Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11) (2 page)

In contrast, I've picked up a hybrid kind of sign language that seems to help most Australians understand me better. It's my way of avoiding having to repeat basic sentences at least three times.

Do you know how hard it is to remember to take out my ‘notebook' in school, and not my ‘jotter'? Or to convince my teacher I really did just thank her for giving me the A4 sheets and not the A4 shits?

It amazes me how so many countries can have English as their first language and yet get so confused when someone speaks it with a different accent. At least sign language is universal.

I was making a universal sign at Terry now with my middle finger.

‘So, why do you desperately need a stuffed mouse on a Sunday afternoon? Isn't it a bit early to suck your thumb and take it to bed?'

My question seemed to panic her, but she quickly tried to disguise her discomfort. ‘I just hate people messing with my stuff. I've told you that a million times.'

I wasn't fooled.

‘What's so special about Mitsy all of a sudden?'

She made a move to leave. I darted in front of her and held the door closed with my back.

‘Go on. Tell me. What's this about?'

Her gaze softened for a second and she leant in close. ‘Isla?'

‘Yeah?' Finally I was going to get an honest answer.

‘You've got something green stuck in your teeth.'

I hate my sister.

When Terry left, I finished the last sentence of an email to Fiona, my best friend back home. Lots of people promised to stay in touch when I left Scotland, but Fi's the only one who has. She keeps me up to date with the goss from Glasgow and sometimes, when she reckons I can stand it, she updates me on Brian Danielson.

Apparently it took him six months after I left to find a new girlfriend. At least she wasn't from our school. Fiona thinks he met her through his family.

I stole a glance at him in the photo of us on the wall above my desk. There are lots of pictures of my old friends there, so it doesn't stand out. As far as my parents are concerned, I've never had time for a boyfriend; I preferred to hang out with a big group in Scotland and yes, it was lucky that I did, because as they kept reminding me at the time, I didn't have to leave someone special behind when we emigrated.

Lying was easier than having to put up with their unnecessary pep talks. It was bad enough having to listen to their advice on coping with leaving Fiona. I didn't need their help. I'd made a clean break.

It was the only way; I didn't want to stay in touch with Brian knowing that eventually he'd have to tell me he was seeing someone else or, worse still, he'd just stop communicating because he didn't want to tell me. I'd spared myself that hassle.

I willed myself to stop thinking about him, logged out and headed downstairs.

Terry and I live on the top floor of our house. A kitchen-come-lounge and a bathroom separate our bedrooms. Back home we shared a room, so it's great to have all this space. Better still is the fact that both bedrooms have glimpses of the ocean.

When we first moved our gear in I commented on how good it was of Mum and Dad to give us the best rooms upstairs.

‘You're so dumb sometimes. Nice had nothing to do with it. It was Family Planning. Their plan was to get as far away from us as possible.'

See, that's one of the many problems with my sister. She's just so cynical.

‘If we weren't only renting, they'd probably put in one of those fireman's poles so we could exit straight into the garden. Then they could go for whole weeks without seeing us at all.'

I'm sure she's wrong. If Mum and Dad really didn't want to see us they would have given us our own fridge.

In the kitchen, Mum was sitting at the bench, slurping tea.

‘What was that noise up there before?'

I searched for orange juice to avoid answering.

‘Were you two fighting again?'

I tried to look innocent, but my face has a tendency to colour itself in. It's like a toddler – who can't stay within the lines – has been set free on me with a scarlet crayon.

‘It was nothing. We were just mucking around.'

I could tell she didn't believe me. She reached for the chocolate biscuits and dunked one in her cup before guzzling it. Parents can be so gross.

‘Where's Dad?' I asked, changing the subject.

‘He's loading the car.'

‘Why?'

I hoped he wasn't heading out to work; I wanted to borrow some cash. The Bank of Dad has superior customer service to the Bank of Mum.

Dad doesn't normally work on a Sunday, but I figured criminals don't always take the weekend off. No, my father is
not
a criminal, although my parents were so desperate to move to Australia that if a conviction was still an entry requirement, I'm sure they'd have willingly notched up a couple of crimes between them.

My father used to be an ordinary, boring traffic cop. Now he's a private investigator. It's hilarious. Dads are supposed to have sensible jobs but he saw an ad just after we arrived here, applied on a whim and got the job.

Mum's voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I've asked him to take a few things to the Salvation Army shop for me. Why don't you give him a hand? He's in the garage.'

I bet she knew I was going to ask for money and was making sure I earnt it. She's uncanny like that.

Why don't you give him a hand?
I felt like saying. I wasn't the one scoffing biscuits while Dad slaved. But if I voiced that thought it would be the last thing I ever did.

‘Yeah, in a minute,' I said through a mouthful of juice, then decided it needed ice and a straw.

Mum studied me as I fluffed around stalling for time.

‘Isla.' Her voice was a warning.

I sucked up the rest of my drink with noisy defiance before losing my nerve and speeding out the door.

Denim is the great equaliser as far as clothing goes. Rich or poor, fat or thin, young or old, most people feel that they can wear denim.

Dad's jeans are ridiculous. They're baggy at the bum, shiny at the knees, and they're
hemmed
! I'm not kidding. He's got four centimetre turn-ups at the bottom of each leg. Worn together with his bright-purple sweater, they made him look like a kid playing dress-ups.

‘Have you come to give me a hand?' He was still surrounded by boxes.

‘Well, that depends,' I said.

‘Oh, aye? On what?'

I sidled up and gave him a hug.

‘How much?' he asked.

‘Ten bucks?'

‘A dollar a box, that seems like a good deal.'

‘What? Are there ten of them?' I couldn't believe we had accumulated so much junk in a year.

‘Nope, fifteen, but we'll call the rest interest.'

‘Are they all going?'

‘Your mum has marked some for storage and some for the Salvos. The ones with the big “S” are for the Salvos.'

‘And not for storage?' I asked innocently.

He stared at me, pulling up his trousers. ‘I'd better double check.' And off he went in search of Mum. With any luck she'd make him a cup of tea and I could sneak back to my room without doing a thing, claiming that I'd waited around for ages.

I'm kind of lucky with my parents, which is a good thing considering how unlucky I am with my sister. They're generally simple to operate, although Mum does come with a complicated manual that needs to be consulted often. Dad is much easier. When he has a mechanical breakdown, you just give him a bit of a thump, metaphorically speaking.

They did take me by surprise fourteen months ago, though, when they pulled us in for an important ‘family talk' and announced we were definitely on our way Down Under.

‘But…'

I didn't manage to splutter much more.

‘
Yes!
' Terry screamed and jumped around the kitchen, punching the air with her fist like she'd just raced to Australia and won.

‘I thought it would take much longer than this,' I said to no one in particular.

‘Duh, stupid,' Terry panted, still bouncing. ‘We've already waited over two years.'

‘But the points system? Didn't we fall short?'

Dad beamed. ‘Aye, but now Australia is short of nurses, so your mum's qualifications have earnt us more points than we first thought. It's enough to take us over the line.'

‘But Mum hasn't worked for ages.'

‘That's right, I've been at home painting my nails every day and eating chocolate. I'm a little tired of that now, so I think I will become a nurse.'

Seeing it was wise not to go any further down that path, I changed tactics.

‘What about poor Gran McGonnigle? We can't just walk off and leave her here alone.'

‘Oh, you mean all alone apart from her other five sons and two daughters, their partners, their kids and her one great-grandson?' Terry scoffed. ‘That's true, Mum, we can't leave Gran…she'll be sooo lonely.'

‘We've been through this before,' Dad said, reaching for my hand. ‘We know you're not as comfortable about the move as the rest of us, but your mum and I feel that it's the best thing. There are so many opportunities in Australia. Colin and his family love it, and they're only too happy to sponsor us.'

Colin is Dad's younger brother. He backpacked to Australia twelve years ago. I bet he didn't leave a hot girlfriend behind in the process. He's married to an Aussie now and based in Sydney with two little boys.

‘The idea will grow on you,' Dad continued.

Yeah, like a fungus.

‘And you'll make new friends there and—' ‘And if you still hate it when you're eighteen, you can bugger off back to Scotland,' Terry interrupted, before scampering out the door to Mum and Dad's protests at her language.

So much has happened since that conversation.

‘It's the Salvos for the capital-S boxes.' Dad blustered back into the garage.
Damn.
I'd been so busy daydreaming, I'd missed my chance to escape.

I reached for a box on the garage floor and opened it: a few old pots, some chipped apple-green glasses and lots of heavy clothing. We'd shipped far too much crap from Scotland.

‘I'm going to move the car out before we put any more boxes in it,' Dad went on. ‘Come on, get into the passenger's seat, pet.'

Nooooooooo!
My heart sank, but it was too late to run. Dad was changing into Super Driving Teacher; he didn't even need a phone box.

The car started on the first twist of the key. Dad threw me a satisfied smile. ‘Now, that's what happens if you care for a car properly. It's not just a useful machine, you know…'

Yes, I did know; I'd have to be deaf not to. It was the same speech every time.

‘A car is your livelihood in a vast country like Australia.'

I knew what was coming next.
You'll be driving soon
…

‘You'll be driving soon, and you need to start taking this seriously.'

I groaned.
No, I don't think so.

‘Don't give me attitude. Driving is an essential skill for a young person these days. You must have a car. And a woman needs to be clear about what she's doing behind the wheel.'

‘What! And a man doesn't?'

‘Of course he does, but men are naturals. They're born to drive.'

‘Yeah, born to drive women mad.'

‘Now come on, fair's fair. Women have no sense of direction and no sense of geometry.'

‘What's geometry got to do with it?' I challenged.

He was now paying close attention to his rear-vision mirror, as if expecting the garden to hurtle through the garage door.

‘I'll answer that important question in a minute.'

As expected, he didn't. Instead he began his little driving mantra in a singsong voice. ‘Foot on the brake. Slip into first. Check over your right shoulder.'

He demonstrated the position for a long time. I hoped he'd get a crick in his neck; he'd be stuck there while I escaped back to my room.

‘Clear to go? No?'

‘Yes!' I chimed simultaneously. ‘Let's move it.'

He turned back to me and frowned. ‘Five times out of ten, you will not be clear to go, young lady. Another vehicle will be approaching.'

He'd slipped into his courtroom voice, which was a particularly bad sign.

‘What happens if you are prepared to drive off and then right at the last minute you have to wait, eh?'

I bit back a snide comment about checking the messages on my mobile.

‘Exactly,' he trumpeted. ‘You can't tell me, can you? You keep your hand on the handbrake, that's what you do…ready to drop it quickly when you get an opening in the traffic.'

I stifled a huge yawn.

‘So…hand on handbrake. Check once again. Is something coming? No? Then handbrake off…ease out and go!' He sat proudly, hands tightly clasping the steering wheel, with a goofy grin on his face, a cross between Driver of the Year – which he definitely wasn't – and the purple Wiggle.

‘Don't you need to put it into reverse considering that we're stuck in our garage?'

He blinked rapidly. ‘Yes, but I'm trying to teach you what you'd be doing if you were in a position to drive off right away.'

‘Maybe you should just wait until I've got my Ls.'

Fortunately for me, Dad hadn't yet realised that kids could get their Ls at sixteen in Australia. Back home we have to wait until our seventeenth birthday.

Unlike most of my peers, I'm not excited about learning to drive. It scares me, and ironically that's probably Dad's fault: he saw some pretty shocking stuff as a traffic policeman in Glasgow. When I consider some of the supreme idiots in my class who are already on the road, I feel ill. The only things standing between my safety and these nutters are the dodgy old deathtraps they buy as first cars.

Take Jack Ferris, for instance, a guy so vacant at times that he's had a blank look named after him. (Last week our art teacher told a confused kid to stop pulling a Ferris Face, and the whole class laughed, including Jack.) His Ls definitely stand for ‘loony'.