A Kiss, a Dare and a Boat Called Promise Page 4

  Everyone stands chatting on the riverbank as we prepare to leave. “It’ll be cool living above a pub,” Tyler says, shuffling about, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

  I look at those pale blue eyes that set my heart alight last summer, when he barely registered my existence. “Hmm,” I say. “Well, I hope so.”

  “Better than this boring place, anyway,” he adds, but we both know he doesn’t mean it.

  He gives me a quick hug, then melts away into the background with Ryan and Jake. Bella throws her arms around me, then slips the silver ring from her finger – the magpie ring I found twinkling in the grass. “You have this,” she whispers.

  “I can’t!” I gasp. “It’s your lucky charm.”

  “But I want you to have it. Please, Josie. You found it, it’s yours.”

  I look at her, knowing why she’s giving it to me – because I’ve lost the only memories I have of Dad. I smile, taking it from her and slipping it on to my little finger. It’s a twisted coil of silver and fits perfectly. “Thanks…” I blink back hot tears.

  “It’s so you won’t forget me,” she says with a grin.

  “Are you crazy? Of course I won’t! You’ll come and visit, won’t you? Mum says you can, as soon as we’re settled in.”

  “Can’t wait,” she says.

  Mum’s putting an arm around me now, saying, “Come on, darling, let’s go.”

  There are more hugs and shouted good-lucks as we leave, and when I glance back, Murphy is darting all over Bella’s deck in a light brown blur. Bella picks him up, waggling his paw in a doggy wave, trying to make me laugh. Although I’ve managed to fix on a fake, brave smile, I feel as if my heart could shatter to pieces as I climb into the van.

  You’ll never guess what our pub is called. Clue: it’s not pretty-sounding like “The Swan” or “The Boaters’ Retreat”, like the ones up the river from where Promise was moored. “It’s called ‘the Bald-faced Stag’,” Mum announces, peering down at the Post-it note with scribbled directions that she’s stuck to the van’s dashboard.

  “What kind of name is that?” I ask from the back seat, wishing she’d keep her eyes on the road while she’s driving instead of wobbling all over the place. “Why does it have a bald face? Is there something wrong with it?”

  Mum chuckles and shakes her head. “I’ve no idea, Josie.”

  “Stop firing questions,” Ryan snorts from the passenger seat, pulling out his headphones. “It’s just the name of the pub. It doesn’t mean anything.” I glare at a spot on the back of his neck, wondering why he insisted on sitting in the front of the van when he’s hardly said a word so far. If I was next to Mum, we’d be chatting away, trying to take our minds off the fact that we’d just left our home and friends behind, and are heading to part of London we’ve never been to before. “I know it’s the pub’s name,” I reply calmly. “I’m not a complete idiot, Ryan. I sort of get the idea that there aren’t herds of deer roaming about in the middle of London.”

  “Yes, OK, Josie,” Mum snaps. Great – now she’s ratty, too. What have I done, exactly?

  I blink at Ryan’s spot. It’s a pretty impressive one. It should have contours to show how high it is, like a hill on a map. “Mum…”

  “Please don’t keep going on at me, Josie…”

  What’s she talking about now? We’re moving, aren’t we? Surely it’s natural to have a few questions. “You know how our flat’s above the pub?” I say meekly.

  “Yes, love,” Mum says with exaggerated patience.

  “Well … it will be separate, won’t it? I mean, people won’t be able to just wander upstairs and see where we live, will they?”

  “Of course it’ll be separate,” she says firmly. “It’ll be our home, just like Promise was.”

  Hmmm. Well, not quite.

  The hills and fields have ended now, making way for the suburbs where every house looks the same (I don’t think I’ve ever seen two boats looking remotely alike). Then things become grubbier, with the buildings and odd patch of scrubby grass looking as if they need a good hosing down on this warm, dusty afternoon. I don’t want you to think I’ve led such a sheltered, watery life that I’ve never seen a tower block or a traffic jam before, or that I’d faint at the sight of a Topshop. But for regular stuff like shopping, the cinema and going for haircuts, we always went to Braidford, a medium-sized town a twenty-minute bus ride from where we lived. London feels huge to me. It was always for special occasions only, like birthday outings, or a Christmas shopping trip – like when Mum and I came on our own to buy Ryan a metal detector. He’d desperately wanted one that year, the first Christmas since Dad died. And, although we were broke as usual, Mum was determined to make our Christmas extra-special.

  It was a brilliant day, just the two of us. We had time to talk, which is hard when you live on the river and everyone is hopping on and off each other’s boats all the time. I asked her about Dad, and why he’d died, and for the first time she explained that no one really knew. The pneumonia he’d had that year might have weakened his heart, or there could have been something wrong with it all along, even with all the running he’d done. A bit like Promise – none of us had known that things we couldn’t see were secretly going very wrong.

  It’s funny, but even talking about Dad didn’t bring down our mood that day as we lugged the metal detector, and the bike I’d chosen, back on to the train. Today is, shall we say, slightly less brilliant, especially as I’m now obsessed with Ryan’s spot watching me, like a grumpy, unblinking eye.

  As I look out of the van’s smeary side window, there’s no massive shopping mall like the one Mum and I went to. Just row after row of grey terraced houses which don’t even have front gardens, just dusty pavements with litter lying about. “Are we nearly there?” I ask, noticing Mum glancing down at the Post-it note.

  “Um … I’m sure it’s somewhere around here,” she replies.

  “That means we’re lost,” I say under my breath.

  “No, we’re not…” She takes a corner too fast, causing a pile of boxes to tumble down in the back of the van.

  “Whoa – steady, Mum,” Ryan cries.

  “Thank you, Ryan, I do know how to drive…”

  Hmmm. I’ve just thought of an eighth wonder of the world – the fact that Mum ever managed to pass a driving test.

  “I just mean, if we were lost,” I say carefully, “you could stop, and I could have a walk about and look for Castle Street.”

  “You can’t walk about around here by yourself,” Mum exclaims.

  “But…” I frown, wondering if she’s forgotten something important. “We are going to be living here. I’ll be walking around all the time, Mum.”

  “Yes, well, that’s different.”

  “Or we could all get out,” I suggest, “and have a look around together.”

  “We can’t leave the van by itself,” Mum shrieks, “with all our stuff in!”

  “Yeah,” Ryan growls, twisting round to face me, “I think we’ve had enough of your suggestions for one day.”

  “I only made two,” I growl back, brightening as a sign comes into view – a pub sign, sticking out from a scruffy old building, with possibly the worst painting of a stag I’ve ever seen in my life (not that I’ve seen many). “There it is!” I shout, just before Mum pulls up outside a big brown, glossy door and turns off the engine. Wordlessly, the three of us clamber out of the van and stare at the pub, which takes up virtually the whole block.

  “It’s huge,” Ryan marvels.

  “It looks more like a hotel,” I murmur.

  “I think it was at some point,” Mum says. “It’s not any more, obviously.” We all stand there for a moment, as if nervous about going inside. There are loads of windows with the kind of dimply glass you can’t see through, and window boxes and hanging baskets with flowers in. They a
ll look shrivelled up, though, as if no one has watered them for a very long time. As for the stag – even I could paint a better one than this, and animals have never been my strong point. It looks more like a pony, wearing fake antlers as a joke.

  I’m still gazing up at the sign, hardly believing we’ll be living here, as Mum puts her arms around Ryan and me. “So,” she says with an unsteady smile, “what d’you think of our new home?”

  Before either of us has a chance to answer, a man with a round, shaved head and an enormous stomach encased in a tight stripy T-shirt has bounded out of the pub to greet us. “I assume you’re Helen?” he asks with a big grin.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Mum replies. “This is Ryan, Josie…”

  “I’m Vince. Great to meet you all.” He shakes Mum’s hand, then Ryan’s and mine, almost crushing my skinny fingers in his overenthusiastic grasp. “I’m so glad to see you guys,” he continues in his big, booming voice. “Your mum here – you know what she is?”

  I smile meekly and shake my head.

  “An angel,” Vince declares. “I’ve never hired a live-in member of staff without meeting face-to-face before. But you just know, don’t you, when the right person turns up?” He laughs and grips Mum’s arm. “You’re a lifesaver, Helen. Anyway, come in, let me show you around…”

  He pushes open the pub door and the three of us troop in behind him. I should probably say it’s lovely, and I’m excited to be here – but all I can think is, this is nothing like those pretty riverside pubs where we’d go occasionally for a treat.

  They’d have big, airy windows and soft music playing, and there’d be delicious foody smells. This room is huge – far bigger than any pub I’ve ever been into – but feels grubby and neglected. You can see dust dancing in shafts of sunlight from the grimy windows, and a stale, beery smell hangs in the air. There are wooden tables dotted around the edges of the room, and a long, polished wooden bar that seems to go on forever. A couple of old greasy-haired men are sitting there on stools, mumbling together – at least, they were mumbling. Now we’ve walked in, they’ve swung around and are staring as if we’re all stark naked. “Hi!” Mum says in an over-bright voice.

  “This is Helen,” Vince announces, “our wonderful new chef.”

  Mum beams hopefully at the two men, who turn away and start chatting again. She looks back at Vince. “It’s very, um … quiet in here, isn’t it?” she ventures.

  “Still early,” Vince says. “By half-eight the place’ll be packed. Anyway, I need to introduce you, get you settled in… Maria!” he shouts, and a woman with obviously dyed hair – not blonde but actually gold – appears, all smiles, from the back room.

  “Oh, you’ve arrived! Welcome, welcome,” she says, engulfing us all with her sweet perfume cloud. “I’m Maria, Vince’s wife. We’re so excited to have you here.” She turns, shouts, “Chantelle!” and waits expectantly, but no one comes. “Chantelle!” Maria calls again, rolling her eyes and laughing huskily. “Excuse our daughter’s rudeness. No manners, has she, Vince?”

  Vince smiles and shakes his head. “She’ll be helping you, Helen. Bit of an attitude, so don’t take any cheek from her.” While Mum tries not to look startled, Vince and Maria both chuckle fondly as if this was the cutest thing. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to show you around, Josie,” Vince adds kindly. “How old are you again, love?”

  “Thirteen,” I reply.

  “Well, Chantelle’s just turned fourteen,” Maria says, patting her weird gold hair, which is so heavily sprayed, it looks crispy. “I’m sure the two of you will be best mates in no time.”

  “Er, yes,” I say, hoping it sounds convincing.

  “Chantelle!” Maria shouts again, causing the two old men to flinch. “Come out here and be friendly.” Still nothing.

  Then, as Maria and Vince fall back into conversation with Mum, something catches my eye. No, not something – someone. Behind the bar, a door leads to a brightly lit back room, presumably the kitchen, and in that doorway a girl has appeared. She has a tough, pale face, hard as a marble, and her mouth is set in a sneer. Her blonde hair is pulled back tightly, and her eyes narrow and fix directly on mine, as if challenging me. As if saying, Who do you think you are, moving in here?

  I’m vaguely aware of Vince chatting to Ryan as my gaze slides back to the girl.

  She’s still looking at me, her skin almost luminous, her dark eyes heavily rimmed with black liner. And the only thing I can think of is … to smile. For courage, I roll Bella’s ring between my thumb and index finger, and then I fix on what I hope passes for a confident grin. For a moment, she looks confused. Then, in a flash, she disappears back into the kitchen.

  “Like I said, Helen,” Maria is saying, her metallic bangles jingling, “me and Vince are around pretty much all of the time, if there’s anything you need to know. I hope you’ll all be very happy here.” She beams at us. “I have to say, we’d almost lost hope of ever finding anyone to replace Kevin…”

  “Can’t get a chef to stay here,” Vince adds, while Maria throws him a quick, irritated look.

  “Why?” The word pings out of my mouth, and everyone turns to stare at me.

  “Why what, sweetheart?” Maria asks.

  “Um … why does no one stay?” I’m aware of Mum and Ryan shooting me irritated looks.

  “It’s just … pretty busy and demanding,” Vince says quickly, “but I’m sure you’ll cope, Helen.”

  “Of course I will,” Mum replies in her trying-to-sound-confident voice. At least Vince and Maria seem kind, I decide as we all head outside to unload the van. They help us to carry our boxes into the pub, and Vince even gives us bottles of Coke and bags of crisps. Well, I assume they’re crisps. While everyone else carries the first load of boxes upstairs, I stop in the middle of the pub and rip open my packet. I pluck a crisp from the bag, pop it into my mouth – and immediately spit the hard, salty thing back into my hand, nearly puking all over the blood-coloured carpet. What are these things? I check the packet: “Piggy’s Pork Scratchings”, it says. Ugh. Little bits of pig skin, and I’ve been vegetarian since I was eight! Glancing around – thank God those two old men have gone – I spot a huge, dusty-looking plant and scuttle over to drop the wet porky thing into its pot. I like Vince, and don’t want to offend him, so I press it down into the soil and cover it over.

  “It won’t grow, you know.”

  The voice makes my heart jolt. I swing round to face that girl – Chantelle – who’s smirking at me from behind the bar. “What won’t grow?” I ask.

  “That thing you just planted in Mum’s pot.” She sniggers, batting coal-black eyelashes and pursing her glossy lips.

  I can’t understand why she has taken an instant dislike to me, but I’m determined not to react. Fiddling with Bella’s ring on my little finger, I manage to meet Chantelle’s cool gaze and reply, “Oh well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

  Then I pick up my cardboard box of belongings and, trying to ignore the rustle of the pork scratchings bag in my jeans pocket, I saunter towards the stairs.

  As I’ve mentioned, I’m not some wimp from the country who starts trembling when she sees lots of traffic and people milling about. Even so, I have to ask a question here.

  Whatever happened to the stars?

  I mean, we’re still in the same hemisphere, aren’t we? This part of London is only an hour and half’s drive (Mum-speed) from the stretch of river where I lived all my life, where there were so many stars you couldn’t begin to count them. And now, from my bedroom window above the Bald-faced Stag in Castle Street – where, incidentally, there is no castle either – stars are completely, one hundred per cent absent. And, whilst we’re talking about absent things, what about the rocking motion that lulled me to sleep all those years in my cabin? Here I am, lying in the first double bed I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m not thinking, You’re so lucky, Josie Len
nox. No, I’m thinking: It doesn’t move. This bed is completely still. The weird thing is, although I rarely noticed the rocking, I do notice the stillness.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I should be sleeping soundly after helping to lug our boxes upstairs. But, even though the pub has closed now, and all the customers have gone home (Vince was right – the place was packed tonight), I just can’t. I’m out of bed now, standing at my dirty bedroom window, looking out at the city and the glow it makes in the sky, like orangey ink spreading upwards. Has this glow blotted out the stars? Are they all still there, like when you scrape black wax crayon off a picture with a fingernail to expose the fiery colours underneath?

  Mum’s right – I ask way too many questions. For instance: pork scratchings. What are they all about? Who had the brilliant idea of gathering together all the tough bits of pig skin that no one wanted and putting them in little red and gold bags? And what’ll I do if Vince offers me them again?

  Oh no. Now I’ve started thinking of questions, they just won’t stop. Like:

  How long are we going to be here for? Will the stale foody smell in our flat ever go away, or will I just stop noticing it? And what about Chantelle? She seems to despise me, for some reason… I’m mulling all of this over when my bedroom door creaks open.

  “Hey,” Mum says softly, stepping into my room. “It’s nearly one in the morning, sweetheart. What are you doing out of bed?”

  I shrug. “Just looking out.”

  She smiles and joins me at the window, glancing back at my room with its horrible speckled mustard walls. “So you haven’t started unpacking your things yet,” she remarks, meaning the boxes piled up against one wall, as yet untouched.