“I want to go out.”
“Where?”
“A friend’s house.”
“Who?”
“You won’t even know them, why do you care?” Charley was sulky, near tears. “You and Megan, it’s both of you, why can’t you just give me the benefit of the doubt, just once?”
Tom could have answered that easily enough, but didn’t. Poor girl, there was no way this wouldn’t impact the rest of her life.
God forgives, but the world doesn’t.
That was their warning, words Ruth had shared over the phone in stunned emptiness. The world did not forgive. A mistake, a moment’s indiscretion, a stroke of bad luck and hope was sucked away.
“We want to look after you. It’s a harsh world, take the protection.”
“Bit late.”
It cut deep. Why trust their protection, when it hadn’t worked before? Why should she believe they cared? “We might have let you down, but we still care.”
“Why fuss? Mars actually deserves…”
He didn’t let her finish. “We can care about both of you.”
She glared through her fringe, hostile and defensive.
“Why don’t you invite people round here?”
“They think I’m cool.”
“Everyone lives somewhere. Usually, in a home like this. You can go up to your room, we can leave you alone in the living room to watch a movie, whatever.”
“They already think I’m poor.”
“And?”
“That’s why Mark picked me. Because he felt sorry for me, he knew he could give me stuff I needed. That’s how it works: you’re poor, you get attention. Everyone knows you’re weird.”
“First of all, being poor isn’t the same as being weird. And I think you’d be surprised by how many of your friends are no better off than us. I see a lot of people in this city, with my work, and trust me – we know where this month’s rent will come from, and we always know there’ll be food on the table, and that’s better than a great many others.”
“Obviously you see those people, you do churchy stuff, it doesn’t mean everyone’s like that.”
“And you think those people don’t have children? And those children don’t go to schools like yours? You don’t think they might be more likely to be poor just because they have children? Extra food, higher rent, more healthcare bills…”
She glared at him. “I just want to be normal. You don’t get it.”
He sighed. “I think I should tell you a bit about me, because much as it might suck to understand grown-ups, there are a few things you need to know. First of all, I came from a normal family. I had the most wonderful mam, who worked every hour she could find to support us. My dad left when I was a baby. I lived in a normal council house, on an estate on the edge of Manchester. I had one brother, three years older than me, who was cool – always out with his gang, trying the latest craze, knew where to get the drugs and where the action was, nicked himself a flash car at seventeen, made himself cooler by speeding and ignoring basic sense until he crashed it. And then there was me, goofy little me, goody-goody mammy’s boy, always did his homework, never stayed out late, went to football practise and that was about it. Ended up in a wheelchair for a month because cool-boy Micky was being cool with his flash car, came out of it with a permanent limp that, they said at the time, meant using a crutch for the rest of my life. Arthritis and a full knee replacement before I turned forty – that’s how I don’t need the crutch anymore, but chances are it’ll start causing trouble again in the next decade. Oh, and cool-boy Mick was dead in a squat at the age of thirty-three because he was still taking drugs – except not to be cool, because he was addicted. Now, you tell me I don’t get what it’s like to want to be normal.”
A long, awkward silence, and he wished he hadn’t spoken. It was about her, after all, not him, she didn’t need to know his life story. But she had no idea, no perspective, no sense that other people had their own troubles – yes, her life had been bad enough, but that didn’t mean she couldn't build herself a future anyway.
“Then why don’t you get it when I want to do stuff like the others?”
“I do. But believe it or not, nobody’s parents let them run wild. Just tell them we’re mean and roll your eyes, nobody’ll think badly of you.”
“But you gave us a home, we can’t talk bad of you.”
It was him who was silenced, this time. “You’re not in our debt,” he said in the end. “We don’t want you to ever think you are – you deserve a safe home, and we want to offer you one. We want to treat you as our children, and you can treat us as your parents. You can complain about us to your friends, you can mutter under your breath about how mean we are, you can even scream at us and storm up the stairs in a huff – though we’d rather you didn’t! All we want is for you to trust we want what’s best for you, and to listen when we give you rules. If you disagree, you can challenge us, and we’ll explain, but we just ask you to listen, to trust us as people who care.”
She tilted her head. “Cool. Can I go out now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I said so. Because I can’t trust you. “Because you’ve been going out far too much recently and you need to spend more time at home with us, building relationships in the family as well as outside it, creating a solid base which you can return to when things are difficult outside. Because you can’t tell me exactly where you’re going, and with whom. And because if your last school report is anything to go by, you need to take your homework rather more seriously, especially since you’re starting GCSEs next year.”
“It’s ages since that report.”
“A few weeks. You mean to say you’ve miraculously changed your ways, without any difference noticeable to me? And we’re going to get a lovely surprise at parents’ evening on Friday?”
“You’re going to that?”
“One of us will, obviously. We haven’t decided which yet. Any preference?”
She sighed and thought carefully. “You. You’re less embarrassing. And you don’t get angry.”
“I’m less embarrassing than Megan?” No comment about the anger – he and Megan both had tempers, Charley just hadn’t seen him lose his yet, and he'd do his best to make sure she never did. “Alright then, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll come back early and do my homework.”
“The family relationship point stands.”
“I’ve barely been out for, like, a month.”
“You’ve barely left your room.”
“Surely it’s good for me to be getting out?” The master manipulator, at work.
“You’ve been at school all day, seeing people. The holidays start next week, you’ll have plenty of time to meet up with people then.”
“If you’ll let me.”
“Tell us where, and with whom, and agree a time to be back, and we’ll let you. Even better, invite people round, or organise something yourself – go to the park, I’ll even give you money for the cinema if you like. You can be the cool one coming up with suggestions.”
She sighed. “What am I supposed to do all evening, then? While my friends are out having fun. Without me.”
“What would you like to do? Once you’ve finished your homework.”
“Go out with them. Obviously.”
“Other than that.”
She shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Watch something? Play something? Make something? Bake? Paint? Talk?”
“I dunno. Piss about online?”
“I’ll let you have about an hour of that.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I do my best.”
She glared at him. “Why can’t I just go out? Just for an hour? Half an hour?”
“Because I said no.”
“And what if I go anyway?”
“I’ll be saddened and disappointed, and trust God for your safe return.”
“So, nothing.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
She shrugged and sighed. “I guess I just get to waste what’s left of my childhood, then.”
He rolled his eyes in response. “Just go and do your homework. Do you want help?”
“I want someone to do it for me.”
“Not on offer, sorry.”
“I mean, it’s all a waste of time anyway.”
“With that attitude it is. Bring it downstairs.”
“It’s not Saturday.”
“No, and?”
She groaned. “You’re mean.”
“I do my best. Quite a few people in the Church of England might agree with you on that one, actually. Get your homework, we’ll sit at the kitchen table and you can do your homework while I do mine. We can help each other. Deal?”
“Adults don’t get homework.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Anyway, I can hardly help you.”
“I have a couple of sarcastic letters to write, don’t count yourself out yet…”
He was glad of that evening, come Friday, as he made his way up the school drive for parents’ evening. He’d barely been here, Megan handling it all – even as far as visiting to explain that Charley had got caught up in County Lines, and had become the subject of a police investigation, and that they'd have to watch out for suspicious persons hanging around outside the gates. But now he was here, to all intents and purposes a normal father – though he wouldn’t presume to use the term, especially not in earshot of Charley.
Most parents would probably have been disappointed, even angry. But then this was a kid who, a year ago, had been living in a homeless camp without even a tent to call home, because that was better than whatever her alternative had been. Who’d subsequently been driven off even that scrap of wasteland and left wandering, barred even from a grass verge or a bit of pavement. There were others like her, and he didn’t like to think where they’d ended up. Bad grades, being distracted in class? Better than he could expect, really, and most of her teachers understood, although that didn’t make any of their jobs easier.
The following week brought school holidays. The perfect time for him to take a couple of weeks off and help Megan with the kids – except, of course, for the small matter of Holy Week, and a full complement of sermons to write and preach.
He’d talked at length with Megan about how they would observe with the children this most solemn of weeks. Three days of normal holiday, to start. Let them go out with friends, or have people round, amuse themselves however they chose. Drag Liza away from her books, at least some of the time – with mock exams closing in, she’d been getting worse over the past month, staying late at the library after school and then retreating to her room. No doubt given the chance the holiday would go by in a haze of independent study.
On Thursday, diocesan Chrism service. A day out in Southwell for Megan and any children who wished to come, while Tom attended rehearsals in the Minster, and then they could come to the service – Megan wanted to, she insisted. And then back to Nottingham, and to their own Triduum services, she to her own church and he to wherever he was needed. Children’s service on Good Friday afternoon for Mika. Quiet day on Saturday, out into the countryside for a walk… and then Sunday, with bonfire and then Cathedral and then a magnificent leg of lamb, children stuffed with chocolate, no doubt bouncing off the walls.
But first, Palm Sunday. A rare escape to Megan’s church, the church where they’d be married in just a couple of months, putting Mika on his shoulders where she could take a palm cross in each hand and wave them vigorously, bouncing and pointing when the donkey brayed. Processions were much more festal with children – a mood quickly replaced by solemnity as they entered the church, the donkey was led away to graze happily in the churchyard, and Megan took the lectern to read the part of the Evangelist in the dramatized passion narrative, and the crowds who had waved palms and sung hosanna with enthusiasm now spat out “crucify” in their turn. Mika snuggled under his arm.
The donkey was still outside when they left, a great relief for the mood of all assembled, the not inconsiderable swarm of youngsters reaching tiny hands to fondle a patient grey nose. Animals, definitely the way to get young people to church. He crouched down behind Mika as she whispered in its big grey ear, and it nodded knowingly, blowing warm air into her face so that she giggled and turned to cling to his leg. “Bye bye, donkey.” A whisper, too quiet for anyone else to hear, that made him smile.
At home, waiting for lunch, she climbed onto his lap and ran a hand over the smoothness of his freshly shaved cheek.
He grinned. “No prickles, not today. You like it better without?”
She nodded enthusiastically, and then with some contortion of her mouth, whispered a “yes”.
“Then I will endeavour to shave before I see you. Did you like the donkey?”
Another enthusiastic nod.
“You want me to tell you a story about a donkey?”
She bounced excitedly, making him very glad of the knee replacement. How disabled people managed to handle having children, he had no idea - though he knew they did it, and very well, and he knew he'd have managed if he had to.
“Well, you remember the story this morning, about how the little donkey carried Jesus into Jerusalem? Well, some people think there’s another bit of the story, all about the donkey. Now, the little donkey knew that Jesus was very special. Jesus was gentle, and didn’t kick him or say mean things, but he told the donkey how good he was, and stroked his soft grey nose, and the donkey was very proud to carry him, and very proud when all of the people came out to see and cheer him on, and all of the children were shouting ‘Hosanna’ and laying palm leaves in front of him. And the little donkey did his best walking, though he was only a very young donkey, and he was proud when Jesus said thank you after he got off. And the little donkey went home and told all of the other donkeys about this nice man, and looked out every day in case he got to see him again.
“Well, later that week, he did see Jesus again, but he was very sad, because now people weren’t happy to see Jesus. You remember the other story this morning, which Megan did some of the reading in? Well, the people had decided that they didn’t like Jesus, and wanted to kill him, and they were making him carry the big heavy cross up the hill, and they hit him when he fell down. Now the little donkey, he wanted to help, because he knew he was strong and good at carrying things, but the soldiers pushed him away, so he could only follow at a distance. He watched them kill Jesus and there was nothing he could do, because he was only one little donkey, so he went away very sad. But Jesus saw him go, and loved him because he was such a good and gentle creature, and when the shadow from the cross fell on the little donkey’s back it stayed there so that everyone would know how good and faithful the donkey was. And that, some people say, is why donkeys have crosses on their backs.”
Mika looked up at him, thumb in mouth, taking it out for just a second. “Really?”
“Well, I don’t know, it’s just a story some people tell. After all, nobody could talk to the donkey and find out for sure, could they? But it’s a nice story, isn’t it? And some donkeys do have crosses on their backs.”
“Lunch is going on the table,” Megan interrupted the silence from the door. He set Mika on her feet, and she ran off while he stood more slowly. “Not adding to the gospel?” she teased, as he shouldered her playfully through the door.
“Just telling folk stories.”
She put an arm round his waist. “It’s sweet. She’s come so far already, hasn’t she?”
It was a reassurance, too. That in spite of the guilt at not being able to afford speech therapy, she was making progress. That in spite of everything with the middle two, they might at least be helping one of the children. Mika’s teacher had heard her making sound effects while playing with the action figures at school, had passed this on in delight to Megan at home time. And she’d say odd words to them, and to Liza. And she was just less nervous, all round. It was slow, but it was progress.
“Um, there’s something I’ve been meaning to…”
Megan was cut off as Mika reappeared, to grab both of them and tow them towards the kitchen.
She shook her head and shrugged. “Never mind. I’ll tell you another time.”
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