But she was shaking her head. ‘Well, yes, technically, but we’ve set aside my commission to spend on stuff that keeps us alive, like food and heating—’
‘Which doesn’t even work—’
‘Oi,’ said Dad. ‘Lower your voice. The energy fields in this room literally just died. I felt it inside me. Very sad.’
I rolled my eyes as loudly as I could.
‘I heard that,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, please stop,’ wailed Birdie.
‘Yes, pack it in,’ said Mum. ‘My favourite film is starting in a minute—’
I snapped.
‘That’s enough.’ Dad made some vague sweeping gestures around the room, as if he was trying to shoo the energy fields out of harm’s way. ‘Go away, Frankie,’ he said, ‘until you’ve calmed down.’
‘But—’
‘Now.’
I glared at him, realised there was no point, and stomped up the stairs towards my bedroom, those words in my mouth writhing with frustration. What happens to strong emotions if you’re not allowed to feel them? Where do they go?
Because adults are always at it, aren’t they? Sorting out and tidying up our feelings, squishing them into other shapes if they don’t like the look of them, as if they’re made of Play-Doh or something, right from the moment we’re born. ‘Hush Little Baby, Don’t You Cry’ is essentially just one long lecture about keeping quiet, but set to music. Then when we get older, it’s always ‘Don’t be cross!’, ‘Calm down!’, ‘Buck up’ and
‘Do not set fire to the
village hall,
even
if it
is by
accident.’
If we’re sad, we’re told to be happy, but if we laugh, it’s a bit too loud. If we’re excited, we’re told to be quiet. And then they say, ‘Everything all right? You’re very quiet.’ It’s a losing game all right.
No one ever says: ‘You know that big, bad, loud feeling you’re experiencing? Well, you go right ahead. Feel away. Don’t let us stop you. Look at you, clever girl, expressing your wonderfully complex personality by shouting, going bright red and slamming doors. We admire your efforts to be so in tune with your inner self and applaud your enthusiasm in this area. Here, have a trophy.’
No. They don’t. Trust me. I did my research in the field, put it that way.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, there was a knock on my bedroom door.
‘What?’ I said.
Mum poked her head round. Her cheeks were flushed from the fire Dad had lit downstairs, and her mid-morning Prosecco.
‘I do know how important friends are, Frankie. Especially at your age. And me and Dad both recognise that you need opportunities to enjoy peer-to-peer interactions.’
I nodded, not entirely sure what she was talking about, but encouraged anyway.
‘And your birthday is coming up …’ she added, smiling.
‘Seven sleeps.’
‘So if it means that much to you, as an early birthday treat, we’ll go to the Crack Bot for lunch. I mean the Crat Pop. The Crab thingy.’
She looked at me in a meaningful way. ‘But it’s not because you shouted at us. I know, underneath it all, you’re trying to control your temper. We know it’s a challenge for you, and I love you for making an effort, I do. But honestly, Frankie, sometimes I wish you’d find something more important to get angry about.’
I leapt off my bed and hugged her. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered into her woodsmoke curls.
She paused for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else. After a while, she hugged me back. ‘Now go and say sorry to Birdie, please, because she hates it when you get cross, and then let’s get dressed for our posh lunch.’ She glanced out of my window and smiled. ‘It’s stopped raining. Looks like the sun’s trying to come out.’
So I went and made amends. It wasn’t a good apology. I was desperate to get going. I mumbled out ‘Sorry’ and ‘Didn’t mean it’. But Birdie didn’t seem to mind. She just said, ‘It’s all right’ in that husky voice of hers and hugged me tightly, because that’s what she was like. Hopeless at bearing grudges. It was hard to believe we were sisters sometimes.
I had to prise her arms away in the end, saying I needed to get dressed. When she asked if I would put a braid in her hair, I said, ‘Not now’ and ran to my room to get changed.
Not, admittedly, my best moment as her big sister. If I’d known how things were going to turn out, I’d have done it all differently. I’d have cuddled her back as tightly as I could. Plaited her hair for hours. Told her how much I loved her, and why.
Then I’d have stood at the front door and said, ‘I’ve changed my mind! Let’s not go anywhere near the harbour. We’ll stay at home all day – what a great idea. Consider yourselves under house arrest!’
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I stood in the porch with a face on, and said, ‘What’s taking you all so long?’
I hurried them.
Me. I did that.
Me.
We walked up and down Legkiller Road so much back then I could have navigated it blindfold. It was our path to school, to the harbour and the village. Its real name was Kegmiller Road, but everyone called it Legkiller because of how steep it was. Its other distinguishing features were nettles, brambles, cow pats and potholes, and to reach it you had to cross a rutted field with a scary bull in it called Alan.
But I was so happy about lunch that it might as well have been paved with candyfloss. I practically skipped down it. Within minutes, we crested the hill, and began the slow descent down to the village.
‘It’s so quiet,’ Dad muttered. ‘Can’t even hear the birds singing.’
It was true. The silence around us felt heavy. There was a weird pressure on my eardrums, and by the look of pain on Birdie’s face as she rubbed her ears, I wasn’t the only one. And when we got down to Harbour Street, which was packed with people
