The Illustrated Mum (8 page)

Kayleigh and Yvonne were onto me at playtime, saying the most awful disgusting stuff, hoping that I'd lose it again and whack them one so I'd get into even more trouble. I knew they'd be even worse at lunchtime, and some of the other kids might join in too. I didn't have to sit with them in the canteen because they nearly all
brought packed lunches while I had to eat a yucky school lunch because I got it free. This was an advantage today. I bolted down my sausage and mash and jam tart and custard and rushed outside while they were still chomping their first dinky sandwich. I did a quick survey of the playground and decided there weren't any ultrasafe bolt-holes. I knew one of the teachers would be onto me if I hung about the toilets or the cloakrooms. We weren't allowed inside the classroom.

Then I suddenly had an idea. The library. They'd never think of looking for me there. I wasn't too great at reading.

I hared along the corridor to the library. There was just Mr. Harrison there, sitting at a desk reading his paper, and two little boys mucking around on the computer.

“Hi there. How can I help?” said Mr. Harrison.

I wished I had him as my teacher instead of hateful Miss Hill. Mr. Harrison was youngish and fat and funny. He had very short springy hair like fur and brown beady eyes and he often wore a pullover. He was like a giant teddy bear, but without the growl.

“I think I'd like a book,” I said.

“You've come to the right place, Miss … ?”

“It's Dolphin. Dolphin Westward.”

I waited for the smirk. He certainly smiled.

“Are you gay upon the tropic sea?”

I blinked at him. “You what?”

“It's my little weakness, Miss Westward. I spout poetry just as dolphins spout water. I was quoting Wordsworth. You know, the poet who wrote “Daffodils'?

I didn't know. Mr. Harrison didn't mind. “May I call you Dolphin, Miss Westward?”

I giggled. “You may.”

“Would you like me to help you find a particular book? Or do you want to have a good browse and choose for yourself?”

“A good browse, please.”

“Certainly. Make yourself at home.”

I wandered round the shelves, picking up this book and that book, turning over the pages for the pictures. I
could
read, sort of, but I hated all those thick wodges of print. The words all wiggled on the page and wouldn't make any kind of sense. I looked to see if Mr. Harrison was watching me but he was deep in his paper. I knelt down and poked my way through the picture books for little kids. There was a strange slightly scary one with lots of wild monsters. Marigold would have loved to turn them into a big tattoo. I liked a bright happy book too about a mum and a dad. The colors glowed inside the neat lines of the drawing. I traced round them with my finger. I tried to imagine what it would be like living in a picture-book world where monsters are quelled by a look and you feel safe back in your
own bed and you have a polka-dotted mum and a stripy dad with big smiles on their pink faces and they make you laugh.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing!” I said, shoving both books back on the shelf quickly.

But it was only Owly Morris.
He
wouldn't tease me for looking at picture books.

“Do you have to creep up on me like that?” I said fiercely, just to show him he couldn't mess with me.

“I didn't mean to creep. I have rubber soles on my shoes so they don't make any noise,” said Owly. He took a book off the top shelf and opened it up halfway through. There was a bus ticket marking his place.

“Why don't you borrow the book?” I said. “You can take it out the library, can't you?”

“I want to read it
in
the library,” said Owly, sitting down at a desk.

“Ah. So you can hide from the others?” I said.

Owly looked at me, his glasses glinting.

“You're hiding too, aren't you?”

“I'm not scared of any of that lot,” I said.

“I am,” said Owly.

“You ought to learn to stand up to them more. Fight back a bit.”

“Look where that got you. In trouble with Miss Hill.”

“So?”

“So I don't like getting told off as well as teased.”

“Oh yes, well, you're the sickening swotty teacher's pet, aren't you, Howly Owly?”

“Don't call me that. It's not my name.”

I thought about it.

“OK
Oliver
.” “Thank you. Dolphin.”

“They're calling me Bottle Nose now. I don't know why. What's wrong with my nose?” I said, rubbing it. “It's not too big and it doesn't have a funny bump.”

“Bottlenose dolphin. It's a particular type of dolphin, right? The sort you see performing.” Owly made high-pitched dolphin squeaks.

“Right! You'd make a great dolphin, Owly.”

“Oliver.”

“Sorry, sorry. Do it again.”

Oliver whistled and squeaked with gusto, getting so enthusiastic that his glasses steamed up.

“Mr. Morris?” said Mr. Harrison, strolling over. “Are you practicing your one-man-band technique?”

“He's speaking dolphin, Mr. Harrison.”

“Oh, I see.” Mr. Harrison took a deep breath and then let out an incredible series of squawks that ended with a weird clunk. “That was dolphinese too. Shall I translate? It said, “Kindly keep quiet in the library or the fat teacher will clump you on the head.'”

Oliver and I giggled.

“No giggling allowed either,” said Mr. Harrison,
pretending to be cross. “Here, seeing as you're both interested in dolphins … try
reading
about them.”

He found us a big book from the nonfiction section and put it in front of us. Big pictures of different dolphins alternated with chunks of text. I looked carefully at the pictures, Oliver read the words. It was quite companionable.

We found the bottlenose dolphin.

“
My
one hasn't got lips like that, though. Mine is much prettier.”

“Your one?” said Oliver.

“Oh. Well. There's this picture of one,” I said quickly.

“On your mother?”

I hesitated and then nodded.

“I think your mum is
so
beautiful,” said Oliver.

I stared at him hard to make sure he wasn't having me on. But Oliver looked totally earnest, blinking rapidly, his long tufty bangs way past the rim of his glasses.

“I think she's beautiful too,” I said.

“I especially love her tattoos. They look so special. They're not a bit like the usual ordinary red and blue sort.”

“Those are just flash tattoos. You get the designs on the walls of tattoo parlors and they're copied onto your arm. Boring. But my mum has custom tattoos, ones she's designed herself. They're all to commemorate something special in her life.”

“And she's got a dolphin to commemorate you?”

“Yep. It's a sort of magic mythical dolphin, not a common old bottlenose.”

“Could I … could I see it properly?” Oliver asked, breathing hard.

“What? On my mum?” I hesitated. I was used to thinking that Oliver was just awful old Owly. It seemed ultraweird that he was an interesting person inside.

He wasn't a wise choice for a friend. All the other kids teased him, so they'd tease me too. But then they did already.

“Do you want to come round to my house sometime, Oliver?”

“Yes, please!”

“What about your mum? Will she let you?”

“She'll be thrilled that I've got a friend,” said Oliver. “Well … not exactly,” I said, thinking he was being a bit presumptuous.

“Can I come after school today?” said Oliver.

I thought quickly. I wasn't sure if Marigold would be better yet.

“Maybe not today. My mum gets these moods,” I said.

“So does mine,” said Oliver. “Headaches and crying and stuff. I have to be extra quiet and make her a cup of tea and give her some aspirin.”

“Really?” I said, my heart beating. I hadn't realized other mums could act like that too.

“It's since she and my dad split up. He's got a girlfriend.” Oliver whispered the word “girlfriend” as if it were shocking. “I don't like her.”

“So? My mum's had lots of boyfriends. Star and me have hated nearly all of them.”

“What about your dad? Do you see him on Saturdays?”

“No. I don't ever see him.” “I don't always want to see my dad either,” said Oliver. “Dolphin, do you promise I can come to tea at your house?”

“Well. Yes. Sometime. But we don't always have
ordinary
tea. Like it might just be cakes.”

“Cool! I love cakes.”

“Or fish and chips from the chippy or pizza or something. We don't really have proper cooked teas like other people.”

“You are
lucky
,” said Oliver.

He really wasn't taking the mickey.

“Maybe we
are
friends,” I said.

I showed off about my new friend Oliver to Star after school. She didn't seem particularly impressed. We were both tense as we opened the front door and went up the stairs. Marigold had spells when she went on drinking every day. But this time she wasn't slumped on the sofa or throwing up in the bathroom. She was singing in the kitchen, her red hair newly washed, her eyes carefully
outlined so they looked even bigger, green as green. She was wearing her best black jeans and a tight black top that showed off her figure. Oliver was right. Marigold looked the most beautiful mother in the world.

“Hi, darlings,” she said cheerily. “Are you hungry? I've got some juice and chocolate cookies‘
shop
ones, Star.”

“Great!” I said, starting to gobble straightaway.

Star nibbled her cookie tentatively.

“Good?” said Marigold. “And there's cold chicken and heaps of salad stuff for supper. You'll fix it, won't you, Star?”

Star stopped eating.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“Oh, I thought I'd just have a little evening out, darling. You don't mind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I said quickly.

“Yes. I do mind.
I
was going out,” said Star. “I'm meeting some of my friends down at McDonald's.”

“Well, how about if you go out tomorrow? It is kind of important that I go tonight,” Marigold wheedled.

“It's not fair,” said Star, clenching her fists. Her cookie crumbled all over the kitchen floor.

I ate mine up in three bites, even though I was starting to feel sick. I hate rows.

Marigold was doing her best to avoid one. “I know it's not fair, sweetie,” she said, trying to put her arm round Star. Star shrugged her off angrily. “Just
this one little night out. Come on. It means so much to me. It
could
even be important to you too, darling.”

“How exactly could your going out pubbing and clubbing and getting drunk and making a fool of yourself and picking up strange men be important to me?” said Star.

Her words buzzed round the kitchen like a swarm of angry bees.

“Ouch,” said Marigold. She laughed shakily. “Look, Star, this really
is
important. I'm not going to any old pub or club. And I won't get drunk or do anything silly. Look.” She took a ticket out of her jeans pocket and waved it. “I'm going to a concert, see?” She'd pulled the lucky four-leaf clover out of her pocket too. It whirled through the air and landed at her feet.

“Don't tread on your clover leaf, Marigold,” I said, picking it up for her.

“Thanks, little poppet. I need all the luck I can get,” said Marigold, kissing the clover and putting it carefully back.

Star was staring at the ticket.

“You're going to a concert?”

“I wanted to take you two girls too, I know you'd love it, even though you tease me about my musical taste, Star. But they're all sold out. I got this one ticket by a lucky fluke. Well, maybe it was the clover leaf, Dol.”

“What concert is it?”

“Emerald City. Remember, we saw the poster?”

“
They're
still playing?” said Star. “They must be positively geriatric by now. Old guys going bald with beer bellies. I'm amazed they're still around.”

“This is a reunion concert. They've had separate careers for ages. And you never know‘it might be a reunion concert for me too,” said Marigold, her eyes glittering.

“What?” said Star.

“Don't you want to meet your father?” said Marigold.

“Oh, please! Do me a favor,” said Star.

“Emerald City were his favorite band,” said Marigold. “He'll be there. I just know he will. Micky.” She always said his name reverently, her eyes shining, as if he were the leader of some strange religious cult and she were his chief worshipper.

She had his name tattooed on her chest, with a swirly Celtic heart beating blackly above her own. Tattooists advise you not to have anyone's name on your body because once it's there you're stuck with it always, unless you laser it away. But Micky's name is engraved forever on Marigold's real heart and no laser in the world could make that ink dissolve.

“Don't you want to meet your dad, Star?” said Marigold.

“You're mad,” said Star. She said the forbidden word coldly and deliberately. Marigold flinched. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

“OK. We'll see,” she said.

Star seemed turned into stone. She wouldn't let Marigold kiss her goodbye. I kissed Marigold twice instead.

“You will come back, won't you? You won't stay out all night?” I said, giving her more quick little kisses. Seven for special luck.

“Of course I won't stay out all night, silly Dol,” said Marigold. She seemed to have forgotten the other night already. “I'll be back way before twelve, you'll see.” She glanced at Star. “With Micky.”

She tapped out of the flat in her high heels. She left such a deep silence behind her that we could hear Mrs. Luft moaning from her doorway about stiletto heels marking the stair covering.

Star stood staring into space, gnawing at a hangnail on her thumb. I fidgeted about the room, wondering
whether to get started on the chicken and salad. I wasn't hungry but it would be something to do.

“Back before twelve,” Star muttered. “Like she's stupid Cinderella. In search of putrid Prince Charming.”

“What if she
does
meet Micky, Star?”

“Oh right,” said Star, heavily sarcastic. “Whoops. Watch out for that flying pig.”