Glitter. Kate Maryon
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Название: Glitter
Автор: Kate Maryon
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Учебная литература
isbn: 9780007411009
isbn:
“He’s convinced me to let him stay. Mr Jenkins is going to sort out some funding for him. He has so little time left here, even I can see the madness in taking him away. So it’s just you and me, I’m afraid.”
I want to scream again and ask if I can stay and get some funding too so I can stay at school. But deep down I know that screaming won’t work, not with my dad, not with anyone. And anyway, I’m too scared to say anything because I can’t bear to hear the truth. I’m not a success like Sebastian, I’m an embarrassment to the Parfitt family and nobody in their right mind would waste their precious funding money on me.
The porters carry my trunk out to the car park and help Dad tie it on to the roof rack of a rusty old banger that I have never even seen before. Matron appears, waving me goodbye and crying and tucking a copy of 100 Favourite Poems into my hand. Mr Jenkins is shaking my other hand and wishing me good luck and good health for my future. And although I can hear all the good wishes coming from their mouths, I can’t really feel them; they bounce off my blazer and fall like raindrops, splashing to the ground. Sebastian joins us, his eyes all red rimmed and teary.
“Sorry, Libby,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “I just have to stay…you know?”
“I know,” I lie. “I’ll be OK. And it’s good for you stay. It’s important for your success. Don’t worry about us, I’ll take care of Dad.”
“I knew you’d understand, sis, and I’ll be home soon enough for the holidays,” he promises.
“I’ll miss you,” I say, covering the scared wobble in my voice and climbing into the passenger seat next to Dad. “Have a good rest of term.”
He gives my hand a friendly squeeze and keeps on waving us goodbye, until he’s a tiny speck in the distance.
Our new car is noisy and smoky and travels at snail’s pace compared to our old black Mercedes. The seats are battered and torn and big chunks of foam are forcing their way through the scratchy grey fabric. My dad sighs and turns on the Radio 4 news to fill the awkward silence that is growing between us. The newsreader keeps groaning on and on about the credit crunch and financial scandals and I wish we could have something more cheerful, like music, to fill our car. But that will never be possible. After a while he huffs and turns the radio off. I feel lonely, like all the warmth and friendliness of my life at school has drained down the plughole and I’m left alone sitting in an empty bath shivering, with no soft towel for comfort. There’s so much I want to ask, like what’s happened to our houses and cars and where are we going to live and if he thinks that Sebastian really will come home for the holidays, because I don’t think he will. But all of these questions are out of bounds because they might turn my dad into a snapping dog again. So I file them away in the back of my brain.
“Granny will help,” I say. “I’m sure of it. Granny has the Wisdom of Age.”
My dad’s eyes flash fire at me. “I don’t want you mentioning a word of this to your grandmother,’ he spits. “The last thing I need right now is for her to start interfering and busybodying around. Do you hear me, Liberty? I need you to keep your mouth firmly zipped. I need to find my own way out of this situation. And if I discover you two have been gossiping on the phone there’ll be trouble. OK?”
My dad stops the car in front of a grey concrete block of flats somewhere in London.
“We’re here, Liberty,” he says. “I need you to help me with your trunk because it’s not safe to leave it on the roof. It’ll be gone in a flash.”
“Where are we, Daddy?” I ask. “Who lives here?” “We do,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “for now anyway. I know it’s a mess, Liberty, but this is what it’s come to: a grotty flat in a grotty part of town.”
“But why here?” I ask. “Why not home?”
“Because, as Sebastian so delicately put it, we don’t actually have a home any more. He was right, Liberty; we don’t have anything left. The bank has taken everything except a few personal bits. This flat belongs to a friend of mine, he usually rents it out, but it’s free at the moment, so I moved in yesterday and we’re staying here until I get back on my feet. It won’t take long, I promise, I’ve got my finger in a few pies already.”
I stare up at the ugly grey building.
“So we don’t have a home?” I whisper.
Some big kids are click-clacking on skateboards, a few girls are playing hopscotch and there are some really young children squealing and running around playing catch without any grown-ups watching them. The words “Welcum to the dump” are written in red graffiti on the wall near the lift. I’ve seen places like this on TV but I’ve never been to one in real life and I don’t feel very welcome.
My trunk is heavy and it keeps twisting around and hurting my wrist. I try my hardest to be strong, but it’s just too heavy for me. My dad sighs and ends up dragging it along on his own, while I manage our bags. He’s not talking and when we discover the lift is broken he groans and snaps while he bumps my trunk up the stairs. After we’ve gone up a couple of flights, he starts getting out of breath, so I try to help again. But he shakes me off, like I am an insect trying to bite him.
Beyond the green front door of our flat I find a few unfamiliar rooms to explore. A tiny kitchen with grey tiles, a sitting room with glass doors leading on to a balcony that has a few dead plants on it, a small bathroom and two bedrooms, one with a double bed and one with a single. I spy a pile of my things already heaped on the single bed and go on in to make myself at home. The room is tiny and has musty damp smells lurking in the corners. Whoever graffitied “Welcum to the dump” was right. It is. I try not to remember my beautiful bedroom in our London house, with my own en suite bathroom and four-poster bed or my room in our French house with its deep blue walls and wooden shutters that overlook the pool. A sick taste rises in my throat, which I swallow down fast.
I look out of my bedroom window on to the car park below. A sad lonely tree is crying autumn leaves that scatter in the breeze and I wish the wind would blow me back to school where I belong. I kick the stupid bed. It’s small and tatty and old like the rest of this dump and I don’t want to be here. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. It looks like it’s made from a million tiny snowy mountains. I wish I were skiing on them. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m on the Alps, in my skis. But then Sebastian spoils my dream by zooming past me, waving and reminding me that I’m not that good at skiing anyway; just like everything else, I’m actually quite rubbish. But I don’t care because I’m almost certainly never going to go skiing again. Now we’re poor I’m probably doomed never to do anything fun ever again.
I get bored of ceiling gazing and busy myself unpacking my trunk and arranging my belongings. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to put pictures on the walls, so I leave my posters in my trunk and put it at the end of my bed like a little seat. I make the bed with my duvet and stuff from school then try out the mauve plastic blinds. They don’t work very well so I pull them back up quickly so no one can accuse me of breaking them and sit quietly on my bed, waiting for my new life to begin.
After about half an hour of waiting nothing in my new life has happened. My dad hasn’t come to find me and I haven’t gone to find him. We’re like hide and seek gone wrong. Everybody’s hiding and no one is seeking. We’re just СКАЧАТЬ