programme somewhere. Get out there and make a difference, and meet some like-minded people? Put a big distance between yourself and the Janies of this world.’
Tamsin thought about it. She had never seriously considered a gap year. That must mean she was institutionalised, too.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she conceded.
Meanwhile, she was counting off the days. She had made herself a neat calendar, each month on its own sheet of A4, which she stuck across the wall above her bed. Every single afternoon, she would cross a day off the list as soon as she got home from school. She already felt as if she had been in the sixth form for ever, but the calendar revealed otherwise. It was not quite Christmas. She was almost one-sixth of her way through, which was demoralising.
She threw herself on her bed and thought about homework. There was nothing she had to do for tomorrow, because she had started her English essay in the library earlier. She looked around. Her bedroom was her little domain, and she vowed to get a Nelson Mandela poster for the wall, to go next to her Cry Freedom one. She had the Cure up there, and the Smiths, and U2, although she was considering taking that one down. She was particularly proud of her Ladysmith Black Mambazo picture.
Her clothes were all over the floor, and there were books piled up on every surface. Many of them were overdue library books. Some of them had coffee rings on them, and on the window sill there was a cup she kept forgetting to take downstairs. The small amount of coffee in the bottom of it had first grown a soft skin, and then green mould had started to climb up the sides. It was delicate and rather beautiful, and she kept putting off the day when she would wash it all down the sink.
She had bought a purple Indian bedspread at a junk shop a while ago, although she always forgot to pull it over her bed, so it was usually, as today, crumpled on the floor. In fact, her room was a complete mess. She had only one solution: to go downstairs for some toast. And then she would think about a gap year.
Izzy came by later, on her bike. She was fearless at negotiating the busy road between Dinas and Penarth, and she made no concessions to practicality in her outfits. She turned up in a thick grey skirt that reached her ankles, and a pair of high-heeled black boots. Her helmet was still swinging from her handlebars, where it had encumbered her progress for the three-mile journey. She stood on the doorstep, rosy-cheeked and happy.
‘Railway?’ she asked Tamsin, who picked up her coat and called to her mother.
‘Off to the Railway!’
‘Be home by eleven!’ her father called, from somewhere in the depths of the house.
‘Quick!’ Tamsin shut the door behind her and set off as briskly as she could up the garden path. It was starting to rain, but she didn’t care, partly because the pub was less than five minutes’ walk from her house, and partly because she didn’t look any worse with wet hair than she did with dry. They had almost reached the corner, with Izzy pushing her bike, when Tamsin heard fast footsteps behind them.
Billy was out of breath. He caught up, and Tamsin turned and looked daggers at him.
‘Can I come?’ he asked hopefully. He took something from his pocket. ‘Look!’ he said, straightening a ten-pound note and showing it to the girls. ‘It’s my round!’
Tamsin looked at her brother. He was fifteen and annoying. She did not want to be seen in the pub with him, and normally he wouldn’t be seen in her company, either. He was, however, infatuated with Izzy, which meant that whenever Isabelle was nearby, hostilities were suspended. Billy had a babyish face, with clear skin that his sister envied, and wide, lazy eyes. His looks held together in a way that Tamsin felt her own pointy countenance did not, and she was certain that in a few years he would have girls falling at his feet. Nothing would have induced her to tell him that.
She looked questioningly
Tamsin thought about it. She had never seriously considered a gap year. That must mean she was institutionalised, too.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she conceded.
Meanwhile, she was counting off the days. She had made herself a neat calendar, each month on its own sheet of A4, which she stuck across the wall above her bed. Every single afternoon, she would cross a day off the list as soon as she got home from school. She already felt as if she had been in the sixth form for ever, but the calendar revealed otherwise. It was not quite Christmas. She was almost one-sixth of her way through, which was demoralising.
She threw herself on her bed and thought about homework. There was nothing she had to do for tomorrow, because she had started her English essay in the library earlier. She looked around. Her bedroom was her little domain, and she vowed to get a Nelson Mandela poster for the wall, to go next to her Cry Freedom one. She had the Cure up there, and the Smiths, and U2, although she was considering taking that one down. She was particularly proud of her Ladysmith Black Mambazo picture.
Her clothes were all over the floor, and there were books piled up on every surface. Many of them were overdue library books. Some of them had coffee rings on them, and on the window sill there was a cup she kept forgetting to take downstairs. The small amount of coffee in the bottom of it had first grown a soft skin, and then green mould had started to climb up the sides. It was delicate and rather beautiful, and she kept putting off the day when she would wash it all down the sink.
She had bought a purple Indian bedspread at a junk shop a while ago, although she always forgot to pull it over her bed, so it was usually, as today, crumpled on the floor. In fact, her room was a complete mess. She had only one solution: to go downstairs for some toast. And then she would think about a gap year.
Izzy came by later, on her bike. She was fearless at negotiating the busy road between Dinas and Penarth, and she made no concessions to practicality in her outfits. She turned up in a thick grey skirt that reached her ankles, and a pair of high-heeled black boots. Her helmet was still swinging from her handlebars, where it had encumbered her progress for the three-mile journey. She stood on the doorstep, rosy-cheeked and happy.
‘Railway?’ she asked Tamsin, who picked up her coat and called to her mother.
‘Off to the Railway!’
‘Be home by eleven!’ her father called, from somewhere in the depths of the house.
‘Quick!’ Tamsin shut the door behind her and set off as briskly as she could up the garden path. It was starting to rain, but she didn’t care, partly because the pub was less than five minutes’ walk from her house, and partly because she didn’t look any worse with wet hair than she did with dry. They had almost reached the corner, with Izzy pushing her bike, when Tamsin heard fast footsteps behind them.
Billy was out of breath. He caught up, and Tamsin turned and looked daggers at him.
‘Can I come?’ he asked hopefully. He took something from his pocket. ‘Look!’ he said, straightening a ten-pound note and showing it to the girls. ‘It’s my round!’
Tamsin looked at her brother. He was fifteen and annoying. She did not want to be seen in the pub with him, and normally he wouldn’t be seen in her company, either. He was, however, infatuated with Izzy, which meant that whenever Isabelle was nearby, hostilities were suspended. Billy had a babyish face, with clear skin that his sister envied, and wide, lazy eyes. His looks held together in a way that Tamsin felt her own pointy countenance did not, and she was certain that in a few years he would have girls falling at his feet. Nothing would have induced her to tell him that.
She looked questioningly
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