LITMIR.BIZ

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My dad’s used to our old housekeeper, Maureen, making his breakfast for him, so if I wasn’t here to do it I truly think he’d starve. There’s hardly anything left in the cupboards and I’m worried about what we’ll have for supper. But I’m not going to ask him what’s going to happen. I don’t care if we die from starvation.

      “Your uniform’s in the plastic bag on my bed,” my dad barks, making me jump, because I thought he’d actually forgotten how to speak. “You start school at 8.45. Turn left as you come out of the flats and keep going straight until you get there. It’s simple. Then go to the office and they’ll tell you were to go and what to do and how the whole free school lunch thing works. It’s all sorted, OK?”

      “School?” I whisper.

      “Of course, school,” he barks. “What did you think, Liberty, that you were going to laze around the place all day long watching daytime telly? Of course you’ve got to go to school, that’s what children do, isn’t it? And with your poor academic record, Liberty, you haven’t got a moment to spare. Go and get stuck in! And I want you to make a good impression, do you hear? Don’t let me down.”

      I wish I could ask if I can wait until Monday morning, because starting school on a Friday seems pointless to me. I wish I could ask if I can have some time getting used the idea of a new school and a new life, but I can’t, so I swallow my words down with a bitter sip of coffee.

      My dad’s bedroom is a mess. There are a few huge old trunks that I don’t recognise stacked in the corner, loads of plastic bin bags full of clothes and stuff, a suitcase and some dusty boxes that look like they’ve come from our London house attic. There’s a pile of Sebastian’s medals and trophies on the floor and masses of important-looking paperwork toppling off Dad’s bedside table. His bed’s not made up and I can see stains on the mattress left behind from people who’ve lived here before. There’s a fresh pile of starched cotton sheets, cleaned and ironed by Maureen, our old housekeeper, waiting to go on. But they look all wrong here in this stupid old flat, they look all sad and shy and out of place.

      I rummage through the piles of stuff until I come across a carrier bag of clothes that look like they might be my school uniform. Next to them I spy a battered old violin case that’s completely covered in dust. I’ve never seen it before and I can’t quite believe my eyes. I rub them to make sure I’ve not gone completely mad and started seeing things that aren’t real. But when I look again it’s still there, lying on the bed like the best treasure I have ever seen in my whole life. I’m dying to open it and pull the violin out and play. My skin is glittering all over with excitement and I can already feel the music washing right over me and carrying me away to paradise. But I can’t open it, can I? My dad would go mad, especially if I started playing it first thing in the morning. He doesn’t even know I can play. I’d make him splutter his coffee all over himself in shock. But what is a violin doing on his bed anyway? My dad hates music, everybody knows that. So how did it get here? Who does it even belong to?

      Relief starts flooding through me. Maybe he’s changed his mind? Maybe with the credit crunch and everything he’s decided to stop fighting me about music? A frog jumps into my head with an idea in its mouth. It’s my birthday next week; maybe he got the violin for me as a surprise? Maybe he got it to make up for me having to leave my school and everything else in my life behind? Maybe he isn’t so mean after all? I actually can’t believe it; my dad’s finally got me a violin! I know everything will be OK when I’m allowed to play. It won’t matter where we live or what stupid school I have to go to.

      I decide not to say anything because I don’t want to spoil his surprise. Instead, I draw a tiny heart in the dust, and then rub it out quickly so my dad won’t see.

      My new uniform is very different from my old one. It’s more relaxed. I have a pair of black trousers, a red polo shirt, and a black jumper with red stitching on it that reads “Cherry Grove Community School”. And there’s a blazer with a badge that has an embroidered picture of a red cherry tree and the Latin words: Prosperitus est non quis vos perficio, est quisnam vos es written underneath. I search in my brain to remember some Latin words from my old school and work out that my new school motto is saying something about success, so my dad will be pleased with that.

       Chapter 8 the grave…

      The stairway out of our flats is very busy at 8.25 in the morning. There are people in smart suits with briefcases and mums with buggies and babies and kids wearing the same clothes as me, all pushing and shoving their way down the stairs. I turn left like Dad said and follow the trail of black and red uniforms that spills out on to the street. I’m scared. I’ve heard all about state schools from other people at my old school and they sound noisy and rough and big. Alice’s cousin says there are loads of fights and people get hurt. Maybe I should have argued harder with my dad and Mr Jenkins and forced them to let me stay. What I don’t understand is why my dad is always so mean to me and not to Sebastian? Sebastian gets everything he wants. I’ve been as good as gold my whole life and tried so hard not to make a nuisance of myself but still my dad holds me as far away as possible from him, like I’ve got sick all down my front and am covered in a highly contagious rash. But none of that matters now. I can forgive him for it all because he got me a surprise violin for my birthday. A warm little rush of excitement races through my body and makes me want to skip.

      Down on the street an old man is struggling to get into his old people buggy car thing. He’s puffing and panting and struggling to get his old legs moving. When he sees me he calls out.

      “You seen Cali this morning?” he asks.

      “Sorry,” I say, “I’m new here, I don’t know who Cali is. Can I help?”

      “I just need a hand,” he says. “If I can just rest on your arm a minute then I can pull this stupid old leg up and get on. It’s lottery day, you see, I’ve got to get my ticket. It’s a £13 million rollover.”

      “Hi,” says a girl with a million tiny plaits in her hair tied with multicoloured braid. “You need a hand, Ivor?”

      “There you are,” says Ivor, looking relieved at Cali’s arrival. “I thought you’d abandoned me for the day.”

      “You know I’d never do that, Ivor,” she laughs, helping him into his buggy, like she’s done it a hundred times before.

      “Haven’t seen you around before,” says Cali, when Ivor is safely in his buggy and heading off towards the shops and we’re making our way to school.

      “We’ve just moved here,” I say. “I’m Liberty Parfitt, what’s your name?”

      “I’m Cali,” she says. “You know, you wanna tone that accent of yours down, it’ll get you into trouble at The Grave. The other kids will eat you alive! But stick with me, Libs, and you’ll be safe. What year you in?”

      “Seven.”

      “Cool,” she smiles, “same as me. Where did you find that accent, Libs? It’s terrible! You sound like you’re related to the Queen or something.”

      “Not sure,” I say, trying hard to listen to my own voice. “I’ve always had it, I suppose.”

      Then Cali cracks up laughing and staggers around in fits of giggles. “Well, if you take my advice, girl, you’ll ditch it pretty soon. Fitting in is what it’s all about at The Grave, and accents like yours just don’t. OK?”

      “OK. Why do you call it ‘The Grave’?” I ask.

      “You’ll see,” she says, “soon enough. You sure do have a lot to learn, Libs, but first off you gotta start dropping your T’s and you gotta shake your voice up a bit. Speak easy, like me. Like cas-u-al.”

      “I’ll try,” I say, “but it’s just natural to me, I don’t know how I would even begin to change it.”

      “That’s where I come in,” she says.

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