Lifesaving for Beginners (10 page)

Despite myself, I was curious.
He sounded so .
.
.
certain.

I cleared my throat.
‘Let’s just suppose – just for a moment – that you’re correct.
What would it mean?
Hypothetically, I mean.’

He smiled.
Ran his fingers down his face.
They made a scratchy sound across his stubble.
He said, ‘I would have to admit to harbouring similar feelings.’

‘Harbouring?’

‘Harbouring.’

I let that sink in for a while.
It felt .
.
.
well, nice, I suppose.
Warm and sort of touching, if you’re into that kind of thing.

‘But would anything change?’

‘No.’
And the strange thing was, I believed him.
I did.
For a while, anyway.
I allowed myself to be lulled by his confidence.
Despite all the evidence to the contrary, in spite of the fact that there were things about me that Thomas did not know and never would.

I believed him.

That’s where I went wrong.

Now I put my arm round Ed’s shoulders.
I say, ‘There’s nothing to be scared of, Ed.
Besides, I’m here.
We managed before, didn’t we?
When it was just us?’

Ed nods but a shadow of uncertainty falls across his face.
This is what happens when you throw caution to the wind.
It’s not as easy as you’d think to get back to the way things were.
Before.

Faith takes me with her because Mrs Barber is in the hospital again.
I think it’s her other hip this time.
I don’t mind.
I don’t like going to Mrs Barber’s house after school.
It looks the same as our house but it smells funny.
Like the cloakroom in school after it’s been raining.
And she makes me eat gingerbread men with Smarties stuck on them.
Like I’m a little kid.
And cups of tea.
Even though I don’t drink tea.
She still makes tea.
She never remembers.

I’m sorry about Mrs Barber’s other hip but at least I don’t have to go to school.
Damo doesn’t think it’s fair that I’m going to London on a school day.
‘You could go to school and then come home with me afterwards,’ he says.
Damo is lucky.
He has his own key to the front door.
And his mam works in the factory where they make the biscuits with the chocolate on the top.
There’re always bags of biscuits in Damo’s house.
Some of them are broken but they taste just as nice.
I don’t tell Damo that I’m not allowed to go to his house anymore when his mam or his big sister, Imelda, aren’t there.

Me and Faith are on the bus.
It takes a long time.
I like sitting on the top deck, right at the front.
Faith says it makes her feel sick but she comes up with me anyway.
She sits beside me, texting.
Probably Rob.
He plays the guitar in the band and he has long hair.
Damo says that Rob thinks he’s so cool, but Rob has shown me how to play a G on the guitar and he says he’ll show me a C next time.
He says once you know G, C and D, you can be a guitar player in a band.
I don’t want to be a guitar player in a band, on account of the lifesaving.
But maybe I could play in a band on my day off.
Rob is left-handed like me, so his guitar is easier for me to play.
It’s still hard, though.
Playing the G.
It hurts the tips of my fingers.

I say, ‘Are you texting Rob?’

Faith says, ‘Mind your beeswax.’

She puts loads of XXXXXs at the end of the text.
They’re mad about kissing, Rob and Faith.
I don’t know how they can breathe when they kiss for that long.
French-kissing is when you put your tongue in and lick the other person’s teeth.
Damo says he French-kissed Cathy in our class.
Cathy has braces.
Sometimes bits of her sandwich get caught in the wires.
I don’t think you could French-kiss someone who has braces on their teeth.

I look out of the window of the bus.
London gets busier and busier the closer you get.
Much busier than Brighton.
Mam said she liked Brighton because it was beside the sea and it reminded her of home.
She still called Ireland home, even though we’ve lived in Brighton for years.
Since I was a baby.

We are on a road with lots of traffic.
I read all the ads at each bus stop, to pass the time.
Faith is still texting.

I say, ‘Are we there yet?’

She says, ‘Do we look like we’re there yet?’
Faith’s accent gets really Irish when she’s cross.
It’s because she was born when Mam and Dad still lived in Ireland.

Faith doesn’t look like me, or Ant or Adrian either.
Damo looks exactly like Imelda but don’t ever say that to him because he’ll give you a dead arm and a wedgie if you do.
Faith has black hair and green eyes and white skin.
Mrs Barber says she looks a bit like Diana, who happens to be Mrs Barber’s cat.
She calls her Diana after Princess Diana, who got killed in a car crash too.
The cat is huge and very old.
Faith doesn’t look anything like Diana, except for her green eyes and black hair.
Rob thinks Faith is beautiful.
He’s always saying stuff like that to her.
He tells her she looks amazing, right in front of people.

Reading the ads at the bus stops is starting to make me feel a bit sick so I have to stop.

I say, ‘When will we be there?’

Faith says, ‘Soon.’

‘You said that the last time.’

‘Knock it off, Milo.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Here, have a banana.’

‘I don’t want a banana.’

‘If you were hungry enough, you’d have a banana.’
Sometimes Faith sounds exactly like Mam.

I blow on the window of the bus until it clouds up.
Then I draw a picture with my finger.
Me with my life jacket on.
I don’t have a life jacket, but next summer – if Faith lets me – my class is going to do some training on the beach instead of at the pool and Coach says you have to wear a life jacket.
Life jackets make you look a lot bigger than you really are.

‘Where are we going anyway?’

‘I already told you.’

‘You said an office.’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose office?’

‘No one you know.’

‘Why are we going to an office?’

Faith throws her phone into her bag and zips it up, really quickly.
I can’t see her face anymore because her hands are covering it.

‘I’m sorry, Faith.
I won’t ask you any more questions, I swear.’
It’s horrible when girls cry.
Boys aren’t supposed to cry but sometimes it’s hard not to.
Even Ant and Adrian cried.
So did Dad.

I pull one of her hands away from her face.
Actually, she’s not crying.
She’s just tired, I think.
But her hand is freezing.
I put it between mine and rub, the way Mam used to do.
She said Faith had cold hands because of the cigarettes.
She said that Faith had poor circulation and that she shouldn’t smoke, because people who have poor circulation die if they smoke too many cigarettes.

Faith smiles.
Her teeth are white but Mam said they will turn as yellow as mustard if she doesn’t stop smoking.

She’ll be dead and she’ll have yellow teeth and I’ll probably have to go to Scotland and live with Dad, and Celia will make me call her ‘Mum’, and they’ll be too busy with the brand-new baby to bring me to a lifesaving class and I’ll never see Damo or Carla again.

Faith says, ‘Thanks.’

I say, ‘It says “Smokers Die Younger” on your cigarette pack.
Did you know that?’

‘I’m not going to die, Milo.’

‘Are we nearly there?’

This time, she says, ‘Nearly.’

The office is in a gigantic building that is like a skyscraper in a movie.
There is a man in it and his name is Jonathon.
He crouches in front of me and asks if I would like a colouring book and some crayons.
I shake my head and Faith gives me her iPod.
I listen to her band.
They’re called ‘Four Men and a Woman’.
The woman is Faith.

Faith and Jonathon talk for ages.
Jonathon has a big folder on his desk with lots of papers in it.
He lifts the lid of his laptop.
Types his username with two fingers.
Presses Tab.
Then types his password with two fingers.
Presses Enter.

Faith takes some pages out and she keeps shaking her head.
Reading and shaking her head.
I turn the volume down on the iPod in case she says anything about me.

‘It’s a lot to take in, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying.
He is one of those people who stare into your eyes all the time when they’re talking to you.

‘It’s a big shock, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying.
He is one of those people who say your name all the time.

‘It’s not uncommon, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying.

‘It happens quite a lot.’
Jonathon is one of those people who always have to be saying something.
Staring into people’s eyes and saying their names and talking, talking, talking nonstop.

Faith looks at the pages in the folder and shakes her head.

‘And you and your .
.
.
adoptive mother .
.
.’
says Jonathon, staring at Faith’s eyes.
‘Were you .
.
.
close?’

Faith looks up and she looks mad, like when she was on the bus and I kept asking her if we were there yet.
Adults don’t mind long journeys but I like to know when things are going to end.

‘Apparently not as close as I thought.’
Her face is turning pink.
Mam used to say, ‘Watch out,’ when Faith’s face turned pink.
Mam called it her ‘peevish’ face.

Jonathon has flecks of dandruff on his jacket.
It looks a bit like snow.
He takes a huge hanky from his pocket and blows his nose into it.
‘Sorry,’ he says to Faith.
He doesn’t say sorry to me.
I bet he’d like to French-kiss Faith.

I cough, so he knows I’m here and he won’t try any funny business.
He looks at me then.
‘Would you like a glass of water, young man?’
I pretend not to hear him because of the iPod.
He gets up from his chair and walks round to the side of the desk where Faith is.
He sits on the edge.

‘OK, Faith, all right,’ he says, as if he’s agreeing with something Faith has said.
‘Yes, we can make some enquiries.
Yes, we can send out a letter, Faith.
Yes, we can probably find your birth mother.’
I can tell by her face that Faith hates the way Jonathon keeps on saying her name, over and over again.
‘But the question you need to ask yourself is why.’

‘Why?’
Faith says.
I’m glad because that’s what I would have said.

Jonathon sighs and smiles and presses his hands together like he’s saying his prayers.

‘Yes, Faith.
Why?
Why do you want to find her?
What is it you are looking for?
Have you asked yourself any of these questions, Faith?’

Faith stands up and moves as far away from Jonathon as she can get without leaving the room.

‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious,’ she says.

Jonathon is still smiling but now he is nodding too.
‘Humour me, Faith,’ he says.
‘Tell me why.’

‘Because .
.
.
because .
.
.
I just .
.
.
I want to see her.
I want to know what happened.
I want to know why.’
Faith glances at me but I close my eyes and tap my foot against the floor, as if to the beat of ‘Dreams in the Daytime’, which is my favourite song.
It’s the one that Faith sings the best.
She looks at Jonathon again.
‘This is going to sound weird but .
.
.’

Jonathon nods.
‘Go on, Faith.’
He can’t keep his gob shut for longer than two seconds, I swear.

Faith says, ‘I find it really hard to believe.’

Even though Jonathon is nodding, he says, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean .
.
.
Dad said it was true.
I saw the paperwork myself.
The adoption certificate or whatever it’s called.
You’ve even got a file on me, for Christ’s sake.’

Jonathon nods away.

‘But .
.
.
I don’t know .
.
.
it’s .
.
.
it doesn’t seem real.’

Jonathon smiles and nods and nods and smiles.
He looks like the dogs in the back window of Mrs Barber’s car.
They start nodding the minute the car starts moving.