Shine (5 page)

it’s time to go…

“
T
here’s something I have to do,” I say, while we’re locking up.

I lead the way to Chelsea’s flat, take a deep breath and knock on the door. Lying about things isn’t going to help and lying to friends is especially bad. As far as I can see, lies just get people into trouble. It’s time to face the truth.

“What do you want?” says her dad’s boiling-mad face. “I told Chels that I didn’t want her speaking to you any more.”

“Dad,” says Chelsea barging her way through, “stop
it, leave her alone.” And then we’re hugging each other tight, Chelsea and me, besties forever.

“I came to say goodbye,” I say. “I’m sorry Chels, I lied to you, we weren’t in France, you were right, my mum’s in big trouble and I have to go away. But I wanted to give you this.” I give her the special heart-necklace from my bedside table, the one I bought on our school trip in Year Six. “You know,” I say. “To remember me by.”

“And you have this,” she says, pulling off her favourite silver ring and putting it on my finger. “I’ll never forget you, Tiff,” she smiles. “Never ever. Hey, let’s make a pact, let’s meet up at Tiffany’s when we’re seventeen – at twelve o’clock on Valentine’s Day. Promise?”

“Promise,” I say. “Besties forever?” Her Dad’s patience runs out and he goes to slam the door in my face.

“Besties forever, Tiff,” Chelsea shouts back.

“Come on,” says my Auntie Cass. “It’s time to go.”

After a really long drive we stop in some place called Weymouth. Auntie Cass finds a hotel and books us in for the night. I’ve fallen asleep in the car and haven’t realised that it’s way past midnight. It feels like my brain’s
shutting down. My thoughts and worries sit heavy on my cloudy head.

In the morning we have some breakfast then make our way to the dock where we’ll catch the ferry to an island called Guernsey. From there you get another ferry to Sark. The November chill slaps itself around our cheeks and icy-grey water laps the sides of the ferry. Once we’ve bought our tickets we get back in the car, turn the heating on full and wait in the queue to get on the boat. My tummy starts its washing machine thing again, going round and round, spinning tighter and tighter. My hand starts tap, tap, tapping on the window while I’m watching the rain. I’m nervous. The last time I was in a ferry queue, things didn’t exactly turn out so well.

The ferry is full of white-haired old people going on holiday and businessmen in smart suits. It isn’t half term, or anything, so there are no other kids around. My Auntie Cass doesn’t keep staring into my eyes like the others did and she doesn’t squirrel away at my feelings. She lets me get used to the fact that my old life is moving further and further away from me with every choppy wave we sail over. Occasionally she gives my hand a
friendly squeeze, or strokes my hair or sends me a reassuring smile. But I ignore her. I’m never trusting anyone in my whole life, ever again. We buy some drinks and one of those puzzle books and she tries to get me interested in working out the clues. But I’m not interested in her stupid puzzle book. Mum and I laugh at people who are interested in stuff like that. We like glossy magazines full of cool, fun stuff and celebrity gossip. I sigh. What will life be like on an island where people like puzzle books?

some welly boots…

“
R
ight,” says Auntie Cass, once we arrive in Guernsey. “We’ve a couple of hours before we catch the Sark ferry and quite a lot to do.” We park the car and head off toward the shops. “Life on Sark is a bit different,” she continues, “so you’ll need some new clothes.” She doesn’t mention the fact that I’d refused to take any of my clothes from home.

At least Guernsey has good shops. Auntie Cass buys me a few new outfits, some underwear and a new pair of pyjamas. Then we go into a shop that’s full of sailing and boaty things.

“It rains a lot on Sark,” she says, “so you need proper wet-weather gear, you know, a jacket and boots.”

“I’m not wearing one of those,” I gruff, when Auntie Cass pulls an anorak thing off the shelf.

“Well, you’ll have to get something,” she says, “or you’re going to get very wet.”

Eventually I choose a red sailing jacket with a big hood that’s OKish because it has these bright flowers all over the lining. But Wellington boot buying is different. I haven’t worn wellies since I was about six years old, which I think is a good age to stop wearing them. But Auntie Cass has a very different opinion.

“Everyone wears them on Sark,” she says, noticing my worried face. “We have to, there aren’t any proper roads, and when it rains, it really rains and everything gets covered in mud. Don’t worry, you’ll fit in, Tiff, I promise.”

I’m not worried about fitting in. I’d rather fit out. Who wants to ‘fit in’ to a place where they all wear wellies and it rains all the time? My mum was right to leave Sark. I can’t ever imagine
her
wearing stupid boots and anoraks. She wouldn’t be seen dead in them. But I don’t have any choice about anything in my life any more. So I find myself trying on wellies and flopping
about with massive welly feet. I’m not interested in them but Auntie Cass insists that I choose. I go for red ones covered with little cream polka dot hearts. They’re OK, I suppose.

My mum told me once that cars weren’t allowed on Sark, but I didn’t know that there aren’t actually any proper roads. I start worrying about what all the other kids will be like. Will they all be boring old country bumpkin turnips who know nothing about anything? Will they have heard of things like computers or the internet? Do they even know that mobile phones have been invented?

“Do you have electricity on Sark,” I ask, “or do you still have to use candles?”

Auntie Cass cracks up laughing. “It’s OK, Tiff,” she laughs, “we haven’t been left in the Dark Ages, we’re part of the modern world, you know. Yes, we do have electricity. And telephones and inside toilets. And speaking of telephones, have you got a mobile?”

I nod.

“All the kids on Sark have them because you’ll be out and about all the time. It’s a really safe place to live – not like London, and all the kids have loads of freedom.”

My washing machine spin turns into an excited flutter and I can’t help it. Apart from leaving me in our flat alone, my mum has always been really over-protective of me. She says it’s not safe for me to go out on my own in London because you never know what might happen. But what does she care about me now? I can go wandering off with anyone I like, and she won’t even know.

“I know you’re feeling upset, Tiff, and it’s to be expected. Your whole life has just been turned upside down. But I promise you’re going to love it on Sark. I just know it. Everyone there knows your mum, and if she’d stayed on the island then you’d have grown up there too. You’ll take to it like a duck to water, you’ll see, especially when we get you on a bike and signed up at the school.”

“I don’t even know how to ride a bike,” I scowl.

“You’ve never ridden a bike?” she smiles. “What about a pony?”

I shake my head. I obviously have a lot to learn.

“Well, everyone has a bike on Sark. It’s the best way to get around.”

“I’ll walk,” I say. “That’s why I’ve got legs.”

Auntie Cass ignores my remark and we go into a café for hot chocolate and some food. Then we dash
into a kids’ shop where she buys a pair of pink fairy-wings and a sparkly wand.

“For your cousin, Indigo,” she smiles. “She’s only five and she’s dying to meet you.”

“I didn’t know I had a cousin.”

“I didn’t know I had a niece. Suddenly both our families are a little bit bigger.”

We return the car to the car-hire place and hurry to catch the ferry to Sark. There are loads of people waiting at the dock and as we join them everyone’s eyes land on me. I stare at the ground, my face turning into a hot tomato.

“This is Tiff,” Auntie Cass announces, “Carla’s daughter, my niece. She’s coming to stay.”

“You didn’t really need to introduce her, Cass,” says a lady with a warm smile, “she’s the image of her mother. I would have recognised her a mile off. It’s incredible.”

Almost everyone agrees, and as we all pile on to the little Sark ferry they start clucking around me like old hens, asking me all sorts of questions about my mum and myself. Luckily, Auntie Cass answers all the difficult questions about how my mum is and why she hasn’t been home to visit for so long, which luckily means that I don’t have to.

“Carla’s got some stuff to sort out in London,” she says, “but she’ll be joining us soon enough and we won’t let her escape a second time, will we, Tiff?”

I stare straight ahead and ignore them all. My nose is full of diesel fumes, which make my tummy churn. And anyway I’m not interested in answering their nosy questions. There’s one lady who doesn’t ask anything. She’s wearing a brown anorak and a sourlemon face. She’s crammed herself into the back seat of the ferry with a girl about my age, whose green eyes keep peeping at me from underneath her fringe.

“Let’s go out on deck,” says Auntie Cass, leading the way, “so you can see your new home.”

The lady in the brown anorak mutters under her breath as we make for the deck. “The bad penny rolls home, then, eh? Well, well, well, I wonder what bother Carla Morris has got herself into this time?”

The green-eyed girl pokes her tongue slowly out of her mouth and points it at me. I send poison dagger eyes back.

“You keep your bitterness to yourself, Mandy, do you hear?” snaps Auntie Cass. “Leave her alone. And you, Holly.”

“What was she saying?” I ask as we step out into the strong wind.

“Nothing, Tiff, really, don’t you listen to her, she’s just a bitter woman, that’s all.”

The cold wind nips our ears and licks our cheeks. I hold my arms wide open like Jack and Rose do in the film
Titanic
and I feel the wind rush through my fingers and through my hair. Auntie Cass pulls a camera out of her bag and takes a picture.

“This brings back so many memories,” she sighs. “It feels like only yesterday that your mum and I were making this journey for the very first time. I was exactly your age, and your mum was eight.” She wipes away a tear and a splash of sea-rain, “I’ve missed her so much, Tiff. I know things aren’t easy for you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

She edges closer and closer to me, wanting to be near. But I fold my arms and turn my face to the freezing, windy spray. I see the group of little islands getting nearer and nearer with each wave. They’re like great rocks rising out of the sea, and for a second I see my new life as a completely empty white page, stretching out before me, waiting for me to fill it in.

we have to walk from here…

“
T
ake your first step on Sark soil,” says Auntie Cass, guiding me off the ferry.

It doesn’t look much like home to me. The dock is full of noisy tractors with rumbling engines and people are scurrying all over the place, taking cargo from the ferry and loading it on to tractors. Auntie Cass leads me to a tractor that has a trailer attached to it and we climb on board. I’m not exactly pleased to see that Mandy and her daughter, Holly, have joined us.

“I’ll be keeping a good eye on you, Tiffany Morris,” spits Mandy as we rumble our way up the steep black cliffs. “If you’re anything like your mother you’ll be too
busy getting what you want for yourself to worry about other people’s feelings. You leave my Holly alone, do you hear?”

“Mandy, I thought I told you to leave her out of it,” says Auntie Cass. “The past has nothing to do with Tiffany. Give her a chance, she’s a child.”

“Give her a chance! You must be joking! After what Carla put me through? She ruined my life unless you forgot. And this one, she’s her mother’s daughter and you know it. Two peas in a pod. Trouble.”

Holly pokes out her tongue at me again and gives me a nasty look. I’m glad that the tractor has stopped and we’re getting out.

“We have to walk from here,” says Auntie Cass, not mentioning Mandy’s comments.

A dirt track takes us through a small row of old shops, which Auntie Cass says is the main street, called The Avenue. It doesn’t look much like a main street to me. She keeps on chattering away, pointing everything out to me, and introducing me to people who cycle past. I can’t take it all in. Everything seems blurry and unreal and her voice keeps getting lost in the wind. All I can hear is Mandy’s harsh voice echoing round
my mind.
The bad penny rolls home
…
She ruined my life…

“What did she do?” I ask. “What did Mum do to Mandy?”

“Don’t worry about it, Tiff, it was years ago. Don’t let it spoil your first day here.”

“How can you say that?” I shriek. “My day was spoiled before her. I want to know what happened. No wonder my mum never wanted to come back to this dump. I should never have asked her to call you.”

Auntie Cass winces. I’ve hurt her and I don’t care. Maybe Mandy’s right, maybe I am trouble. In my mind I draw a big black smudge on the fresh white page of my new life. My mum isn’t even here; she’s miles away. A long drive and two ferry rides away. She hasn’t even been here for thirteen years and yet she’s still managing to ruin my day, ruin my new start, ruin my whole life. A thunderstorm of hatred brews away inside.

Everything around me looks muddy and bleak. Most of the shops are closed. Some of them have tourist stuff like teddies and ornaments with “Sark” written on them, all stuffed together. Some shops are closed for the whole winter and they look all dark and dingy
and sad, waiting for spring. When the shops end there are just houses, a grey church and empty space.

Windswept fields, like in Dorothy’s windy world, have bare trees in them that have grown bent and crooked from so much bad weather. It’s quiet too, except for our footsteps crunching on the dirt, the occasional rumble of a tractor and the swish of the breeze. It’s too quiet and that spooks me. This is a dead-land and I wonder what ghostly old people live behind the dark windows of the funny little houses. I long for London traffic jams and bright lights and red buses and loads of noise and open shops full of new things and shiny things and pizza places and beauty salons. I want piles of people bumping into me, busy people going somewhere, hopping into cars, running for trains. I long for my own home, how it used to be, and my own life and Chelsea and our
Wizard of Oz
nights. I long for anywhere but here.

“It’s a bit different from London, I know,” says Auntie Cass, reading my thoughts and ignoring the question about my mum. “I remember when we arrived we thought we’d been brought to the worst place in the world, to a desert land with nothing beyond. We kept
planning to run back to London until our dad bought us ponies and we made new friends. Then we loved it here. You wait and see, you’ll get used to it soon enough. Sark is like a beautiful jewel still hidden in the rock, waiting to be discovered.”

She takes hold of my hand and gives it a friendly squeeze. I pull it away, stuff it back into my pocket and kick some random stones into the hedge.

“Look,” she says, pointing to a long low building with a steep roof. “That’s the Island Hall. The bit at the end is your new school and the rest is a café and community space where all sorts of fun things happen.”

The thought of starting school and meeting more new people and having to face Holly’s spiteful tongue every day turns my tummy into a hard ball. My brain feels squished and tight, like everything inside it is being pressed down, crowding in. It’s busy trying to make sense of everything, trying to understand. I’m so tired, I want to run away and hide in a dark hole, with no one around. I want to run away to a land where Mums don’t do bad things, somewhere over the rainbow where dreams come true. Matilda’s gloomy words of warning dance round my brain. She was right. I will
always remember this. Always remember what my mum has done to our lives.

A quiet space grows between my Auntie Cass and me. All our words have disappeared. Our footsteps crunch, crunch, crunch, my suitcase drags and our shopping bags crinkle and swish when they bang against our knees. We make our way down a really long track, lined with gnarly old trees. Finally, it opens out on to a cobbled courtyard. Two grey stone buildings stand blinking in the breeze.

“Here we are, Tiff,” says Auntie Cass. “Welcome home.”