Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [12]
‘Yes, in Kilimoor!’ She grins. ‘I’m just finishing Third Class, but of course, it’s just a one-teacher school, so we’re all mixed in together. Our teacher’s called Miss Madden.’
‘I’m twelve,’ I tell Holly. ‘Nearly thirteen. I’ll be going to the secondary school, OK? With the big kids.’
Holly frowns and looks at Dad.
‘Actually, Holly’s right,’ Dad says sheepishly. ‘The system is slightly different in Ireland. You’ll be at the primary school until the end of term, and then in September you’ll go on to the secondary in Westport. It’s not a step backwards or anything – both of the other kids in Sixth Class are the same age as you.’
‘Both?’ I echo. ‘There are only two other kids my age?’
‘I’ve got lots of tips on settling in,’ Holly babbles on. ‘The tricky bit is when someone says something in Gaelic, but of course we learn it at school anyway, so you’ll soon catch on.’
‘Gaelic?’ I wrinkle my nose.
‘You know, Irish. We have to study it,’ Holly explains. ‘I’ll teach you a bit. Céad Míle Fáilte! It means a hundred thousand welcomes!’
A hundred thousand butterflies settle suddenly in my tummy. I have a bad feeling about this place, a very bad feeling. I sink down on to a kitchen chair.
Primary school. Can it get any worse? It can, of course.
A small, plump woman with fair wavy hair and witchy blue eyes comes into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a big floral apron. Clare.
‘Oh, Scarlett, hi.’ She beams, squeezing my arm. ‘We’re so glad to have you here, really! You’re very welcome, and I know you’re going to love it here just as much as we do.’
I sit still, frozen, speechless. I can’t think of a single clever put-down. Why didn’t they warn me? Why didn’t they say?
Why didn’t someone tell me Clare was pregnant?
I didn’t sleep last night. I lay curled up on a rickety iron bed under a lumpy patchwork quilt, in a poky room with sky-blue walls and a border of nursery-ryhme characters. At least they had the decency to take the cot away.
I called Mum a dozen times last night, but she wasn’t answering her phone. I left voicemail messages and texts, but she didn’t call back. I’m on my own.
I’m up early, washed and dressed in my Greenhall Academy uniform. I choke down my breakfast, some kind of muesli that looks just like the dry food I used to feed to my pet rabbits. Clare looks pleased, Dad looks nervous and Holly looks slightly disappointed.
‘You look very smart, Scarlett,’ Dad says. ‘It’s great that you’re trying to make a good impression.’
Trying? I can be very trying, when I put my mind to it.
‘Ah,’ he says, glimpsing my swirly wedge sandals beneath the table. ‘No school shoes?’ His cheeks flush pink and I know he’s not going to challenge me. ‘Right. Well then, girls, off you go. Don’t want to miss that school bus. Have a good day. I’ve spoken to Miss Madden, Scarlett – she knows all about you.’
All about me? That’s scary. Holly and I head out into the lane, then mooch up to the crossroads for the bus.
‘Are you nervous?’ Holly wants to know. ‘I was, my first day here. Everything was different, but now I love it. It’s miles better than London, seriously. You’ll be fine.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve been to five schools in two years – I know all the tricks. What’s to worry about?’
‘Five schools?’ Holly asks, eyes wide. ‘How come?’
I shrug. ‘School number one I went to until I was ten – till Dad left. I loved it there, but we had to move, and that meant school number two. I wasn’t very happy back then – surprise surprise – and I kept getting into scrapes. This one girl said my dad had left because he was sick of me, and we had a fight and I knocked her tooth out.’
‘You did?’ Holly says, aghast.
‘Well, it was only a baby tooth. Probably.’ I frown. ‘That was the end of school number two. Mum packed me off to stay with my nan in Milton Keynes – school number three. I only lasted there a term. Nan said I was a hooligan and I needed some firm discipline, and she sent me to stay with my Uncle Jon. That was school number four, my first secondary.