Kate Maryon - Shine

We’re both busy stuffing clothes and last summer’s sandals into our bags.

“Not sure, yet, babe,” she says, getting our passports from the drawer. “We’ll have a real adventure this time, you know, like in the movies. We thought we’d hop on a ferry from Dover to France and just keep on driving towards the sun.”

She’s talking really fast and her voice sounds all squeaky and high and her hands are trembling. Just then a car horn blares away in the street outside.

“Time to go,” says Mum. Then she starts swaying about and singing, “We’re all going on an – autumn holiday; no more working for a week or two.” And I know that she wants me to join in with her, and I try, but the words somehow get stuck in the little worry bag that’s sitting in my throat.

We turn off the lights and head for the door.

“What about Chardonnay?” I ask.

“Oh, worry guts again. Chardonnay’ll be all right, Tiff. We’ll ring Bianca – she’ll look after her. Come on, Mikey’s waiting.”

But I don’t budge.

“I’m not leaving her,” I say. “She’s just a tiny puppy that you were completely crazy about getting only this afternoon, Mum. If you hadn’t noticed, she can’t take care of herself. And she’s ours, not Bianca’s. She’d be scared on her own – it’s cruel.”

“Tiff, I’m telling you, it’s time to go. Now is not the time for questions.”

“No, Mum,” I say. “What’s happening? This whole holiday thing doesn’t feel right. It’s too sudden. We never just pack our bags and go. And I did see Mikey on Crimewatch and Chelsea saw it too. It’s not in my imagination, it’s real, Mum. And it’s not normal to just pack your bags in the middle of the night and go on holiday. So if Chardonnay’s staying, then I’m staying too.”

Mum switches the lights back on and stares me out.

“I said it’s time to go, Tiff.”

“And I said I’m not leaving without Chardonnay.”

I’m good at staring people out. Chelsea and I practise it all the time and see who can last the longest. After a while my mum huffs, makes her way to the kitchen and takes a slug from a half-finished bottle of wine.

“You win,” she says, “but stuff her in your bag and keep her quiet for a bit. Mikey’ll murder me when he finds out.”

The car horn down in the street blasts out again. I grab a couple of tins of puppy food and a bottle of water and follow Mum out.

“You excited, honey?” she slurs, swigging on her wine, while we’re standing in the lift. “I think you’re too much of a worry guts for your age, Tiff. You shouldn’t be worried about life when you’re twelve years old. I bet Chelsea would jump at the chance of having this kind of adventure. It’s fun going away on a surprise holiday. You remember that word, Tiff, you know, the fun , fun , fun word? Ah, I do love you though,” she breathes wine breath in my ear and kisses my cheek. “My little star. You and me, babe,” she says. “You and me.”

I turn away from her, still angry, but tired of arguing and sad that she’s drunk again. I busy myself with making a safe, cosy nest in my rucksack for Chardonnay, and I zip her in so Mikey won’t see.

there’ll be bluebells over the white cliffs of Dover…

Mikey’s waiting for us in a car I’ve never seen before. We throw our stuff in the boot and climb in. Mikey’s puffing away on a fat cigar. Mum shares her wine with him and off we roar, away from London, away from home.

“You excited, Tiffany?” asks Mikey, puffing thick cigar smoke all around the car. “Who knows where we’re going to end up, eh? Ooh, somewhere hot for me, please.”

I force a smile, do up my seat belt and peer at Chardonnay. Luckily she’s already snoozing away in her cosy rucksack nest. Mum and Mikey start droning on about boring stuff and making rude jokes. It’s dark and late and the car is full of smoke, but I know Mikey’s face and I know I saw it on Crimewatch . I guess I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know is that Mum is shaking me awake.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” she’s saying, “wakey, wakey.”

I open my eyes. It’s really dark outside and raining hard. I stuff my hand in my rucksack and give Chardonnay a reassuring stroke. She licks my fingers and snuggles back down. My neck aches from sleeping in the car and I badly need a wee from all the Shirley Temples that Chels and I had drunk. This doesn’t feel like a fun holiday to me, but Mum and Mikey are laughing and having a good time.

“We’re in Dover, Tiff,” says Mum, then she and Mikey start singing some old song, “ There’ll be bluebells over, the white cliffs of Dover …”

We pull up in the line of cars queuing to get on the ferry. Mikey’s holding all our passports and he keeps tap, tap, tapping them on the steering wheel, waiting to get through passport control.

“All right, mate?” he asks the passport man when it’s our turn.

The man nods, peers into the car and then starts checking our passports, one by one. Mikey’s tapping gets louder and more and more impatient and Mum starts switching her diamond rings from one finger to another.

“Can we go home?” I whisper.

“Ssshhh, baby,” says Mum, leaning over and stroking my head with a hard hand, “Nearly there.”

The man hands the passports back to Mikey and waves us on.

“Phew,” sighs Mikey, relaxing as we pull away.

“Yay!” shrieks Mum, frantically jiggling my hand up and down. “Freedom, Tiff! Freedom!”

Suddenly, some policemen step in front of the car and wave us over to one side. Mikey starts tap, tap, tapping on the steering wheel again and Mum starts fidgeting with her hair.

“Just a routine check, sir,” says one of the policemen, leaning into the front window. “May we take another look at your passports, please?”

“Is this completely necessary?” says Mikey. “We need to board the ferry as soon as,” he says, waving a hand toward me. “The kid needs the toilet; know what I mean?”

“I’m afraid it is necessary, sir, and we’ll get you on board as soon as we can.”

I feel really awake now, because something’s not right. All the other cars are driving past us and climbing the ramp to board the ferry. But we’re stuck here with policemen asking us questions. It’s late and I want to be at home, asleep next to Chelsea, dreaming of The Wizard of Oz and Shirley Temple cocktails. I wish my mum had never had this stupid idea in the first place. I don’t even want to go on holiday. I want my normal Saturday with Chels and me cosying up in bed, watching TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub. With Mum and me, together, wandering through the shops and buying cool stuff. Getting dressed up in new clothes and having lunch out, like ladies do. And we’d planned to take Chardonnay to the park. Everything is going wrong.

The policeman looks at me, scratches his head, and then turns to Mikey. “Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle, sir?”

“Yes mate,” says Mikey, tapping and tapping. “It’s all in order, officer, I just bought it from my brother-in-law, he must have forgotten to send off the papers.”

The policeman scratches his head again and I wonder if he has nits, like Chels and I had in the summer. “If you’d like to get out of the vehicle, sir, and step this way.”

Mikey groans and opens the door. Mum lets out a wounded-dog squeal and starts rocking backwards and forwards humming the white cliffs of Dover song. Then we’re surrounded by blue flashing lights, and I know that Crimewatch was true and that Chelsea was right. A large ball of worry drops into my tummy and wobbles around, and a sharp lump sticks in my throat. I start tap, tap, tapping and humming the white cliffs of Dover song too because now I really know that my mum’s in trouble. Big trouble. And what about me?