Glitter

“Liberty, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” whispers my dad, running his hand through his untidy hair. I’m shocked because I’ve never heard my dad speak so quietly before. His voice usually booms around the room, deafening my ears, but now he sounds like someone’s just let the air out of him and there’s nothing left for talking. “The business has collapsed, Liberty,” he says. “I’ve hung on for months and months trying to keep it all going but now I’ve hit rock bottom, the official receiver has been called in and we’ve become victims of the credit crunch.”

Then he looks at me like I know what all that means, which, of course, I don’t. I mean I’ve heard of the credit crunch and everything and things closing down all over the place, because whoever on this planet hasn’t. That was what Alice was saying her dad was talking about. He said things would change and he was right, but what has any of that got to do with me? Then Sebastian explodes.

“What he’s trying to say, Libby,” he steams, “is that we’ve lost everything. And I mean, everything! All the houses, all the cars, the boat, all the shares and every last penny in the bank.”

“Oh,” I say, still not really understanding, but knowing that something has gone terribly wrong. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” And suddenly it’s like the word ‘sorry’ has been touched by the edge of a lighted match and whooshed it up in flames.

“Sorry!” my dad bellows, full of air again. “What do you mean, ‘Sorry’? Sorry is hardly going to help now, Liberty, is it? What are you talking about, child? It’s far too late for sorry.”

I flinch and begin to feel like the whole credit crunch thing and Dad’s business collapsing and everything is really all my fault. All I want is to go back to my maths lesson, because right now maths feels like one hundred and fifty thousand times more interesting than the angry words that are flying out of people’s mouths and around this room. Luckily Mr Jenkins takes charge.

“Liberty,” he says, in a trying-to-explain-something-important-to-a-stupid-person kind of voice, “your father’s here to take you home. He’s come to pick you both up and take you home because he can no longer afford the fees to keep you here.”

Dad makes whimpering, hurt dog sounds and his left leg keeps jiggling up and down like it can’t stop.

“Home?” scoffs Sebastian. “And where exactly is that, Dad? Where is home?” And then he crumples in a heap on the floor, wiping his tear snot on his blazer sleeve. And my dad peers back at him through empty eyes. I’m afraid to even move an inch or say anything at all because I don’t want to make anyone else shout. And I’m relieved when Mrs Peterson, the school secretary, arrives with a tray full of tea and biscuits. But Sebastian’s not letting up and he turns on Mr Jenkins.

“After all I’ve done for this school,” he shrieks, “and being head boy and everything. You can’t just turf me out on the streets; I’m in my last year of A levels. This disaster might well ruin my whole life and I will hold you,’ he points to Mr Jenkins, “and you,” he points to Dad, “personally responsible.”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” says Mr Jenkins, handing Sebastian a handkerchief and a cup of tea. “Of course I wouldn’t just turf you out on the streets. At your stage in your education and with your brilliant academic record there are plenty of bursaries and charitable funds available to finance your last year with us. It’s your father’s decision to take you home.”

Sebastian glares fury at Dad, wanting some answers.

“It’s true, Seb,” says Dad. “I can’t help it; I’m a proud man. I owe the school the whole of last term’s fees and there’s no money to left to clear the debt or pay for any more. And that debt doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg. I’m up to my neck in trouble, so I’m calling it a day. I’ve given it my best shot and now I’m drawing a line under it and we’re moving on. Now, enough of this emotional display, I want the pair of you to go and pack your trunks immediately and we’ll be off.”

I don’t think my mind is totally taking all of this information overload in, because my legs are definitely not making their way towards my dorm to pack my trunk. I’m just standing quietly, keeping my eyes on the ground, sipping on the hot tea and nibbling a chocolate biscuit, wondering if this is the last food I might be eating in a while, because of us having no money any more. And then Sebastian starts up again.

“I’m not leaving here, Dad,” he spits, “and you can’t make me. I’m nearly eighteen, so it’s not like it’s even your choice any more.”

“Sebastian,” Dad booms, finding his voice again, “you will do as I say. Now go and pack your trunk at once and meet me in the Grand Hall in fifteen minutes.” Then he spins around and turns on me, making me jump and I spill a whole slop of tea in my saucer. “And that goes for you too, young lady. And I mean it, double quick sharp.”

Chapter 5 I don’t even know where to begin…

I slip out of Mr Jenkins’s office and head towards my boarding house to pack my things. It’s not until I’m passing the fountains in front of the dining room that the penny suddenly drops and I realise that my dad is here to take me home. But he can’t take me home! What’s he talking about? I’ve been boarding at this school since I was seven years old. This place practically is my home and everyone here is much more like my family than even my own dad is. I like it here; I don’t want to go home. I wish I could run straight back to Mr Jenkins’s office and tell my dad that he’s got it all wrong. I wish I could beg Mr Jenkins to find some charitable something so that I can stay here, but my obedient legs keep on walking towards my room, afraid to stand up to my dad’s shouting and angry face.

Matron is lurking outside my room, waiting for me and I can hardly even see her because I have angry, salty tears streaming down my face. She’s already lugged my trunk from the trunk room and quickly starts helping me gather and fold my things. I keep dropping stuff because my whole insides have become trembling jelly and my teeth are chattering with cold, even though the warm autumn sun is shining through the open window. I pull my pony posters and cards and fairy lights from my pin board and fold my duvet and pillow into my trunk.

“Have you got time to go and say goodbye to everyone?” asks Matron.

I shake my head. “No, my dad’s in a hurry and I don’t even want to,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just want to disappear.”

Just then, our dormitory door opens and Alice walks in. The bell for lunchtime must have gone off without me even noticing.

“What’s happening, Liberty?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

I wish the floorboards would open up and swallow me whole. Last year Bryony Eves was pulled out of school because her family ran out of money and the whole thing was so embarrassing for her. None of us were true friends, once she’d gone, we just forgot about her. I wonder where she is now?

“Matron will tell you,” I say, pushing past her and heading for the door.

“But why is your trunk packed up, Libby? You can’t just walk out and not tell me what’s happening.”

“I have to, Alice,” I shout. Tears are prickling in the back of my eyes, threatening to flow over again. “I don’t have any choice. I never have any choice. I have to go.”

But Alice isn’t going to be fobbed off. She knows me too well. She grabs me and makes me look at her.

“Liberty!” she shrieks. “Look at me; it’s me, your best friend Alice here. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I have to leave the school, Alice, OK?” I shout. “Is that a good enough explanation for you?” And then I feel myself go, I feel the heat burning inside of me, filling my body with rage. “It’s the credit crunch, Alice,” I scream, throwing my wash bag on the floor and trying to pull away from her. “Your dad was right about things changing and my dad’s gone bust and now I’m like Bryony Eves. So go off to lunch and gossip about me like we did her and then forget about me. Just get on with your own life, Alice and forget I ever existed. I’m different now, I’m not part of this any more and I never will be, ever again. I have to go, my dad’s waiting.”

“Lashing out and throwing things isn’t going to help, Liberty Parfitt,” she says, gripping my arms. “I’m your friend, remember. I’m here for you whatever happens.”

“Yes, well, that was then and now things have changed,” I scream, yanking myself away from her and picking up my things. “And once I’ve gone you’ll find a new friend to replace me. Now go back to school, Alice,” I shout as I slam through the door, “and forget about me.”

When I get back to the Grand Hall I find my dad sitting alone with his head in his hands, all of the air sucked out of him again. All my rage has been sucked out of me too and it’s growing into cold goose bumps under my skin.

“Come on, Liberty,” he sighs, “let’s go.”

“What about Sebastian?” I ask.

“He’s convinced me to let him stay. Mr Jenkins is going to sort out some funding for him. He has so little time left here, even I can see the madness in taking him away. So it’s just you and me, I’m afraid.”

I want to scream again and ask if I can stay and get some funding too so I can stay at school. But deep down I know that screaming won’t work, not with my dad, not with anyone. And anyway, I’m too scared to say anything because I can’t bear to hear the truth. I’m not a success like Sebastian, I’m an embarrassment to the Parfitt family and nobody in their right mind would waste their precious funding money on me.

The porters carry my trunk out to the car park and help Dad tie it on to the roof rack of a rusty old banger that I have never even seen before. Matron appears, waving me goodbye and crying and tucking a copy of 100 Favourite Poems into my hand. Mr Jenkins is shaking my other hand and wishing me good luck and good health for my future. And although I can hear all the good wishes coming from their mouths, I can’t really feel them; they bounce off my blazer and fall like raindrops, splashing to the ground. Sebastian joins us, his eyes all red rimmed and teary.

“Sorry, Libby,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “I just have to stay…you know?”

“I know,” I lie. “I’ll be OK. And it’s good for you stay. It’s important for your success. Don’t worry about us, I’ll take care of Dad.”

“I knew you’d understand, sis, and I’ll be home soon enough for the holidays,” he promises.

“I’ll miss you,” I say, covering the scared wobble in my voice and climbing into the passenger seat next to Dad. “Have a good rest of term.”

He gives my hand a friendly squeeze and keeps on waving us goodbye, until he’s a tiny speck in the distance.

Our new car is noisy and smoky and travels at snail’s pace compared to our old black Mercedes. The seats are battered and torn and big chunks of foam are forcing their way through the scratchy grey fabric. My dad sighs and turns on the Radio 4 news to fill the awkward silence that is growing between us. The newsreader keeps groaning on and on about the credit crunch and financial scandals and I wish we could have something more cheerful, like music, to fill our car. But that will never be possible. After a while he huffs and turns the radio off. I feel lonely, like all the warmth and friendliness of my life at school has drained down the plughole and I’m left alone sitting in an empty bath shivering, with no soft towel for comfort. There’s so much I want to ask, like what’s happened to our houses and cars and where are we going to live and if he thinks that Sebastian really will come home for the holidays, because I don’t think he will. But all of these questions are out of bounds because they might turn my dad into a snapping dog again. So I file them away in the back of my brain.

“Granny will help,” I say. “I’m sure of it. Granny has the Wisdom of Age.”

My dad’s eyes flash fire at me. “I don’t want you mentioning a word of this to your grandmother,’ he spits. “The last thing I need right now is for her to start interfering and busybodying around. Do you hear me, Liberty? I need you to keep your mouth firmly zipped. I need to find my own way out of this situation. And if I discover you two have been gossiping on the phone there’ll be trouble. OK?”

Chapter 6 welcum to the dump…

My dad stops the car in front of a grey concrete block of flats somewhere in London.

“We’re here, Liberty,” he says. “I need you to help me with your trunk because it’s not safe to leave it on the roof. It’ll be gone in a flash.”

“Where are we, Daddy?” I ask. “Who lives here?” “We do,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “for now anyway. I know it’s a mess, Liberty, but this is what it’s come to: a grotty flat in a grotty part of town.”

“But why here?” I ask. “Why not home?”

“Because, as Sebastian so delicately put it, we don’t actually have a home any more. He was right, Liberty; we don’t have anything left. The bank has taken everything except a few personal bits. This flat belongs to a friend of mine, he usually rents it out, but it’s free at the moment, so I moved in yesterday and we’re staying here until I get back on my feet. It won’t take long, I promise, I’ve got my finger in a few pies already.”

I stare up at the ugly grey building.

“So we don’t have a home?” I whisper.

Some big kids are click-clacking on skateboards, a few girls are playing hopscotch and there are some really young children squealing and running around playing catch without any grown-ups watching them. The words “Welcum to the dump” are written in red graffiti on the wall near the lift. I’ve seen places like this on TV but I’ve never been to one in real life and I don’t feel very welcome.

My trunk is heavy and it keeps twisting around and hurting my wrist. I try my hardest to be strong, but it’s just too heavy for me. My dad sighs and ends up dragging it along on his own, while I manage our bags. He’s not talking and when we discover the lift is broken he groans and snaps while he bumps my trunk up the stairs. After we’ve gone up a couple of flights, he starts getting out of breath, so I try to help again. But he shakes me off, like I am an insect trying to bite him.

Beyond the green front door of our flat I find a few unfamiliar rooms to explore. A tiny kitchen with grey tiles, a sitting room with glass doors leading on to a balcony that has a few dead plants on it, a small bathroom and two bedrooms, one with a double bed and one with a single. I spy a pile of my things already heaped on the single bed and go on in to make myself at home. The room is tiny and has musty damp smells lurking in the corners. Whoever graffitied “Welcum to the dump” was right. It is. I try not to remember my beautiful bedroom in our London house, with my own en suite bathroom and four-poster bed or my room in our French house with its deep blue walls and wooden shutters that overlook the pool. A sick taste rises in my throat, which I swallow down fast.

I look out of my bedroom window on to the car park below. A sad lonely tree is crying autumn leaves that scatter in the breeze and I wish the wind would blow me back to school where I belong. I kick the stupid bed. It’s small and tatty and old like the rest of this dump and I don’t want to be here. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. It looks like it’s made from a million tiny snowy mountains. I wish I were skiing on them. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m on the Alps, in my skis. But then Sebastian spoils my dream by zooming past me, waving and reminding me that I’m not that good at skiing anyway; just like everything else, I’m actually quite rubbish. But I don’t care because I’m almost certainly never going to go skiing again. Now we’re poor I’m probably doomed never to do anything fun ever again.

I get bored of ceiling gazing and busy myself unpacking my trunk and arranging my belongings. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to put pictures on the walls, so I leave my posters in my trunk and put it at the end of my bed like a little seat. I make the bed with my duvet and stuff from school then try out the mauve plastic blinds. They don’t work very well so I pull them back up quickly so no one can accuse me of breaking them and sit quietly on my bed, waiting for my new life to begin.

After about half an hour of waiting nothing in my new life has happened. My dad hasn’t come to find me and I haven’t gone to find him. We’re like hide and seek gone wrong. Everybody’s hiding and no one is seeking. We’re just sitting waiting for something to happen. My tummy’s rumbling. I missed lunch at school and I was too scared to ask my dad to stop for food on the way. I can hear a quiz programme blaring out from the television, filling our quiet flat with other people’s laughter and clapping and cheerful sounds. I should probably go and join him but I’m scared, I don’t want to make him angry again. I pull out my book of 100 favourite poems, flick through it and wish Matron had given me a book on 100 top tips on what to do when the credit crunch has turned your life upside down. It would have been more useful right now than poems.

After another hour of waiting, I am so bored with looking at poems that even a maths lesson would seem like fun, so I decide to go and explore. I’m nervous and can’t stop scratching the patch of worry eczema that’s popped up on my wrist. I’m really hungry and my dad must be starving as he looks like he hasn’t eaten for days. I can’t remember my dad ever cooking dinner for me. I can remember him flying through the door and bolting his food down before going off for a business meeting or a game of squash at the gym, but cooking isn’t something he’s able to do. All he’s really good at is work.

Eventually I creep out of my room and explore the dingy kitchen. I find a tub of margarine, a tomato and a litre of milk in the fridge. In the cupboard on the wall are two tins of baked beans with sausages, half a loaf of bread and some instant coffee. I make us both some beans and sausages on toast and even though I don’t actually like coffee I make a mug for each of us to have with our meal. Maybe helping out will make him like me more.

“Eat your dinner, Daddy, ” I say, “before it gets cold.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s just staring at the telly, like I don’t exist any more.

“I made us some food,” I say, a little louder. “I thought you’d be hungry, Daddy.”

He just keeps staring so I balance his food on his lap and put a knife and fork in his hands. An old memory of how to eat food sparks up in his brain and he eats and eats and eats, without saying one word, until his plate is empty. I take it from his lap and give him his coffee, which he quickly drinks down.

“Do you need anything else, Daddy?” I ask.

“What do you think I need?” he storms, his words flashing through the room like lightening. “It’s a pretty stupid question, Liberty, isn’t it? But then I suppose that’s why you don’t seem to be able to get on very well at school. Even a fool could work out what I need. I need money! I need a job! I need a life! Look at me! I’m ruined! And if you think a plate of beans on toast is going to make it all better, you’d better think again.”

I shrink back into myself, wishing I could disappear into the sofa, and then he’d never have to bother with me again. I keep my eyes on the carpet and my body very still. One wrong move and he’ll get more furious. One wrong word and I’m dead.

I hate my dad. I wish I could get up and shout my own head off at him and say mean stuff like, “Failure is not an option for a Parfitt, blah, blah, blah.” Or, “You’re letting the side down, Henry Parfitt, time to pull your socks up and put your head down and find the money to send me back to school where I belong.” But I don’t because I’m frozen to the sofa like a statue, not daring to move.

Chapter 7 school…?

The next morning my dad is still sitting where I left him. The beardy stubble on his face has grown a little longer, his skin is a little greyer and his eyes look darker and more tired and far away. He’s staring at breakfast telly like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. I peep in at him and try to say hello but the words get stuck in my throat, I think they’re too scared to come out in case he bites their heads off. I go and have a shower instead. The shower in the bathroom doesn’t work properly. It keeps going from freezing cold to boiling hot and I have to dance in and out of it and try to wash myself quickly when it lands on warm. This bathroom is rubbish. It’s got black mould growing in the bits between the tiles and it’s spreading like some deathly disease all over the walls. I shrink away from it, not wanting to catch anything bad. My bathroom in our London house was made from soft, cool marble and the decorator put things like lighthouses and starfish all about the place to give it a seaside feel. At least I have my old sand-coloured towels here to dry myself with. At least they’re clean and uncontaminated.

I dry myself and wrap up in my bathrobe, which smells all friendly of school, then make us both some coffee and toast with sliced tomato. I’m getting used to the taste of coffee and decide that I actually even quite like its rich, roasty flavour, just like that advert says. 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?