The Summer of Telling Tales Read online

  ‘I loved The Summer of Telling Tales – it’s truly gripping and you care desperately about both sisters.’

  Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Fans of Cathy Cassidy will love this absorbing tale of families and loyalty.’

  The Bookseller

  ‘I thoroughly enjoyed this perceptive, pacy story.’ Miriam Halahmy, author of Hidden

  PRAISE FOR LAURA SUMMERS

  Desperate Measures

  Winner of the AMI Literature Award

  Nominated for the Carnegie Medal

  Longlisted for the Branford Boase Award

  Shortlisted for the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize

  ‘An exciting adventure with plenty of drama and humour . . . Thought-provoking and moving.’

  Books for Keeps

  ‘A fabulous book . . . incredibly poignant.’

  Birmingham Post

  ‘The underlying issues do not overpower this story of family loyalties and friendship.’

  School Librarian

  Heartbeat Away

  ‘A mystery with a hint of the paranormal . . . Laura Summers proves she’s a distinctive and original voice.’

  The Bookseller

  ‘A great book, with a totally original storyline.’

  Crème Magazine

  First published in Great Britain in 2013

  by Piccadilly Press

  A Templar/Bonnier publishing company

  Deepdene Lodge, Deepdene Avenue, Dorking, Surrey, RH5 4AT

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Laura Summers 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Laura Summers to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 231 4 (paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 232 1

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design by Simon Davis

  Dedicated to my mother,

  Pamela Ruth Cranfield

  23rd September 1929 – 12th September 2012

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 1

  Ellie

  ‘Just promise me you won’t say a word to anyone,’ Mum whispers, as Grace and I leave for school.

  ‘I won’t,’ I tell her. ‘It’s OK, Mum.’

  She doesn’t need to say any more. I’d rather share a picnic with flesh-eating zombies than tell anyone what happens at home.

  She smiles that big smile as she gently closes the front door, so she stays on my mind all day long. I see her in every lesson, at lunchtime as I eat my cheese and jam sarnies, and even in assembly while Mrs Stone rants on about inappropriate behaviour in the corridors. I keep going over and over what happened last night, but all the time I’m on autopilot, happy-smiley-happy, pretending to everyone that it’s just another ordinary day.

  By the time school finishes, my face is aching and my head’s thumping, so I find Grace and we hurry along the pavement, weaving our way around bunches of kids chatting and laughing as they stroll home.

  ‘She’ll be OK, won’t she?’ I ask Grace again. She nods but speeds up, so now I’m jogging to keep up. I’d begged Mum to let us stay home today but she’d said we had to go in like normal.

  ‘Hey, Ellie, wait!’ I hear a voice call from down the street.

  It’s Lauren. She’s new in my class, funny and friendly and really popular already. Just the sort of girl I’d love to be instead of me. As she crosses the road and heads towards us, I can feel Grace tugging my sleeve, but it’s too late now. I can’t pretend I haven’t heard her.

  ‘Can I come round yours for a while?’ she asks, catching us up.

  I force a smile to mirror hers. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I say with a lame shrug.

  ‘You said that last time,’ Lauren replies. She turns to Grace. ‘You Ellie’s sister then?’ she asks, her eyes wide.

  She isn’t expecting this tall, stunning princess, with tumbling silky hair, cornflower-blue eyes and china-smooth skin. Lauren obviously thought my sister would be my clone – another instantly forgettable, snub-nosed kid with a generous sprinkling of spots – just a year older and a centimetre or two taller than me. Nothing special and definitely not a princess – more like the slave who empties the bins.

  Lauren’s friendliness is wasted on Grace. She ignores her, darts me an urgent look, then turns to go. I’m cringing all over. Why can’t she just speak, for goodness’ sake? It’s so embarrassing. One word would do – ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘hello’ . . . whatever.

  ‘Yeah, that’s Grace,’ I quickly blurt out, not wanting to explain right now that my sister doesn’t talk to anyone except me. ‘Sorry. Gotta go.’

  Lauren is staring at me curiously. I want to get away before she asks any more awkward questions.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Dad’s taking us out for pizza when we get home.’

  ‘Lucky thing!’ Lauren calls after me. ‘Wish my dad was like yours!’

  I don’t answer but grin and give her a wave.

  ‘What did you say that for?’ Grace asks fiercely, as we turn the corner.

  ‘I don’t know . . . last time . . . last time he was sorry . . . I just thought . . . ’

  Maybe everything is my fault, like he says. If I was quiet like Grace, or good at something and wasn’t such a pain, I wouldn’t stress him out all the time.

  Grace glances at me and her face softens. ‘Lauren’ll stop asking soon,’ she says.

  And I’m angry and sad and relieved all rolled into one because I know she’s right. They all stop asking after a while.

  Chapter 2

  Grace

  Mulberry Grove. Our road. An exclusive cul-de-sa
c, Dad says. All the houses look the same, painted white with mock black beams, red tiled roofs and heavy net curtains in the front windows so no one can see in.

  ‘Grace, don’t you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?’ There’s a wobble in Ellie’s voice.

  ‘No point.’ My eyes zigzag across the street.

  Number 3 – Mr and Mrs Lawn-Trimmed-With-Nail-Scissors.

  Number 4 – Mrs Six Cats.

  Number 5 – Mr Sad-Gnomes.

  Number 6 –

  ‘But wouldn’t it be amazing if we were other people, living completely different lives?’ she insists.

  Why be anyone else? Other people are the problem.

  Keep walking. Keep counting.

  Number 8 – House for sale.

  Number 9 –

  ‘Oh, come on, Grace, tell me who would you be and where?’ She gabbles on. ‘Anyone you want and anywhere you like.’

  ‘OK, still me – on a desert island. ’ My stomach’s churning, big time.

  Ignore it.

  Number 9 – Honeysuckle Cottage (who are they kidding?).

  ‘Well you wouldn’t catch me being me!’ Ellie says with a nervous snort. ‘I’d be someone glamorous, and obviously gob-smackingly beautiful, like a film star. And I’d swan around all day in my massive mansion, relaxing in my heart-shaped pool with ice cream sundaes lined up all around the edge.’

  I’ve heard it all before. Ellie could talk for England. It’s all right for some. I brought home my GCSE options form last week. Dad’s decided my future’s in dentistry – there’s money in teeth. He ticked triple science, so I have to drop art. But I want to be a fashion designer and the thought of poking around in other people’s mouths makes me want to puke. I made a list of what to say – put down everything. Then, standing in front of him, the words jammed up in my throat. In the end I had to swallow them all down, and they rolled around inside me like leftover school burgers.

  And that’s the feeling now. I’ve had it all day – right from when I woke up and tried not to remember last night. Must have looked bad as even Mrs Evans asked me in my violin lesson if everything was OK. I really wanted to tell her ‘no’ but I couldn’t. Couldn’t even get that one little word past the invisible gag over my mouth. Then my palms started sweating and I felt my face going red, so I just nodded and got stuck into my violin piece. By the time I’d finished, she’d forgotten she’d asked, offered me a boiled sweet and started going on about putting me in for some big music competition. I didn’t care, but I knew Dad would be pleased if I won something.

  And now we’re here.

  Number 14 – Home Sweet Home.

  Push open the gate. Do it.

  My hand’s shaking slightly. We scurry up the path neatly edged with clumps of lavender, past the rose bushes growing in the funny little dip in the middle of the lawn where Ellie pretends a vampire’s buried, and make our way around the side of the house to the kitchen door.

  Stop and listen.

  It’s dead quiet until a car door slams and we both jump, but it’s only Mr Kensell from next door, who waves and smiles. He’s wearing a grey suit and carrying a book under his arm. He and Dad are good friends.

  ‘Hi, girls!’ he calls, smoothing a hand across the top of his head as the wind blows his comb-over up into the air. ‘Tell your dad the next Neighbourhood Watch meeting is Monday evening, will you?’

  I nod and Ellie calls ‘OK’ but then we both freeze as he comes over and leans across the fence.

  ‘Oh and give him this for me, will you?’ he adds, handing me a big glossy book about birds. ‘Tell him thanks; it was very kind of him to lend me it. Very kind indeed.’

  He walks back to his house, humming. Dad gets on well with all our neighbours. Even Mr Sad-Gnomes. Mr Kensell’s son Danny, who doesn’t have a comb-over yet but is in training for one, told Ellie that Dad was a ‘top bloke’ the other day.

  I turn the handle of the kitchen door and push it open.

  S-l-o-w-l-y.

  The black and white floor tiles are spotless. The queasy feeling gets stronger. I slip off my shoes and place them where we’re supposed to: one tile’s width away from the kitchen wall.

  ‘Mum?’ Ellie calls. No answer. The broken plates from last night have been swept up and binned. Everything’s neat and tidy. Not a fork or a dish mop out of place. Bruno looks up, but when he clocks it’s only us, he carries on licking invisible drops of sauce from the floor, his tail wagging.

  ‘Mum!’ Ellie calls louder, opening the door to the hall, ‘You OK?’

  There’s a muffled noise from upstairs. We run up to find her bending over an open suitcase in her and Dad’s bedroom. She’s not wearing one of her usual high-necked, long-sleeved blouses and smart trousers but an old white T-shirt and jeans. The side of her neck is bruised with angry purple and black blotches.

  She looks up and smiles.

  Ellie bursts into tears, runs over and hugs her tightly. Mum winces in pain but shushes Ellie and smoothes her hair like she’s the one who’s been hurt.

  ‘We’ve only got ten minutes,’ she says. ‘Pack what you want to keep most. We’re leaving.’

  Chapter 3

  Ellie

  ‘Are we going to Auntie Anna’s?’ I ask wide-eyed. Dad doesn’t allow Mum to see her sister. Says she’s a bad influence and a lot of other much ruder things too.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘No, she doesn’t know anything about this.’

  ‘Then where?’

  Mum shrugs. ‘Away. Somewhere we can’t be found.’ She glances nervously at her watch then hands us a large canvas bag each. They’re the ones we pack full of stuff when we’re going on holiday.

  ‘We can’t take much,’ she tells us, ‘only what we can fit in the car. I’ve got some clothes, your sleeping bags and I’ve made some sandwiches for tea.’

  It’s as if we’re going on an outing.

  ‘What about Bruno?’ I ask.

  Mum looks at us and pulls a face.

  ‘We can’t leave Bruno, Mum!’ I protest. ‘We just can’t!’

  She puts her arm around me. ‘I’m really sorry. He’ll be OK,’ she says gently. ‘Girls, we’ve got to hurry. Your dad —’

  Out of the blue, the phone suddenly rings. We all recognise the number on the display and exchange terrified glances. Mum reaches over the bedside table and slowly picks up the receiver.

  ‘Hi, Adam,’ she says, her voice calm but her eyes wide with fear.

  It’s Dad checking up. He rings Mum at random times from work every day to find out what she’s doing and make sure she’s not gone out without his say-so.

  Mum waves us out of the bedroom and tells him she’s just about to start cooking tea: steak and onion pie made from scratch, his favourite. I’m frightened that he might be able to hear her shaking but somehow she keeps her cool and tells him about the flowers she’s planted in the garden today.

  ‘He’s going to go ballistic when he gets home and finds we’re not here,’ I whisper to Grace, who doesn’t reply.

  I go into my room, change quickly out of my school uniform into my jeans and a T-shirt then look around at all my stuff. I don’t know where to start. What do I take? What do I leave?

  Downstairs I can hear Bruno whimpering to be let out of the kitchen. Dad doesn’t allow him anywhere else in the house but sometimes Grace and I secretly let him out and play with him in the sitting room when Dad’s at work. Once we forgot to check for dog hair and Dad found out. He tied Bruno up outside for a week to teach him a lesson. It was last January and freezing cold. Even though Grace and I both begged him, he wouldn’t let him in.

  I glance round my room again and take a deep breath. I know now exactly what I want to take.

  Chapter 4

  Grace

  No time for lists.

  I hunt in my wardrobe for the brown paper carrier bag hidden at the back.

  Got it.

  Carefully, I take out the patchwork quilt inside. Dad has no id
ea that I rescued it the morning after he threw it in the dustbin, months ago, and it’s lain secretly in here ever since. I haven’t even dared to show Mum or Ellie, in case he finds out.

  Gran made it for Mum’s birthday last year. A few of the patches have tiny holes where they’ve been nibbled by moths and some pieces are so old and have been washed so many times they’ve faded loads, but the whole thing is still so breathtakingly beautiful that even now I don’t understand why Dad hated it . . . unless it was Mum’s reaction that did it.

  He used to call Gran an interfering old bag. Made it clear that she wasn’t welcome here, so, like Auntie Anna, we hardly ever saw her, although she always sent cards and parcels at birthdays and Christmas.

  When Mum unwrapped Gran’s parcel, her face lit up for a split second. She immediately pulled down the shutters but a telltale spark still flickered in her eyes and Dad saw how much she loved it. We did too. It’s a blast of colours.

  Sky blue.

  Cherry.

  Lemon.

  Emerald.

  Rose pink.

  Tangerine.

  Lilac.

  Ruby.

  Gold.

  Turquoise.

  Like a garden full of flowers, Ellie insisted, seconds before Dad snatched it from Mum’s hands.

  ‘I’m not having this tatty rubbish in my house!’ he said angrily, rolling it into a bundle. ‘Who in their right mind would give someone a load of old rags for their birthday?’

  Ellie protested. Mum just looked down and didn’t say a word. Dad carried it into the kitchen and a few seconds later we heard fabric ripping. Ellie started crying. She tried to rush out to stop him but Mum held on to her tightly. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she kept saying. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The following evening he came home from work with a quilt cover he’d bought from a posh department store near his office. Real Chinese silk, hand-embroidered with dragons intertwined in black and red. Cost him an arm and a leg but would be an heirloom, he told us, something for Mum to keep forever. She said it was beautiful. She stroked the silk but the spark was gone from her eyes.

  No one mentioned Gran’s present again but a few days later I went on a school trip to a museum, and between the dinosaur bones and iron-age tools they had an exhibition of quilts. Everyone else just whizzed past them as a rumour had gone round about a gruesome severed head on display, but I hung back and read all the little display cards on the quilts.