Read The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean Online
Authors: Lindsay Littleson
“How’s your Bert doing, Gladys?” asks Gran, when she has squeezed herself into the front seat of the tiny Fiat. I’m crushed in the backseat with all the bags and Flora, an enormously fat, foul-breathed spaniel, who keeps trying to use me as a comfy cushion.
“Oh, it’s been terrible, Morag. He has had three minor attacks since Christmas. He’s not a well man. He sits there in his armchair looking out the window all day long. And I say to him, Bert, you’ll have a proper heart attack if you don’t get out that chair and take a bit of exercise now and then.”
I can imagine the contentment stealing across Gran’s face. Nothing seems to make her happier than talking about illness.
“Oh, that’s terrible, Gladys. I have a dicky heart myself. I thought that walk with those heavy cases might be the death of me.”
It might have been, if you’d actually been carrying them
, I think grumpily, glancing down at the red marks on my hands.
“It’s lovely to see your wee granddaughter again. Milly, is it? She’s grown like a weed since last summer! How are you getting on at school, dear?”
“Lily’s top of her class in English,” says Gran, answering for me with a big fat fib. “She starts high school in August.”
“She’ll be at university soon, I expect. Won’t you, Milly?”
I sigh with relief when I realise we’ve arrived at the caravan site. I push Flora off my knee, drag the bags out of the back seat, thank Gladys and help Gran to heave herself out of the car.
We’re here!
I have a feeling Gran won’t want to travel far from the caravan this week and I hope I’m not going to be stuck in the campsite the whole time, keeping her company.
We’ve stayed at this site before and Gran knows the owners. As she heads in to collect the keys she stops for a chat and I sigh and
sit on the case, waiting for her to finish yapping. A warm breeze is blowing through the long grass and I can hear bees buzzing. It’s very quiet and peaceful, but I worry that it might be really, really boring out here.
It feels like a lifetime before we finally reach our big green caravan. Propped outside is a smart shiny blue bike.
“That’s for you to use while we’re here,” says Gran. “I organised it through the site owners so that you can get out and about. I want you to have a great holiday. You’re a good girl, Lily.”
I wrap my arms round my gran’s plump middle and give her an enormous squeeze.
“Thanks so much, Gran! It’s fantastic. I thought I would just be hiring a bike by the hour now and then. I never thought I would have one all to myself for the whole week!”
We explore the large, comfortable caravan, which takes all of five minutes.
“Can I have this room, Gran?” I ask, pointing to the middle-sized bedroom.
It has bunk beds with green floral duvets and sunshine-yellow curtains. I throw my fake Gucci holdall on the bottom bunk and then undo my water lily charm and attach it to one of the belt loops on my jeans.
I look around, feeling pretty pleased with myself. It is going to be bliss having a room of my own for a week and a bike to cycle into Millport when the caravan site is too quiet.
Gran calls me to come outside and admire the view. It’s glorious. Sunlight is sparkling on the firth. High in the sky a buzzard is circling. Gran squeezes her ample bottom into a folding chair and closes her eyes.
“I’m just going to have a wee nap, Lily. That was a tiring journey.”
I think how much worse it could have been if that kind woman hadn’t given us a lift.
“Would you like me to head back into town and get us some supplies?” I ask, desperate to be out exploring on my bike.
Gran agrees, hands me some money out of her huge handbag, and goes back to snoozing happily in the sunshine, head curled like a giant dormouse.
***
I cycle out into open countryside, sea on one side of me and grassy hills on the other. White-sailed yachts skim through the water, trails of spray left in their wake. It’s so quiet that all I can hear is the mewing call of the buzzard and the slap of waves breaking against the rocks.
This is going to be so much fun, especially if the weather stays sunny. But I know that if I wish for a week of sunshine I’m tempting fate. This is Scotland, after all.
When I come to a small beachy inlet, I steer the bike on to the grass and jump down to the sand. Shoes pulled off, I dip one foot in the sea and withdraw it immediately. Perhaps not. The water is freezing – absolutely Baltic.
“Lily McLean!” shouts a cross voice behind me. I whirl round, and find myself almost nose to nose with the ghost. She can swim after all. Or maybe she took the ferry and the bus, like a normal person.
“Will you stop creeping up on me!” I yell, recovering from my fright. “You keep telling me something bad is going to happen, and then you scare me half to death! If I have a heart attack, it will totally be your fault.”
“I ask you not to go near water, but you don’t listen!” she says, sounding angry and desperate. “Why won’t you listen? I’m trying to keep you alive!”
“It’s only my big toe, for goodness’ sake,” I retort. “I don’t breathe through my toes. The rest of me is still up here in the fresh air. Stop stressing! You’re dead already, you might as well chill. It’s all over.”
“I’m not dead,” she says, in a shocked voice. “What are you on about?”
I can see her a little more clearly than last time. Today she is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. How often do ghosts change their clothes? Her eyes are dark and glistening with tears. Suddenly I feel guilty about being so grumpy with her. She seems so slight and vulnerable. And I shouldn’t have said that about it being all over for her. She clearly doesn’t realise she’s a ghost.
“Look, if you will stop haunting me, I promise that I will stay away from the water all week,” I say, more gently. “It’s a total pain, because this is my summer holiday, and I am on a little island surrounded by the sea on all sides, but if it keeps you happy and out of my hair, I will promise.”
She smiles as I say these words. She has a really lovely smile, which lights up her face. It has an actual glow, or perhaps that’s just the sun shining through her. She’s still almost transparent.
“Thank you, Lily,” she whispers. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that means to me.”
I suddenly feel desperately sorry for her. Poor little thing. Maybe she died in an epidemic of plague or an outbreak of cholera or typhus or something. Kids were always catching stuff like that in the olden days. They didn’t wear t-shirts and jeans though.
She slowly fades and leaves me standing, alone and barefoot on the deserted beach. I back away from the gently lapping waves. I have made her a promise, and I intend to keep it. Besides, the sea is absolutely freezing anyway. And if it means she will leave me alone, I can avoid the water this holiday. I slip my shoes back on, get on my bike and head into Millport to buy teabags, butter, bread and a pint of milk for Gran and me. I might even treat myself to a marshmallow ice cream from the Ritz café.
Reasons why this is a mixed-up kind of day:
The next day the weather is overcast and dull, but at least it’s not raining – yet. After a big breakfast of toast, square sausages and scrambled eggs, I hang about the caravan with Gran, playing snap and gin rummy, but I can see she is impatient to get rid of me. Yesterday evening, after dinner, Gran went on a wee wander round the campsite and bumped into an elderly woman who is staying in a nearby caravan. The poor old dear has been talked into inviting Gran over for a cup of tea and a chat. By chat, my gran really means that she will talk and the other lady will listen: no interruptions, thank you.
I put on my new shorts, a t-shirt and Jenna’s pink cardigan. I clip my water lily charm onto the zip of my backpack.
“I’m going to pop into Millport, Gran. Do you want anything?” I ask.
“Just get me a
Sunday Mail
and some bacon,” says Gran. “I’ll get the other essentials at the campsite shop tomorrow.”
I head off to meet Aisha at the pier.
She isn’t there when I arrive and I swing out on my bike to cycle along Stuart Street. The town is Sunday-morning quiet,
though I know it will get busier soon when the buses arrive from the ferry. Some of the shops are already open and I go into the newsagents to buy my gran’s newspaper. Gladys is standing at the counter, with her big smelly spaniel in tow, chatting to the owner about the weather.
“Oh hello, dear!” she says cheerily. “Agnes, this is Morag’s wee granddaughter, Milly. Hasn’t she grown since last year?”
Agnes clearly doesn’t remember me at all, but agrees that I have indeed grown. I am hardly likely to have shrunk, am I?
I smile, stuff Gran’s paper into my backpack and hurry out of the shop.
There’s a strong breeze and foamy waves slap against the sea wall. I pass the Wedge – it’s so skinny, there’s barely room for the front door, though I guess it must widen out towards the back like a slice of pie. I remember Aisha saying that she lives next to the Wedge, but there’s no sign of her.
I whizz past the crazy golf and the old fashioned swings, all the way to the Crocodile Rock. I turn there and zoom back along the sea front, loving the feeling of the wind in my hair.
Then I see Aisha, in her butterfly colours, speeding up the pavement on a battered red bicycle towards me.
She does a wheelie as she approaches, and then leaps off the bike. Aisha seems to do everything at a hundred miles an hour.
“Hi, Lily! Good to see you again. I’ve permission to be absent from the prison for an extended leave, because it’s the weekend.” She beams at me, catching her breath. “How best to spend this precious time? Do you want to cycle right round the island, go rock-pooling round the Crocodile Rock or head out on my brother’s rowing boat?”
I think for a moment. Normally, I’d jump at the chance of going out in a boat. We could have rowed over to Little Cumbrae. It would be really exciting. But…
I’m not a crazy person, but if somebody warns you not to do something and you get the feeling you might die if you do it, the sensible thing is to listen to that warning. Even if they are a ghost, or a figment of your imagination. My ghost has warned me to stay away from water, and I’m keeping my promise.
“Let’s go for a cycle,” I say. “I’m really keen to try out this bike.”
I think Aisha looks a tiny bit disappointed, but she agrees that a bike ride will be great and we set off.
She cycles faster than anyone I have ever met, possibly faster than proper cyclists like the ones in the Olympics. We are lucky the roads are quiet, because Aisha has clearly not passed her Bikeability training at school. She rides in the middle of the road and swerves out in front of traffic. She’s a bit crazy, to be honest. I’m beginning to think that the rowing boat would have been a safer option.
“Hey, did you see that lunatic of a van driver!” she yells from up ahead. “He shook his fist at me!”
“That’s because you were lurching over on to his side of the road and he thought you were going to come crashing through his windscreen, Aisha!” I shout. “Be careful or you’ll end up on the beach!”
Aisha veers off the grass and bounces back on to the gravel verge, her tyres skidding dangerously.
“Why don’t we stop and have an ice cream at Fintry Bay?” I suggest.
“Yeah, good plan,” she replies, her wheels wobbling madly when she turns her head to speak to me. “Race you there.”
I groan, and try and keep up with her, but she is scarily indifferent to other road users and I can’t follow her without risking my life. We are cycling uphill when Aisha suddenly veers out into the centre of the road on a blind bend. A car is coming in the other direction. There’s a screech of brakes and a crunching of
tyres on gravel as the car swerves into the verge to avoid her. Aisha teeters and tumbles off the bike in a weird slow motion fall. Her bike lies on the gravel, its back wheel spinning.
The driver leaps from his car and runs over, his face white.
“Is she ok? Is she ok?” he asks repeatedly. “She was right in the middle of the bloomin’ road!”
I have already abandoned my bike and now I run across the road to where Aisha is lying on her back on the grassy verge. As I approach, she stands up, rubs the grass and gravel off her knees and hops over to where her bike is lying.
“Is it damaged?” she asks anxiously. The car driver looks as if he is about to combust.
“You stupid girl!” he yells. “You could’ve been killed! Until you learn to ride that thing properly, keep off the bloomin’ roads!”
Aisha looks at him calmly.
“There’s no need to shout,” she says reproachfully, her big chocolate-brown eyes glistening with tears. “I’m sorry I gave you a fright. I had to swerve to avoid hitting a wee rabbit that had run out on the road.”
I stare at her, amazed. I thought I could tell a lie fairly well when necessary, but Aisha is exceptionally good at it. But why put yourself in a situation where you have to lie to get yourself out of trouble? Why not just avoid the trouble in the first place?
The driver is completely taken in and backs down immediately. He checks that she is unhurt and the bike undamaged and then goes on his way.
Aisha grins at me as she wipes at her knee with a tissue. The blood is trickling from a graze on to her stripy socks.
“Yikes, that was close. Think we’d better be a bit more careful, don’t you? No more racing, Lily!”
I resent the suggestion that she fell off her bike because we were racing. The accident was all her own fault. She must know that. At
this point I think she realises I’m annoyed with her.
“Oh cheer up, Lil!” she calls, getting back on her bike and wobbling up the hill. “Last one to the café buys the ice cream!”
I get on my bike and follow, my feet pedalling hard, enjoying the speed as I crest the hill and zip down the other side towards Fintry Bay café.
***
We sit on the wide grass verge, licking ice lollies (which I had to buy). The café is busy, mainly due to the arrival of a crowd of people wearing fancy dress on a charity cycle ride around the island. They shake their bucket in our direction, but I just smile and shake my head. My holiday funds are very limited.
“I can’t afford to give to charity, either,” says Aisha glumly. “My family are so poor, we are virtually scavenging in skips.”
I can’t tell if she is joking or not, so don’t reply. Aisha keeps talking. She could give my gran a run for her money, but I don’t mind. It means I don’t have to try too hard and there are no awkward silences.
“I’m thinking of setting up my own charity. I could build a website, describe myself as a poor, destitute orphan and accept donations by debit card or Paypal. I’ll call it ‘Action for Aisha’, or something.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly legal,” I say, a bit primly. Aisha ignores me.
“We are so squashed in our flat, too,” she continues, self pityingly. “Now that Imran has to have his own bedroom for ‘studying’, I’ve got to share with my wee brother, Aziz, and he’s a total ned. You’ll never guess what he did to me last week!”
“What did he do?” I ask curiously, wondering if her wee brother could possibly be as gruesome as my two.
“He went into my underwear drawer, which is bad enough,” says Aisha, and I think of my own underwear drawer, with my lovely new bra tucked at the back. I would have a fit if Bronx and Hudson went in there. Come to think of it, they’re probably raking through the drawer right now, taking my bra out and using it as a hammock for their action figures. “But worse than that,” she continues. “Aziz took out my top-secret diary and broke the lock. Then he leafed through the whole book until he found a part he could actually read, which was amazing, as he’s thick as a brick. And then the wee swine showed it to my mum.”
“Oh that’s bad,” I sympathised. “What a wee toad.”
“Yes, he is, but that isn’t the worst part. The part he showed Mum was written when I was very angry with her. I wrote: ‘Mum’s a total cow because she won’t tell me when Dad’s coming back and I wish she was dead.’ I’m not proud of writing that, but everybody says things they don’t mean when they’re angry.”
I shudder in sympathy. Her brother does sound like a fiend. But it seems that writing down stuff like that in a diary, or anywhere else, is a pretty dumb thing to do. If you don’t want your secrets broadcast, then the only safe place for them is in your own head. Not that people keep secrets any more. Everyone goes on the Jeremy Kyle show and tells the whole world their problems. Everyone except me, that is. I’m keeping my secret to myself. I don’t want the whole world creasing itself laughing at ‘The Girl Who Thinks She’s Being Haunted!’
Aisha is in full flow now.
“Having to share a room with Aziz is a total breach of my human rights. It’s cruel and unusual punishment. I should sue my mum!”
“Hey, you’re lucky. I have to share with
two
wee brothers!” I interrupt, suddenly keen to get a word in edgeways. “And my big sister has turned into Godzilla overnight. One day she was
perfectly normal and pleasant, the next, a monster.”
A monster who gave you a fiver to spend when she has hardly any money of her own,
I think guiltily.
We lick our ice lollies and sympathise with each other’s bad luck. I tell her that my dad is dead, which usually trumps anyone else’s sob story, but Aisha has her own tale to tell.
“My dad has vanished,” she says, tears in her big brown eyes. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth or if this is another fairy story, and I think of Rowan, who I can always trust to tell me the truth.
“Dad went to Pakistan nearly three months ago. He said he was going away on business but I’m worried that he isn’t coming back,” says Aisha sadly. “And the awful thing is, my mum doesn’t seem that bothered. She won’t tell me what’s going on, or when, or even
if
Dad is coming home. I’m really scared that he’s decided he prefers living over there. He and Mum did argue a lot.”
She puts her face in her hands, and I put my arm awkwardly round her shoulder and pat her on the back.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, Aisha,” I say, trying to sound confident. “He probably just needs some space or something, what with your flat being so crowded.”
“Space away from me, probably,” sobs Aisha.
I keep patting her shoulder, hoping that I am doing and saying the right things. I always want to leave the room when people get upset or angry, but I’m outside in the open air and there’s no hall cupboard here for me to go and hide in. We are clearly very different, Aisha and me.
I deal with sadness by closing down and keeping quiet, not by sharing my worries with people, never mind people I hardly know.
But there is something very likeable and approachable about Aisha. She is easy to talk to and I have told her a lot about myself today, much more than I usually would. It’s somehow easy to be honest with her. Maybe because I don’t really know her very well
and probably won’t see her again after this week.
Of course, I haven’t mentioned the ghost. There’s a big difference between telling a new friend some basic stuff about yourself and giving away secrets that make them think you’re a crazy person. Anyway, Aisha would probably just say that she’s being haunted too, and her ghost is far scarier than my ghost.
“So, Lily. You look as if you’re about the same age as me. Are you starting high school in August too?” asks Aisha.
I nod, my smile dissolving. “I’m going to Largs Academy. I’m not really looking forward to it,” I admit. “Our class went up on the induction days and I found the school a bit big and daunting. And some of the teachers seem quite strict.”
“I didn’t make it to the induction days. I was off ill with the stupid chicken pox. Imagine getting chicken pox at my age. It was Aziz’s fault, cos he gave it to me. It was so embarrassing. I had hideous scabs everywhere, like a plague victim,” says Aisha, standing up and doing a zombie walk across the grass.
“Where is the secondary school on Cumbrae?” I ask curiously.
Aisha laughs. “There isn’t one, you dope. There aren’t nearly enough kids. I’ll have to get the ferry over every day to Largs Academy. We’ll be at the same school! Won’t that be excellent?”
I don’t speak for a moment, trying to digest this new information. And then I smile widely.
Aisha is a bit strange and a bit wild, but she is definitely not boring. Secondary school is suddenly a more exciting prospect.
I hope Rowan and David make it over on Friday so they can meet her and that they’ll get on with each other. It’s always a bit tense trying to mix old friends and new ones.