The Shoestring Club (6 page)

‘My darlings,’ Mum said, then broke off, her eyes welling up. She started sobbing, which set me and Pandora off. After a few minutes, Bird stepped in.

‘Kirsten, would you like me to tell them?’

Mum nodded. ‘I can’t . . . I just can’t.’

‘I understand,’ Bird said gently. She turned to me and Pandora. ‘Your mum is very sick, girls. She’ll be coming out of hospital tomorrow, but to Sorrento House, not your own house, where your Dad and I will look after her. We’ll all live there, together, until, until . . .’ Bird stopped abruptly and pressed her lips together.

‘Until it’s my time,’ Mum added. ‘And we can spend lots of time together, as a family.’

I looked at Pandora. She was biting the inside of her cheek, hard, trying not to cry. Our eyes met and I could see she was as scared as I was, which made me even more frightened. She blinked and then gave me a sad smile.

‘That sounds like a great idea, Mum,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll help Dad and Pandora pack everything we need. Don’t worry. You need all your energy for getting better.’

Mum and Bird exchanged a look. Pandora stared out of the window.

‘Boolie,’ Mum said gently. ‘I’m not going to get better.’

I forced out a smile. ‘’Course you are, Mum. Don’t be silly. You’re always saying you won’t let a stupid thing like cancer stop you, you’re Kirsten Schuster. You nearly brought the government down.’

Mum just sat there, looking at me, tears streaming down her pale, waxy face. ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ she whispered. ‘My poor, darling girl. Come here.’

She held out her arms and although it must have hurt her, hugged me tightly to her chest.

Eleven days after being discharged, Mum died. Dad did his best but he was in pieces, overwhelmed by grief. He’d been devoted to Mum, she was his world. He was the only dad I’d ever heard of who had allowed his children to take their mum’s surname. Mum, an only child, was so determined not to be the ‘last’ Schuster in Ireland after Bird died that she made it a condition of their marriage. Ironic that. Fifteen years later, Bird’s still going strong.

Dad was bad, but I was worse. I went catatonic, couldn’t eat or speak, let alone cry. I was afraid to sleep because of the terrifying nightmares involving being lost in black caves, or finding myself shut in tiny dark rooms. Bird was so worried about me she called Daphne in to try and talk to me. Jamie came along with her and the minute I saw him, I threw my arms around him and started to sob, finally able to let it all out. After that I started talking and eating again, but the nightmares lingered. Bird held us all together, fed us, and, after exactly one week of grieving, made sure Pandora and I went back to school. At the time I thought she was heartless, but now I see that getting us back into some kind of normal routine, surrounded by our friends, who didn’t know quite what to say but were all being very kind to us, sharing their lunches and having us over to play, was vital.

After six months we were still living with Bird, and Dad seemed reluctant to move back to our empty house in Deansgrange. He said without Kirsten he just couldn’t face it. So with the help of some of his builder friends, he converted Sorrento House into two living spaces, creating a comfy apartment for Bird in the basement. He left his job making posh bespoke D4 kitchens, and with some of the proceeds from the house sale set up his own company – Wooden Monkey – selling and setting up climbing frames and swing sets, imported from Germany. It meant he could work from home and be around when we got in from school and Bird was out running the shop.

To compensate for moving and as our Christmas presents – plus I think money was tight that year; Mum had been the main wage earner in the family – Dad offered to build me and Pandora something special. Pandora, ever practical, chose a walk-in wardrobe for her new bedroom, complete with state of the art lighting, but I had other plans. The main reason I was upset about moving from Deansgrange to Bird’s house in Dalkey, was because it meant leaving my beloved tree house behind. So Dad let me design a new one, even bigger, with real glass windows, a trap door and a fireman’s pole. And boy did he work hard, every evening, in the dark, to make sure it was ready for Christmas.

On Christmas morning Bird put a big white ribbon on the door and made me cut it with pinking shears. And I spent most of the day up there, happy in my new palace for one.

Exactly one year later, I climbed up the rope ladder, my arms filled with red damask curtains – Bird’s Christmas present to me that year, made from one of her old ball dresses – dying to hang them on the bamboo curtain rails Dad had rigged up. I found Jamie sitting on the makeshift sofa in the corner, his arms wrapped around his skinny legs, crying his heart out.

‘They’re at it again, Jules. Shouting.’

I dropped the curtains on the floor and stared at him. ‘On Christmas Day?’

He nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘Do you think they’ll get a divorce?’

I sat down beside him. ‘No! They’re always arguing. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Suppose.’ He sniffed but the tears had stopped.

‘Do you want to see my Christmas presents? I could go and get them. I got a Selection Box. You can have the Crunchie, I know it’s your favourite. And any time they’re shouting you can hide in here, OK? You can even sleep here if you like. I don’t mind.’

He smiled, his eyes still blurry. ‘Thanks, Jules.’

And so it began. Jules and Jamie. Jamie and Jules. We shared everything, we had no secrets. I thought we’d be friends for ever, but I guess I was wrong.

That night I fall quickly into a groggy sleep, helped by the second bottle of wine and a vodka nightcap. There’s always wine in the house. Mum used to be in this wine club that sent her a mixture of different bottles to try every month. Mum always swore by a few glasses of red at dinner, when she was actually home that is; her job was horribly busy. Dad has never quite got around to cancelling the subscription, even though Bird reminds him the odd time, and the pantry is stacked with wine boxes. I’ve never really liked drinking alone, especially not at home, it’s always seemed wrong somehow, but the way the last few months have gone, I think I’m entitled to enjoy myself a little, even if it is on my own. And at the moment I don’t exactly have any friends to hang out with – Olaf takes up a lot of Rowie’s time and Pandora is a dead loss, she puts far too much energy into Shoestring to have any time for socializing or having fun – so drinking solo is the only option.

In New Zealand, things were different. I was out pretty much every night. The bars close unreasonably early over there, so afterwards we’d always head to a club or back to someone’s house to continue drinking. I guess it’s different when you’re away, even if you have a full-time, proper nine to five job it’s not like ‘real’ work; you’re in permanent ex-pat party mode, whatever day of the week. And in Auckland, if you knew the right people – musicians, artists, the fashion pack, hairdressers (who love a good party on a Sunday) – you could pretty much party your way through the week, Monday to Sunday. So I did. When I got back to Ireland I guess the habit just stuck. And before all the Ed and Lainey hoo-ha, I had no problem persuading Lainey or one of her younger sisters to join me – Kia in particular loves a good night out. And if they weren’t free, they knew someone who was. But now I’m reduced to dancing with myself.

In the middle of the night I wake up, my heart pounding and my body slick with sweat. Another nightmare. The image of a baby floats in front of my eyes. It’s lying face down at the bottom of what looks like an empty lift shaft, its tiny body grey and lifeless, blood seeping out of a gaping wound on its back and spreading slowly outwards, like ink on blotting paper. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hands and take a few deep breaths.

Think of something else, I tell myself. Anything! So I focus on the beautiful Farenze dress, then I think about Jamie catching me in my underwear in the staffroom, Jamie lying about calling in, leaving me sitting there all night on my own. The back of my neck prickles. How dare he? Was he trying to prove a point? Or get back at me?

And then I remember Karen’s challenge – ‘But Jules is hardly going to turn up. She couldn’t bear to see Lainey get something she wants so badly’ – and I’m filled with so much anger and remorse I can taste it. Karen was right. I can’t stomach the fact that Ed is marrying Lainey and not me.

On and on my mind races. If only Jamie’s Dad hadn’t been such an idiot, and Mum hadn’t got sick, then I would never have got so close to Jamie in the first place; then Jamie wouldn’t have punched Ed on the nose, Ed and I would never have broken up that first, crucial time, then I wouldn’t have failed my exams and dropped out of college and gone travelling because I was so heartbroken, we wouldn’t have had our damn stupid on-off relationship, Lainey wouldn’t have had the chance to jump his bones, and
I’d
be the one planning my wedding right now. It’s all Jamie’s fault. I hate him!

In my heart, I know it’s not logical, that I’m just lashing out because I’m hurt and lonely, but it’s a hell of a lot easier than blaming myself. I stare at the ceiling and will my mind and heart to stop racing. And eventually, hours later, light dappling through my shutters and birds warming up outside, my eyelids become unbearably heavy and I finally fall asleep again.

The following morning my alarm clock shrills, waking me up with a start and I groan, slap the snooze button, roll over and go straight back to sleep. Next thing I know, I hear my mobile ringing and vibrating around my bedside table. It’s playing the theme song from
The Addams Family
, meaning it’s Pandora. I ignore it and, after a few more rings, there’s blissful silence. Until it starts up again.

I roll onto my side, press answer and hold it to my ear. ‘This had better be good, Pandora,’ I mutter.

‘I just drove past Baroque and the door’s closed. Is everything all right? You sound funny. You’re not in casualty again, are you, Jules?’

‘I’m in bed! And what’s with the
again
? I’ve only been in hospital once recently. And it was hardly my fault someone dropped a pint glass on my foot, Miss Snarky Pants.’

‘You sound groggy. Are you hungover?’

I do feel a little groggy and my brain is hammering against my skull, but I’m not admitting it to Pandora.

‘No!’

‘Are you sick?’

‘No!’

‘Then why the hell aren’t you in work?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten to eleven. What happened to the alarm clock I gave you?’

I look at said clock. She’s right, it’s 10.52. I must have hit off instead of snooze.

Pandora says, ‘Hang on, Rowie’s just pulled her jeep up outside . . . She doesn’t look happy . . . She’s getting out . . . She’s peering in the window . . . She’s taking out her mobile.’

‘And she’s trying to ring me,’ I add as Rowie’s call comes through. ‘Thanks for the running commentary. I’d better get going.’

Pandora sighs. ‘Do you want me to say something to Rowie?’

‘Like what? Tell her I’m ill you mean?’

She makes a noise, halfway between a snort and a growl. ‘You’re not ill, you’re just lazy; I’m not lying for you again. And I think you’ve run out of relations to kill off at this stage. I’ll tell her you’re on your way. Invent your own excuse, keep me out of it. But it had better be good. I don’t know why she still puts up with you.’

‘She likes me, Pandora, that’s why. And Rowie’s cool, she won’t mind me being a bit late.’

Pandora makes another huffy noise. God, she’s annoying sometimes.

‘She’s not stressy about timekeeping like you,’ I say, ‘she’s far more laid back. She’s a great boss and her shop’s doing really well. Last week we took in over six grand and she’s talking about expanding, opening shops in Cork and Galway.’

Pandora says something very rude and then mutters, ‘Bully for her.’ And with that she’s gone.

I stare at the phone. It’s not like Pandora to be quite so tetchy. And she rarely swears. I must have really hit a nerve. To be honest I have no idea how much money Baroque made last week, I made that bit up to annoy her. And I don’t think Rowie has any intention of expanding. Maybe I went a bit overboard, but she drove me to it.

I don’t have time to decide what to wear, so I throw on yesterday’s clothes. I can’t find my brush so I give my hair a quick run through with my hands, then tie back my curls with one of Iris’s hair bobbins: green, with red plastic cherries hanging off it.

My own raincoat seems to have disappeared and the sky is looking decidedly grey, so I grab Pandora’s secondhand Burberry, knot it around my waist, and grab my bike from the hall, ignoring the handwritten notice Sellotaped to the wall above it:

Ten minutes later, I’m puffing and panting outside Baroque. The lights are on now and the door’s wide open. I can hear Rowie’s hippy-dippy Indian music drifting out, along with wafts of incense – not a good sign. She only breaks out the incense when she’s seriously stressed.

I lock my bike against the usual lamp post, take a few deep breaths – almost knocking myself out with the smell of patchouli – and walk rather nervously inside, humming Wagner’s funeral march to myself.