Operation Eiffel Tower (10 page)

Lauren stepped backwards. ‘You can’t stop me. I’m not a kid any more.’

‘Well, maybe you should stop behaving like one. Sometimes I really do know best, Lauren,’ Mum snapped.

Lauren turned away and ran up the stairs. Jack heard the slam of her bedroom door.

Mum looked at him. ‘Oh, Jack.’

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms round her waist. He could feel her ribs beneath his palms. She dropped her cheek down on to the top of his head and just leaned there for a while. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she whispered.

Chapter 17

The next morning, Jack was woken by the sound of scuffling outside his bedroom door. He tried to pull the duvet over his head and ignore it, but then the door opened.

Ruby bustled in, half pushing, half dragging Billy.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said proudly. ‘Look.’

Jack rubbed his eyes. ‘Morning, Ruby. What’s your idea?’

‘Look!’

She pushed Billy forward. He stumbled a few paces. He was finding it hard to walk, because Ruby had put a big sign round his neck.

‘For Sale,’ it said in blue felt-tip. ‘£100.’

‘What’s for sale?’ Jack asked. He sat up.

Ruby tutted, copying the noise that Auntie Joyce made when she found a red sock in someone’s white wash. ‘Billy, of course!’

Billy nodded.

‘We talked about it, didn’t we, Billy?’ Ruby said. ‘Lots of people adopt children. I’ve seen adverts on the telly. People give a little bit of money every month and get photos and letters from the kids they’ve adopted. Well, we thought someone might want to give all that money in one go. And they’d get to keep Billy. There would be enough money in the Paris fund then. You don’t mind, do you, Billy?’

Billy lifted the sign and stuck the corner of it in his mouth.

Jack looked at the crooked sign round Billy’s neck. He looked at the eager smile on Ruby’s face. And he started to laugh. He lay back down, chuckling into his pillow.

‘Don’t laugh! It’s a good idea!’ Ruby said crossly.

The bubbles of laughter rose up in Jack again, he couldn’t help it. He was starting to get a stitch.

‘Stop it!’ Ruby said.

Jack gasped a few times. He wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not funny. It’s a good idea.’

‘No,’ Jack said softly. ‘We can’t sell Billy.’

‘But . . .’ Ruby’s forehead creased in worry. ‘How else will we get enough money? How else will we get Dad to come back? We need them to go to Paris. You said so. Lauren said so. If we don’t get the money, me and Billy won’t see Dad again!’

‘Is that what you think?’ Jack asked.

‘Yes,’ Ruby whispered.

Jack pushed back his duvet, reached over and lifted the sign from Billy’s neck. ‘Well, you will see Dad again. Whether we get the money or not.’

‘Mum said I couldn’t.’

‘She said you couldn’t
yesterday
, not for ever.’ Jack held Ruby’s shoulders firmly. ‘Ruby, it’s going to be OK. We don’t have to sell Billy.’

‘Promise?’

Jack nodded slowly. ‘I promise.’

Chapter 18

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Dad’s gone

Dear Paul,

I hope you’re are doing OK and training isn’t too hard. Everything is weird here and not in a good way. Dad has gone to stay at The Larches, which is a bed and breakfast place. I don’t know when he’s coming back. Me and Lauren went to visit him yesterday. Ruby and Billy didn’t come because Mum said no.

The house feels funny without Dad in it. Do you think he’ll be OK by himself? Will he get lonely, do you think?

Do you know who Elvis Presley is? I googled him because of something Dad said. I watched a clip. Elvis was singing a song about being in love for ever with just one person. It was in black and white and he had weird sticky-up hair and a suit that looked a bit mouldy. But it was still a good song. Dad sang it to Mum once, you know.

Hey, guess what? I won a golf tournament. Top prize was £50! I wasn’t sure I could do it, but I got a hole-in-one on the very last hole.

Love,

Jack

P.S. Please don’t tell anyone, but Lauren stole an ornament from Dad’s bed and breakfast. And she didn’t seem sorry about it.

Chapter 19

Jack hit Send. He was glad that he’d told Paul about winning the tournament, but the person he really wanted to tell was Dad. Not that he could, because the trip to Paris was meant to be a surprise. But he wanted to so badly that it was like a pain in his stomach. He slipped out of his chair and went to the phone in the hall. There was a tattered old address book next to the phone. He looked up Dad’s mobile number and dialled quickly. It went straight to voicemail. It was switched off.

Jack sat down on the bottom step and rested his chin on his hands. Dad usually switched his phone off on a Sunday morning, because he played golf then. But he wouldn’t have gone there today, would he?

Would he?

Right.

‘Mum! Mum, I’m going to see William,’ Jack yelled. Then he left the house, not heading for the front but for the proper golf course, the grown-up course where Dad was a member.

It wasn’t far, just beyond The Larches where Dad was staying. Jack put his hands in his pockets and walked quickly. He broke into a run.

Would Dad be playing golf today? What did it mean if he was? Jack tried to concentrate on his stride, the pounding of his feet on the pavement.

At the course, he turned left into the drive. There was a big white sign with royal blue paint advertising the golf course. Jack ran past it, up towards the clubhouse.

He stopped, panting, just outside Reception. He could see in through the window; some men were looking at the clubs that were on sale, a couple of women were trying on sun visors, the lady behind the desk was on the phone. Jack rested his hand on the door but didn’t push it open.

He hadn’t been here much before. Dad said he was still a bit too young to come and play, though he kept promising that Jack could come when he was older. Jack didn’t know the name of the person at Reception. He didn’t know any of the people waiting inside. He suddenly felt very shy, very small. He stepped back from the door.

He looked back down the drive. Maybe he should just go home. Or maybe he should go to the B and B to see if Dad was there. He looked up at the summer-blue sky.

‘Jack?’

It was Dad’s voice.

‘Jack, what are you doing here?’

Jack froze. Dad was here. He
had
come golfing on the first weekend after moving out of the house. Jack felt sick, as though he’d accidentally drunk sour milk for breakfast.

‘Jack?’

Jack turned slowly. Dad was walking towards him, pulling his golf bag behind him.

‘What is it, Jack? Has something happened?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I just wanted to see you.’ He wished he could tell Dad about winning the Open. He wished Dad could smile and put his hand on his shoulder and say he was proud. Jack pressed his lips together.

‘Oh, Jack.’ Dad stepped forward. He pulled Jack into a loose hug. ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’

Jack shook his head, feeling the wool of Dad’s jumper against his cheek.

Dad paused. ‘Well, you can stay for a bit, but then I’ll have to get you home. OK?’

‘OK,’ Jack whispered.

‘Come on.’ Dad rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder and moved off. ‘What shoes are you wearing?’ He looked down at Jack’s trainers and pulled a face. ‘Oh, well. Just try not to let anyone see them.’

They headed off across the lawn in front of reception. The ground rose gently. To their left was a small lake with a fountain spraying into the air, the drops of water shining like tiny rainbows. On the right, the grass had been trimmed close as a squaddie’s haircut. There were lots of holes close together to practise putting. It was just like William’s World of Wonders, but without the Wonders.

‘Where are we going?’ Jack asked.

‘Not far.’

They turned away from the teeing-off spot for the first hole. They were heading towards a copse of trees – Jack recognised oak and thought another might be willow. There was a kind of shed nestled in their shade. It looked a bit like a long bus shelter, except that one of the long sides was closed off by a net. There was no one else there.

‘Driving practice,’ Dad said. He rummaged in his bag until he found his tee-case, then pushed one into the ground a few metres away from the net.

Jack understood what the shed was for. Dad could wallop the ball as hard as he liked towards the back of the shed and the net would catch it. He could practise his swing without having to go and collect all the balls from miles away afterwards. Jack rested his hand on the open top of Dad’s golf bag. ‘Driver?’ he asked.

‘Three-iron, just to warm up,’ Dad said.

Jack pulled the three-iron from the bag and handed it to Dad.

Dad lined up the club with the tee. He brought it down two or three times before connecting with the ball. The sound was loud, like a slap on flesh. The ball and the tee went flying, before landing dead in the netting.

Dad did it again. And again.

Jack crouched down on the ground. The sun was warm through his T-shirt. There were little flecks of grit in the dirt. He poked at them with his fingertip, arranging them into a pile like a tiny pyramid.

‘Driver,’ Dad said after a while.

Jack leaped up. The driver was a huge club with a head the size of a saucer. Jack pulled off the little sock that kept it clean and handed it to Dad.

He sat down on the grass again. Above him the breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in a gentle whisper. From far away, golfers shouted, ‘Fore!’ as their balls flew off in the wrong direction. No wonder Dad preferred here to home.

‘OK,’ Dad said after a while, ‘your turn.’

Jack stood up. Dad lined the ball up for him, then handed him a lighter club. It was still way too big for him; he had to hold it just below the handle.

‘There,’ Dad said. ‘Just hit it as hard as you can.’

Jack lifted the club, then brought it down – smack! – against the ball. The ball hooked left; if the net hadn’t caught it he would have had to yell, ‘Fore!’