it in all this time.  The old lady looked around, aghast, as the hailstones clattered and bounced off the pavement around them.  Before she had a chance to gather her thoughts and say anything, Keeley ran out of the newsagents.

“Quick!” she said with a laugh, and took Sandy’s arm.  “Let’s get these dogs home!”  And the two of them ran up the road towards the house.

After a minute or two, the hail began to ease off, and Sandy had a chance to look behind her.  No sign of the old lady.  She must have run off to find shelter, too.

“Roma sent me,” Keeley explained, “She said that it only took one person to buy bread and milk, and it wasn’t polite to leave our guests to freeze to death.”  She looked around happily, surveying the damage that the mini-hailstorm had caused.  If there was one thing Keeley liked, it was a little bit of chaos.

“Hmm.  Thanks for that,” said Sandy, clutching Sonny’s lead as tightly as she could.  She knew she wouldn’t feel completely safe until they’d got to Aunt Bernie’s house and locked the door behind them, but she was glad the dogs were there, anyway.  And she was glad she was with Keeley, too.  She wasn’t big or scary-looking enough to act as a bodyguard, but she was a bit older, at least, so she might know a thing or two that could help in a dangerous situation.  And it was a million times better than being alone.

“I think she was just looking for an excuse to get rid of me, personally,” said Keeley, as they turned into their street.  She fished the front door key out of her coat pocket and started twirling the keyring around on her finger.  “Sending her little sister out into the snow…  Disgraceful.”

“It wasn’t snow,” said Sandy.  She wondered if she could have managed that.

“Pfft.  No-one likes a pedant, Sandy.”  And Keeley walked up the garden path and unlocked the door.

Saturday Night- Aunt Caroline and Uncle Anthony

The school fete was crowded, but Aunt Caroline moved through it in her own bubble, with the crowds parting as she came towards them.  Like she was a queen.  Like she was Queen Caroline who washed her nose in turpentine.

Aunt Caroline was the lady mayoress of Starling Moor.  (Once, one of Grandad’s friends had said that actually, these days, female mayors were just called “mayors,” but Gran had replied, “No, trust me- in Caroline’s case, it’s ‘lady mayoress.’  She’s a special case.”)  She’d had that job for five years, and she’d worked for the previous mayor for ten years before that (since way before Sandy had been born, in other words).  Before that, she’d been a policewoman, but she’d left after a few years.  Gran said that this was because Caroline preferred to boss people about without getting her hands dirty.

Caroline took small steps, her high heels clicking against the tarmac.  Beside her, in the middle of the bubble, were Sandy, Uncle Anthony, and two blokes she worked with, one holding a clipboard and the other doing his best to look imposing.  Sandy had her hair tied back neatly, and she was wearing a spotless white blouse and tartan skirt.  Caroline and Anthony had told her that she didn’t have to dress up, but when Caroline was around, you really did, otherwise you’d look like a street urchin in comparison.

Caroline turned to Sandy.  “I may need to leave in about an hour, but you and Anthony can stay.  I’ll meet you back at the house.”  Aunt Caroline was the only person Sandy knew who would have said “may” instead of “might” in that sentence.

Sandy looked around at the stalls and activities.  “No, that’s OK.  I’ll probably be ready to leave in an hour.”  Yes, bouncy castles and face-painting stalls were fun, but you got bored of them eventually.  Besides, it was already starting to get chilly, and by three-thirty it would be worse.

Aunt Caroline nodded.  “Well, just know that you can change your mind if you want to.”  She looked a lot like how Sandy imagined Titania from A Midsummer Night’s Dream-tall and thin, with blonde hair and spooky grey eyes.  Except that Titania probably wouldn’t wear a dark grey business suit, and her hair probably wouldn’t be so neatly brushed and styled that it looked as though it was made out of wood.

Earlier on, Caroline had given a speech.  For most of it, Sandy had just waited patiently and tried not to fidget, but there was one bit that had caught her attention.  Aunt Caroline had gestured to a man in the front row and said, “Reverend Miller once told me that it was a mistake to think of love as something you feel instead of something you do.  Love isn’t just having a warm, glowing feeling in your heart when you think of somebody.  It’s putting yourself in that person’s shoes.  It’s being there for them when times are difficult.  It’s making an effort to do what’s best for them.  Love is hard work.”

She’d been talking about how the fete was going to raise money for new wheelchair ramps, but it had actually made Sandy feel better about not having looked forward to half-term.  Because she hadn’t had a warm, glowing feeling in her heart at the thought of visiting her relatives.  In fact, the whole thing had seemed like kind of a hassle.  It wasn’t as if she’d had any plans to meet up with her friends this week- to be fair to Gran and Grandad, they’d have arranged things around that if she had.  Sandy had just wanted to be left alone to sleep in late, watch TV and raid the fridge as much as she wanted.  It was a relief to be told that this didn’t make her an emotionless robot who cared more about TV than people.

One of the blokes Caroline worked with- the one who’d been glaring at everyone who passed them- met Sandy’s eyes and pointed to their right, at one of those mechanical bull things.  “What do you think?” he asked her, cracking a smile for the first time since they’d got here, “Want to give it a try?”

“Jim!” said Uncle Anthony, in a burst of laughter, “That’s… that’s hardly age-appropriate.”  He had a point.  There was only a short queue for the mechanical bull, but none of the people in it were kids.  Barely any of them were women, even.  It was mostly twenty-year-old blokes who’d had too much beer.

“Ah, come on,” said Jim, “She looks like a tough cookie to me.”  He gave Sandy another smile.

Uncle Anthony sighed.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Sandy,” he told her, not taking his eyes off Jim.

Sandy glanced at Aunt Caroline, to see if she had anything to say about it, but her eyes were fixed on the mechanical bull itself.  She was looking at it with interest, as if she was trying to work out how it was put together.  Sandy tried to imagine Caroline having a go on the bull, and couldn’t.  It was impossible to imagine her doing anything undignified.

Sandy looked back at Jim.  “I can’t.  I’m wearing a skirt.”  She said it with a bit of regret- she’d have liked to have found out whether she was as tough a cookie as Jim thought- but it was probably just as well that she couldn’t.  She didn’t like the idea of being flung halfway across the fete.

Jim nodded.  “OK.  Another time.”

They walked on a little further, and Caroline turned to Sandy as they went.  “I meant to ask.  Are you enjoying Year Eight?”

Sandy grimaced.  “I wouldn’t say ‘enjoying’…”

Caroline laughed.  It was a fluttery sound, like a bird taking off.  “Poor choice of words.  But the workload isn’t too hard?”

“No, it’s alright.”  Sometimes Sandy did get what seemed like an obscene and unreasonable amount of homework for one night, but that wasn’t any different from last year.  And if the worst came to the worst, you could always do some of it in registration, the morning it was due in.  “We get to do Drama this year.  That’s pretty cool.”

Caroline nodded.  “Your father always enjoyed Drama.”

“Really?”  Sandy’s dad had been Caroline’s little brother.  Sandy had never met him.

“Yes, he loved performing.  It was his idea for his Year Eleven class to put on Glengarry Glen Ross instead of something by Shakespeare.  He argued with his teacher for weeks, but eventually he persuaded him.”  Caroline smiled.  “He said he wanted to do something fresh and untried.  But privately, I think he also wanted an excuse to swear a lot.”

Sandy laughed.  She didn’t know what Glengarry Glen Ross was, but she could appreciate talking a teacher into letting you swear.

Aunt Caroline might have talked a bit more about Sandy’s dad and his acting, but just then, there was a shout from the beer tent.  A man in a grey sweatshirt had fixed his gaze on her.  “Oi!  You!”  He strode towards the bubble, wagging his finger at Caroline.  “I want a word with you!”

Jim stepped in between Caroline and the approaching man.  “You’re going to want to back off…”

Caroline raised a hand, and Jim stepped sideways, still glowering at him.  Caroline met the man’s eyes.  “Yes?”

The man stopped where he was, but didn’t get any quieter.  “If you love refugees so much, why don’t you fucking live with them?”  Around him, people were staring and whispering to each other.  A couple of them rushed off somewhere else.  Sandy didn’t know if they were going to get help or just trying to hide.

Caroline’s voice was still calm.  “I’m prepared to discuss this, but could you tone down the language?  There are children present.”  It was at that point that Sandy noticed Caroline had stepped in between her and the man, a bit like Jim had done a minute ago.  She wondered if the man was here with his own children, and, if so, where they were.

“Children?” bawled the man, “Why don’t you drive your children through their communities?  See their horrible living conditions?”  He put a shaky hand on his heart.  “I love my home.  It makes my heart break to see it turn into an over-run urban area.”

“With respect, sir, I’m not sure that the dozen or so refugees here could have had that great an effect on a town of three thousand people.”

“They commit a high percentage of crime.  These are facts.”  There were more people staring.   If Sandy hadn’t already been in the middle of it, she’d probably have been staring, too.  This guy was yelling his head off.  “You’ve ruined this town.  We now have one in five in poverty.  That’s your doing.  You fucking caused it.”

Caroline sighed, like a teacher dealing with a class that was acting up.  “Sir, that statistic simply isn’t accurate…”

“I used to love this town.  You’ve absolutely ruined it.”  The man took a few steps forward.

Quick as a wink, Jim was right in front of him.  “Hey, stay back.”

Later on, Sandy wasn’t sure what had made her put her hand to her throat.  She didn’t know why she’d been so sure that it would work, or if she’d even known what it would be.  It was a weird, momentary instinct that came from somewhere deep inside her, and she barely even had time to think about it before she did it.

“It just makes me angry when someone who’s entrusted with…”

Sandy looked the man in the eye, and put her thumb and ring finger on either side of her larynx.

The man’s mouth kept moving.  It took him a couple of seconds to realise that no sound was coming out.  He froze for a moment, then tried to talk again.  Still nothing.  A look of panic crossed his face.

“Sir?” asked Caroline, “Are you OK?”

Sandy took her hand away.

The man made a little noise, then let out a couple of heavy breaths.  He straightened up and pointed at Aunt Caroline again.  “You’re a joke.  You should never have been elected.  If you’d told the damn truth, you…”

Sandy put her hand back.

This time, she kept it there for long enough to watch him go red in the face with the effort of trying to speak, at which point Jim took advantage of the confusion and escorted him away to hand him over to the people in charge.  “What an odd man,” said Caroline, watching them go.  She still looked perfectly put together.  “I hope he isn’t ill.”

Anthony put a hand on Sandy’s shoulder.  “Are you alright, Sandy?”

“Yeah.”  She took her hand away from her throat, and looked at both him and Caroline.  “Do you get a lot of weirdos like him, yelling at you?”

Anthony laughed.  “That’s politics for you.”

“No need to be cynical, Anthony,” said Caroline primly.  And she led them on, cool as a cucumber, as if nothing had ever happened.

Friday Night- Gran and Grandad Copstick

It was half-term again, and, for Sandy Buckland, that meant she had to visit as many relatives as possible.  She wasn’t always pleased with this arrangement, but her grandmother said she had to go.  “It’s me they’ll blame if they don’t see you,” Gran had said the last time Sandy had complained, “It’s me who’ll have to deal with whingeing phone calls every day between now and Christmas.  I’m not having that,” she concluded, waving her hands as if to flick away any arguments.

So today, a Friday near the end of October, Sandy was not surprised to see a suitcase already in the hall when she got home from school.  “We’re sending you off to the orphanage,” said Grandad, from his spot in the living room.  It was the same joke he’d made the last four or five half-terms, but Sandy smiled anyway.  She put down her schoolbag, fully intending to forget about it until a week on Sunday, when she’d rush through the homework that was due in the next morning.  (Sandy was in Year Eight, which meant the Russian Revolution, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, igneous and sedimentary rocks, and long, pointless Careers lessons.  Relatives or no relatives, she appreciated the chance to forget it all for a week.)

When Sandy went into the living room, the first thing she noticed was that Gran’s orchid wasn’t on the coffee table.  After looking around for a moment, she saw that Grandad had shoved it behind a lamp in the corner, probably because its leaves had started to go brown.  “I may have neglected my housekeeping duties,” explained Grandad when Sandy looked at him in askance, “Still, I think I deserve credit for my ingenious solution.”

“Grandad, she’s going to notice that it’s not on the table,” said Sandy, almost apologetically.  Gran was fond of her plants, and she’d never have trusted Grandad to water them if it wasn’t for the fact that he was retired and at home all day and she wasn’t.  Things tended to slip Grandad’s mind.  He wasn’t senile or anything; he just got interested in things and forgot everything else.

“Not if you and I distract her,” said Grandad, still smiling, “We’ll plan it out now, shall we?  When your gran gets in, I’ll give you the signal and you pretend to have been electrocuted by the toaster.  She’ll forget all about plants then.”  Grandad’s eyes (bright blue, like Sandy’s) shone as he came up with the plan.  He was seventy years old, with brown teeth and a neat white beard to show for it, but most of the time he seemed to have more energy than most guys in their twenties.  He made Sandy think of a hummingbird.

She laughed, and looked at the TV to see what he’d been watching.  It was one of those shows where they went into houses that hadn’t been cleaned in thirty years, and filmed all their gruesome discoveries.  Grandad waved a hand.  “Oh, let’s not bother with that old crap.  Here,” he got up and handed Sandy the remote, “You find us a good film, and I’ll fetch the tea and biscuits.”

“Alright,” said Sandy, and, as he left, she started to look through the film channels.  She settled on Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, which she’d never seen all the way through.  She paused it and listened to Grandad clattering about in the kitchen, singing an old song that was probably a lot dirtier than it sounded.  And, as she sat in the living room and waited for him to come through, an idea occurred to her.

Sandy got up and went to the corner where the orchid had been hidden.  The brown bits were worse than she’d thought- even the stem had started to wilt.  If they started watering it now, they might be able to bring it round, but maybe not.  Sandy wasn’t an expert on plants- maybe as soon as the brown bits got this bad, your only option was to chuck it away and get a new one.

Sandy placed her hands an inch apart, on either side of the plant’s stem, and started to hum.  It started out sounding like a song she’d heard on the radio the other day, but gradually got… odder.  Discordant, her Music teacher would have said.  And as the tune went on, the brown bits started to disappear.

Eventually, Sandy heard her grandad come through, and nudged the plant back behind the lamp.  He put the mugs of tea down on the table, looked at the screen, and tutted.  “Now, why couldn’t you have been a good granddaughter and picked something with Michelle Pfeiffer in it, I’d like to know?”

“It’s got Jessica Rabbit,” said Sandy, “She’s pretty gorgeous.”

Grandad harrumphed.  “I suppose she’ll have to do.”  He took the biscuit tin out from under his arm and put it down with the mugs.

 

Gran got home at eight o’clock, and asked Grandad just what he thought he was playing at, stuffing her orchid behind a lamp (Grandad acted affronted, but looked relieved that it hadn’t wilted as badly as he’d thought.)  Then she’d taken Sandy into the kitchen to help her get dinner started, complaining all the while about the relatives and their ridiculous demands.  This, again, was pretty much the same conversation they had at the start of every half-term, but Sandy supposed that it was good to have traditions.

“So,” said Gran at the dinner table, “First thing tomorrow morning, you’re off to your Auntie Caroline’s.”  She paused, and then she added (as she always did when Aunt Caroline was mentioned), “Queen Caroline who washed her nose in turpentine.”

Grandad laughed.  “Why are you so nasty to her, Shirley?  She’s a lovely girl.”

“I am not nasty to her, Arnold; I just don’t think she needed to phone up to confirm what we were having for dinner tonight just so she wouldn’t end up giving Sandy the same thing tomorrow.  As if that bloody husband of hers even knows how to make shepherd’s pie.”  Gran looked down at said shepherd’s pie with a hint of satisfaction, and ate another forkful.

Sandy reached under the table and smoothed the crumbs off her skirt.  Out of all the relatives, Aunt Caroline tended to make Gran the most agitated.  She was from the other side of the family- the Bucklands.  “You know Uncle Anthony, Gran.  He loves his balanced diets.”

“Ha!”  Gran went on eating.

Grandad poked his bit of pie with his fork.  “I’d kill for a bit of pepper.  Pass us the pepper, Tamsin.”

“Sandy,” said Sandy, passing him the pepper.  Tamsin had been her mother’s name.

Grandad slapped his hand across his forehead in pantomimed embarrassment.  “Just be glad I didn’t call you by the budgie’s name,” he told her.

Gran gave him that odd smile of hers, the one that told you she was both amused and despairing of you.  “Killing people over pepper?  Shows what you think of my cooking, Arnold Copstick.”

“It shows that I want to nurture it and bring out its best features,” said Grandad sweetly, “Just like you always did with me.”

Gran stifled a laugh- a proper one, this time, not the little derisive one she’d given Uncle Anthony and his balanced diets.  “Oh, be quiet and eat your dinner,” she told him, with a warm little smile that she couldn’t quite shake off.