Angel Cake Read online

  I remember what the Polish girls said, at Mass yesterday, and try to look brave. On the way to my next class, a couple of kids adopt me, dragging me from classroom to lunch hall like a stray dog on a bit of string.

  ‘This is Anya,’ they tell everyone. ‘She’s from POLAND! Go on, say something, Anya!’

  Every time I open my mouth, people laugh and roll their eyes. ‘What?’ they yell. ‘Don’t they have schools, where you come from? Stick with me, I’ll look after you…’

  I am a novelty, a joke. By the end of the day, I am exhausted. I am so far out of my depth I don’t know how I’ll find the courage to ever return. This school is nothing like the ones in the English books Dad used to send me, nothing at all.

  I will never fit in here, not in a million years.

  When I get home to the poky flat above the chippy, my little sister Kazia is dancing around the living room, singing a song she has learnt in English. She runs up to me, waving a reading book at me.

  ‘I made three new friends today!’ she tells me. ‘Jodie, Lauren and Amber. My teacher is called Miss Green. She’s really nice! How was your school?’

  ‘Fine,’ I tell her, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I like it here,’ Kazia decides. ‘Everyone is really friendly.’

  I can’t be jealous because my little sister is settling in so easily… can I?

  ‘And guess what?’ Mum chips in. ‘I’ve found myself a job, so I can help your dad out with the cash flow, and hopefully get us out of this place and into somewhere a bit… well, nicer.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘What’s the job?’

  Mum looks shifty. ‘It’s just cleaning work, actually,’ she admits. ‘My English isn’t good, so I couldn’t expect much more. Still, I’ve never been afraid of a bit of elbow grease. It’s a start.’

  I try for a smile, but it’s a struggle. ‘Mum?’ I ask in a quiet voice. ‘What happens if we try and try, and just don’t settle in? If we decide we don’t like it here? What if Britain is not for us?’

  Mum frowns. ‘We will settle, Anya,’ she tells me firmly. ‘I know the flat is not what we expected, and that school will be hard for you at first. It was always going to be difficult, but we have opportunities here, a chance for a better future. Your dad has worked so hard for this… we must make it work. There’s no going back.’

  No going back. I think of the sunlight glinting on the River Wisla, the swallows swooping, crisp white snow on the rooftops, of my best friend Nadia sitting alone next to an empty desk that used to be mine.

  My heart feels cold and heavy, like a stone inside my chest.

  Two weeks later, I’m still praying for a miracle. You don’t really get miracles at St Peter and Paul’s, though, just grey-faced teachers and chaotic kids and lessons that make no sense at all.

  It’s not so much a school as a zoo. The pupils are like wild animals, pushing, shoving, yelling, squealing. They stared at me with curiosity those first few days, like I was a new exhibit, and I guess that’s just what I was.

  I thought I was good at English, but I was wrong. At first I knew nothing, understood nothing. Words swirled around me like a snowstorm, numbing my head and making my ears ache.

  I’ve tuned in to the accent now, but it’s too late. The kids have lost interest, moved on. They leave me alone, mostly. I’ve given up on trying to communicate – staying silent is safer. Pity I can’t be invisible too. I am tired of teachers who sigh and shake their heads, of kids who wave their hands about in frantic sign language or turn up the volume and yell when I don’t understand them the first time.

  It’s better to keep my mouth shut. The teachers forget about me and the kids talk about me as if I am deaf as well as silent. Sometimes, I wish I was.

  ‘It must be tough, coming to a new country where you don’t understand the language. I feel sorry for her…’

  ‘You’d think she’d try, though. What’s she doing here if she doesn’t even want to learn the language? My dad says these Eastern Europeans come over here and take all the best jobs and houses…’

  ‘Most of them are on benefits. They don’t want to work…’

  ‘She looks terrified. Does she think we’re going to eat her?’

  ‘Well, she looks good enough to eat… hey, Blondie, sit by me, I’ll give you some English lessons!’

  I think it was better when I didn’t understand.

  In PSE, the kids chuck paper planes about when the teacher’s back is turned. PSE is short for Personal and Social Education. At first I didn’t understand why anyone would need lessons in how to be a balanced and sociable person, but after two weeks at St Peter and Paul’s I am beginning to see. The kids here need all the help they can get.

  They roll their eyes and pass notes to each other while the teacher talks about coping with difficult feelings. Nobody is listening.

  Miss Matthews is young, keen, smiley. In Krakow, the kids would have loved her, but here they read magazines beneath the desk and whisper about last night’s episode of Hollyoaks. Lily Caldwell is painting her nails under the desk, a glittery purple colour that matches her eyeshadow.

  Miss Matthews writes up a title on the whiteboard: The Worst Day of My Life. She asks us to draw on our emotions and experiences, to write from the heart.

  I could choose any day from the last two weeks, any day at all.

  So far, I haven’t even tried to take part in the lessons. There is a support teacher in some classes, but she doesn’t speak Polish so she’s not much help. She gives me worksheets with line drawings of farmyard animals and food and clothes, along with the words in English. You have to match the words with the pictures. Fun, right?

  Mostly, I sit silently, dreaming of Krakow summer skies. At the end of each lesson, I copy down the homework, close my book and forget it. How can I learn chemistry and history when I barely know the language? Why attempt French when I can’t even work out English? I have tried a little in Maths and art, where words don’t matter as much, but even there I haven’t a clue if I’m doing the right thing.

  Trying to take part in PSE would be just plain crazy – my vocabulary is small, my grammar worse than useless. It would be asking for trouble. The Worst Day of my Life…

  Somehow my exercise book is open. My pen moves over a clean, white page. Words pour out, words about my first day here, about hopes and dreams turning to dust in the grey corridors, about cold-eyed teachers, kids circling round like packs of wild dogs who might tear you apart at any minute…

  Miss Matthews raps on the desk to catch our attention, and I snap my exercise book shut.

  ‘Thank you, 8x,’ she says brightly. ‘Is there anyone who would like to share their work with the class?’

  The silence is deafening. I could have told her that – write from the heart and then read it out loud? Er, no. Most kids would rather have their teeth pulled, without anaesthetic.

  ‘Let’s not be shy. Who’ll go first?’

  Lily Caldwell yawns and closes her exercise book.

  Miss Matthews looks nervous. ‘Frances? Kurt?’ she asks hopefully. ‘Chantel?’

  Silence.

  She won’t ask me, I know – teachers never ask me anything. If they see me writing, they assume I am filling out my language worksheets or doodling in the margins. Just as well. How would the kids here feel if they know I have described them as wild animals?

  ‘Dan, perhaps?’

  Dan is a tall, mixed-race boy sitting across the aisle from me. He has melted chocolate eyes and slanting cheekbones and skin the colour of caramel. He has ink-black hair twisted into tiny braids that stick up from his head and droop over his forehead. Just one thing stops Dan from being cute – his mouth, which is curled into a scowl.

  ‘No chance,’ Dan says.

  Miss Matthews looks desperate. ‘Someone has to start, Dan,’ she says. ‘Please? I noticed that you wrote quite a lot…’

  Dan sighs. He picks up his exercise book and tears it in half, then in half again, and again, unt
il he has a heap of confetti on the desk in front of him.

  I’d say it’s pretty clear that he does not want to read out loud.

  ‘Daniel!’ Miss Matthews yelps. ‘You can’t – you mustn’t – that book is school property!’

  Dan raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem too worried. I watch, horrified, as Lily leans across and passes him a plastic lighter under the desk. Dan flicks the lighter a few times, then touches the flame to the little pile of exercise-book confetti. With one curl of smoke, it becomes a desktop bonfire.

  Dan pulls on his rucksack and saunters out of the door without a backward glance.

  The class is in uproar. Girls are screaming, boys are laughing, and everyone is on their feet, trying to get a safe distance from the flames. Miss Matthews looks as if she might cry. She wrenches a fire extinguisher off the wall and sprays the mini bonfire with a mountain of white foam.

  Maybe I was wrong with the whole wild animals thing. This is not a zoo, it’s more of a prison riot.

  ‘I think it’s out!’ Miss Matthews announces, peering at the foam-soaked desk. ‘Panic over, children. You can all go back to your seats!’

  That’s when the fire alarm starts to screech.

  Worst day ever? For Miss Matthews, this is probably it.

  ‘Walk quietly now!’ Miss Matthews pleads. ‘No need to take your bags…’ Everyone takes them anyway. The class bursts into the corridor, stampedes towards the stairs. Kids spill out from neighbouring classrooms and I am carried along in a sea of whooping teenagers, elbowing their way to freedom.

  We line up in our tutor groups on the grass at the top of the playing fields, huddled together in the drizzle. Miss Matthews checks the register, frowning.

  ‘Two missing,’ she sighs. ‘Dan Carney and Kurt Jones.’

  It’s kind of obvious why Dan has gone missing. If I were him, I’d make myself scarce too.

  Kurt’s absence is more worrying. He is a quiet, geeky boy with thick glasses and threadbare trousers that flap around his ankles.

  ‘I think I saw him running towards the science block,’ a plump girl called Frances McGee says. ‘What if he’s trapped in the flames? Fighting for his breath in all that thick, black smoke?’

  ‘There are no flames,’ snaps Lily Caldwell. ‘There was hardly a fire at all, remember? I bet Dan set off the fire alarm on his way out, for a laugh.’

  ‘But what about Kurt? Has anyone seen him?’

  Lily shrugs. ‘Kurt’s most likely locked himself in the girls’ toilets, crying. He is such a freak.’

  ‘Enough, Lily,’ Miss Matthews says. ‘This is serious. If you have nothing useful to say, say nothing at all.’

  Lily smirks. ‘There’s Mr Fisher, Miss,’ she points out, as the Head approaches, his face serious. ‘I bet he wants a word with you. After all, the fire started in your classroom… and now you’ve lost two of your pupils, as well!’

  Miss Matthews flushes pink and turns to greet the Head, and class 8x break into little groups, chatting. I have no friends to chat with, so I lurk at a distance, hugging my satchel. That’s when I see Kurt Jones, skulking along the side of the running track, behind the lines of Year Eight pupils.

  He sees me watching and brings a finger up to his lips, eyes wide above the rim of his glasses, asking me to be quiet. Well, that’s easy. When am I ever anything else?

  Kurt sneaks closer, coming to a halt beside me.

  ‘I don’t think they’ve missed me,’ he says. ‘Have they?’

  I bite my lip and nod, and Kurt’s face comes to life.

  ‘You know what I’m saying!’ he says. ‘Awesome!’ His smile falters. ‘Um… so, they definitely know I was missing?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Well, no worries. It’s not like they can prove anything. Unless they actually catch me with the evidence –’

  Mr Fisher’s voice booms out across the grass. ‘Kurt Jones! Come here this minute!’

  ‘Oops. Speaking of evidence, I’d best get rid of it – for now, anyway. Hang on to this for me – and keep it hidden!’ He pulls something out from under his blazer and stuffs it into my satchel, then strides towards Mr Fisher and Miss Matthews.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Kurt?’ Lily Caldwell pipes up. ‘Popped out to the charity shop for those gorgeous crimplene flares, did you? You’re so cool!’

  Kurt ignores the jibe. The Head herds him away, and he looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows at an anxious slant. I hold my fingers to my lips, and he rewards me with a smile.

  When they are out of sight, I delve into my satchel to see just what he’s planted on me.

  My fingers slide across books, gym kit, pencil case, then recoil in horror as they touch something warm and furry.

  I blink. No… no way. I must have imagined it.

  I reach down again, then jump back as something soft and fast and panic-stricken darts away from my touch. Kurt Jones has put a small, furry animal in my satchel. I lift up the flap and peer inside, and a small, pale, pointy face with beady black eyes and a twitching nose stares back at me.

  It’s a rat.

  The really annoying thing about Kurt Jones is that he has vanished off the face of the earth, leaving me stranded with a rat in my satchel. This is not good.

  I don’t even like rats – their yellow teeth and twitching whiskers make me nervous, and their tails look pink and naked. I can’t help thinking of a fairy tale Mum used to tell me, about a town plagued by rats and a mysterious piper who lured first the rats and then the town’s children away into the mountains. That story always made me shiver.

  Still, this rat is clearly tame. It’s a creamy colour, with fawn and brown patches and very bright eyes. I just can’t work out what it’s doing in my satchel.

  By the time the fire brigade have checked over every inch of the school for smouldering exercise books, it’s past midday. We trail back to Miss Matthews’s classroom to collect up stray bags and hand in our folders. Dan Carney’s desk is no longer heaped with flaming paper or mountains of foam, though there is a slightly charred look about it. The bell rings for lunch and I slope off to the canteen. And there is still no sign of Kurt Jones.

  I think the rat is hungry, because he has eaten most of my language worksheet. It’s the one about food, which is kind of appropriate. I choose a rat-friendly lunch, heaping my plate with lettuce, tomato and cheese salad.

  I find a corner table and lift my satchel flap. The rat peers out, eyes glinting, whiskers twitching. I offer him a tomato, but he just sniffs and looks up at me, reproachfully. I’m tempting him with morsels of lettuce when Frances McGee slides into a seat across from me.

  ‘Salad?’ she says, frowning at my plate. ‘That’s rabbit food.’

  Rat food, actually, but I don’t say anything. Frances has a tray heaped high with pizza and chips, a can of Coke, a packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate and a large helping of apple pie and custard. She is obviously not a salad kind of girl.

  I stuff a slice of cheese into my satchel and fasten the straps firmly. I am pretty sure rats are not allowed in the school canteen, not even tame ones.

  ‘You don’t say much,’ Frances comments, biting into her pizza. ‘Everyone thinks you’re either dim or stuck up, but I reckon you’re just shy. I think you’re taking everything in. Are you?’

  What am I supposed to say? Yes, I’m taking it all in and I really, really don’t like what I see? That would go down well.

  ‘Don’t you want to make friends?’ she asks.

  I take a long look at Frances. She’s kind of strange. Her crimped and backcombed hair is dyed black and crowned with a red spotty hairband, and her lips are painted neon pink. She is wearing black net fingerless gloves, black lacy tights and clumpy boots, but nothing can disguise the fact that she’s a few kilos overweight. Her school sweater looks like it would be too big for my dad, and her frilled black miniskirt only draws attention to wobbly thighs and pudgy knees.

  I am not sure I really want a friend like Frances. Then again
, it’s not like I can afford to pick and choose, not these days. Am I going to be the kind of girl who has only a rat for a friend? It’s not even my rat, either.

  I look at Frances McGee and try for a smile. It’s a very small smile, but Frances spots it and starts to grin.

  ‘You can call me Frankie, if you like,’ she says.

  Before I can decide whether to risk saying anything, Lily Caldwell glides up to the table, her mouth twisted into a sneer.

  ‘What’s up, Frances?’ she says, looking at the plump girl’s tray. Her voice drips sarcasm. ‘Not hungry today? On a diet? Didn’t fancy the treacle pudding or the jelly and ice cream? Sure you can’t fit in a plate of chicken nuggets? We don’t want you wasting away, now do we?’

  Frances opens her mouth to protest, then closes it again. A red stain seeps across her cheeks, and her gaze drops to the tabletop.

  ‘Get a grip,’ Lily sneers. ‘You’ve got enough to feed the whole of Year Eight on that tray. It wouldn’t hurt you to miss a meal once in a while, Frances. You could live for months on that blubber.’

  Lily’s hands are on her hips and her pretty face is scrunched up into a mean, pinched mask. She is telling Frances that fat girls really shouldn’t wear lacy tights and miniskirts, that seeing her shovelling in the pizza is putting kids off their lunch.

  I bite my lip. Sometimes, it is very, very hard to stay quiet.

  ‘I’m only telling you this for your own good,’ Lily says. ‘Someone has to, right? As a friend. I’m trying to help you, Frances.’

  I catch Lily’s eye, keeping my eyes steady and my chin tilted, and give her a long, hard look. It stops Lily in her tracks.

  ‘What are you looking at, Tanya, Anya, whatever your name is?’ she snarls. ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it!’

  But I don’t have the words to argue, or the confidence, or the grammar. I know I will trip over my words, tangle up their meanings, struggle with the accent, but I am angry. I’m angry for myself, after a fortnight in this dump surrounded by wild animals. I’m angry for Frances, for Kurt, for all the kids who die a little bit when Lily and others like her laugh at them, chip away at their confidence with mean words and sneering glances.