The Long Weekend (2 page)

B
loody seagulls. And bloody Jeff. Why couldn’t he put the rubbish in the bin properly? They’d told him time and again that the gulls would rip the bag to shreds if he just dumped it on the top of the bin, but he never listened. And sure enough, the bag had been eviscerated and its contents strewn over the five square foot of grass that passed as a front garden. The grass that no one ever mowed, so it had grown as high as it could then drooped with the effort. Angelica banged on the bathroom window, but the five gulls took no notice, lighting with glee on the remains of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket that someone must have brought back from a night out, though heaven knows where – Angelica was pretty sure there wasn’t a KFC for fifty miles. That was the price you paid for living in Pennfleet. Pretty views, yes, but none of the things that were the lifeblood of your average twenty-one year old, like Topshop or Maccie D’s or even a bloody cinema.

Mention Pennfleet to most people and they thought of a picturesque harbour filled with merrily bobbing boats and quaint narrow streets lined with even quainter cottages painted in ice-cream pastels. It was the subject of a thousand clichéd paintings, many of which hung for sale in its bars and cafés, hefty price tags swinging from their distressed wooden frames. The shops sold self-consciously stylish leisure wear – ditsy dresses, sloppy sweatshirts in dusty pinks and blues and patterned Wellingtons – bijou mugs with clever-clever slogans and hand-made jewellery, all at overinflated prices. Families thundered through the streets in an orgy of excitement, revelling in the playground that was theirs for the summer, with little regard for the custodians, the locals who held it together over the long winter months and served them their cream teas and gin and tonics. Boden-on-Sea, they called it, and in the summer you couldn’t move for men in khaki shorts and deck shoes, and fragrant yummy mummies in capri pants and Chanel sunglasses.

What most visitors to Pennfleet didn’t know was that if they followed the road up past the museum and forked left, past the tiny fire station and then over the hill and right into Acland Avenue, they would find a grimy grid of uncared-for terraced houses totally out of keeping with the maritime idyll it overlooked. Here was the underbelly, the residents of Pennfleet who weren’t blessed with a view of the verdant mouth of the river and the sea beyond and whose only hope of gainful employment was a season of backbreaking sheet-changing or toilet-cleaning, unless they were lucky enough to have a job at the pie factory on the nearby industrial estate on the way to St Austell.

And even the chance to change sheets and clean toilets was diminishing. The hotel and café and restaurant owners were doing a lot of their own dirty work to keep costs down, and many of the B&Bs had been converted into self-catering apartments. Times were hard, and although the word on the street was that people would be holidaying at home this summer thanks to the recession, bookings so far were down. Except at the high end, it seemed, which remained buoyant, with bookings ahead for the whole summer. And for that Angelica was grateful. She had started out as a chambermaid at The Townhouse by the Sea five years ago, at weekends and during the holidays. When she left school they offered her a full-time job as receptionist, and she’d grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Then, three weeks ago, they’d promoted her to assistant manager.

She picked up her suit from where she’d left it on the floor the evening before. The black linen skirt was crumpled; the jacket not so bad. She tried to smooth out the fabric but the creases were deeply engrained. She’d have to iron it. Claire would go ballistic if she was less than bandbox-fresh. The Townhouse by the Sea was all about style over practicality. Everything was high-maintenance, from the Egyptian cotton sheets to the glittering glass and chrome surfaces in the bathrooms that needed polishing with a soft cloth. No corners were cut.

At least as assistant manager she wouldn’t have to do the backbreaking donkey work any more, unless they were really short-staffed. Angelica had been thrilled with her promotion, although the gloss had been taken off that thrill by the fact that her pay packet wasn’t going to show much increase.

‘Our margins are so tight at the moment,’ Claire had explained, her eyes wide. ‘But if the summer is a success, we can give you a bonus.’

And if it wasn’t? Angelica knew only too well, having lived in Pennfleet all her life, that a dull, rainy summer could be the kiss of death to any seaside business. And she wasn’t convinced that the Townhouse was going to get away for much longer with the rates they were charging. Luxury was all very well, but over two hundred quid a night? Unless it was a real scorcher, they’d be lucky if they weren’t bankrupt by the end of the summer.

Which would be devastating. Not least for her. For Angelica realised that she had landed on her feet. She loved every minute she spent in the hotel, and she was hungry to learn everything she could. Every job she’d had before had just been a means to an end, a way to get cash into her hand, but this was different. If she was going to be stuck round here for the rest of her life – and at the moment it looked that way – then the Townhouse was the place to be stuck.

It was certainly a marked contrast to her home surroundings. She looked around the bathroom with distaste. The pink suite was ancient and cracked, dirt settling into every nook and cranny. Jeff had fitted a rubber hose-style attachment to the taps so they could attempt to have a shower, but it wasn’t long enough to be any use. Angelica hardly used the bathroom at home any more. She sneaked into the en suites at work instead, during her break, checking on the rota which ones were waiting to be cleaned. She loved the powerful stream of water from the showers, the blistering heat, the herbaceous rosemary scent of the complimentary shower gel, the thick white towels . . .

How wonderful it would be to live that life all the time. Because there were people who did, she knew that. Not everyone was trapped. Although at least the trap she was in wasn’t of her own making. She thought of her friends, her naïve, foolish friends, who’d painted themselves into a corner by using the baby meal ticket. She scoffed at their supposed wiliness. How could saddling yourself with a kid work to your advantage? She’d seen the scuzzy flats they’d been given; knew the meagre amounts they were handed to live on. That was no future.

Of course, technically speaking, she was free to walk away any time she liked. But how could she? It simply wasn’t in her to be that selfish. A trait she hadn’t inherited from her mother.

She looked at herself in the medicine cabinet that hung over the sink. Milk-white skin, eyes that made up for their smallness by being a brilliant blue, fine, silky black hair that hung to her shoulders with a blunt fringe, a wide mouth with a full bottom lip. She looked nothing special without make-up, which was useful for the day job, because she could blend into the background. But come the night, with black eyeliner and false eyelashes and red, red lipstick, Angelica could paint on a face that would never be forgotten. It was just a shame there was no one to appreciate it.

Well, except one person, and he was definitely out of bounds. So she didn’t let herself dwell on him any longer than was necessary.

She grabbed her clothes and skittered down the stairs into the kitchen on long legs. She pulled the ironing board out from its resting place between the fridge and the wall, erecting it with a clatter and total disregard for the fact that Jeff was listening intently to the traffic report on the radio. He was a courier, so it was important for him to find out if the bank holiday jams had already begun.

‘Pour us a cup of tea, Jeff,’ she wheedled, plugging in the iron and twirling the dial up high. She wasn’t going to tell him about the rubbish. If she admitted to noticing it, she would feel obliged to pick it all up, and then she would be late for work. Her mother would find out soon enough, when she deigned to drag herself out of bed. She could have the argument. Trudy didn’t have anything else to do, after all.

Jeff reached out an arm without blinking and poured the dark-brown dregs from a stainless-steel teapot into a mug, sloshed in milk from the carton, then held it out to her obligingly.

‘Ta.’ Angelica held the mug to her mouth, then grimaced as she realised the tea was lukewarm. ‘Yuck – it’s disgusting.’

‘You know where the kettle is,’ riposted Jeff.

She plonked the mug down on the side as the steam came out of the iron in an angry hiss.

‘Go on. Make me a fresh one. You know you want to.’

He rolled his eyes and got up, lumbering over to the kettle. It turned her stomach just to look at him, his belly bulging under the Jack Daniel’s T-shirt optimistically tucked into jeans and cinched with a belt displaying a hefty gilt eagle. Add to this his wispy grey ponytail and the goatee beard . . . Angelica shuddered, wondering just what it was that had attracted her mother to him.

Actually, she knew. It was because Jeff was kind. Plugugly and boring to the max, but a kind-hearted soul. He couldn’t do enough for her mother – well, except actually get the rubbish into the bin – and for that Angelica was grateful, because it took the pressure off her. Anyway, Jeff might look like a skank and have dodgy dress sense, but he was a million times better than her mother’s last boyfriend.

Angelica had never seen why she should have to cover up her modesty while she ironed. Unfortunately Jeff’s predecessor had taken advantage of the fact that she was only wearing her underwear to have an experimental grope, sliding his fingers into her knickers. Angelica had grabbed his wrist, slammed his hand down on the ironing board and shoved the iron on his palm. There was a hiss of burning flesh, followed by a roar of pain and rage. It had taken the bloke a few seconds to realise what had happened.

‘You mad cow! I’ll call the bloody police on you. That’s assault, that is. Jesus!’ He had run to the sink and turned on the cold tap. ‘I’ll sue you into the middle of next week.’

Angelica had watched him calmly.

‘I think you’ll find it was self-defence,’ she replied.

Trudy had come down to find out what the rumpus was all about.

‘You’ll have to take me to the hospital!’ He held out his injury for inspection. ‘She put the iron on my bloody hand.’

‘The hand you had in my knickers,’ Angelica pointed out fairly. ‘And stop moaning. It wasn’t that hot; it was only on polyester.’ It had been before she worked at the Townhouse, when she was serving at the pasty shop.

‘You shouldn’t be ironing in your underwear!’ shouted her mother.

‘It’s my house too. I’ll iron naked if I want,’ Angelica shouted back.

The bloke had never been seen again, and Angelica’s mother had sulked for weeks. Until she’d found Jeff at the country-and-western night she went to at the local pub, and dragged him home. He’d been part of the fixtures and fittings ever since. He brought a little bit of stability to the household, for when Trudy had a man she was definitely calmer, which made things easier to handle.

Angelica stuck the iron back in its holder with a crash.

‘Put it away for me, would you?’ she asked as she left the room, knowing full well that he would.

‘Oi – what about your tea?’ he demanded, indignant.

‘Haven’t got time . . .’

She raced up the stairs, checking her watch.

She’d given Dill as long in bed as she could, but if she didn’t get him up now, they would be late. She pushed open his bedroom door, her eyes seeking out the shape of his little body under the SpongeBob duvet, and stepped inside, avoiding the detritus on the floor – empty DVD cases, football cards, plastic mutants with hard edges that killed your feet if you stepped on them by accident.

He was still out for the count, his headphones clamped to his ears. She could hear the tinny treble of Jessie J on a loop. He always went to sleep with his iPod on. Angelica worried that it meant his brain never rested properly. She had read somewhere that children should sleep with the light off, and no stimulation. The health visitor had told her not to worry. Angelica didn’t have a great deal of faith in the health visitor, however. All she seemed to want was a quiet life, just like Angelica’s mother. Neither of them really had Dill’s best interests at heart.

‘Hey. Sleepyhead.’

She prodded him through the marshmallow of the duvet. His eyes opened. She pulled the headphones off him gently.

‘Don’t wanna get up,’ he groaned, stretching out, the top of his pyjamas riding up to expose his belly. At eight, he still had the plump cheeks and chubby fingers of a toddler. Her little brother. Well, half-brother – none of Angelica’s siblings shared a father – but he never failed to make her heart squeeze.

‘Come on. You’ve got half an hour. Get dressed and do your teeth.’

If it was up to their mother, Dill would still be in bed for another two hours. Trudy couldn’t see how it mattered if he was late for school, given that he was never going to learn much anyway. What difference did a couple of hours here and there make? But Angelica believed in routine. Routine was important to Dill, whether he or anyone else liked it or not.

He rolled over, putting his arms over his head in protest. She bent down to tickle him, and he flailed around, eventually rolling off the bed in capitulation and landing with a plop at her feet, grinning up at her in delight.

Her heart melted, as it always did. She loved him. Which was lucky, because he needed her. If she ever left, she didn’t hold out much hope for his future. Trudy wouldn’t fight his corner; fight for him to have a place at the local school, fight for him to be treated like a normal kid. As Down’s syndrome went, he wasn’t severe. But he needed continuity, stability, nurturing, discipline. None of which Trudy was capable of. Her haphazard parenting style, her volatility and her periods of black gloom were the last thing Dill needed. Not that Trudy didn’t love her son – of course she did – but she didn’t seem able to make the sacrifices needed to ensure he thrived as best he could.

Angelica tried to give him what he needed. She was as good as a mother to him. She didn’t resent it. How could she? Dill was the card she had been dealt, and she was never going to leave him as long as he needed her. And it wasn’t
that
tough. She could work when she wanted; go out when she wanted, because the buck didn’t stop with her. The others did their bit – even her two half-sisters, Kimberley and Faye. And Jeff. But Angelica was Dill’s safety net. She noticed things before anyone else, and acted on them. Her mother was inclined to let things drift. Of course Dill would survive if he was left in Trudy’s care, but Angelica wanted him to do more than survive. She wanted him to get everything he could out of life. She took him swimming and horse riding. She read to him; helped him with his homework. Took him to football practice. Gave him as much stimulation as time and money would allow.