Too Close to Home Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Aoife Walsh

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Who's at home?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Also by Aoife Walsh

  Look After Me

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781448188055

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  First published in 2015 by

  Andersen Press Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Aoife Walsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Text copyright © Aoife Walsh, 2015

  Illustrations copyright © Kate Grove, 2015

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978 1 78344 300 0

  For Oscar and for Aobh

  Who’s at home?

  ONE

  All year Minny had endured having PE last thing on a Friday. It was hateful in winter but at least everyone else thought so too. It hit new lows in the summer term when most people apparently loved running round in an astroturfed cage, swinging tennis rackets. But it reached the absolute depths on this particular Friday when, after a horrible English lesson, she was informed that they were all playing rounders together, girls and boys. Rounders. Minny had loathed it since primary school.

  Of course, it was funny to see how playing a team game with boys affected the girls. ‘Look at that,’ she said to her best friend Penny, as they lurked as far away from the action as they could get. ‘Juliet’s gone all weak and feminine. Oh, look – straight at Andrew, that one.’

  ‘She wasn’t weak or feminine when she stamped all over me in football last term,’ Penny remarked. ‘I’ve still got that lump on my shin.’

  ‘No.’ Minny watched Emma Daly drop a hit from Michael, who was batting after Juliet. ‘And Emma didn’t fumble that hockey stick she ground into my ear either, that time I fell over in front of her.’ It was strange to be talking to Penny during PE – since spring she’d been all into tennis, running away from Minny at the start of lessons so as to get put in a group with the good people.

  Then of course they had to go up to bat. Minny’s heart pounded as she stood in line; she didn’t know what was scary about it really; it wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to looking stupid in PE. She missed with the first swing. ‘Keep your eye on the ball,’ Miss Kittling barked. Minny had no idea how to keep her eye on the ball. Her eye didn’t want to stay on the ball, at least not while she was also swinging a bat. She was happy not to hit it; all she wanted was to be able to run to first base without getting anyone else out. After her third air shot, Miss Kittling blew her whistle.

  ‘Look, Minny,’ she said, polishing a ball of her own on her thigh, ‘there’s no point in coming to these lessons if you’re not even going to try.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, miss.’

  ‘That’s enough of that. Honestly. Just watch the ball.’ She tossed it at Minny, who swung and missed. ‘Right, we’ll try one more time. This enthusiasm for sport must run in your family.’

  Minny missed again.

  ‘Apparently I can’t make your sister Aisling come out here and join in a team game any more, but I’m not having you wriggling out of it as well. Is that clear?’ Minny swung in desperation and connected; Michael Dearbourne caught her out straight away but at least she could drop the bat and get away from the situation. She only overheard a few sighs from her own team, and Penny saying supportively to Nathan, ‘It’s not her fault she’s crap at sport.’

  ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Penny asked as they changed back into real clothes in the sweat-drenched cloakroom.

  Minny brightened up a little as she threw her T-shirt into the bottom of the locker; at least school was over for the week. ‘I don’t know yet, no plans. What about you?’

  ‘I can’t meet up tomorrow, anyway. Jorge is in that tennis competition.’ She finished dabbing a fresh layer on the caked concealer between her eyebrows. ‘See you later, have a good one, byeee.’

  Minny slammed her locker shut and trudged through the school. The main door was a rectangle of golden light, promising a couple of days’ freedom, even if it was friendless freedom filled only with her family. She was almost there when Mrs Fansham stampeded out of her classroom and grabbed her, literally and damply. Mrs Fansham was a German teacher. Minny had never even taken German, but they had spoken several times before because Aisling, Minny’s sister, was in her form. ‘Oh, Minny –’ she towed her into the classroom – ‘I wanted a word about Aisling.’

  ‘’Kay,’ Minny said, non-committally.

  ‘She hasn’t had a very good day, to be honest with you.’ She put her hand on her fat chest. ‘I don’t know what was wrong, do you?’

  Minny shrugged.

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Anyway, I saw her leaving a few minutes ago and she looked upset.’

  The fact was Mrs Fansham was just stupid. Minny had to work hard to stop her face saying so. Ash had chemistry on a Friday afternoon, and Minny knew for a fact that their mother had explained, in short words, why Aisling found science stressful. Bustle, open flames, being expected not to spill things; plus long benches all joined together and distracted teachers – open season for bullies and hell on a stick for an autistic person. Besides, all Mrs Fansham was achieving by rabbiting on in her steaming-hot classroom was that Ash was getting further and further away from school and it would take longer for Minny to catch her up.

  Now she had to hurry most of the way home, getting hotter and crosser all the way, until the last stretch of shops when Aisling was in sight. Also just about within earshot; Minny caught the odd squeak. Her sister got louder and shriller the more stressed out she was.

  ‘Minnyminnyminnyminnyminnyminnyminnyminnybatman. Aisling Molloy! You know very well …’

  Ash was crossing the road now, skipping irregularly the way she did. There was a group of boys up ahead, on the corner of Whitsun Road where the big puddle always was; there was a leaky pipe there or something. Minny speeded up. Aisling, crossing, stretched carefully over the water. One of the boys bustled her so that she stepped right back into it. There was a roar of appreciation.

  Minny half ran, half power-walked up towards them with her hardest face on. Ash was just standing there, squeaking in a voice that only bats could have heard. The boys were still sniggering but had stepped away. ‘Idiots,’ Minny muttered, taking Ai
sling’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  ‘But I can’t NOW,’ Aisling said shrilly.

  ‘Yes, you can, we’re nearly there.’

  ‘My feet.’

  ‘Try not to think about it.’

  There was a boy pelting towards them from further up the road that she’d been half aware of. She stood back to let him go past, only he stopped instead.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. Aisling looked at him as if she wasn’t sure he was speaking to her. ‘I saw – are you soaking?’ They all looked down at her feet. She sidestepped, and squelched. ‘Morons. Yeah, well done,’ he shouted at the boys.

  ‘Yeah,’ Minny said, to make herself known. ‘You’re OK though, aren’t you, Ash?’

  ‘Good.’ He fidgeted. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello,’ Ash said.

  ‘Hi,’ Minny said. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  The profundity of the exchange was because she had recognised him. His name was Franklin Conderer and she hadn’t seen him since she was eight years old when he had moved to the other side of London.

  ‘What are you doing here, Franklin?’ Ash asked him in her small-talk voice, which was the most normal one she had. Minny wasn’t sure how they had both recognised him; he looked really different. He hadn’t been at their primary school very long, only while he was living with his aunt, but she remembered him as the kind of little boy who did things like running into other kids at full speed and hurling them down on their faces. He never touched the Molloys, but Penny got a kneeful of black gravel once. He was supposed to be in Ash’s class but he got sent down one to Minny’s; their mother said it was because Minny’s teacher that year was a man, and was therefore supposed to be able to handle him. Back then, Franklin had had one of those sad super-short haircuts some little boys got with a separate fringe, as if they didn’t deserve to have hair, and always looked miserable and out of place. He had good hair now. He was thin and pale.

  He looked surprised. ‘Well, I’m … I’m living with Judy for a bit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Judy Molloy?’ Aisling enquired. ‘Our granny?’

  Their granny, Judy Molloy, lived less than two miles from them. Since their dad had left, the time they spent with her had been gradually whittled down – first they had all moved in with their other grandmother, Babi, whom Granny couldn’t stand, and then they started getting so much more homework, and the baby came, and they just didn’t go round to her house as often. Still, Minny would have expected to know that she had adopted a teenage boy.

  ‘Yeah.’ He put one hand behind his neck. ‘I got in a bit of trouble, a while ago now, and anyway no one seemed to think I should stay at home, so Judy said she’d have me for now. See how it goes.’ He shrugged at them. He was really thin. ‘I only came yesterday. I suppose that’s why you didn’t know or anything.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He was looking all around them. ‘I was at the school to talk about starting there, you know. I was just waiting for the bus.’ He pointed at the bus stop.

  ‘You’re starting at Raleigh?’

  ‘Yeah. On Monday.’

  ‘That’s where we go,’ Minny said.

  ‘I know.’ He hesitated. ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘Er. You know.’

  ‘We’re coming to Granny’s on Sunday,’ Aisling said brightly.

  ‘Are we?’ Minny said.

  ‘Yes. I said to Mum the day before yesterday that we hadn’t seen Granny since the twenty-second of April.’

  ‘What happened on the twenty-second of April?’ Franklin asked.

  ‘That’s when we last saw Granny,’ Aisling explained. ‘And we agreed that was a long time so Mum said she’d phone Granny up and ask if we could go round this Sunday.’

  ‘Right.’ Minny looked at Franklin. ‘So I guess we’ll see you then.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Or not.’

  ‘Or not,’ he agreed.

  ‘Why not?’ Ash asked. ‘We’re going round on Sunday.’

  ‘Come on, Ash,’ Minny said, rolling her eyes. ‘See you, Franklin.’

  ‘Yeah, see you.’

  When they’d left the bus stop safely behind, Minny glanced at Aisling. There were tear marks, but only at the sides of her eyes as if meeting Franklin had distracted her in time. ‘Don’t pay any attention to those idiots.’

  ‘No. My shoes are wet.’

  ‘We’ll dry them.’

  Ash snuffled a bit. ‘Will Mum be at home?’

  ‘She’s got a staff meeting. She said she’d be back for dinner.’ They trudged on. ‘That’s a bit weird, about Franklin.’

  Aisling was looking at her shoes.

  ‘I mean, you’d have thought we’d know. It’s not that long since we’ve seen Granny.’

  ‘It was the twenty-second of April.’

  ‘You said.’

  ‘That’s six weeks …’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘And five days. Which is closer to seven weeks really.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Ash. I almost didn’t recognise him.’ She paused. ‘He’s taller than I thought he’d be.’

  ‘He’s not very tall.’

  ‘He’s got better hair. He used to have terrible hair. I liked his T-shirt.’ It was always like this. They wandered along side by side and one of them talked. Usually it was Ash, spouting complete gibberish, while Minny let her get on with it; sometimes, like now, Minny would just think out loud. She assumed that to Ash it meant about as little as the details of the 1972 Congressional US election, or as endless sung renditions of ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’ meant to her. They didn’t actually converse. That was fine; they never had, except when they were younger, if they were ever doing the same thing at the same time, like playing a computer game or constructing a fantasy football cup draw, they might have talked more co-operatively then. The only thing now was you had to be slightly careful to say: ‘Ash.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Don’t repeat any of that, OK.’

  ‘Don’t repeat it to who?’

  ‘To anyone.’

  She was normally pretty safe, but because their stupid parents had always played stupid parental games about ‘don’t you dare do this or I’ll tickle you’, you had to look solemn and serious and right in her eyes when you were telling her. The December before last she’d announced to the front room, where Babi was having a cocktail party, that Minny was expecting her second period any day now, she’d had her first at Halloween! with a mischievous glimmer that showed she was expecting some roughhousing.

  ‘Look,’ Ash said, pointing. ‘There’s Selena.’

  They crossed the road. Their other sister was leaning on the sign at the corner of their street. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Why?’ Selena always got home first; normally Babi picked her up after her afternoon Weight Watchers meeting. Today though, Greengrocer Gil had rung her just as they were getting home, and she’d strolled off down the street, refusing to open the front door first for Sel. Selena was seven. Their grandmother was a liability – Sel should never be left hanging about on a corner by a main road on her own; even Minny could see that. Sel looked like Aisling, except less dreamy, and like their mother too: lots of cloudy blonde curls and a wistful luminous face. Minny was inclined to put it down to nomenclature. Aisling meant a kind of poetry, or dream or vision, or a woman you see in a dream or a vision. Selena meant the moon. But she, she was Minny. All that made you think of was words that were insults or at least very basic, like skinny or tranny or dunny. They weren’t even real words.

  Babi had returned to the house without bothering to fetch Selena; she opened the front door as Minny stuck her key into the lock, said nothing, then glided back up the hall as if there were wheels under her very long black trousers. They had been living in Babi’s house for nearly two years. Minny was so used to it that she got resentful about Babi being there, even though it was her house, and blamed her for it being so crowded. She supposed in fact their old fl
at must have been smaller, but at least it was theirs, and there was room for their stuff. This house was too full. Minny knew her sisters, brother, mother and grandmother weren’t actually evil, not even her grandmother; they just didn’t all fit together properly. Like the games and jigsaws which had been stuffed together over the years and come spilling out of their boxes. And like those boxes, it sometimes felt as if the top of the house was going to come off, or the side might split, or a giant foot would come down out of the sky and casually squash it so that even masking tape couldn’t fix it.

  They squeezed through the porch, between the pushchair and the big tippy pile of shoes. Ash normally just stepped out of her trainers and chucked them in the direction of all the others, but now she stood there awkwardly holding them. ‘Stick them out the back in the sun,’ Minny suggested. ‘And put your socks in the washing machine.’

  ‘I want to wear my socks.’

  ‘They’re soaking wet.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Ash, you’re leaving footprints on the carpet.’

  ‘But I like these socks.’ She took them off in the end, looking resentful as if the whole thing was Minny’s fault. Minny sat down to unlace her high-tops properly because they were coming to pieces, and then got her books out of her bag, balancing her real book on top.

  ‘What are you reading?’ Selena dusted her sandals off and placed them on top of the shoe pile.

  ‘Peter Pan. What? It’s a great classic of English lit-er-a-ture,’ Minny said, dropping her pencil case so that all her biros fell out and rolled under the radiator. ‘Mum reckons you can’t appreciate any post-war novels if you haven’t read this. Or something.’

  Babi was passing through the hall again with an empty glass in each hand. She snorted. She refused to believe that anything good at all could have come out of Britain, since Shakespeare anyway, even though she’d been living here for about fifty years. English literature annoyed her because you couldn’t really argue with it being good, compared to everything else English in the arts. She took the arts very seriously. A lot of her family had been arty, intellectual types who died in Czechoslovakia when the Nazis came. Then after that it was the Communists, and she and her parents had fled, more or less, and ended up in London. Later on she’d met their grandfather, who was a writer from South Africa who didn’t get on with the government and so he’d left there and come to England as well. It all seemed to mean that Babi couldn’t take any kind of creativity seriously unless it could get you thrown in jail.