Samphire Song (2 page)

Chapter Two

‘Hey, Sticko,’ says Ed, a bit breathlessly, raising a hand from the bar of his exercise bike and waving at me. He calls me Stick because, although I’m nearly five feet seven inches tall, I don’t have any curves, whichever angle you see me from. Even my nose is straight, like a Roman soldier’s. Mum prefers to describe me as ‘athletic’ and says that my shape will develop ‘all in good time’. Until then, Ed says, I’m in danger of being mistaken for a bookmark and squashed into one of Mum’s Jane Austen novels for all eternity.

‘Hey, Teddy,’ I respond, yawning. This is my family’s pet name for Ed, who was, until his kidney troubles, quite squishy in the tummy department. ‘Mum says dinner’s ready and you’re to wash your hands before you come to the table.’

‘You’re always on my case,’ he complains, waving his arms theatrically, looking as if he’s just crossed the line in the Tour de France.

‘Just relaying orders,’ I tell him. ‘How was vampire club?’

‘They sucked and they sucked until my blood ran dry!’ he gasps, pulling his face into a grimace, then stumbling off the bike and lurching towards me like a monster. I put my hand on his head so he can’t move. He looks up at me sweetly, through his long, blond fringe.

‘It didn’t taste so good though, so they decided to give it back.’ He grins, looking just like Dad, blue eyes twinkling. A sensation approaching pain shoots across my chest. I put my arms round Ed and squeeze, not too hard. He hugs me back. He feels clammy after his exercise, which he has to do every evening to help his body rid itself of the toxins that his struggling kidneys can’t deal with.

Ed isn’t quite eleven yet and he’s really brave. He has to go to dialysis three times a week at the
hospital, to have his blood cleaned up. It’s taken out through a tube in his arm, filtered to remove waste products and returned by another tube. The whole process lasts four hours, which means Ed misses a lot of school. He says this is one good thing about having dodgy kidneys. He doesn’t fall behind, though, because he has a brilliant teacher called Miss Snow who coordinates his catch-up work. To Ed, she is ‘the Evil Ice-Woman’.

‘One day, global warming will melt her and she’ll stop putting maths prep in my pigeonhole,’ he says, darkly.

I’m looking at Ed’s floor, which is covered with small bits of dark plastic, laid out in shape order. He follows my gaze.

‘It’s a stealth bomber,’ he says, almost reverently. I don’t get his thing about making model aeroplanes, just as he doesn’t get my thing about horses.

‘Wow, a stealth bomber,’ I reply.

‘It’s not just a stealth bomber, actually,’ he states.
‘It’s a B-2 Spirit and I’ve been waiting for it for two months.’

‘That’s nice,’ I say, ruffling his shaggy mop. His bedroom already looks like an aircraft museum. My chest tightens again as I imagine how Dad, who was an RAF pilot, would have loved it.

‘I don’t diss you for wanting to shovel up poo all day long, Whinny,’ he points out. Whinny is his other nickname for me, when he wants to hit below the belt.

‘Yeah you do,’ I say. His expression changes from a petulant frown to a big grin. I feel mine doing the same, even though I’m trying to keep a straight face. Ed’s smiles are impossible to resist. Even the fiercest consultants at the hospital are won over by his charms and end up chuckling.

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks warily. Mum is an erratic cook. If there isn’t a supper plan she’ll invent a dish out of whatever’s in the fridge, so you can end up with pea and baked-bean pasta or spaghetti risotto. Ed has to have a special diet, avoiding food with lots
of potassium, like bananas, tomato sauces and melons. We try to sit down together on a Sunday and make a list of meals for the following week but the trouble is, none of us likes being organised. Dad was the planner in the family. Everything used to run like clockwork. Even when Ed got sick three years ago and started his regular hospital trips, daily life ticked along and everyone smiled.

That seems a long time ago.

‘Veggie lasagne,’ I reply. Ed pulls a face. ‘It’s OK, it’s the one I helped her make last week and we froze it, remember?’

‘No cauliflower?’ he shudders.

‘No,’ I confirm. ‘Only the leftover beetroot.’

Ed squirms and hugs his body protectively. ‘Yeeeuch!’ he splutters.

‘You’re too easy to wind up, Teddy,’ I tell him, grinning, taking his hand and pulling him on to the landing.

‘You are both in league with the Evil Ice-Woman.
You just want to make my life a misery. Goodbye,’ he announces, swinging his leg over the wooden banister rail and sliding down to the bottom.

‘I’m your big sis, it’s my job,’ I call after him. My eyes rest on the framed family photos filling the long wall on my right. Shots of Mum and Dad when they were young (one of Dad on a bike is the image of Ed); a close-up of them on their wedding day, outside the register office, with a caption that reads ‘Ali and Mike got married!’ (It’s the card they sent to all the surprised relatives after the event). Then there’s Mum with her sister, Auntie Connie, who runs a pet rescue sanctuary in Scotland; me as a baby in an embarrassing hat and no top; Dad and his parents, the day he got his ‘wings’. The biggest one is of the four of us in our posh clothes and neat hair against a blue background in a cheesy studio set-up.

Underneath this is my favourite; Dad and me riding in North Wales on holiday when I was eight, the first time we’d gone on a hack together. He’d sung a Welsh
song about ‘yonder green valleys’ in a very loud voice even though I pleaded with him to shut up. Even the sheep who heard it ran away, bleating crossly.

The sound of running water from the downstairs loo brings me back to earth. My eyes open to see Ed, at the bottom of the stairs, showing me his freshly washed hands.

‘Very nice,’ I say, walking downstairs towards him. ‘Now go and turn the tap off.’

Ed obliges then asks, ‘Are we going in, Squadron Leader?’ before we open the kitchen door.

‘Affirmative,’ I answer. We shake hands. Ed turns the round handle and pushes.

We’re met by two unusual sights – a room full of bubbles and lit candles, and Mum, beaming, serving up a fantastic smelling dish, with our favourite garlic doughballs. The transparent, soapy globes drift and pop on work surfaces, the fridge, the floor and even our noses. Ed chases about, clapping his hands around as many as he can get to.

‘Change of plan,’ Mum announces. ‘There was mash and spinach in the fridge, so I’ve made bubbles and squeak!’

Chapter Three

Mum, whose hair is usually pinned up in a messy bun, is pushing loose, wavy blonde wisps behind her ear, the way she does when she’s about to announce something important. She is also frowning at Ed, whose tongue is poised above his plate, ready to lick up what’s left of the squeak.

‘Uh-uh,’ warns Mum.

‘Doh,’ says Ed, flashing her a smile so radiant it seems to light up the room and envelop us all. That’s how it used to be with Dad, too – women seemed to crumble in the presence of that grin. Ed even bought him a mug for what turned out to be our last family Christmas, with ‘Babe Magnet’ on it. Mum pretended to be outraged. Dad was quite chuffed.

Mum’s sternness has vanished and she is beaming
back at Ed. ‘I have some good news,’ she begins.

‘Stick’s moving in at the stables so I can have her room?’ Ed suggests, clapping his hands.

‘You are never, ever going to have my room, Teddy. Get used to it,’ I tell him. He pulls a devastated face and drops his head on to his arms on the table with a thud.

Mum looks at me, her eyes daring me to guess the mystery. I suddenly have a horrible thought and I can feel my eyebrows knitting together, the way they do when I’m confronted with a huge obstacle, like an English essay.

‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ I state, my voice flat and dull.

‘No!’ Mum laughs.

‘You do talk to that Rubber Gloves quite a lot,’ says Ed, resting his chin on his hand.

‘He’s my Editor,’ responds Mum, gently. ‘We discuss gardening things.’ It may be a trick of the light, but I think she’s blushing a little. Mum’s colleague got his nickname after Ed took a phone message one day
and scribbled down his version of Rupert Glover.

‘It’s something nice that concerns all of us,’ says Mum.

‘We’ve inherited money from a wrinkly old aunt we never knew we had?’ suggests Ed.

‘You’re getting warm,’ teases Mum.

‘We are the love children of an aging rock star who has finally claimed us and wants to give us a million quid?’ I ask.

‘Not quite,’ answers Mum, cryptically. Ed and I are both mulling this over when she finally relents.

‘I’ve been offered a column in
Gardening Guru
. It’s the first time I’ve had my very own space to fill every week. I’ll be answering readers’ questions and giving advice. And the money’s really good,’ she adds in a whisper.

‘That’s so brilliant,’ say Ed and I, in unison. We rush round the table and give her a big squeeze, which makes her giggle. Since Dad died, Mum has struggled to find enough freelance gardening writing. I know
she worries a lot about the lack of money coming in. The huge smile on her face looks like a mixture of excitement and relief.

‘I’ll need to go to London two days a week,’ she explains, gauging our reaction.

‘That’s cool,’ says Ed. ‘We can take care of things here.’ Mum and I exchange glances. Ed sounds so grown up these days.

‘The job’s just the first part of the surprise, though,’ says Mum, as Ed and I sit down again. He narrows his eyes like a detective discovering a new, important clue.

‘I’d like to treat you both to something special to celebrate,’ Mum adds, more quietly. Her eyes look shiny in the candlelight. ‘Something from Dad and me.’

I look at Ed. His mouth has formed into a silent ‘O’ and now he’s quietly chanting ‘Remote-controlled plane’. My heart has started to beat quite loudly in my chest. I swallow hard, trying to suppress the rising hope
that is surging up my body. Something I had believed impossible, something I have dreamed of since I was small, is coming into focus; a wish that is so big, even Santa couldn’t come up with the goods.

A horse of my own!

I’m looking at Mum and she is nodding, reading my mind, and before I know it, I’m rushing back round the table to hug her, forcing back a deluge of hot, happy tears.

‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, even though my throat is tight.

Mum holds me and reaches out a hand to Ed.

‘I’m really happy for you, Stick,’ he says, his face serious. ‘It’s the miracle we’ve been waiting for. A face transplant will change your life.’

I pick up Mum’s uneaten roll and throw it at him. Where annoying brothers are concerned, wholemeal is much better than white, carrying more weight and wounding capacity. Ed takes the blow on the head and flops back in his chair.

‘Shut up, idiot,’ I say, laughter unexpectedly bubbling up through my voice.

‘Brown bread,’ he croaks, and plays dead.

Chapter Four

I can’t sleep. Through the night, strong March winds have been whirling around the house, moaning and rattling the windows. I’m snug under my duvet, almost mummified, lying straight and still, eyes wide open, thinking about Mum’s promise. Ripples of excitement have been moving up and down my spine for the past five hours, mini waves with white horses on the top.