the fact that he deserted me to go and work in Dubai, in the Middle East. At least I have something I can write angry songs about bad parents on, I guess.
I look around the Arrivals hall. Dad told me that the taxi rank would be on my right. I didn’t realise that he’d meant literally. The airport is so tiny I can actually see the taxis lined up on the other side of the glass wall. I push my trolley over to the doors. As they slide apart I’m hit by a sharp blast of cold air. When I left London the weather was bright and sunny, but here in Scotland the December sky is a dull, heavy white, like a thick layer of cotton wool. My trolley clatters on the paving stones as I walk over to the first cab in the line. I fumble in my pocket for the piece of paper Dad gave me with Aunt Clara’s address on it, even though I’ve studied it so many times during the flight that I know it by heart. I’ve got a horrible anxious feeling in my stomach.
‘Please can you take me to Paper Soul on Fairhollow High Street?’ I say to the driver as he gets out of his taxi and opens the boot. He has short silver-grey hair and a slightly flattened nose, like he might have broken it once in a fight.
‘Paper what?’ he says, picking up one of my cases.
‘Paper Soul. It’s a bookshop – and café.’ This is the one good thing about being sent to stay with Aunt Clara – I’ll be living above a café and a bookshop, two of my favourite things in one building. ‘It’s next to the chemist’s,’ I add, looking back at Dad’s directions.
‘Ah,’ the driver says knowingly. ‘That place.’
He doesn’t exactly sound impressed. I get into the back of the cab and try not to wonder why. As I stuff the piece of paper back into my pocket my fingers brush against my mum’s locket. Instantly, I feel better.
My mum passed away when I was very young – not long after I had been sick in hospital myself as a baby. I don’t really remember her, and Dad doesn’t talk about her very much, but last night when I was packing to leave he gave me this locket. ‘It was hers, and she would have wanted you to have it,’ he said gruffly. It’s beautiful, small and silver with a five-pointed star delicately engraved on the front, and I love the way it feels in my hand.
As the driver pulls away from the airport, I close my eyes and play the Worse Off Than You game. This is a game I invented during a particularly grim Science test involving the Periodic Table. The idea is that whenever you’re feeling really stressed about something, you just have to think of a much worse scenario and it will instantly make your own problem feel smaller. I imagine a girl my age, thirteen, stranded in the middle of the Sahara Desert. She hasn’t had anything to drink for days and a herd of snorting camels are about to stampede her. I open my eyes and look out of the window. We’re driving along a narrow country lane, surrounded by bare, stubbly fields. It looks pretty bleak, but at least there are no stampeding camels and I have a bottle of water in my bag. I take it out and have a sip. There really are a lot of people a lot worse off than me. This really isn’t the end of the world . . . it just feels like it.
Eventually, we leave the twisty turny lanes and pull on to a slightly wider road. We’re still surrounded by fields, but every so often a car passes us so I guess we must be getting closer to Fairhollow. I press my face up against the cold window. The sky is now darkening from white to grey, as if someone’s shading it in with a pencil. I feel a flutter of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I haven’t seen Aunt Clara since she last came to visit me and Dad, when I was about six. I wonder if she’s changed much. I have a memory of her from that day, filed away in my head like an old photo. She’s standing in the back garden, staring blankly ahead, her long golden hair blowing in the wind. I think she and Dad had just had an argument. I can remember Dad marching into the house and the back door slamming. I also remember Aunt Clara hugging me when she was leaving. She smelt like rose petals. I start to relax a bit. Hopefully it will be nice living with Mum’s sister – and hopefully I can find out more about Mum.
The road starts curving up a really steep hill.
‘Soon be there,’ the driver says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.
I nod back at him. ‘Thank you.’
Finally, we reach the top of the hill and there’s something other than fields to look at. A town is spread out far below us, in the base of a huge valley, surrounded on either side by thick ridges of woodland.
‘You from Fairhollow?’ the driver asks as the road starts cutting down through the trees.
I shake my head. ‘No. My mum is – was. I’m going to stay with my aunt.’
‘Interesting place,’ the driver says. But again, something about the way he says it doesn’t make it sound like a good thing.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll see.’ As our eyes meet in the rear-view mirror, the anxious feeling returns to the pit of my stomach. I look out of the window. The tree branches are spread above us like a canopy and pale wintery light is filtering through them. It would have looked really pretty if the sun was shining. Finally, we emerge from the woods and I see a sign by the road saying WELCOME TO FAIRHOLLOW. Someone has scrawled something underneath in red but it’s too small for me to make out what.
The road we’re on leads directly to Fairhollow High Street. We go past a row of tall grand houses. They all look a bit faded and worn, though, with peeling paintwork and grimy windows. When the driver stops at a crossroads and a group of kids about my age cross in front of us my skin prickles with fear. Tomorrow, I’ll be joining my new school. I think of my best friend, Ellie, again and I feel a pang of sorrow. Ellie and I have gone to school together for what feels like forever. I can’t imagine lessons without her. It feels all wrong. I watch the kids as they head into a café called The Cup and Saucer. They’re all laughing and joking, deep in conversation. The traffic light turns green and the driver heads on down the High Street. It all looks really olde worlde and there’s no sign of any kind of supermarket. Then I spot Paper Soul at the very end of the road. It’s a tall thin building, three storeys high. Its sign is hand-painted, red lettering on a black background with a silver crescent moon in the corner. As the driver pulls up, I see a dimlylit display of books in the window.
‘All right, love?’ The driver looks over his shoulder at me.
I nod. But I feel anything but as I follow him out of the taxi. My head is stuffed full of what ifs. What if Aunt Clara and I don’t get along? What if she doesn’t really want me here? What if I hate it here? What if I don’t make any new friends?
The driver brings me my cases and I pay him with some of the money Dad gave me this morning.
I wait until he’s driven off and then I open the door to the shop. A bell above me jangles loudly, making me jump.
‘Hello,’ I say, nervously, as I step inside.
The shop smells of a weird mixture of incense and baking bread. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see tall alcoves lined with books on either side of me. Just in front of me, there’s a stand-alone display. I do a quick scan of the titles: Ghost Hunting for Dummies, Haunted Castles, Spirits and Spectres. I frown. Why would Aunt Clara have a display of books like that? My dad’s always said that supernatural stuff should be renamed super-stupid. He reckons that people only go on about ghosts and stuff nowadays to keep trick-or-treaters in sweets. Maybe Aunt Clara got the books in for some kind of Halloween promotion and hasn’t bothered taking them down yet. I scan the shop for a teen fiction section. But everywhere I look seems to be the same kind of stuff: Astrology, Spirituality, New Age, Healing. I feel a pang of disappointment. In my mind, I’d been picturing
