Part 4 (1/2)

Finn turned, trying to direct his stream down Charlie's wellingtons. Fortunately his aim wasn't very good. I rapped smartly on the window and they both waved, so overcome with mirth that they had to hold one another up.

'She thinks the world of you,' said Ivan. 'She says you used to be like sisters.'

'We still are, really.'

'Well, then. I'm begging you to think again. Refuse the offer, get that sign down and find Mr McNamara a job. They're a waiter short at the Beefeater.'

Kit, waiting at the Beefeater. That would be the mighty, fallen. I had a horrible vision of him with his hair standing on end, thunder rumbling on his brow, deliberately pouring beer into people's laps. I pulled my face straight as I turned around. 'What did your father do, before he lost his job?'

'Nuclear physicist.'

'W-wow,' I stammered, wondering how I hadn't known this. 'That's, um . . .'

'Unexpected?' Ivan pushed back his chair. 'Nah, pulling your leg. He drove the mobile library. Might not sound very exciting, but he loved it. The council closed it down. Not cost effective, they said. But . . . thing is, that library wasn't just a bus filled with books. It was the highlight of the week for some people.'

I saw my young visitor out. He stopped by the front door, watching the twins, who were on their hands and knees as they tried to lap water out of the pond.

'Mrs McNamara-Martha. Can I offer you a deal? Change your mind, and I promise I'll p.i.s.s off and never have anything to do with Sacha again.'

Touched, I squeezed him on the arm.

'I mean it,' he insisted.

'I believe you, Ivan.'

'The rest of you will be okay. I can see that.' He c.o.c.ked his head at the boys. 'It's an adventure for those little nutters. For you, it's . . . I dunno, an escape? For Mr McNamara it's a dream. But what about Sacha?'

'I think it's a wonderful opportunity for her,' I maintained stubbornly.

He walked to his car and wrenched at the door. 'I've had my say. I just wish you'd think again.'

The pink Beetle was pulling out onto the road when Mum stuck her oar in.

For Sacha, it's a disaster.

Five.

It all happened so fast, once we sold the house. There wasn't time to take a breath.

Logistics and practicalities devoured our energy: packing, organising, discarding. Clothes to Oxfam, toys to Lou. Selling cars, renewing pa.s.sports, applying for visas. Everything we did became charged with an awful significance because it was the Last Time. That Last Time Waltz was ghastly. I never want to do it again. The word goodbye became meaningless. Yes, we'll keep in touch! Yes, lots of sheep in New Zealand. Yes, ha-ha, if you went any further you'd be clean off the planet. Mm, hilarious. In the end we stopped wanting to see people, especially the ones we most loved. We longed to be teleported away. Scotty, beam us up.

They threw a party for me at work, with all the flags and bunting. Flattering speeches, a natty little video camera and a truly mammoth card signed by everybody, including people I never remembered having met and at least one who heartily disliked me. Kisses, hugs, pretending to wonder how they'd manage. I was touched and nostalgic, but the truth is I'd already left them. My mind was focused on the future.

Some people thought we were making a mistake and felt constrained to say so. Many seemed to interpret our leaving as a personal insult-what, did we think we were better than them? Three, with ghoulish satisfaction, predicted that we would be back within the year.

The one-armed man at the fuel station sucked on the matchstick he always held between his teeth. 'Tedious spot though, isn't it?'

'Oh, I don't think so.'

'Dull as ditch water. Like Switzerland.'

'Is it really? I didn't know that.'

He nodded gloomily. 'Nothing but mountains and smug folk in hiking boots.'

'Do you know New Zealand well, then? Or Switzerland?'

'Tears before bedtime,' he predicted, in his Eeyore drone. 'Never a good idea. Not in my opinion. Gambling with your family's lives, really, aren't you?'

'Got to go,' I said, hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing back my credit card. 'I'm collecting my daughter from school.'

The final bell had gone, and girls were pouring out to begin their summer holidays. Abandoning the twins in the car, I raced up to the fifth-form common room to find a Greek tragedy being re-enacted. Mascara streamed down stricken faces. Ties were loosened, hair crazed in distracted grief. They were all signing Sacha's school s.h.i.+rt with indelible marker pens while munching on the giant cupcake she'd made for them.

Their lavishly coiffured cla.s.s tutor, Belinda Rothman, caught my eye and wiggled her fingers. I went to this same school with Belinda. She used to be a total b.i.t.c.h, actually, but that's another story. I don't know what possessed the board when they made her deputy head. She minced over on ridiculous kitten heels.

'Ma.s.s hysteria,' she sighed. 'I've had to stop one of them mutilating her arms with a compa.s.s.'

'You're joking . . . aren't you?'

'Tanya's a bit of a drama queen. But we're all devastated to be losing Sacha.'

'Sorry.'

'You're public enemy number one in the staffroom.'

I murmured something lame, and the silly woman patted my arm. 'I do hope this move won't disadvantage her academically. She wants to do medicine, doesn't she? And what about her flute lessons? Ooh!'-holding up a finger-'I've got something for you to read!' She skipped over to her French shopping basket, looking smug. Actually, Belinda Rothman's been looking smug for twenty-five years, ever since she stole my part in the school play.

'As it's been an emotional day, I asked all the girls to express their feelings in a poem, essay or poster. Here's Sacha's. She doesn't mind you seeing it.' Belinda was holding out a piece of A4 refill, blackened with angry scrawl. 'You've got a b.u.mpy ride ahead of you!'

Sacha emerged from the wailing chorus with her best friend draped around her shoulders. Dopey little Lydia was off to Tenerife the following day, so this truly was goodbye.

'I'll phone,' Lydia promised. She had chestnut boy-hair and never looked more than half awake. I'd known her all her life; her mother and I were in the maternity unit together. She'd eaten at my kitchen table a thousand times over the years, and swapped awful knock-knock jokes, and was rude about my cooking. 'I'll be on Facebook every single night.'

Sacha burst into tears. 'Night's morning over there,' she sobbed. 'It's all upside down.'

'Get her out,' hissed Belinda from the corner of her mouth. 'Before they become blood sisters. They've still got their compa.s.ses.'

Getting out of the building-past teachers, girls and the janitor-took twenty heartbreaking, horrible minutes. We needed a couple of those hunky bodyguards in black suits and mirrored shades. The car was a blessed sight.

Charlie and Finn hadn't throttled one another, thank G.o.d, and no pa.s.sing do-gooder had called the NSPCC to report neglected children. They were listening to a Mr Men story tape.

'Hey, Sacha. Whadya call a Smartie in a combine harvester?' asked Finn as we got in.

'Shredded sweet!' crowed Charlie, and both boys fell about.

'Listen to your story,' I warned them, 'or I'll put on Radio 4.'