The Switch(50)

My voice is hoarse from shouting after all that crying. Thank God for Grandma’s printer – it may have taken half an hour of slow, painful chugging, but it eventually produced fifteen bingo sheets. Sometime during that time my mother disappeared (probably for the best), but the rest of the Hamleigh bingo fans are sitting in every chair that exists in my grandmother’s house, plus three from Arnold’s. After some initial grumbling, the bingo players looked grudgingly impressed with the set-up, and when I cooked up a few party platters Grandma had stored in the freezer and handed out some ciders, the mood of the room improved considerably.

We’ve rearranged the living room so I can stand at the front, where the telly is, and the bingo gang can all see me. And, in theory, hear me, but that’s not going so well.

‘Eh?’ yells Roland. ‘Was that forty-nine?’

‘Thirty-one!’ Penelope yells back.

‘Twenty-one?’

‘Thirty-one!’ she calls.

‘Perhaps Penelope should sit next to Roland?’ I suggest. ‘So she can tell him what I’ve said?’

‘We wouldn’t be having this problem in the bingo hall,’ Betsy points out primly.

‘Cider isn’t this good at the bingo hall,’ Roland says, happily swigging from the bottle.

‘And those mini spring rolls are delightful,’ says Penelope.

I suppress a smile and return my gaze to the random number generator on Kathleen’s phone. My phone – previously known as Grandma’s phone – is too rudimentary to have such features, but Kathleen came to my rescue and lent me her smartphone. ‘Forty-nine!’ I yell. ‘That’s four and nine!’

‘I thought you already said forty-nine!’ calls Roland. ‘Didn’t she already say forty-nine?’

‘She said thirty-one!’ Penelope shouts back to him.

‘Thirty-seven?’

‘Thirty-three,’ calls another voice. It’s Nicola. She’s behind Roland, and I catch her wicked look and roll my eyes.

Not helping, I mouth at her, and she shrugs, totally unapologetic.

‘Did someone say thirty-three?’ asks Roland.

‘Thirty-one!’ Penelope yells cheerily.

‘Forty—’

‘Oh, bloody hellfire, Roland, turn your fucking hearing aid up!’ Basil roars.

There is a short, horrified silence, and then a cacophony of outraged noise from the group. I rub my eyes; they’re sore from crying. The doorbell rings and I wince. I know who that’s going to be.

I didn’t feel I could tell Jackson over the phone that the school van he kindly lent me had a dented bonnet and was currently abandoned just outside Tauntingham. It felt like an in-person sort of discussion.

I hurry to the door, which is not an easy task when there’s an obstacle course of chairs and walking sticks to get through.

Jackson’s got a sloppy grey beanie hat on, half-covering his left ear, and the shirt he’s wearing under his jacket is so crumpled it looks like he’s actively ironed the creases in. He gives me a smile as I open the door.

‘You all right?’ he says.

‘Umm,’ I say. ‘Won’t you come in?’

He steps obediently into the hall, then cocks his head, listening to the commotion from the living room. He shoots me a curious look.

‘Bingo plan change,’ I say. I squirm. ‘That’s … sort of what I need to talk to you about. There was a bit of an accident. With the van. That you let me borrow.’

Jackson absorbs this. ‘How bad?’ he says.

‘I’ll pay for it all, obviously, if it’s not covered on insurance. And I’ll walk up to where it’s parked and drive it back to you or straight to the garage or whichever is best for you as soon as this lot have left. And I know I’m already coming to help paint your classroom this weekend, but if there’s anything else I can do to make up for – for seemingly causing havoc in your life wherever I am able then …’

I trail off. He’s looking amused.

‘S’all right.’

‘Really?’

He pulls off his hat and scrubs at his hair. ‘Well, not really all right, exactly, but you’re harder on yourself than I could ever be, and it sort of takes any pleasure out of having a go at you.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I begin, then laugh. ‘No, not sorry. But thanks. For not being rightfully furious. It’s been a crappy day.’

‘And now you have bingo players in your living room.’

‘Yes. A crappy day that has taken a very odd turn. Do you want to come and join in?’ I say. ‘There’s cider. And miniature foods wrapped in cardboard-like pastry.’

‘Cider,’ Jackson says. ‘Not mead?’

‘Hmm?’

A dimple appears in one cheek. ‘Well, I just wouldn’t put it past you to make use of this opportunity to showcase the joys of a medieval-themed evening, that’s all.’

‘I would not stoop to such levels!’ I exclaim.

‘Then what’s that?’ he says, pointing at the pile of swatches on the side table.

Feck. ‘Err …’

He holds up a couple of the little fabric squares. I’d been showing them to Penelope while the spring rolls cooked. They’re gorgeous – they look like they’ve come straight from Winterfell. The one currently in Jackson’s hand is a lovely gold colour with a repeat pattern of a dragon on a coat of arms.