The Boy from France (8 page)

Months passed and her legs got better too but, after that, she was never the same again. Her symptoms came and went. Sometimes her hands wouldn’t work properly, sometimes it was her legs
or her eyes. She says she felt exhausted all the time. There she was, a new mum with a tiny baby, and some days she couldn’t even walk or carry me. She saw all kinds of doctors and had tons
of horrible tests, and it took months to find out what was wrong. There wasn’t a cure.

For a few years, when I was little, she was fairly well, and so I guess I got used to having a ‘normal’ mum, who could take me out to the park and play with me and pick me up from my
friends’ houses. I was too young to remember what had happened when I was a baby so, when she was too tired to do anything with me, I didn’t understand. When she said she had a bad leg
or pain in her arms, it didn’t make sense; she hadn’t had an accident, had she? Sometimes, I thought she was angry with me because I’d been naughty, or maybe she was avoiding me
because she didn’t love me very much.

And then, when I was ten, her legs turned to cotton wool again and, this time, they didn’t get better. She stumbled around, falling into things, until she gave in and had to start using a
stick. That’s when my parents finally told me what was wrong: something called multiple sclerosis, or MS for short. Now, the doctors say her illness is progressing. She’s never going to
get better, only worse.

I’ve asked her about it many times because I can’t help feeling guilty. Maybe if she hadn’t given birth to me, she would have stayed well. Maybe it’s my fault. She swears
that it isn’t and that, even if it was, she would still have had me. Her illness had probably been lying dormant in her brain for years, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. I’ve read
a lot about it on the internet – secretly, because Mum and Dad say that there’s too much scary information out there, which I don’t need to worry about – and it says that
some women with her illness do have their first symptoms, or get worse, after they have a baby. Whatever she says, I can’t help blaming myself.

Maybe that’s why I feel so confused and annoyed with myself when I resent having to do things for her. I tell everybody that I don’t mind, and they all think I’m so mature and
sensible and responsible. But I do mind. I really do. The only thing Rosie and Sky ever have to do is clean their own bedrooms or, if they’re really unlucky, help with the washing up.
I’d love to have all the free time that they have to instant message, text and go on Facebook, fool around with make-up, or just lie in late at the weekends. The only way I fit everything in
is by being super organised. I’d love to be able to go out with them and not be worrying about how Mum is, and what I’ll have to do when I get home. I’d love to have some time
just for me. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to seem ungrateful or be a moaner. Nobody really understands unless they’ve been there, do they? I don’t want to be
different. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I want to be like everybody else.

And that’s why, after thinking about it, I’ve decided not to tell Xavier what’s wrong with my mum. If he asks, I’m going to tell him she had an accident and hurt her leg.
A car accident, maybe, if he wants more details. It’s only a little white lie. What harm can it do?

onday morning. Bleuggh. At least Dad is here, so I don’t have to help Mum before school today. But I
can’t get up yet – it would be against the laws of nature; my bed feels so cosy and my duvet fits my body so well, as if it was made to measure. Maybe if I just let my eyelids flutter
shut for a few more minutes . . .

And there’s that horrible alarm again, piercing through my dreams. OK, OK, I’m getting up. How I wish it could be the weekend for ever, especially now that Xavier is here. We had
such a lovely time yesterday evening, singing along to CDs and making up the words when we weren’t sure what they were. Apparently, in French, that’s called ‘yogurt’. If you
don’t understand what you’re hearing, you just invent the lyrics instead, or mumble nonsense and hope no one can tell. After we’d ‘yogurted’ our way through
Amy’s entire back catalogue (which is easy to do, as she’s so slurry even I can’t make out some of the words), we got out some of Mum and Dad’s old records and did the same
to them. We were laughing so hard, we were practically crying, giggling so much that my tummy muscles still hurt. (I even let out a little fart, but I don’t think Xavier heard. God, I hope he
didn’t.) This is how ‘You’re The One That I Want’ from
Grease
sounds to Xavier . . .

I’ve got shoes zair muzzer flying

And the blues is to crawl

Cos the flower you’re zer flying

It’s elezzerfying

I think I might like Xavier’s version better.

During dinner, last night, Rosie texted to say she was a bit miffed that Xavier and I had left the market so early. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned, in my reply, that we went to see
Amy Winehouse’s place. Stupid, I know, but I couldn’t help it; I’m so used to telling Rosie everything. She said Manon was a huge Amy Winehouse fan, and that she would have loved
the chance to come too. We can go again, I said, it’s only up the road. Rosie texted back something along the lines of that if I wanted to get on with Manon, then I should make more of an
effort. I didn’t bother replying to that bit.

I’m sure Rosie will understand, when I explain how good it was for me to spend some time with Xavier on my own. We’re getting closer, becoming good friends; I can feel it. I
don’t dare to hope that there’s more to it, but maybe, just maybe . . . He didn’t have to hang out with just me, all afternoon and evening, did he? I offered to call Rosie and Sky
to see if they wanted to come and join us after dinner and he said, ‘No, eez OK, just you and me.’ He didn’t have to give me a hug before he went to bed, but he chose to. And he
didn’t have to compliment me, either. He said, ‘I like your hairs,’ which made me blush and laugh at the same time. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by correcting his
English.

‘Are you ready, Vix? We need to get a move on.’

I can hear Dad shouting from downstairs. No, I’m not ready, and I haven’t had breakfast yet, but I can go without for once. Dad is giving Xavier a lift to the boys’ school, on
his way to work, and I’m coming along for the ride. It means I can’t walk to school with Rosie, like I usually do, but it wouldn’t be the same, anyway, with Manon trotting along
beside us, all haughty and cold.

Dad says Xavier should sit in the front seat of the car, next to him, but he declines the offer and joins me in the back instead. He says it’s because it would be weird to sit where the
driver sits in France. I prefer to think that he just wants to sit next to me. Dad doesn’t like it. ‘I feel like a bleedin’ taxi driver,’ he says. But he catches my eye in
the rear-view mirror, while he’s driving, and gives me a little wink and a smile. He clearly likes Xavier and I think he also likes the fact that we’re getting on so well. I pretend not
to notice: it’s embarrassing. Thankfully, he’s stopped trying to impress Xavier with his prehistoric French. He chats away to him in English instead, about football and rugby –
the universal men’s languages. Luckily, I know a fair bit about both, so I can join in the conversation.

We’re just parking up outside the boys’ school, when Xavier spots two of the other French exchange boys walking along together. He winds down the car window and shouts something to
them in French, which I guess must mean ‘Hey come over here!’ because they turn and walk towards the car. It’s fairly obvious that they’re trying to get a good look at me
through the window, and it makes me feel very self-conscious. As they approach, Xavier grabs his backpack and opens the door, putting one foot on to the pavement. ‘Sank you, Sir,’ he
says to Dad. And then, just as I think he’s about to go without saying goodbye, he does something totally unexpected: he turns back to me and plants three big kisses on my cheeks, left, right
and left again. In full view of his friends. ‘
Ad t’aleur
, Veecks. See you later,’ he says, putting his hand on my knee for a second, as he jumps out.

I will Dad to put his foot on the accelerator and go from nought to sixty in less than five seconds, so that Xavier and his friends, who are standing by the car, can’t see how flustered I
am. I know French people kiss each other all the time – Xavier’s kissing his mates hello right now – but three kisses! And a knee touch too! It must mean . . . something. Of
course, Dad doesn’t speed off. He gently puts on the hand brake and suggests that I get out of the car too and come to join him in the front.

I don’t move until Xavier and his friends have turned their backs and walked away. Then, smoothing down my skirt, I take a deep, calming breath, climb out and walk around to the front of
the car.

‘It’s lovely to see you looking so happy,’ says Dad, as I do up my seat belt. That’s Dad code for, ‘
Ah, so you like the French boy, don’t
you?
’

‘I’m fine, Dad,’ I say. Which is Daughter code for, ‘
It’s none of your business.
’

‘Good. It’s wonderful to see you looking so relaxed. I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh that much for ages. Having Xavier here is obviously doing you the world of good.
And,’ he says, putting the car into first gear, ‘I think it’s probably good for all of us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that as a family we’ve got into a bit of a depressing routine, dealing with your Mum’s illness. I work too much, you do far too much to help around the house and Mum is
miserable because she can do less and less. It’s not your fault – and it’s certainly not your Mum’s – but I don’t think it’s been great for
anyone.’

I nod. ‘I guess.’

‘You’re fourteen – you should be out there having fun, not worrying about your mother. Xavier coming . . . it’s . . . Well, having a stranger to stay makes everything a
little more normal. Bizarrely.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘I don’t suppose you had.’ There’s a tease in his voice. ‘But then you’ve been too busy gazing at Xavier’s dimples.’

I sink into the upholstery. ‘Daaad! That’s just so not true.’

‘Come on, Vix. I might be old but I remember what it was like to be your age and to fancy someone. All those hormones . . . I reckon it’s about time you got yourself a
boyfriend.’

‘God, you are so embarrassing. And patronising. If this is what it’s going to be like every time I speak to a boy, I think I might just have to become a nun now.’

‘We’re not Catholic.’

‘Well then, I’ll just have to convert first. And then become a nun.’

‘That would be a great shame, Vix. Not to mention that the shock would probably kill your fundamentally atheist grandma. I’m serious; I don’t know about your mum but, as far as
I’m concerned, if you and Xavier want to – how shall I put it – go out together, I won’t stand in your way.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, unable to look him in the eye. I think I’ll still be cringing at lunchtime. ‘But it’s not like that. I haven’t even thought about Xavier
in that way. Nothing’s going to happen.’

Dad smiles. ‘Sure you haven’t. And the Pope’s a Jehovah’s Witness.’