Kisses for Lula (4 page)

‘You’re forgetting the St Alban’s guys,’ I said. ‘Those bliddy buzzards on a wire.’

And then it hit me!

Of course! St Alban’s boys! Forget The List! I jumped to my feet in wild excitement, but Arnold was already taking up my air time:

‘Mona doesn’t like public schoolboys,’ Arnold was saying. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘But I might!’ I squeaked, doing a little dance. ‘They don’t know about the jinx! And Mona could help!’ Thanks to this morning Ben My First Love was definitely a lost cause, but there were plenty of others!

Arnold didn’t bat an eye. ‘You get me Mona; I’ll get you a man,’ he promised.

‘Makeover at yours? Eight p.m.?’ I said blithely.

‘Done.’ We high-fived (I know. I wouldn’t do it in public. Just humouring Arns) and went our separate ways. Well, Arnold went back to the stacks and I got flirty with the photocopier.

I felt a shiver run down my spine.

Mona de Souza, Hambledon It Girl, just
had
to know a guy over twelve with all his fingers . . .

Chapter Four

I tramped home alone. Mum was working late – Security had suggested someone who might have ‘borrowed’ the documents, and Mum had to make a few discreet calls. I had a flash of guilt. Alex would expect me to be helping with something – she’d made me promise that I’d keep sending snippets to the
Hambledon Herald
to keep her storyline on Coven’s Quarter alive, but for now there was nothing I could do, and definitely no articles to write. My mother did not need that kind of publicity: a
MISSING DOCUMENTS
headline would not help her cause.

I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and took a right up the final hill home. The pointed rooves and turrets of the Setting Sun, the old-age home across the street from our house, were visible now. It was a huge rambling mansion, much bigger than our own home, a storey higher, with two more turrets than our lowly one. Both houses were the last on the road, a kind of full stop for the town. From that point our road, Hill Street, became a potholed track, winding up and up into the woods. The wide stretch of tarmac was divided in two by a long green swathe of unruly grass punctuated by a massive tree stump and a flaking
fire-hydrant sign opposite the Setting Sun and the Bird residence.

I pushed hard against our small, rusty front gate, hidden in a welter of rambling roses. I was glad I hadn’t asked Arnold round here. The house was a complete tip. And then there was the fact that Dad was oft passed out in the front bedroom, snoring loud enough to deafen the OAPs at the Setting Sun. (He drinks. A
lot
.)

When I got in, the house was silent. Grrr. Dad should’ve been getting dinner ready, and it sure didn’t sound like
that
was happening.

I threw my bag down with a crash and cupped my mouth with my hands, face tilted towards the ceiling. ‘HI, DAAAD,’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘
I’m hooo-ooome!
WHAT’S FOR SUPPER?’

There was a thud just above me, and a groan. I grinned. Result.
Yesss!
I pounded upstairs, belting out Eminem’s latest as I went. I got outside Mum and Dad’s bedroom door and paused to yell out the chorus a second time before stopping suddenly as if something had just occurred to me.

Knocking timidly on the door, I called quietly, ‘Dad? Are you in there?’

‘Spawn of Satan,’ came a croaking reply.

I smirked. Abuse I could tolerate. Cooking dinner a third night in a row, after that stunner of a Sunday lunch too, could not be contemplated.

‘Can I come in?’ I whispered deferentially.

‘Ha,’ was the rasping response.

I took that as a yes and pushed at the door.

‘Whoa!’ I moaned, back at full volume and clutching my nose. ‘Dad! It
reeks
in here!’

‘Have some respect. I’m not well.’

‘No, no, Dad. You’re not wriggling out of doing supper that easily.’

‘I mean it, T-Bird.’ He tilted his head slightly to look up at me. ‘Please.’

‘No way! You’ve been festering in here since Saturday. That cold’s got to be done now. You need fresh air.’ Stomping over to the window I could feel my blood starting to simmer. I had stuff to do. Arns + Mona = kiss 4 Lula. Arnold’s makeover needed my full attention. It just had to work, because going back to The List with its pre-teens and amputees was not an option.

At the window, I turned to stare Dad down. Now, there was a lot I wanted to say to my father, but he’d been a different person since Grandma Bird died. A bit volatile. He’s an English lecturer at the university, but he writes poetry and song lyrics too. And he’s worked with a lot of famous musicians. Why I’m telling you this is so you understand that he’s got that creative temperament that means he’s allowed to be ultra-sensitive and moody. (What a load of rot. If he just stopped drinking ten
pints of beer a night, he’d be a different man.)

I’d heard Mum trying to talk sense to him last week . . .

‘Spenser, what’s going on? It seems to me your life is going downhill.’

. . . but it didn’t seem like the talking sense had worked.

I yanked the curtains open and the late afternoon sun shafted straight into the gloom, lighting up the pathetic bundle on the bed. Dad howled. (I’m being kind here. He actually squealed.)

‘My eyes! My eyes!’

‘Oh, please. Anyone would think you had measles.’

‘I probably have!’

I flung the window wide open and leaned out to breathe. Mum was at the front gate. She looked tired and anxious.

‘You okay, Lula?’ she called.

‘Dad’s still got man flu,’ I answered. Pause. ‘You’ll have to do dinner.’

Even from my first-storey height I could see Mum’s teeth grinding. She shoved at the gate with her right elbow, bags crashing and slithering in her hold. Her mutters grew louder and I was about to offer dinner services to save us all from the fallout – in return for a lift to Arns’s later, of course – when the old soak spoke.

‘You’re letting your mother make dinner? If I didn’t feel so terrible,’ said Dad, still motionless on the bed, ‘I’d get up and tan your hide.’

‘Huh,’ I said over my shoulder, fumbling with the window latch. ‘You think you feel terrible now . . . wait till Mum serves up her chicken-liver stew.’ I waved at Mr Kadinski staggering out of the Setting Sun opposite our house. He waved his stick back and started tackling the steps down from the veranda.

I moved away from the window before he could call for help. (I know how that sounds, but I was up to my eyes in everything and Mr K would be better without grumpy me right now.) A low moan came from under the duvet. I sighed. Maybe Dad
was
terribly ill.

‘Okay, Dad, I promise to do supper on the condition that you get up and shower and come downstairs.’

‘Don’t make me, T.’

‘Oh! Can you smell chicken livers? I think I can smell chicken livers . . .’ I mused.

Dad flung the covers aside with surprising energy for someone on the brink of death. I clamped my nostrils closed and edged towards the door while he unfolded himself from the bed.

Once I was certain he was headed for the shower, I bolted downstairs to the kitchen to stop Mum from cooking up a load of offal.

Dinner was good, not least because everyone in the house actually sat round the table and ate together. Except for
my littlest sister, Blue, who was already in bed. Great-aunt Phoebe was clearly feeling pensive. Blue had probably worn her out with an energetic
you be the murderous troll
game. (Aunt Phoebe is in charge of Blue. She’s the only one who could be.)

‘How’re you, Aunt Phoebe?’ I asked, piling noodles on to everyone’s plates.

Her dark eyes glanced up for a second through trendy steel glasses, her chic black hair as immaculate as ever. ‘I’m glad you cooked, Tallulah. I needed to refuel.’

‘Mm,’ said Pen, twirling an astonishing amount of noodles on to her fork and into her mouth, ‘ss gmmeud.’

‘You owe me favours,’ I said ungraciously. ‘All of you.’

They nodded humbly.

‘And I’ve been thinking,’ I continued, sitting down. ‘As principal hovelkeeper, I feel I need a bit of personal space and –’

‘The annexe is mine,’ hissed Pen.

‘Girls,’ said Mum warningly.

Dad closed his eyes and whimpered.

Aunt Phoebe pursed her Chanel-red lips.

‘It will be, Pen,’ I said reasonably. ‘I’ve only got a couple years more of school and then I’m outta here.’

‘Oh?’ said Mum. ‘And what about going to university?’

Dad whimpered again, and shifted so he could slump with his forehead on his hand and still shovel in the stir-fry.

‘I am, but Brighton. For art.’

Mum went pink. ‘My love. You wouldn’t do that to us. The tuition fees. The res fees. We get massive reductions here at Hambledon.’

‘I have ambitions,’ I persevered, flinging my arms in a wide circle. A shred of green pepper hit the far wall. Dad flinched.

Aunt Phoebe maintained a studious silence.

‘But, but –’

‘Oh, Mum,’ said Pen. ‘She’s winding you up. This is her decoy. So when she flexes her fingers for the annexe, you see it as the lesser of two evils and say yes. Don’t fall for it.
I’m
the worthy candidate. Me with my neatness and efficiency. You’ll never have to worry about whether the place is secure if I’m the resident thereof.’

(For The Record: my sister Pen is
the
most slovenly of us all. She looks respectable, but noooo. She could fight every ailment known to man with the selection of penicillin she cultivates under her bed in crusty old dishes. And don’t be fooled by the way she talks. She is only fourteen.)

I let my jaw hang open and shook my head slowly in disbelief. ‘
Resident thereof?
Don’t talk like that, Penelope. You are not forty.’

‘Forty’s not that old,’ muttered Dad, running his hand through his thick brown hair.

‘Sure,’ I said hastily. ‘Plus you look good for your age, Dad.’

‘You can move into the annexe, T-Bird,’ he said, and pushed himself up and away from the table. ‘Right now if you like. I’m going back to bed.’

‘
Whaaaaaat?
’ shrieked Pen.

I laughed long and hard. Even Mum was smiling.

‘Give it a rest, Pen, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ll get your chance too.’

‘It’ll be infested with disease, and pestilence, and mould and sundry funguses, by the time I –’

‘Fungi,’ I said, and promptly regretted it. I needed to shower anyway before going to Arns’s place, but it took forever to get the noodles out of my hair.

Mum agreed I deserved a lift to Arnold’s house.

‘Be gentle with him, Tallulah,’ she said, pulling up outside his gate. ‘No tattoos. Call me when you’re done. I don’t suppose you’ll be going anywhere on foot with that.’ She nodded over at my ancient sewing machine on the back seat.

‘I appreciate the lift, Mum,’ I said.

‘Better than walking past the St Alban’s dining halls after supper,’ she replied.

Sometimes I think I underestimate Mum’s intuition. Pulling out an enormous backpack, I slammed the passenger
door and had begun wrestling with the back door when Arns loped up.

‘Hi, Mrs Bird,’ he said cheerily to Mum, then stopped dead when he saw me staggering under the weight of my bag.

‘Uhhh, you staying the night?’ he asked me nervously.

Mum pursed her lips and sucked in her cheeks. I did not grace his query with a reply.

‘Help me with the sewing machine, will you?’

‘Ohh!’ Arns looked relieved and I felt strangely irritated. ‘It’s all your makeover supplies. Good.’ He scurried round and had the sewing machine balanced deftly under his left arm by the time Mum had fired up the Citroën. He slammed the door and waved her off. I’m sure I could hear her cackling all the way to West Street, four roads over, but what are children for if not to provide endless entertainment for their parentals. I sighed and followed Arns in through his front door. He headed straight upstairs. I followed, hard on his heels.

‘Um. Shouldn’t I say hi to your folks?’

‘Mum’s out on a case, Dad’s dead.’

‘Oh, geez. Geez. Sorry, Arns. I’m sure I knew that.’

‘Forget it. Let’s get makeovering.’

‘Coo–’ I started to say, but on arrival at his bedroom, Arns flung the door open and it came out as, ‘–ell!’

‘Like it?’

‘No.’

‘No? I’ve spent hours doing this!’

‘You’ll have to start again.’ I walked into the freshly painted room. The sheer redness of it all made me feel slightly sick. I looked up. ‘Thank God you didn’t get to the ceiling.’

I heard someone behind me and turned to see Arns’s sister, Elsa. ‘He said it was the colour of passion,’ she said, and that was it. One look at Arns’s puzzled face and I dropped my bag, bending over double and shouting with laughter so loudly my throat hurt. She crumpled over too, the only sound an occasional gasp for air.

Arns dumped the sewing machine on his bed with not enough care for my liking.

‘Is this humour at my expense?’ he asked.

I caught a glimpse of his face looking suddenly vulnerable behind the mock fury, and pulled myself together, wiping my eyes. Elsa mumbled something about getting more paint, and crawled on her hands and knees out of the room, still struggling for breath.