Everlasting Lane (6 page)

Anna-Marie pulled an apple from her back pocket and bit a chunk. ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked mid-chew, gazing across the water and wobbling her toes in the cool river. ‘Do you know I can’t think of anything you could
do—anything—that wouldn’t be better if you could do it there. I mean, if
I
was ill then this is just the sort of hospital I’d want to come to. Wouldn’t you?’ A butterfly appeared, its wings pink and I watched hypnotised as it settled like a ribbon upon Anna-Marie’s silky-smooth hair. ‘I said, wouldn’t you?’ She flapped her hand, her long, delicate fingers, once, and it, the butterfly, scuttered off across the river. ‘Peter, I’m trying to …

‘What are you gawping at, dimwit?’

‘I … I …’

‘You know,’ she said with a yawn, revealing the contents of her mouth, ‘I think this weather’s getting to you. I’m not surprised you’re the first. Your grip on reality seems so … tenuous.’

‘No, I—’

‘How
is
the weather on Planet Peter? Is it barmy?’

Anna-Marie had gone home for tea. It was school in the morning and her mother insisted on an early night. And that’s how I found myself alone in Kat’s garden among the brambles and tall grass, staring at the upstairs window: the upstairs window on the left with the pink curtains and the broken pane. I could see where Kat had stuck that strip of cardboard. Yes, there was definitely something odd. I counted the windows and then counted them again. It didn’t take long. There were only three of them: the bathroom window, my window and the window with the pink curtains.

Was I the stupidest boy who’d ever lived, I wondered, or just one of the stupidest?

My mind entered the cottage through the back door, crept through the kitchen where Kat was scrambling eggs and up the creaky stairs. On the landing to the right was her bedroom
door and the window that overlooked the drive; to the left, the bathroom and my door. My curtains were blue and the bathroom had a blind and that rippled glass so you can’t look in and spy on people when they’re naked. Kat’s curtains were all flowery and they faced the front anyway. None were pink.

And then I remembered when the beans had been burning and I’d been looking for Kat all that time and Kat hadn’t been upstairs but
had
been upstairs. And then I remembered the four keys on Kat’s key-ring.

But there were only three doors.

And then I remembered the big, green drape. And then I wondered what it was hiding.

Mi name is Peter Lambert. I am 10 years old. I live in Everlasting Lane. Today is mi first day at
new
mi new school. Mi teacher is Mr Gale who is very nise. The hedmistres is Mrs Crapenter who is very nise. I sit next to Tommie who is very
—

My piece of paper was whipped from beneath my pencil. I’d already written ‘ni …’ on the table-top before I realised. Mr Gale adjusted his glasses and stroked his blue tie as he read my work.

‘Well, I can see what you’re getting at … But you’ve got yourself into a bit of a rut, haven’t you, Lambchop? And this handwriting: typical left-hander but
how
old are you?’ Mr Gale’s meaty fist crushed my work into a ball and tossed it in the direction of—but not into—the bin. ‘Tell me something about your
self
, not all this … this … this
crap
about how nice everybody is. Besides,’ he added, wandering off among the desks, a red tick here, a red cross there, ‘I’m not that nice.’

Maybe he was right. Ten minutes into my first lesson he’d christened me Lambchop and I wasn’t pleased. I didn’t feel like a Lambchop and I didn’t want to be one. It’s like Kat said, a name is important but—

‘Lambchop!’ boomed Mr Gale.

Never answer. If I don’t answer, I thought, he’ll have to call me ‘Peter’.

‘Lambchop!’

I held my breath.

‘Lamb
chop
!’ But I couldn’t ignore a teacher—not three times.

‘Yes, sir?’ And Kat had said I was my name and my name was who I was. Maybe I was a Lambchop after all.

‘Excellent, Lambchop. I thought we’d lost you there; away with the fairies. But, what I’m wondering is why you’re here at all. A new child on the first day of summer term? It could completely bugger up the finely tuned balance of my class. Anyway,’ he said, ‘best get on. Have a fresh piece of paper.’

My name is Peter Lambert. I am aged 10 years old. I live in Everlasting Lane in a vilag called Amberley. I have moved here from …

I’d squeezed Kat’s hand as we’d stepped into the entrance of Dovecot Junior School. A jolly woman with ginger hair had appeared. ‘Good morning, dear,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

‘Hello. This is Peter,’ said Kat. ‘Peter Lambert. He’s just moved into the village. And, erm … He’d like to come to school … Please.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the woman with a wide smile. ‘There was a letter from county, wasn’t there?’ When Kat said nothing the woman enquired: ‘And you’re his mother?’

‘Of course,’ murmured Kat through gritted teeth. ‘Yes, of course.’ I might easily have reacted if she hadn’t squeezed my hand. For a minute I’d completely forgotten she
was
my mother.

‘Wonderful,’ said the woman. ‘Well, hello, Peter, I’m Mrs Ingalls, the school secretary.’ And then to Kat: ‘You’ll need to fill out a form.’

As Kat completed our details, twice scrunching up the form and asking for a replacement, Mrs Ingalls said, ‘You know, you really are quite familiar, dear. Do I know you?’

Kat smiled but said, ‘Oh, Peter hasn’t got any uniform or anything.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Mrs Ingalls. ‘We can dig something out of lost property, can’t we, Peter? Of course, we can.’ She presented me with a school tie, red and white stripes, an infant tie with elastic to loop around your neck. ‘Now, now, Peter,’ said Mrs Ingalls. ‘Don’t be like that. Keep it under your collar and no-one will ever know.’

‘Now that,’ said Kat, ‘is always good advice.’

Mr Gale had brown hair, a thick neck and a large head. He seized my tiny hand in his fist.

‘Who’s this?’ he said.

Mrs Ingalls introduced me. ‘This is Peter Lambert,’ she explained. ‘He’s just moved into Everlasting Lane,’ before departing with a smile and a gentle, ‘Good luck.’

‘Welcome to Dovecot, Peter,’ said Mr Gale. He turned me to face the class, gripping my shoulders until his fingers pinched. ‘Mr Gale’s class,’ he boomed, ‘this is Peter. Peter
Lam
bert. Peter, this is the class. Say, “Good morning”, the class.’

I wilted beneath the glare of twenty-three strangers. ‘Good morning, Mr Gale,’ they chanted. If the eyes of one suspicious ten-year-old can slice and dice you, ‘Good morning, Peter,’ the eyes of twenty-three can turn you into mincemeat.

‘Say, “Good morning”, Peter
Lam
bert. Lamby-Lambert.’

‘Good morning,’ I said, face boiling.

‘Peter,’ said Mr Gale, ‘Mr Lamby-Lambert, I, for one, am glad to meet you. But, my, your shoulders are tense.’ He examined my neck. ‘Aha, I think I’ve discovered the culprit.’ He pulled on my elasticated tie revealing it to everyone. The class squealed with delight. ‘No, no, class,’ said Mr Gale wagging his finger, ‘there is nothing to be ashamed of in not being able to tie a tie.’ I tried to interrupt but, ‘Even at the age of nine,’ he continued. ‘I only learnt to tie my shoelaces a week ago last Thursday.’

He put me next to a boy with curly black hair and thick-framed glasses. ‘Do you know Winnie?’ said Mr Gale. ‘He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but is, nonetheless, still too clever for his own good. You two must be neighbours.’

There was no spare chair, so I was given a stool, and sat head and shoulders above the rest of the children. Mr Gale might just as well have given me a flag to wave—I couldn’t have felt any more stupid. Then he snapped his fingers.

‘Lambchop!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course! That’s what we’ll call you!’ Well, I’d been wrong.
Now
I couldn’t feel any more stupid.

My name is Peter Lambert. I am aged 10 years old. I live in Everlasting Lane in a villag called Amberly. I used to live in L__________. Now I live with
my arnt
my
mother Kat mumm
Kat arnt
 …

I dropped my head into my hands. It wasn’t my fault. I’d lain awake all night dreaming of gloomy green curtains and—

‘Hmm,’ said Mr Gale, ‘a lot of crossing out. And what are all these … these … these doodles?’

‘Doors, sir.’

‘Doors? What sort of doors?’

‘Secret doors.’

He gave me an odd look. ‘Well, perhaps we should just …’ And, before I could object, my piece of paper was scrunched and sailing through the air, landing two feet shy of the bin. ‘Piss-sticks!’ said Mr Gale.

In morning assembly, the headmistress, Mrs Carpenter, read a Bible story. She had all these wrinkles and curly white hair. Her dress was purple and green, and a tiny silver cross hung on a thin chain about her neck. Time thickened like porridge as she spoke and the hands of the hall clock struggled until she closed the book and looked up with a satisfied smile.

‘Put your hands together,’ she said, ‘and close your eyes.’

After the story, the prayer and a hymn, Mrs Carpenter read ‘notices’. Following an instruction from, ‘Mr Waterberry, that nobody should play on the swings until the broken seat has been replaced,’ and a reminder that, ‘although you are allowed on the field at lunchtime, footballers must pick up and replace all divots with
out
exception,’ I was welcomed. ‘You may have noticed a new face in the third year today.’ Everyone turned to look. Little children in the first row swivelled, stared and gasped in amazement. ‘I am sure you will all welcome Peter Lambert to Dovecot, and, if you see him looking a little lost, perhaps you will stop and offer him assistance. After all, as Jesus said …’

I looked around to see Anna-Marie at the far end of the row behind mine, a grey, thready cardigan draped over the shoulders of her blue checked dress. Her lips were thin and her eyes, dark and angry, glared at the headmistress.

‘Well, Lambchop,’ said Mr Gale, ‘this is a special day, did you know that?’

‘No, Mr Gale.’

‘
No
, Mr Gale,’ he repeated. ‘Well, today is the first day of a new term and, therefore, it is the day in which we … we … we
fin
ish the work we didn’t quite finish last term.’ The class groaned. ‘Hey, hey,’ he responded, ‘you’re not here to enjoy yourselves. We’ve got to finish the old before we start the new. History folders out.’

A hand, attached to the arm of a pretty girl with shiny raven hair, shot up. ‘Lambchop,’ continued Mr Gale, ‘you know, I always say history is like geography: if you don’t know where you started, how do you know you’re travelling in the right direction? Right? I … What
is
it, Smelanie?’ said Mr Gale. ‘You sound like a hamster.’

‘I’ve finished
all
my topic work, sir.’

It was Mr Gale’s turn to groan. ‘Right. Then you, Smel-a-nie, should write a story entitled
The
 … 
The … The Secret Garden.
No … 
Goldfish. Garden
or
Goldfish.
’

‘But which?’

‘Garden, goldfish, rubber, pencil, window, door. I really don’t care. You decide.’

‘But how many sides?’

‘Smelanie, you mustn’t allow your creativity to be stifled by such petty considerations. But if you could have it finished by lunchtime on the dot that would be great. Okay?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Lambchop?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘What are you staring at?’

‘What? Nothing, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

‘Splendid.’

The curly-haired boy nudged me. ‘Are we really neighbours?’ he whispered. His jumper was baggy and shapeless, his tie skewiff and a top button pulled tight across his throat. One side of his grubby white collar poked up into his cheek.

I told him I lived in Everlasting Lane.

Mr Gale coughed and the boy put pen to paper, blue ink staining his fingers. He wrote two words.

‘That’s where I live,’ he said, attempting to slow the flow of ink with a scrap of well-used blotting paper. ‘Where are you from?’