I slump down onto a nearby bench as the ramifications of this latest blow sink in.
What am I going to do without money?
Being a student, I have no other savings. No money at all – except what little I brought with me. Scrabbling for my purse, I count the cash inside. Thirty-three pounds and fifty-eight pence exactly. And that has to last for who knows how long! I definitely can’t justify a full English breakfast.
Heading wearily over to a supermarket, I buy a loaf of bread, some bananas and a canned drink from a marked-down bin, and return to the bench to eat breakfast. Swallowing the dry bread is difficult because of the big lump in my throat. But I’m hungry, so I bolt it down anyway, washing it down with sips of the orange-flavour drink. Minutes later, I feel the acid burn of indigestion.
With no money in my account, getting a job is now more vital than ever, so after binning my banana skin, I head to the public toilets to tidy myself up. Splashing my face with water and cleaning my teeth makes me feel a whole lot better, and with a slick of make-up, I’m ready for anything. My wild red hair is another story. I comb it through as best I can, recalling how Dad always countered the bullying comments I received at school for being a carrot-top by telling me it was good to be different. He’d say things like, ‘They’re just jealous, Lucy. You should feel proud to have the rarest hair colour on the planet. And you’ve also got the best excuse in the world to be feisty.’
My throat feels choked, thinking of Dad. But I tell myself this is no time to get emotional. I need to get a job!
I spend the next few hours walking the length of the high street and back on the other side, going into shops and asking about employment. The people I speak to are mostly really nice but there’s nothing going, although quite a few suggest I should go down to the harbour and promenade area and try the cafes there. But when I do, I have no luck there, either.
Finally, I’m back at the bench where I ate my bread and banana earlier, and my determination to remain positive is beginning to crumble. Who was I kidding, thinking I could make a fresh start here? With no money, it’s going to be impossible.
But I can’t go back home.
Not when being there only seems to feed my paranoia…
*****
I’d been worried I was going crazy, with all the little slip-ups that kept happening. But it was the day of the dress incident that I knew I was in real trouble…
Dad was having a bonfire in the garden, getting rid of some old wooden boxes he’d had in the garage. I’ve always loved bonfires so I was watching it from my bedroom window.
Eleanor called through the door, ‘Is there anything you want rid of, Lucy? I’m burning my old bank statements from years ago.’
‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Why don’t you come down and help me? It would do you good to get some fresh air.’
‘Yes, sure.’ I was feeling lethargic, but I forced myself into action.
I followed her outside, knowing she was right. I needed to start going for walks, at least, because I was getting no exercise whatsoever.
Dad was smashing up the boxes and feeding the wood onto the fire, and Eleanor had some plastic bags of old paper bills and statements. She gave one of the bags to me and I started to throw the pages onto the fire.
‘This reminds me of bonfire parties when I was young.’ Eleanor was laughing, touching Dad’s arm. ‘All we need is potatoes baking in the hot ashes and a few sparklers.’
‘The only sparkler I need round here is you.’ Dad grinned, pausing with some wood in one hand and blowing her a kiss. A feeling of warmth trickled through me, seeing his relaxed and happy expression. I might find Eleanor a bit cool and unreadable, but Dad clearly adored her, and that was enough for me.
I caught a flash of orange and green out of the corner of my eye.
Eleanor was pulling something made of material out of the bottom of the plastic bag, and when I recognised the pattern – watermelon and orange segments on a pale pink background - my heart lurched with horror.
What was she doing with Mum’s dress? The one she made herself?
‘No! Give it back!’ I cried, and I made a grab for it, knocking into Eleanor so that she stumbled to the side.
But I was too late. And I watched in horror as the dress flew into the air and landed in the middle of the bonfire.
Panicking, I grabbed a branch lying on the ground and started poking at the fire, trying to dislodge the garment. Sparks flew around, some landing on my bare skin, but I didn’t care. I had to get it back…
Then Dad was there, pulling me away.
I resisted at first, but with Dad holding one arm and a concerned Eleanor the other, there was nothing I could do.
I glared at Eleanor, barely able to believe what she’d done. ‘How dare you burn my mum’s clothes!’ I yelled in desperation. ‘Why the hell would you do that?’
‘Lucy, Lucy,’ Dad soothed. ‘Eleanor wouldn’t burn your mum’s dress. You know she wouldn’t.’ But I caught his questioning look in her direction.
Eleanor herself looked shocked. ‘Lucy, what did you think it was that I threw on the fire?’
‘Mum’s dress, of course. I recognised the pattern.’
‘Well, it wasn’t. It was just some old material I’d had in a box for years,’ she said gently. ‘I was going to make kitchen curtains with it but I never got around to it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I heard myself snarl, ‘and it just happened to be the same material Mum made her dress from?’ In desperation, I turned to Dad. ‘You remember that dress, don’t you, Dad? You used to say Mum looked good enough to eat anyway, without being covered in orange and watermelon!’
Dad’s face falls and I could kick myself for reminding him of this.
‘I do remember, love. Of course I do,’ he murmured. ‘But that wasn’t her dress.’
‘Really? Well, I wish I could believe you.’ I wrenched myself away from him. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and see if it’s still in the wardrobe. Then we’ll know.’
I marched away and ran upstairs to the spare room and flung open the wardrobe door. And the first thing I saw hanging there was the dress.
I sat on the bed and stared at it, a horrible panicky feeling surging up inside.
What the hell was happening to me?
I thought about it a lot over the next few days. I was obviously still so raw over Mum that I kept imagining things that weren’t true. Of course Eleanor would never burn Mum’s clothes. Why would she? But her curtain material had obviously triggered a memory in my brain, making everything spin horrendously out of control. Poor Eleanor. She must sometimes wonder what the hell she’d let herself in for, moving in with Dad and his crazy daughter…
After that, I sunk into an even blacker hole.
I was desperate to feel like my ‘normal’ self again, but I couldn’t seem to find a way forward. I hoped that the bonfire incident would prove to be some kind of terrible watershed, and that things would get better after that.
I never imagined that there was worse to come…
CHAPTER SIX
I glance at the little café where I was planning to have breakfast before my cash point shock. Maybe I should try in there to see if there are any jobs going?