Chapter 4
4
2001
‘I’m going to miss you, Violet,’ Uncle Kevin says as we sit in the park near my new home. It’s a place with blackbirds and robins, with twitchy-tailed squirrels and a rainbow of flowers planted to spell the word Welcome. Our legs are stretched out. We’re both wearing odd socks. Uncle Kevin says life isn’t about making things match up.
We’ve just eaten ice cream and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Uncle Kevin rolls his eyes and points to my T-shirt. I look down and straightaway he catches my nose with one of his fingers. I giggle and pretend to look cross. There’s no stain on my top. He catches me out every time with this trick.
One of the swings becomes free and Uncle Kevin jerks his head. I follow him over and sit down. He goes behind and reminds me to hold on tight. Then he pushes hard. I squeal as the swing rises high in the air. It’s as if I’m flying and I pretend I’m sitting in Enid Blyton’s Wishing-Chair.
Eventually we end up back on the bench. We talk about the latest book I’m reading and share a water bottle. Most of my friends won’t because they worry about the spit. Uncle Kevin says I’m a practical person. He says that’s a gift, but I’m not sure what he means. Sharing water bottles doesn’t involve pretty paper or surprises.
The two of us fall silent for a moment.
‘What are you thinking?’ he says.
‘That I’m going to miss you too,’ I say and kick at the ground, almost taking the head off a beetle with a back shining like metal.
We’re sitting underneath an oak tree in Applegrove Park, six houses down from ours. It’s small with a slide and two swings. The fencing at the back is broken and behind it is the much bigger Applegrove Wood, which runs along the back of all the houses. It looks dark and exciting. I’m glad for the shade from the oak, my favourite tree. The curvy outline of its leaves looks as if someone has been doodling. My underarms are sticky and strands of hair stick to my face.
I’ve been dreading tomorrow for weeks. It’s two days after my birthday. I turned seven yesterday. Mum says seven is very grown-up. I guess that means I mustn’t make a fuss.