Glitter
Kate Maryon

Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2010

Text copyright © Kate Maryon 2010

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Source ISBN: 9780007326280

Ebook Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 9780007411009

Version: 2017-09-27

For Daniel, Carole, Heather, Louisa, Ruth, James, Sophia, Mala and Joti. For your mummies who now glitter with the stars in the sky – they loved you so much and were so sad to leave you.

For Jonny, Amida and all the other dads who did and continue to do their wonderful best.

For Jayne and Jan who will for ever glitter in my eyes – thank you for so much.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1: failure is not an option…

Chapter 2: humming might be dangerous…

Chapter 3: a glittering success…

Chapter 4: everything is really all my fault…

Chapter 5: I don’t even know where to begin…

Chapter 6: welcum to the dump…

Chapter 7: school…?

Chapter 8: the grave…

Chapter 9: like Pride and Prejudice and stuff…

Chapter 10: err, sorry, daddy…

Chapter 11: my whole insides are trembling…

Chapter 12: don’t forget the old folk…

Chapter 13: the rest is a blur…

Chapter 14: if you’re going to run wild…

Chapter 15: today is my birthday…

Chapter 16: I’m so sorry Liberty…

Chapter 17: for my new best friend…

Chapter 18: it’s dark here, really dark…

Chapter 19: and then he’s gone…

Chapter 20: she pulls away from me and gasps…

Chapter 21: this one last go…

Chapter 22: why didn’t l get it before…?

Chapter 23: no, l scream…

Chapter 24: and now I’m confused…

Chapter 25: I’m not feeling fine…

Chapter 26: you could have been anything…

Chapter 27: I’m getting warmer…

Chapter 28: the sound of two violins…

Chapter 29: and then you came along…

Chapter 30: I squeeze his hand…

Chapter 31: if you want to come, that is…

Chapter 32: bugsy is brilliant…

Chapter 33: me glorious me…

Chapter 34: like glitter on my smile…

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Kate Maryon

About the Publisher

Chapter 1 failure is not an option…

My dad is so obsessed with success that every time I’m home from school, for a weekend or for the holidays, he just can’t resist reminding me of the Parfitt family motto. “Remember, Liberty,” he booms, while he’s checking over my school work or reading my report, “that failure is not an option for a Parfitt.” And what annoys me most is that he always says it as if I’ve never even heard it before. He always says it as if it’s never been drummed into my head a thousand million times. He always says it as if I don’t already know that I’m the biggest failure the Parfitt family has ever had the disappointment of knowing. And what makes things worse is that as hard as I try not to let his stupid motto bother me, it does. I just can’t help it and every time he says it something deep inside me shrivels up and hides.

At my brother’s parents’ evening, his housemaster said to my dad, “Sebastian has a glittering career ahead of him, Mr Parfitt, he’s a real credit to you, sir. He’s brilliant at everything, an A* student from head to toe and there are top-secret whispers being passed around that he’s going to be made next year’s head boy.”

You could almost see the gift-wrapped packages of love leaping out of my dad’s heart and landing like glitter on my successful brother’s smile.

My parents’ evening wasn’t quite so glittering. My dad had to cancel this extremely important business meeting to drive all the way from London, to our school in Somerset, where the news that hit his ears did not make him smile. “She’s a lovely girl, Mr Parfitt,” my housemistress said, “kind, sweet and helpful, but she struggles with her academic studies. Liberty has more of a natural inclination towards her musical studies and I have to say she really appears to have a talent for it, sir. If she were to be encouraged a little more in this area she may well—”

“Music!” my dad blasted when the parents’ evening was over. “Music, Liberty! You’re unbelievable! I made it perfectly clear to you when you were small how I felt about you pursuing an interest in music and the same remains today. It was music that ruined your mother’s life and I won’t have it ruin yours. My own mother was stupid enough to let me follow my dreams when I was at school and nothing good ever came of it. I should have listened to my father and gone into business from the start, that’s where the security is, Liberty, you mark my words. But no, my dominating mother stuck her nose in and interfered as usual. So, I want you to listen to me good and listen to me hard. You will do as you’re told and follow a sensible career, one that won’t let you down or get you into trouble. You’re going to be twelve years old soon and it’s about time you put your head down and pulled your socks up. I don’t pay a fortune in fees for you to be at one of the best schools in the country so you can mess about. I’m paying for you to get ahead in life and make something of yourself. I want to see an improvement, Liberty, and I want to see it fast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said, because I know there’s never any point in arguing with him. He never listens to anything I have to say. Then he jumped in his car and roared off back to his office without even saying goodbye. There was no little gift-wrapped parcel of love popping out of his heart for me; there never is. And that’s all I want, really. I just want him to love me too and not just Sebastian. Or even just to like me one tiny little bit. That would be a start. But I only ever seem to make him angry which drives him further and further away.

Two weeks later at the end of year Prize-giving Day things went from bad to worse. Sebastian won six prizes and got to make his first speech as next year’s head boy. And I got nothing! Zilch! Zero!

“I’ve had just about enough of this behaviour, Liberty,” my dad fumed when we’d finished our special celebration lunch for Sebastian’s success. “I’m shocked that you didn’t even manage to pick up one prize. You’re letting the side down, you know, giving us Parfitts a bad reputation and it really won’t do. You have to start towing the line and soon.”

I nodded and quietly tucked myself into the soft, red leather seat of his car. I tried to disappear and let his angry words drift over my head without letting them hurt me.

If only I’d known then, the truth about my dad and his own glittering success. If only I’d known the truth about what actually happened to my mum and the real fact that success has nothing to do with good marks or money, I might have found the courage to stand up to him and speak up. I might have found the words to say that I would win prizes, and lots of them, and that he could be proud of me and send me little parcels of love to land like glitter on my smile. And that I wouldn’t be a failure and a disappointment to the Parfitt family, if only he’d just let me be who I am and follow my heart.

But I didn’t know any of that then.

I just stared out of the window with the long summer holidays stretching out in front of me, with no idea of how much our lives were about to change.

Chapter 2 humming might be dangerous…

My school is amazing. And I’m not lying. I mean, I know my dad does spend a small fortune on sending me there, but I truly think it’s worth every penny. Being at boarding school is like being at one long, never-ending sleepover. I mean, of course, we have to do school work and stuff, but living with my friends all the time is so much better than living with my family. It’s not as if I don’t love Sebastian and my dad because I do. It’s just, I feel lonely when I’m with them. If my mum were around things might be different, but something terrible happened to her when I was nine months old and she died. I don’t remember anything about her and my dad refuses to tell me the kind of things I’d like to know. I have seen one photo of her so I know she had bright red, curly hair, just like mine. And I know she was obsessed with playing the violin, because my dad let it slip out one day, when he was getting stressed about me asking for violin lessons.

My dad has hated music ever since she died. He thinks it was the ruin of her but I don’t understand how music could ruin your life. I think music is the most amazing thing that was ever invented. I mean, you don’t even have to be clever or anything to love it. It’s so simple. It can just dive into you and make your skin tingle and make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on end and tickle you. It can make you feel happy or sad or excited or sleepy just like that, without even trying. And another thing I love about music is that you can hear a song or a piece of music and it can immediately take your mind back to a memory. Like the harvest festival song about the broad beans lying in their blankety beds. That one always takes me back to the time when Alice’s mum took Alice and me to Disneyland Paris for the weekend. We just couldn’t stop singing it, all the way in the car and in the plane. In fact we sang it so many times we started to drive Alice’s mum so completely crazy that she bought us some lollipops just to make us shut up.

I don’t sing when I’m around my dad. I have to zip my mouth. Even humming might be dangerous. Alice’s mum bought me an iPod last Christmas and I downloaded all of my favourite pieces of music on to it. It’s mostly violin music because that’s my obsession and I’m not joking, I am truly obsessed with it. I think I must take after my mum. It’s so easy to listen to because you can just imagine all of nature and the birds flying and the streams running and the sun shining. And it kind of moves like the wind through my hair and glitters like stars in the night and soars and dives and touches my skin like soft, gentle rain. When I’m home with my dad for the weekend I shut myself in my room and listen to my iPod in secret.

Being secret in our house isn’t too difficult, because for a start it’s enormous. We have eight bedrooms, although most of them aren’t really used very often, and mine is at the top of the house. Our house is very tall and there are so many stairs up to my room that my dad’s always too lazy to bother to come up and see me. But I wouldn’t chance playing music that he might hear from his office – that would be too risky. Playing and listening to music might seem like a very strange thing for a girl not to be allowed to do and I agree it is. But my dad says he has his reasons and one day, I promise you, I’m going to get to the bottom of it all and find out the truth.

What I don’t understand is why my dad cut us off from my mum’s side of the family straight after her funeral. I mean, you might have thought it was an important thing to keep in contact with your family, but then my dad doesn’t even have that much contact with his own mother, let alone someone else’s. My dad is an only child and my grandpa died years ago because he was very old. So Granny is my dad’s only surviving relative, apart from Sebastian and me of course. My dad says that Granny is an interfering old battleaxe who needs to learn to keep her opinions to herself. I disagree; I think he should listen to her more, because sometimes she says things that I think make sense.

“What your father doesn’t understand, Liberty,” she said one day, “is that I inhabit the Wisdom of Age, not the Insanity of Youth.”

On the few occasions in my life I’ve been brave enough to ask my dad about my mum he just sighed and said, “It’s not helpful for any of us to be talking about your mother, Liberty. Let the past stay buried in the past.” Which is all very well for him, because it must be a terrible thing when your wife goes and dies, leaving you with two small children to take care of, but it’s not very helpful if you’re a curious type of person, like me.

I tried asking my granny the last time I went to stay with her. But she only had to look at me once with her shiny black eyes for me to know that questions about my mum are out of bounds. I do love my granny because, well, because she’s my granny, but also because she takes me out for fun. We go on these amazing shopping trips and out for lunch and to the theatre and the ballet. I love the ballet, but we have to keep that secret from my dad.

“What we do in our time, Liberty,” she says, “is our business and there’s no need for your father to know any different.”

When I go shopping with Granny it’s always to Harrods. She thinks my dad is useless at buying the right kind of clothes for me, so twice a year she travels down from Scotland to take me out. I’m pretty much allowed to have what I like, so long as I have some sensible things like a warm coat and a special occasion dress and comfy shoes and things like that as well. After shopping we always have tea at the Ritz. The Ritz is my granny’s favourite place for tea and sometimes we have to meet her friends there too, which means I always get covered in bright red lipstick and half choked to death with old ladies’ perfume. And it means my manners have to be impeccable. Granny likes teaching me about manners and deportment and elocution because she says it’s important for a young lady to be able to carry herself well in the world.

Even though our main house is in London, Granny always prefers us to stay in a hotel. She says that then my dad can’t butt in on our fun.

Granny doesn’t really understand about my obsession with the violin either. Whenever I try to talk to her about it she just coughs and changes the subject, then a little later she might whisper into my ear something like, “Never give up on your dream, Liberty, just keep it under wraps for now.”

I think when she says things like that she is speaking from the Wisdom of Age. My dad has probably told her that the violin is a no go area for my life and for once she is listening to him and doing as he asks. I wish they would be friends; it would make Christmas and things like that much more fun. Granny always goes away for Christmas on a month-long cruise. She says that the winter sun is good for her constitution.

The first time I actually picked up a violin was when Alice and I both began boarding at our school. We were about seven years old and the moment she pulled it out of its case, I just knew I had to learn to play. The shiny chestnut wood and beautifully shaped bow and four little strings hypnotised me. I didn’t even know anything about my mum and her violin obsession then; just the look of it, the feel of it and the sound of it were like wonderful magic to me and I couldn’t take my eyes off of it or stop the thought of it dancing around my brain.

“Daddy,” I said, on our first weekend home, “can I have violin lessons like Alice?”

“No, Liberty!” he shouted, so loud it made me jump out of my skin. “I am not wasting my money on music lessons and you are not to indulge an obsession like your mother’s. Do I make myself clear? You’ll learn what I want you to learn and do what I want you to do and that is that. End of story.”

So I never asked again and Alice has never minded me borrowing her violin. We have our secret all worked out. Alice’s mum pays for her to have the lessons and then Alice teaches me what she’s learned. She isn’t really interested in the violin, she’s more of a bookworm and she only plays because her mum insists that it’s an important addition to a young lady’s list of accomplishments. Parents have very strange ideas sometimes. I’m not brilliant at it, but I can play quite well, especially for someone who’s never had a proper lesson. Alice thinks I’m a natural. I wish, I wish, I wish I could play for my dad one day. Then he might see that I’m not such a total failure as he thinks and he might even start to love me just a little bit more. I truly think that if Alice were to ever leave our school and I couldn’t play the violin any more, I really would just shrivel up and die.

Chapter 3 a glittering success…

“My summer was rubbish,” I tell Alice while we’re unpacking our trunks and settling back into school for the start of the autumn term. “My dad just dumped me in our French house for the whole ten weeks with strict instructions that I had to do at least four hours’ school work every day. My granny wasn’t well so he hired this scary dragon woman with whiskers on her chin to look after me and he didn’t bother to come and see me, not even once. He kept phoning and saying he’d be over soon so we could go out on the boat. But he never even did. He just got more and more stressed and snappy on the phone as the weeks went by. Apparently something big was happening at work again, and he said it was too impossible to leave. Lucky Sebastian was off jet-skiing with a friend so I didn’t get to see him either. Boring is an understatement, Alice. I had nothing to do but work, work, work, apart from the pool I suppose, but that’s not much fun on your own. Sometimes I think my dad forgets I’m still a child.”

“My summer was terrible too,” sighs Alice, lying back on her bed. “My parents just bickered the whole time we were in Greece. I sometimes wonder why they even stay married. I mean, plenty of parents get a divorce. I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“Parents have strange ideas,” I say. “I tried to talk to Sebastian about my mum and about what happened to her when we were out buying our uniforms. I wanted to see if there’s an actual reason behind the fact that my dad won’t let me play the violin. But he said he doesn’t remember anything about her, except her red hair and a tune that she used to play to him while he was drifting off to sleep.”

“That’s so sad,” says Alice. “I can’t imagine what it would be like without my mum.”

“I wish I could remember something about her,” I say. “I wonder if she ever played a tune to me?”

When we’ve unpacked and had our tea and sat through a house meeting and shared summer stories and welcomed the new girls, Alice and I sneak out of our window and on to the flat roof to look at the sky. Above us is a soft glittering blanket that twinkles through the darkness and wraps us up in stars.

“I’m so glad to be back,” I whisper.

“Me too,” says Alice.

“Whoever invented the stars,” I say, “truly was a glittering success. Can you imagine what it would be like to fly through them and feel them glittering all about you?”

“Of course a person didn’t invent them, Libby,” says Alice snuggling in close, “but imagine if they had. They would be the most popular and richest person in the world.”

“No, Alice,” I giggle, “your dad is the richest person in the world. Well, not like kings and princes, but he is rich.”

“Your dad too,” she says.

“I suppose so,” I sigh. “It’s just I don’t really see the point of it when he’s not happy and enjoying it. He’s so moody and stressed all the time, who cares how much money he has? My dad wouldn’t know how to enjoy himself if it came and bit him on the nose. That’s what my granny says.”

“Daddy says things are changing,” says Alice. “He says the banks have more debts than they have money.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Don’t know really,” she says. “He just says that things will change. But we don’t need to worry about anything, Libby, nothing will happen to us, silly.”

Having a best friend like Alice is as amazing as my school. I mean having a best friend full stop is brilliant, but for me it means I always have someone I can share my feelings with, someone I can trust. I know that whatever happens in our lives Alice will be there for me and I will be there for her. That’s how it is with us, it’s simple. Alice is also very good at telling me the truth, even when it hurts.

“Can you try not to dump your feelings on me this term, Libby. We’re nearly twelve and that’s too old for lashing out.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “It’s just sometimes I can’t help it. It must be my red hair.”

“The colour of your hair is no excuse, Libby, you have to take responsibility for your feelings.”

Chapter 4 everything is really all my fault…

Three weeks later I’m sitting in a maths lesson with my mind half drifting out of the window when a prefect knocks on our door and tells our teacher that I have to go to the headmaster’s office straight away. I am completely sure that I haven’t done anything wrong or bad enough to need a trip to see Mr Jenkins, our headmaster, for a telling off, but anyway I’m careful to pull up my socks and straighten my tie before knocking on his door. “Yes,” booms his throaty voice, “come on in.” I turn the big brass handle, step inside and am surprised to see my dad sitting on one of Mr Jenkins’s black leather chairs. He’s looking all red faced and flustered and Sebastian is there as well, pacing about the room in tears. My heart dives into my tummy like a cold hard pebble and bounces straight back up again and lodges in my throat.

“What’s happened?” I ask, immediately leaping to the conclusion that somebody we know has died or that Sebastian only got a B for his science homework or something terrible like that.

“Come and sit down, Liberty,” says Mr Jenkins. “I’m afraid your father has some rather upsetting news.”

But I don’t sit down. Because how can you sit down when the tension in the room is making you worried that your ears are about to hear some ultra-upsetting news. My dad looks terrible. He clearly hasn’t shaved for a few days and he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten for weeks. I hover nearby without getting too close. I never know with my dad when he might unexpectedly bark some random command at me and make my feelings hurt. The headmaster coughs as a polite way of reminding my dad that it’s his turn to speak now.

“Liberty, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” whispers my dad, running his hand through his untidy hair. I’m shocked because I’ve never heard my dad speak so quietly before. His voice usually booms around the room, deafening my ears, but now he sounds like someone’s just let the air out of him and there’s nothing left for talking. “The business has collapsed, Liberty,” he says. “I’ve hung on for months and months trying to keep it all going but now I’ve hit rock bottom, the official receiver has been called in and we’ve become victims of the credit crunch.”

Then he looks at me like I know what all that means, which, of course, I don’t. I mean I’ve heard of the credit crunch and everything and things closing down all over the place, because whoever on this planet hasn’t. That was what Alice was saying her dad was talking about. He said things would change and he was right, but what has any of that got to do with me? Then Sebastian explodes.

“What he’s trying to say, Libby,” he steams, “is that we’ve lost everything. And I mean, everything! All the houses, all the cars, the boat, all the shares and every last penny in the bank.”

“Oh,” I say, still not really understanding, but knowing that something has gone terribly wrong. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” And suddenly it’s like the word ‘sorry’ has been touched by the edge of a lighted match and whooshed it up in flames.

“Sorry!” my dad bellows, full of air again. “What do you mean, ‘Sorry’? Sorry is hardly going to help now, Liberty, is it? What are you talking about, child? It’s far too late for sorry.”

I flinch and begin to feel like the whole credit crunch thing and Dad’s business collapsing and everything is really all my fault. All I want is to go back to my maths lesson, because right now maths feels like one hundred and fifty thousand times more interesting than the angry words that are flying out of people’s mouths and around this room. Luckily Mr Jenkins takes charge.

“Liberty,” he says, in a trying-to-explain-something-important-to-a-stupid-person kind of voice, “your father’s here to take you home. He’s come to pick you both up and take you home because he can no longer afford the fees to keep you here.”

Dad makes whimpering, hurt dog sounds and his left leg keeps jiggling up and down like it can’t stop.

“Home?” scoffs Sebastian. “And where exactly is that, Dad? Where is home?” And then he crumples in a heap on the floor, wiping his tear snot on his blazer sleeve. And my dad peers back at him through empty eyes. I’m afraid to even move an inch or say anything at all because I don’t want to make anyone else shout. And I’m relieved when Mrs Peterson, the school secretary, arrives with a tray full of tea and biscuits. But Sebastian’s not letting up and he turns on Mr Jenkins.

“After all I’ve done for this school,” he shrieks, “and being head boy and everything. You can’t just turf me out on the streets; I’m in my last year of A levels. This disaster might well ruin my whole life and I will hold you,’ he points to Mr Jenkins, “and you,” he points to Dad, “personally responsible.”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” says Mr Jenkins, handing Sebastian a handkerchief and a cup of tea. “Of course I wouldn’t just turf you out on the streets. At your stage in your education and with your brilliant academic record there are plenty of bursaries and charitable funds available to finance your last year with us. It’s your father’s decision to take you home.”

Sebastian glares fury at Dad, wanting some answers.

“It’s true, Seb,” says Dad. “I can’t help it; I’m a proud man. I owe the school the whole of last term’s fees and there’s no money to left to clear the debt or pay for any more. And that debt doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg. I’m up to my neck in trouble, so I’m calling it a day. I’ve given it my best shot and now I’m drawing a line under it and we’re moving on. Now, enough of this emotional display, I want the pair of you to go and pack your trunks immediately and we’ll be off.”

I don’t think my mind is totally taking all of this information overload in, because my legs are definitely not making their way towards my dorm to pack my trunk. I’m just standing quietly, keeping my eyes on the ground, sipping on the hot tea and nibbling a chocolate biscuit, wondering if this is the last food I might be eating in a while, because of us having no money any more. And then Sebastian starts up again.

“I’m not leaving here, Dad,” he spits, “and you can’t make me. I’m nearly eighteen, so it’s not like it’s even your choice any more.”

“Sebastian,” Dad booms, finding his voice again, “you will do as I say. Now go and pack your trunk at once and meet me in the Grand Hall in fifteen minutes.” Then he spins around and turns on me, making me jump and I spill a whole slop of tea in my saucer. “And that goes for you too, young lady. And I mean it, double quick sharp.”

Chapter 5 I don’t even know where to begin…

I slip out of Mr Jenkins’s office and head towards my boarding house to pack my things. It’s not until I’m passing the fountains in front of the dining room that the penny suddenly drops and I realise that my dad is here to take me home. But he can’t take me home! What’s he talking about? I’ve been boarding at this school since I was seven years old. This place practically is my home and everyone here is much more like my family than even my own dad is. I like it here; I don’t want to go home. I wish I could run straight back to Mr Jenkins’s office and tell my dad that he’s got it all wrong. I wish I could beg Mr Jenkins to find some charitable something so that I can stay here, but my obedient legs keep on walking towards my room, afraid to stand up to my dad’s shouting and angry face.

Matron is lurking outside my room, waiting for me and I can hardly even see her because I have angry, salty tears streaming down my face. She’s already lugged my trunk from the trunk room and quickly starts helping me gather and fold my things. I keep dropping stuff because my whole insides have become trembling jelly and my teeth are chattering with cold, even though the warm autumn sun is shining through the open window. I pull my pony posters and cards and fairy lights from my pin board and fold my duvet and pillow into my trunk.

“Have you got time to go and say goodbye to everyone?” asks Matron.

I shake my head. “No, my dad’s in a hurry and I don’t even want to,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just want to disappear.”

Just then, our dormitory door opens and Alice walks in. The bell for lunchtime must have gone off without me even noticing.

“What’s happening, Liberty?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

I wish the floorboards would open up and swallow me whole. Last year Bryony Eves was pulled out of school because her family ran out of money and the whole thing was so embarrassing for her. None of us were true friends, once she’d gone, we just forgot about her. I wonder where she is now?

“Matron will tell you,” I say, pushing past her and heading for the door.

“But why is your trunk packed up, Libby? You can’t just walk out and not tell me what’s happening.”

“I have to, Alice,” I shout. Tears are prickling in the back of my eyes, threatening to flow over again. “I don’t have any choice. I never have any choice. I have to go.”

But Alice isn’t going to be fobbed off. She knows me too well. She grabs me and makes me look at her.

“Liberty!” she shrieks. “Look at me; it’s me, your best friend Alice here. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I have to leave the school, Alice, OK?” I shout. “Is that a good enough explanation for you?” And then I feel myself go, I feel the heat burning inside of me, filling my body with rage. “It’s the credit crunch, Alice,” I scream, throwing my wash bag on the floor and trying to pull away from her. “Your dad was right about things changing and my dad’s gone bust and now I’m like Bryony Eves. So go off to lunch and gossip about me like we did her and then forget about me. Just get on with your own life, Alice and forget I ever existed. I’m different now, I’m not part of this any more and I never will be, ever again. I have to go, my dad’s waiting.”

“Lashing out and throwing things isn’t going to help, Liberty Parfitt,” she says, gripping my arms. “I’m your friend, remember. I’m here for you whatever happens.”

“Yes, well, that was then and now things have changed,” I scream, yanking myself away from her and picking up my things. “And once I’ve gone you’ll find a new friend to replace me. Now go back to school, Alice,” I shout as I slam through the door, “and forget about me.”

When I get back to the Grand Hall I find my dad sitting alone with his head in his hands, all of the air sucked out of him again. All my rage has been sucked out of me too and it’s growing into cold goose bumps under my skin.

“Come on, Liberty,” he sighs, “let’s go.”

“What about Sebastian?” I ask.

“He’s convinced me to let him stay. Mr Jenkins is going to sort out some funding for him. He has so little time left here, even I can see the madness in taking him away. So it’s just you and me, I’m afraid.”

I want to scream again and ask if I can stay and get some funding too so I can stay at school. But deep down I know that screaming won’t work, not with my dad, not with anyone. And anyway, I’m too scared to say anything because I can’t bear to hear the truth. I’m not a success like Sebastian, I’m an embarrassment to the Parfitt family and nobody in their right mind would waste their precious funding money on me.

The porters carry my trunk out to the car park and help Dad tie it on to the roof rack of a rusty old banger that I have never even seen before. Matron appears, waving me goodbye and crying and tucking a copy of 100 Favourite Poems into my hand. Mr Jenkins is shaking my other hand and wishing me good luck and good health for my future. And although I can hear all the good wishes coming from their mouths, I can’t really feel them; they bounce off my blazer and fall like raindrops, splashing to the ground. Sebastian joins us, his eyes all red rimmed and teary.

“Sorry, Libby,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “I just have to stay…you know?”

“I know,” I lie. “I’ll be OK. And it’s good for you stay. It’s important for your success. Don’t worry about us, I’ll take care of Dad.”

“I knew you’d understand, sis, and I’ll be home soon enough for the holidays,” he promises.

“I’ll miss you,” I say, covering the scared wobble in my voice and climbing into the passenger seat next to Dad. “Have a good rest of term.”

He gives my hand a friendly squeeze and keeps on waving us goodbye, until he’s a tiny speck in the distance.

Our new car is noisy and smoky and travels at snail’s pace compared to our old black Mercedes. The seats are battered and torn and big chunks of foam are forcing their way through the scratchy grey fabric. My dad sighs and turns on the Radio 4 news to fill the awkward silence that is growing between us. The newsreader keeps groaning on and on about the credit crunch and financial scandals and I wish we could have something more cheerful, like music, to fill our car. But that will never be possible. After a while he huffs and turns the radio off. I feel lonely, like all the warmth and friendliness of my life at school has drained down the plughole and I’m left alone sitting in an empty bath shivering, with no soft towel for comfort. There’s so much I want to ask, like what’s happened to our houses and cars and where are we going to live and if he thinks that Sebastian really will come home for the holidays, because I don’t think he will. But all of these questions are out of bounds because they might turn my dad into a snapping dog again. So I file them away in the back of my brain.

“Granny will help,” I say. “I’m sure of it. Granny has the Wisdom of Age.”

My dad’s eyes flash fire at me. “I don’t want you mentioning a word of this to your grandmother,’ he spits. “The last thing I need right now is for her to start interfering and busybodying around. Do you hear me, Liberty? I need you to keep your mouth firmly zipped. I need to find my own way out of this situation. And if I discover you two have been gossiping on the phone there’ll be trouble. OK?”

Chapter 6 welcum to the dump…

My dad stops the car in front of a grey concrete block of flats somewhere in London.

“We’re here, Liberty,” he says. “I need you to help me with your trunk because it’s not safe to leave it on the roof. It’ll be gone in a flash.”

“Where are we, Daddy?” I ask. “Who lives here?” “We do,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “for now anyway. I know it’s a mess, Liberty, but this is what it’s come to: a grotty flat in a grotty part of town.”

“But why here?” I ask. “Why not home?”

“Because, as Sebastian so delicately put it, we don’t actually have a home any more. He was right, Liberty; we don’t have anything left. The bank has taken everything except a few personal bits. This flat belongs to a friend of mine, he usually rents it out, but it’s free at the moment, so I moved in yesterday and we’re staying here until I get back on my feet. It won’t take long, I promise, I’ve got my finger in a few pies already.”

I stare up at the ugly grey building.

“So we don’t have a home?” I whisper.

Some big kids are click-clacking on skateboards, a few girls are playing hopscotch and there are some really young children squealing and running around playing catch without any grown-ups watching them. The words “Welcum to the dump” are written in red graffiti on the wall near the lift. I’ve seen places like this on TV but I’ve never been to one in real life and I don’t feel very welcome.

My trunk is heavy and it keeps twisting around and hurting my wrist. I try my hardest to be strong, but it’s just too heavy for me. My dad sighs and ends up dragging it along on his own, while I manage our bags. He’s not talking and when we discover the lift is broken he groans and snaps while he bumps my trunk up the stairs. After we’ve gone up a couple of flights, he starts getting out of breath, so I try to help again. But he shakes me off, like I am an insect trying to bite him.

Beyond the green front door of our flat I find a few unfamiliar rooms to explore. A tiny kitchen with grey tiles, a sitting room with glass doors leading on to a balcony that has a few dead plants on it, a small bathroom and two bedrooms, one with a double bed and one with a single. I spy a pile of my things already heaped on the single bed and go on in to make myself at home. The room is tiny and has musty damp smells lurking in the corners. Whoever graffitied “Welcum to the dump” was right. It is. I try not to remember my beautiful bedroom in our London house, with my own en suite bathroom and four-poster bed or my room in our French house with its deep blue walls and wooden shutters that overlook the pool. A sick taste rises in my throat, which I swallow down fast.

I look out of my bedroom window on to the car park below. A sad lonely tree is crying autumn leaves that scatter in the breeze and I wish the wind would blow me back to school where I belong. I kick the stupid bed. It’s small and tatty and old like the rest of this dump and I don’t want to be here. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. It looks like it’s made from a million tiny snowy mountains. I wish I were skiing on them. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m on the Alps, in my skis. But then Sebastian spoils my dream by zooming past me, waving and reminding me that I’m not that good at skiing anyway; just like everything else, I’m actually quite rubbish. But I don’t care because I’m almost certainly never going to go skiing again. Now we’re poor I’m probably doomed never to do anything fun ever again.

I get bored of ceiling gazing and busy myself unpacking my trunk and arranging my belongings. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to put pictures on the walls, so I leave my posters in my trunk and put it at the end of my bed like a little seat. I make the bed with my duvet and stuff from school then try out the mauve plastic blinds. They don’t work very well so I pull them back up quickly so no one can accuse me of breaking them and sit quietly on my bed, waiting for my new life to begin.

After about half an hour of waiting nothing in my new life has happened. My dad hasn’t come to find me and I haven’t gone to find him. We’re like hide and seek gone wrong. Everybody’s hiding and no one is seeking. We’re just sitting waiting for something to happen. My tummy’s rumbling. I missed lunch at school and I was too scared to ask my dad to stop for food on the way. I can hear a quiz programme blaring out from the television, filling our quiet flat with other people’s laughter and clapping and cheerful sounds. I should probably go and join him but I’m scared, I don’t want to make him angry again. I pull out my book of 100 favourite poems, flick through it and wish Matron had given me a book on 100 top tips on what to do when the credit crunch has turned your life upside down. It would have been more useful right now than poems.

After another hour of waiting, I am so bored with looking at poems that even a maths lesson would seem like fun, so I decide to go and explore. I’m nervous and can’t stop scratching the patch of worry eczema that’s popped up on my wrist. I’m really hungry and my dad must be starving as he looks like he hasn’t eaten for days. I can’t remember my dad ever cooking dinner for me. I can remember him flying through the door and bolting his food down before going off for a business meeting or a game of squash at the gym, but cooking isn’t something he’s able to do. All he’s really good at is work.

Eventually I creep out of my room and explore the dingy kitchen. I find a tub of margarine, a tomato and a litre of milk in the fridge. In the cupboard on the wall are two tins of baked beans with sausages, half a loaf of bread and some instant coffee. I make us both some beans and sausages on toast and even though I don’t actually like coffee I make a mug for each of us to have with our meal. Maybe helping out will make him like me more.

“Eat your dinner, Daddy, ” I say, “before it gets cold.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s just staring at the telly, like I don’t exist any more.

“I made us some food,” I say, a little louder. “I thought you’d be hungry, Daddy.”

He just keeps staring so I balance his food on his lap and put a knife and fork in his hands. An old memory of how to eat food sparks up in his brain and he eats and eats and eats, without saying one word, until his plate is empty. I take it from his lap and give him his coffee, which he quickly drinks down.

“Do you need anything else, Daddy?” I ask.

“What do you think I need?” he storms, his words flashing through the room like lightening. “It’s a pretty stupid question, Liberty, isn’t it? But then I suppose that’s why you don’t seem to be able to get on very well at school. Even a fool could work out what I need. I need money! I need a job! I need a life! Look at me! I’m ruined! And if you think a plate of beans on toast is going to make it all better, you’d better think again.”

I shrink back into myself, wishing I could disappear into the sofa, and then he’d never have to bother with me again. I keep my eyes on the carpet and my body very still. One wrong move and he’ll get more furious. One wrong word and I’m dead.

I hate my dad. I wish I could get up and shout my own head off at him and say mean stuff like, “Failure is not an option for a Parfitt, blah, blah, blah.” Or, “You’re letting the side down, Henry Parfitt, time to pull your socks up and put your head down and find the money to send me back to school where I belong.” But I don’t because I’m frozen to the sofa like a statue, not daring to move.

Chapter 7 school…?

The next morning my dad is still sitting where I left him. The beardy stubble on his face has grown a little longer, his skin is a little greyer and his eyes look darker and more tired and far away. He’s staring at breakfast telly like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. I peep in at him and try to say hello but the words get stuck in my throat, I think they’re too scared to come out in case he bites their heads off. I go and have a shower instead. The shower in the bathroom doesn’t work properly. It keeps going from freezing cold to boiling hot and I have to dance in and out of it and try to wash myself quickly when it lands on warm. This bathroom is rubbish. It’s got black mould growing in the bits between the tiles and it’s spreading like some deathly disease all over the walls. I shrink away from it, not wanting to catch anything bad. My bathroom in our London house was made from soft, cool marble and the decorator put things like lighthouses and starfish all about the place to give it a seaside feel. At least I have my old sand-coloured towels here to dry myself with. At least they’re clean and uncontaminated.

I dry myself and wrap up in my bathrobe, which smells all friendly of school, then make us both some coffee and toast with sliced tomato. I’m getting used to the taste of coffee and decide that I actually even quite like its rich, roasty flavour, just like that advert says. My dad’s used to our old housekeeper, Maureen, making his breakfast for him, so if I wasn’t here to do it I truly think he’d starve. There’s hardly anything left in the cupboards and I’m worried about what we’ll have for supper. But I’m not going to ask him what’s going to happen. I don’t care if we die from starvation.

“Your uniform’s in the plastic bag on my bed,” my dad barks, making me jump, because I thought he’d actually forgotten how to speak. “You start school at 8.45. Turn left as you come out of the flats and keep going straight until you get there. It’s simple. Then go to the office and they’ll tell you were to go and what to do and how the whole free school lunch thing works. It’s all sorted, OK?”

“School?” I whisper.

“Of course, school,” he barks. “What did you think, Liberty, that you were going to laze around the place all day long watching daytime telly? Of course you’ve got to go to school, that’s what children do, isn’t it? And with your poor academic record, Liberty, you haven’t got a moment to spare. Go and get stuck in! And I want you to make a good impression, do you hear? Don’t let me down.”

I wish I could ask if I can wait until Monday morning, because starting school on a Friday seems pointless to me. I wish I could ask if I can have some time getting used the idea of a new school and a new life, but I can’t, so I swallow my words down with a bitter sip of coffee.

My dad’s bedroom is a mess. There are a few huge old trunks that I don’t recognise stacked in the corner, loads of plastic bin bags full of clothes and stuff, a suitcase and some dusty boxes that look like they’ve come from our London house attic. There’s a pile of Sebastian’s medals and trophies on the floor and masses of important-looking paperwork toppling off Dad’s bedside table. His bed’s not made up and I can see stains on the mattress left behind from people who’ve lived here before. There’s a fresh pile of starched cotton sheets, cleaned and ironed by Maureen, our old housekeeper, waiting to go on. But they look all wrong here in this stupid old flat, they look all sad and shy and out of place.

I rummage through the piles of stuff until I come across a carrier bag of clothes that look like they might be my school uniform. Next to them I spy a battered old violin case that’s completely covered in dust. I’ve never seen it before and I can’t quite believe my eyes. I rub them to make sure I’ve not gone completely mad and started seeing things that aren’t real. But when I look again it’s still there, lying on the bed like the best treasure I have ever seen in my whole life. I’m dying to open it and pull the violin out and play. My skin is glittering all over with excitement and I can already feel the music washing right over me and carrying me away to paradise. But I can’t open it, can I? My dad would go mad, especially if I started playing it first thing in the morning. He doesn’t even know I can play. I’d make him splutter his coffee all over himself in shock. But what is a violin doing on his bed anyway? My dad hates music, everybody knows that. So how did it get here? Who does it even belong to?

Relief starts flooding through me. Maybe he’s changed his mind? Maybe with the credit crunch and everything he’s decided to stop fighting me about music? A frog jumps into my head with an idea in its mouth. It’s my birthday next week; maybe he got the violin for me as a surprise? Maybe he got it to make up for me having to leave my school and everything else in my life behind? Maybe he isn’t so mean after all? I actually can’t believe it; my dad’s finally got me a violin! I know everything will be OK when I’m allowed to play. It won’t matter where we live or what stupid school I have to go to.

I decide not to say anything because I don’t want to spoil his surprise. Instead, I draw a tiny heart in the dust, and then rub it out quickly so my dad won’t see.

My new uniform is very different from my old one. It’s more relaxed. I have a pair of black trousers, a red polo shirt, and a black jumper with red stitching on it that reads “Cherry Grove Community School”. And there’s a blazer with a badge that has an embroidered picture of a red cherry tree and the Latin words: Prosperitus est non quis vos perficio, est quisnam vos es written underneath. I search in my brain to remember some Latin words from my old school and work out that my new school motto is saying something about success, so my dad will be pleased with that.

Chapter 8 the grave…

The stairway out of our flats is very busy at 8.25 in the morning. There are people in smart suits with briefcases and mums with buggies and babies and kids wearing the same clothes as me, all pushing and shoving their way down the stairs. I turn left like Dad said and follow the trail of black and red uniforms that spills out on to the street. I’m scared. I’ve heard all about state schools from other people at my old school and they sound noisy and rough and big. Alice’s cousin says there are loads of fights and people get hurt. Maybe I should have argued harder with my dad and Mr Jenkins and forced them to let me stay. What I don’t understand is why my dad is always so mean to me and not to Sebastian? Sebastian gets everything he wants. I’ve been as good as gold my whole life and tried so hard not to make a nuisance of myself but still my dad holds me as far away as possible from him, like I’ve got sick all down my front and am covered in a highly contagious rash. But none of that matters now. I can forgive him for it all because he got me a surprise violin for my birthday. A warm little rush of excitement races through my body and makes me want to skip.

Down on the street an old man is struggling to get into his old people buggy car thing. He’s puffing and panting and struggling to get his old legs moving. When he sees me he calls out.

“You seen Cali this morning?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I say, “I’m new here, I don’t know who Cali is. Can I help?”

“I just need a hand,” he says. “If I can just rest on your arm a minute then I can pull this stupid old leg up and get on. It’s lottery day, you see, I’ve got to get my ticket. It’s a £13 million rollover.”

“Hi,” says a girl with a million tiny plaits in her hair tied with multicoloured braid. “You need a hand, Ivor?”

“There you are,” says Ivor, looking relieved at Cali’s arrival. “I thought you’d abandoned me for the day.”

“You know I’d never do that, Ivor,” she laughs, helping him into his buggy, like she’s done it a hundred times before.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” says Cali, when Ivor is safely in his buggy and heading off towards the shops and we’re making our way to school.

“We’ve just moved here,” I say. “I’m Liberty Parfitt, what’s your name?”

“I’m Cali,” she says. “You know, you wanna tone that accent of yours down, it’ll get you into trouble at The Grave. The other kids will eat you alive! But stick with me, Libs, and you’ll be safe. What year you in?”

“Seven.”

“Cool,” she smiles, “same as me. Where did you find that accent, Libs? It’s terrible! You sound like you’re related to the Queen or something.”

“Not sure,” I say, trying hard to listen to my own voice. “I’ve always had it, I suppose.”

Then Cali cracks up laughing and staggers around in fits of giggles. “Well, if you take my advice, girl, you’ll ditch it pretty soon. Fitting in is what it’s all about at The Grave, and accents like yours just don’t. OK?”

“OK. Why do you call it ‘The Grave’?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” she says, “soon enough. You sure do have a lot to learn, Libs, but first off you gotta start dropping your T’s and you gotta shake your voice up a bit. Speak easy, like me. Like cas-u-al.”

“I’ll try,” I say, “but it’s just natural to me, I don’t know how I would even begin to change it.”

“That’s where I come in,” she says. “Just listen real careful to me and you’ll pick it up in no time. Pretend you’re acting or something, you know? Oh, and The Grave? It’s Cherry Grove, Cherry Grave, get it? It’s like a graveyard inside those walls. Nothing good ever happens; it’s just rubbish, Libs. All the teachers and most of the kids are like the living dead, sucking graveyard air,” Cali makes a spooky face, “and no one even cares about the education. It’s more about surviving than learning. It’s a dead-end place from beginning to end, preparing you for rubbish jobs when you leave. Except for me that is, Liberty Parfitt. Me? I’ve got big plans. I’m going somewhere. You’ll see. So, why did you move here then?”

“Credit crunch,” I say. “My dad’s business went bust so I had to leave my school. We’re staying in a friend’s flat until we get back on our feet.”

“Posh school, I bet?” she asks. “I was born to go to one of them, I promise you! I’m bright enough. It’s just the stork got lost on the way and I got delivered to the wrong family.”

“It was just school to me,” I say. “I’d been there since I was seven years old. But I’m not there any more, Cali, I’m here and I need to get on and get used to it, just like everything else in my life.”

When we reach The Grave thousands of kids swarm like black and red bees through the gates. Unfamiliar sounds buzz around me and I can’t quite tell if I’m more scared or more curious. In all of Alice’s wildest dreams and in all of mine, we couldn’t have imagined that I’d find myself in a place like this. But here I am amidst a thousand black and red bees; with my new friend Cali, who has a million tiny plaits in her hair tied with multicoloured braid.

Cali comes to the school office with me and somehow manages to persuade the lady there to let me be in the same class as her. She promises be my “class buddy” and show me around. The corridors here are long and grey and dark and smell of old cabbage and disinfectant. There are no flowers decorating the place, like in my old school and no gold carpets on the floors. Instead, everywhere is decorated with black and red bumblebee children zooming along the corridors and screeching up and down the stairs.

“Slow down, ladies and gentlemen,” shouts a teacher, “and keep your voices down.”

But no one listens. Everyone just carries on running and screaming. No one holds doors open for other people or offers to carry the teachers’ heavy bags. I feel small in this big place and am worried that I won’t fit in. I wish I hadn’t tied my hair back so neatly, I look stupid. I pull off my hair tie and shake my hair loose.

“Cool hair,” says Cali, looking at my bright red curls.

“Yours too,” I smile.

At my old school I knew every single child and teacher by name and everyone there knew me. Here I know nobody, except Cali and I’m glad to have her next to me, she somehow makes me feel brave, like I could even face my dad with her around.

My first lesson is drama. Our teacher is at least 190 years old and she makes us read scenes from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I quite like Shakespeare, but all the rest of the kids are groaning with boredom. Shakespeare’s only fun if you know how to read it properly, otherwise it’s just a string of difficult words that are hard to understand. My old drama teacher taught us to read it in time with a heartbeat, that way the whole thing suddenly comes alive.

A boy with spiky hair, who is called Dylan, is interrupting our reading by having a fight with our teacher, Mrs MacDougall. He’s going on about the fact that she’s infringing his human rights by asking him to turn his mobile phone off during lesson time and Mrs MacDougall is trying to give him a calm and reasoned argument to dispute this. I know she’s not really feeling calm inside because a little stream of sweat is running down her face and on to her blouse collar, making a stain. I am shocked. I have never seen a pupil argue with a teacher before.

A girl with white-blonde hair holds up a red card and runs out of the room.

“She’s allowed to do it,” says Cali, seeing my surprise. “She has an anger problem, which means she sometimes just bursts into one big rage that disrupts the whole class and frightens the teachers. So it’s better for everyone if she gets herself to the ‘green room’ as quickly as possible to calm herself down.”

Clusters of girls are whispering and giggling and not paying attention to any of what’s going on. Some boys at the back of the class are shooting bits of squished up paper through their biros to see who can be first to hit the bull’seye, which happens to be Mrs MacDougall’s head. There’s so much going on in our classroom that my eyes don’t know where to look next and I’m finding it hard to keep my attention on Shakespeare. Cali is sighing and gently bashing her head on the table in despair.

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