Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [17]
‘You’re not local,’ she says. ‘On your holidays? Staying nearby?’
I push three quid across the counter, ignoring the questions. After all, I am on the run.
Ah, no, pet, you need euros,’ the woman says, pushing back my pound coins. ‘Didn’t you know?’
I panic. Nobody told me the money was different in Ireland. Can you get euros with a cash card? If not, I am in deep trouble. I need a bus ticket, a plane ticket, a way out of this nightmare.
‘I’ll leave it,’ I say. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
There’s a racket in the street outside, a horribly familiar racket. I duck out of sight behind a potted palm as the Morris Traveller looms past, gasping to a halt across the street. Dad gets out, white-faced, scanning up and down. He starts going in and out of the shops, grimly, one by one. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that the word is out about my Great Escape.
I sneak out of the cafe while Dad is looking for clues in a rundown shoeshop filled with fur-trimmed slippers and shamrock-print wellies. Buy one, get one free, the sign says. I cut down an alleyway and follow a footpath along the edge of some fields until I’m well clear of the village, climbing higher and higher up into the hills. Without the cash for bus fare, it looks like I’m walking to Dublin. Maybe I can stow away on a ferry back to England?
I walk until my feet hurt, over the crest of the hill and down into the valley, past small blue loughs that shimmer in the afternoon sun. I climb up the far side of the valley, walk on along the ridge, then drop down on the far side, edging my way down the slope. The gorse and bracken gives way to a woodland of silver birch. My stupid shoes slip and slither, and blisters bubble beneath my toes.
I take cover in the trees, wedge heels crunching over dead leaves and broken twigs. I find a path, then the path fizzles out and I’m back to stumbling over tree stumps and fallen branches, squidging through soggy bits, slipping on mossy stones. Twigs stroke my face like scratchy fingers.
The trees thin out and I find myself on the shores of another lough, a long, dark blue stretch of water that glints and shines. Inside the fluffy red rucksack, my mobile erupts into life. I fish it out, snap open the cover.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Scarlett! Where the hell are you?’
‘Hi, Mum,’ I reply. ‘Nice to speak to you too.’
‘Scarlett, don’t get clever with me,’ she snaps. ‘Your dad’s just been on the phone. What d’you think you’re playing at?’
I sit down on a tree stump, cradling the phone. ‘I’m not playing, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘I’m coming home.’
‘Scarlett, that just isn’t on,’ Mum says. ‘We agreed this was the best solution, and you won’t even give it a fair trial!’
We agreed?
‘I’ve sent you six text messages,’ I tell her. ‘And a picture, today. How come you only reply when Dad calls you?’
‘I had an important presentation yesterday, and then dinner with the clients,’ Mum says icily. ‘I’d have called tonight, obviously.’
‘Well, thanks,’ I quip. ‘It’s great you can fit me into your busy schedule.’
I can hear Mum fizzing with anger. ‘Actually, Scarlett, I was in the middle of a meeting when your dad called. I could do without having to deal with this kind of stunt on your very first full day in Ireland. You can’t just walk out of school!’
‘I did,’ I point out. ‘It’ll save them the trouble of expelling me.’
‘You’re going back,’ Mum says.
‘I’m coming home,’ I reply. ‘Please, Mum. I hate it here. Nobody wants me. It’s a dump. Don’t make me stay.’
‘Scarlett, don’t be ridiculous. Where are you exactly?’ Mum asks. ‘Are you still in Kilimoor? Chris is out of his mind with worry. Promise me you’ll stay put. Just stay still, wait for Chris. He’ll sort things out.’
‘Mum?’ the word comes out kind of mangled. I close my eyes, press my fist against my mouth.
‘Scarlett?’ she says shrilly. ‘Are you still there? Listen to me. It’s time you stopped acting like a kid with a tantrum and started to make the best of things. Just grow up and get on with it.’
I snap the phone shut, run down to the water’s edge