The Girl You Left Behind

wage.’ Frank was, as Dad put it, as
     queer as a blue gnu. I looked up.
    He wasn’t smiling.
    ‘Uh-oh. I didn’t put salt in the
     sugar cellars again, did I?’
    He was twisting a tea towel between his two
     hands and looked more uncomfortable than I had ever seen him. I wondered, briefly,
     whether someone had complained about me. And then he motioned to me to sit down.
    ‘Sorry, Louisa,’ he said, after
     he had told me. ‘But I’m going back to Australia. My Dad’s not too
     good, and it looks like the castle is definitely going to start doing its own
     refreshments. The writing’s on the wall.’
    I think I sat there with my mouth actually
     hanging open. And then Frank had handed me the envelope, and answered my next question
     before it left my lips. ‘I know we never had, you know, a formal contract or
     anything, but I wanted to look after you. There’s three months’ money in
     there. We close tomorrow.’
    ‘Three months!’ Dad exploded,
     as my mother thrust a cup of sweet tea into my hands. ‘Well, that’s big of
     him, given she’s worked like a ruddy Trojan in that place for the last six
     years.’
    ‘Bernard.’ Mum shot him a
     warning look, nodding towards Thomas. My parents minded him after school every day until
     Treena finished work.
    ‘What the hell is she supposed to do
     now? He could have given her more than a day’s bloody notice.’
    ‘Well … she’ll just
     have to get another job.’
    ‘There are no bloody jobs, Josie. You
     know that as well as I do. We’re in the middle of a bloody recession.’
    Mum shut her eyes for a moment, as if
     composing herself before she spoke. ‘She’s a bright girl. She’ll find
     herself something. She’s got a solid employment record, hasn’t she? Frank
     will give her a good reference.’
    ‘Oh, fecking
     marvellous … “Louisa Clark is very good at buttering toast, and a dab
     hand with the old teapot.”’
    ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,
     Dad.’
    ‘I’m just saying.’
    I knew the real reason for Dad’s
     anxiety. They relied on my wages. Treena earned next to nothing at the flower shop. Mum
     couldn’t work, as she had to look after Granddad, and Granddad’s pension
     amounted to almost nothing. Dad lived in a constant state of anxiety about his job at
     the furniture factory. His boss had been muttering about possible redundancies for
     months. There were murmurings at home about debts and the juggling of credit cards. Dad
     had had his car written off by an uninsured driver two years previously, and somehow
     this had been enough for the whole teetering edifice that was my parents’ finances
     to finally collapse. My modest wages had been a little bedrock of housekeeping money,
     enough to help see the family through from week to week.
    ‘Let’s not get ahead of
     ourselves. She can head down to the Job Centre tomorrow and see what’s on offer.
     She’s got enough to get by for now.’ They spoke as if I weren’t there.
     ‘And she’s smart. You’re smart, aren’t you, love? Perhaps she
     could do a typing course. Go into office work.’
    I sat there, as my parents discussed what
     other jobs my limited qualifications might entitle me to. Factory work,machinist, roll butterer. For the first time that afternoon I wanted to cry. Thomas
     watched me with big, round eyes, and silently handed me half a soggy biscuit.
    ‘Thanks, Tommo,’ I mouthed
     silently, and ate it.
    He was down at the athletics club, as I had
     known he would be. Mondays to Thursdays, regular as a station timetable, Patrick was
     there in the gym or running in circles around the floodlit track. I made my way down the
     steps, hugging myself against the cold, and walked slowly out on to the track, waving as
     he came close enough to see who it was.
    ‘Run with me,’ he puffed, as he
     got closer. His breath came in pale clouds. ‘I’ve got four laps to
     go.’
    I hesitated just a moment, and then began to
     run alongside him. It was the only way I was going to get any kind of conversation out
     of him. I was wearing my pink trainers with the turquoise laces, the only shoes I could
     possibly run in.
    I had spent the day at home, trying to be
     useful. I’m guessing it was about an hour before I started to get under my
     mother’s feet. Mum and Granddad had their routines, and having me there
     interrupted them. Dad was asleep, as he was on nights this month, and not to be
     disturbed. I tidied my room, then sat