am.’
My heart gives a big pang. I don’t much like lying to Mum. Then again I wouldn’t know how to stop this now. It’s gone too far.
I take a quick look at the cosy lounge, at the cream sofa where I lie when I’m not feeling well, at the TV I spend so many hours staring at and then over Mum’s shoulder to the kitchen where all my pans and trays and ingredients live.
A pang of something horrid comes up into my throat and for once it’s not mucus.
I force a smile onto my face.
‘See you later, Mum,’ I say.
Then I go outside, hide my exercise books behind the bin, grab my rucksack from the front garden and head off down the road.
Chapter Twelve
I walk to the station.
It takes about twenty minutes and all the time I’m looking around to see if any of Mum’s friends or neighbours are about to drive past and rumble me, but they don’t.
It’s a steep walk up the hill as the road nears the station and I feel the familiar tightness in my chest so I sit down on a bench for a moment and catch my breath, take a deep puff on my inhaler. Then I hoist the rucksack onto my back, cross the busy main road and go into the station.
The station is quite small and there aren’t many people around on Sunday evening. I approach the ticket desk feeling as if I’m on a secret spy mission or something.
‘Ticket to London, please,’ I say, dropping the rucksack onto the ground. I forgot how heavy it was going to be with all my medicine in. At the last moment I put in some little bottles of high-calorie milk drinks but they’re really weighing me down.
‘Single or return?’ says the guy behind the counter.
I consider this for a moment.
‘Don’t know yet,’ I say. It all depends whether I bomb out at the first stage of the quarter-finals on Monday or whether I go through to the semi-finals which are being filmed on Wednesday. ‘Single, I s’pose.’
‘That’ll be forty-four pounds then,’ says the guy. A couple of little orange tickets whiz out of a machine and are slid under the glass towards me.
I nearly pass out when he says this. Forty-four pounds!
‘Is there a cheaper ticket?’ I say. ‘That’s kind of a lot.’
The man laughs.
‘When did you last go to London?’ he says. ‘That’s a standard off-peak rate. It costs more than that during the week.’
I flush. I haven’t been on the train to London for at least a year and last time Mum came with and bought the tickets.
I shove my money-box cash in his direction and put the tickets in the front of my purse. Then I hoist up the rucksack again and go to wait on the platform.
I’ve got five minutes. I take out a bottle of high-cal milk and drink it while I’m waiting. Then I start on a bag of crisps.
The train pulls in and I heave my bag onto it and find a seat. As soon as I sit down a great wave of tiredness and relief comes over me. I’ve done it. I’m actually on the train to London.
The carriage is pretty empty so I get all my food out and arrange it around me. I take my Creon and then eat a sandwich that I made up this morning while Mum wasn’t looking. I finish up with a Mars Bar and then put the food away in the rucksack. Then I put all my medical stuff into my small black leather bag so that I’ve got it all together and I put it on the seat next to me. I prop up my feet on the rucksack and get out my list of recipe notes so that I can start rehearsing how to bake them in my head.
The train lurches and sways through countryside. It’s very hot and I feel exhausted. I lean my head against the window for a moment and watch all the trees and fields whiz by in a blur. Don’t suppose it matters if I have a bit of a rest. I’m going to need all my energy for what lies ahead.
The next thing I know I’m jolting awake with my head banging on the glass and a horrid dry feeling in my mouth.
It takes me a while to remember where I am. My head is aching and my chest feels tight. It’s like the past few days of plotting and planning
My heart gives a big pang. I don’t much like lying to Mum. Then again I wouldn’t know how to stop this now. It’s gone too far.
I take a quick look at the cosy lounge, at the cream sofa where I lie when I’m not feeling well, at the TV I spend so many hours staring at and then over Mum’s shoulder to the kitchen where all my pans and trays and ingredients live.
A pang of something horrid comes up into my throat and for once it’s not mucus.
I force a smile onto my face.
‘See you later, Mum,’ I say.
Then I go outside, hide my exercise books behind the bin, grab my rucksack from the front garden and head off down the road.
Chapter Twelve
I walk to the station.
It takes about twenty minutes and all the time I’m looking around to see if any of Mum’s friends or neighbours are about to drive past and rumble me, but they don’t.
It’s a steep walk up the hill as the road nears the station and I feel the familiar tightness in my chest so I sit down on a bench for a moment and catch my breath, take a deep puff on my inhaler. Then I hoist the rucksack onto my back, cross the busy main road and go into the station.
The station is quite small and there aren’t many people around on Sunday evening. I approach the ticket desk feeling as if I’m on a secret spy mission or something.
‘Ticket to London, please,’ I say, dropping the rucksack onto the ground. I forgot how heavy it was going to be with all my medicine in. At the last moment I put in some little bottles of high-calorie milk drinks but they’re really weighing me down.
‘Single or return?’ says the guy behind the counter.
I consider this for a moment.
‘Don’t know yet,’ I say. It all depends whether I bomb out at the first stage of the quarter-finals on Monday or whether I go through to the semi-finals which are being filmed on Wednesday. ‘Single, I s’pose.’
‘That’ll be forty-four pounds then,’ says the guy. A couple of little orange tickets whiz out of a machine and are slid under the glass towards me.
I nearly pass out when he says this. Forty-four pounds!
‘Is there a cheaper ticket?’ I say. ‘That’s kind of a lot.’
The man laughs.
‘When did you last go to London?’ he says. ‘That’s a standard off-peak rate. It costs more than that during the week.’
I flush. I haven’t been on the train to London for at least a year and last time Mum came with and bought the tickets.
I shove my money-box cash in his direction and put the tickets in the front of my purse. Then I hoist up the rucksack again and go to wait on the platform.
I’ve got five minutes. I take out a bottle of high-cal milk and drink it while I’m waiting. Then I start on a bag of crisps.
The train pulls in and I heave my bag onto it and find a seat. As soon as I sit down a great wave of tiredness and relief comes over me. I’ve done it. I’m actually on the train to London.
The carriage is pretty empty so I get all my food out and arrange it around me. I take my Creon and then eat a sandwich that I made up this morning while Mum wasn’t looking. I finish up with a Mars Bar and then put the food away in the rucksack. Then I put all my medical stuff into my small black leather bag so that I’ve got it all together and I put it on the seat next to me. I prop up my feet on the rucksack and get out my list of recipe notes so that I can start rehearsing how to bake them in my head.
The train lurches and sways through countryside. It’s very hot and I feel exhausted. I lean my head against the window for a moment and watch all the trees and fields whiz by in a blur. Don’t suppose it matters if I have a bit of a rest. I’m going to need all my energy for what lies ahead.
The next thing I know I’m jolting awake with my head banging on the glass and a horrid dry feeling in my mouth.
It takes me a while to remember where I am. My head is aching and my chest feels tight. It’s like the past few days of plotting and planning
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