Some Sunny Day Read online

  Because of the name.

  Which I saw as surely as I’ve ever seen ANYTHING.

  And it was?

  IGLOO

  I bellowed.

  I’ve actually MET Jackie Chapman.

  It’s true. In fact, he and I once went on an adventure. Afterwards, he gave me some home-game tickets. I took Lance and it was great, though Mum told me not to expect anything else after that. I didn’t; I was content with the memory and the ticket stubs, which I kept in a special box (I showed that to Mrs Stebbings, too). But, one Saturday morning, the postman arrived with a package. I assumed it was for Mum because I never got packages, but it had MY name on. I took it in and gawped at it like Charlie Bucket did with his golden ticket: but there wasn’t chocolate inside. There was something even better.

  A brand-new, gleaming, signed-by-ALL-the-players Charlton shirt.

  I couldn’t believe it! My hero – someone who I screamed out for in the stand along with thousands and thousands of others – had sent me this shirt. It was like a spotlight shining on me, but the joy didn’t stop there. After reading every single signature, I finally thought to turn the shirt over – and what I saw was amazing.

  My name.

  Jackie Chapman hadn’t just sent me a signed shirt, he’d got it printed for me! I stared at it until Mum told me to try it on. I did, though that was the last time I ever wore it. It was WAY too precious. We were in the kitchen and I ran straight out, in case it got food on it. I took it off and then went back to get the oven gloves. Veronique’s dad collects stamps, and he NEVER touches them. I put the gloves on and folded the shirt up (with difficulty) and then asked Mum to get it framed (preferably with bullet-proof glass). When it was done, I took it into school for Show and Tell and after that it lived at home, on my bedroom wall, where I showed it off to only the most honoured of guests, and then only if they promised to keep well back. It stayed there until some burglars broke in. They didn’t steal it but they did smash the glass. Mum promised to get it framed again, but lockdown came so she couldn’t.

  And ever since then …

  IT HAD LIVED WITH THE REST OF MY CLOTHES!

  ‘Cymbeline?’ Mum said, after sprinting up from the other end of the park.

  Mum was wide-eyed because of my screaming. But I didn’t answer her. I ran along the top of the riverbank – and stared down towards the water. I told myself NOT to panic. I knew this park. The kid had gone on towards the far end of it but there’s a bridge there. He wouldn’t be able to go any further. He’d have to come along the bank towards me, or else turn back the way he’d come. Either way, I’d be able to see him because the mist really was breaking up. It was no longer a snake, but now clumps of grey like dirty dishcloths.

  ‘Cymbeline?’ repeated Mum.

  I didn’t answer. I needed to find this kid so Mum could explain. She could tell him what had happened – my shirt had gone out by mistake. Mum hadn’t meant to give it away. She’d MAKE the kid give the shirt back to me. It should have been easy to find him now, because even though some of the mist balls were still pretty thick, they were moving.

  But he was nowhere to be seen!

  It was like some magician had made him vanish. So, had I missed him? Had he slipped past me?

  He couldn’t have done.

  So where WAS he?

  In total confusion, I sprinted to the end of the park. I shot out through the iron gates and stared up the road, which was empty but for a solitary bus, lumbering off from a stop. I glared after it as Mum caught up with me again, asking, ‘What’s going on?’ I just ran back into the park and all the way along to the DLR station, and the allotments.

  And then I legged it home.

  I sprinted ALL the way, Mum trailing after me, still demanding explanations until I was pointing at our front door.

  ‘Unlock it!’ I panted.

  Mum did. And I sprinted upstairs, and hope burst into my chest: there was another kid called Igloo. As unusual as my name is, there was another kid who had it – and he was a Charlton fan too! I shoved my bedroom door open and slid down on my knees – to my shirts drawer. I pulled it open, shocked for a moment by just how tidy mum had left my clothes – not that I cared. I grabbed some school shirts and flung them behind me. I grabbed my St Saviour’s football shirt and flung that too, as well as a posh shirt that Mum had got me for Auntie Mill’s ‘significant’ birthday. Then I grabbed all my other shirts, desperate to see a folded piece of red – but all I could see was the faded old newspaper that lined the bottom of the drawer.

  The EMPTY drawer.

  ‘Cym?’ Mum said, for the fourth time, as she knelt down right beside me. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I told Mum what she’d done and the colour drained from her face. She tried to apologise.

  ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘It must have got caught up in some other stuff. I can’t have seen it. Oh, Cym, I don’t know what to …’

  But I did not listen. Mum had put my most prized possession in the UNIVERSE outside the door – with a box of broken pans and a bag of old Thomas the Tank Engine pants. That fact was so huge that I could hardly hear what Mum was saying, though I could vaguely tell that she was going on about the frame getting smashed.

  ‘You should have got it fixed!’ I screamed.

  ‘But I couldn’t,’ she pleaded. ‘The framer’s shut because of lockdown. Listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll … write to Jackie Chapman.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll ask him to send a replacement.’

  ‘But how CAN he?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘He’s not even THERE! He’s at his house. And how could he get the other players to sign it? They’re all at their houses. Brett Casey doesn’t even play for Charlton now. He’s gone to Wycombe Wanderers. I was really upset when he left but AT LEAST I HAD HIS SIGNATURE ON MY SHIRT!’

  ‘Cym …’

  ‘That shirt is unique!’ I screamed. ‘It was given to me by Jackie Chapman! He did it without being asked. It’s the only one in the entire WORLD and you CLEARED IT OUT! So, unless you can UN-CLEAR IT OUT, why don’t you

  Which Mum did.

  She tried to think of something else to say, but nothing would come. So, after taking a big, deep breath, she walked out of the room. She immediately turned and looked back at me, once again searching for words, until I marched over to the door.

  And SLAMMED it in her face.

  There was silence, then. After that came Mum’s footsteps, first turning round, then going down the stairs. I heard each one, wondering when they’d stop. They had to, because she had to come back. She had SO not apologised enough, especially as I thought of another thing. What if I happened to run into Jackie Chapman? And what if he asked about my shirt? It would be so embarrassing. What could I say? ‘Oh, that. Mum put it out on the street!’ I needed to make Mum aware of that, but the footsteps carried on down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. Was Mum just going to get on with things? Was she going to make herself a nice cup of tea? Would she text Auntie Mill about some trivial thing? Did she not understand what I was going through? I hissed to myself and then did the only thing that I COULD do in such a terrible circumstance.

  I stomped.

  Our house is really good for stomping. It’s old, and if you really put your feet into it, the lampshade in the kitchen wobbles. (I know this because Lance and I experimented.) And today I did not hold back. First, I stomped over to the bookcase in the far corner.

  Four stomps.

  Then I stomped back again.

  Another four stomps.

  After that I stomped to my bed (three stomps), and after that, I stomped over to the wall where my Charlton shirt USED to live (five stomps). Then I just stomped generally (stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp) which I knew Mum could NOT ignore. She MUST have heard me, and I was expecting her to run up the stairs and order me
to ‘STOP STOMPING!’, which would give me another chance to scream at her about what an unforgivable thing she’d done.

  But there were no footsteps.

  I frowned. Mum had to come back up. She had to COMPLETELY understand how I felt, which she could only do by me bellowing at her. I stomped a bit more but she still didn’t appear and I frowned. Should I slam the door again? No. It was shut, and it would be really obvious that I’d just opened it again so that I could slam it. I was left with only one option, an even more extreme action than stomping.

  Which was crying.

  Mum can NEVER resist it when I cry. She can be as mad at me as anything but, if I cry, she’s like cheese under the grill. She goes all melty. So, I did it then, knowing, of course, that as soon as her face appeared round the bedroom door – looking all worried – I could stop the crying and shout at her again.

  But I don’t think she could hear me.

  I opened the door. I carried on crying, but still no Mum. That made me cross, so I humphed and marched to the top of the stairs, about to start crying AGAIN. But I could hear something – coming from the kitchen. I didn’t understand it at first – until I realised.

  There was no point me crying.

  No point at all.

  Crying was already happening.

  I crept to the bottom of the stairs and peered round the banister. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table. She was on the phone and I thought she was talking to Auntie Mill. It was still too early, though – so it had to be Stephan. He’s in New Zealand, which is ten hours ahead, and they often FaceTimed each other in our morning. These FaceTimes used to be okay. They’d say how much they missed each other and go a bit gooey, but then Stephan had had to tell Mum that Covid-19 meant that he and the girls were stuck in New Zealand. Mum had cried, then, and she was crying again, now.

  Mum was crying and trying to speak at the same time. That made me cross. Yes, Mum missed Stephan, but he hadn’t vanished for ever, had he? He would be back! I’d just lost my Charlton shirt, which I would NEVER SEE AGAIN! I was about to stomp down the stairs and tell her that – but I stopped.

  And felt a sort of stomp inside my chest.

  Because Mum was talking about me.

  ‘It was so special to him.’ The words came out in little gaspy parcels. ‘And. I. Lost. It. All because I can’t relax. I’m in this frenzy all the time, to DO things. Why can’t I slow down? Why can’t I just accept it all, Stephan?’

  I couldn’t hear Stephan’s reply because of Mum’s crying – but I did know this: Mum does EVERYTHING for me. Seeing her face when she found things from my past had reminded me of that. She’d made a mistake with my shirt – TRUE – but it’s not like she meant to. And the fact that she was SO upset scared me. Mum’s had problems in the past, with her health. Her mental health. She even had to go into hospital once. So, to hear her crying now, stopped me – because it sounded sort of similar to how she’d sounded that time.

  What if it happened again?

  The anger inside me vanished. Just like that mist had. Yes, I still wanted my shirt back, but there was something that I wanted far more – Mum. So, without thinking, I pulled myself round the banister and ran downstairs. I sprinted into the kitchen, piling onto Mum’s lap before she knew what I was doing. She looked at me, shocked, trying to get herself together, trying to pretend that she hadn’t been crying. I ignored that and flung my arms round her neck, giving her the tightest hug I could.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I insisted. ‘He’s rubbish anyway.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Brett Casey. He doesn’t track. Wycombe are welcome to him. It doesn’t matter, okay?’

  ‘Oh, Cymbeline.’

  Mum looked at me as a big laugh bucked up from inside her. Another one came and then she cried a bit more, and then laughed, and then cried, and all the while I could see a face, looking up at us from the screen of Mum’s phone, which was propped up against the Weetabix box.

  ‘Hello, Stephan,’ I said.

  Mum went off to wash her face. I picked Stephan up (well, the phone) and he asked how I was. I started to answer, but Mabel came onto the screen, wearing a pair of unicorn pyjamas. She’s the youngest of his two daughters and she can never quite get my name quite right.

  ‘Thimbeline!’ she said.

  I waved at Mabel and then had to listen as she babbled on about all the things she’d been doing in New Zealand. I didn’t interrupt but I knew she must be making most of them up. The park? A mountain walk? We were in lockdown! I just raised my eyes, until she asked what was quite a difficult question.

  ‘Are you missing us, Thimbeline?’

  For a second, I didn’t answer. I mean, I did really like them all, but since they’d been gone I’d had some space to myself – for a change – and that had been quite nice. Though I didn’t admit this to Mum. She missed them all SO much. But Mabel, who was supposed to live next door, was in our house ALL the time. She drew me a unicorn picture EVERY SINGLE DAY, insisting that I put it up on my bedroom wall. Lance thought it was hilarious. When they left, I took them down and shoved them under my bed. I had to admit, though, that the house did seem a bit too quiet now.

  I said I was missing them, and then Stephan asked what I’d been doing.

  ‘Er, nothing,’ I replied. ‘That’s the point of lockdown, I think.’

  He laughed. ‘Not even Subbuteo?’ Subbuteo is a football game with little plastic players and Stephan knows I LOVE it.

  ‘Who with?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mum?’

  ‘What? She’s hopeless.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Mum said, from behind me.

  ‘I mean, she’s learning. But she can’t play anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s been banned. She knelt on two of my players and snapped their heads off. Violent conduct. She’s got to miss the next three games.’

  ‘Then how are the kick-ups coming along?’

  ‘Good.’ I told Stephan about the park, and how I hadn’t got any proof.

  ‘Shame,’ he sighed. ‘But I’m sure your teacher will believe you. How’s the rest of school going?’

  I pretended to strangle myself.

  ‘It can’t be that bad! What about science?’

  ‘Boring. We’re not doing any experiments.’

  ‘Can’t you do some at home?’

  ‘Mr Ashe told us to put a Mentos mint in a bottle of Diet Coke. Apparently, it explodes.’

  ‘That sounds like fun!’

  ‘But Mum won’t buy the Diet Coke because of the plastic bottle. She’s gone more environmental than that Greta Iceberg.’

  For some reason, Stephan laughed again. ‘What about history? Time you had a new project, isn’t it?’

  Now that was a good point. We’d been doing Henry VIII but that had been cut off because of lockdown (like his wives’ heads). Mr Ashe had said he was going to post our new project soon and I wanted to go online and find out what it was. But Stephan asked me to wait.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, from the screen. ‘Your mum told me about your shirt. I’m really sorry. But I also just saw how nice you were about it. That means you’ll find it.’

  I frowned. ‘Because I hugged Mum?’

  ‘There’s a saying: what goes around comes around. So have faith – and come up with a plan.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, though I didn’t believe him. What plan could I think of for seeing that kid again? I just shrugged and we said goodbye, after which Mum went on the online classroom.

  And we saw that Stephan was right.

  Mr Ashe had put the project up. Mum clicked on the link and I blinked at pictures of aeroplanes and ships, and searchlights cutting through the sky.

  ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘You’re doing World War Two.’

  ‘Fantastic!’

  I was well psyched. We were going to do the Battle of Britain and D-Day. It sounded great, though when I read on, I realised that that was all going to be after
half term. First, there was this other stuff.

  ‘The Home Front,’ I said, squinting at the screen. ‘What even is that?’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum nodded. ‘It’s about civilians. The people at home.’

  ‘Not the soldiers, then?’

  ‘Well, not to start with.’

  ‘Great. How thrilling.’

  ‘It will be,’ Mum insisted. ‘You’ll learn about how the war affected home life. Rationing, for example.’

  ‘I already know about that. We’re out of chocolate spread and ketchup. Those fish fingers last night were disgusting.’

  ‘They were the same fish fingers that I always get!’

  ‘With no tomato ketchup! So they tasted like fish! I know about rationing. I’m living it. History should be about fighting.’

  ‘Well, it will be after half term. You’ll have to be patient. Meanwhile, you have to make an Anderson shelter.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A bunker in the garden. People sat in them during air raids. You have to make one, then find out what it would be like to be inside with bombs falling all around.’

  ‘But how can I?’ I said.

  Mum sighed. That was a good question. We’d normally go to the library because there was much more there than what we could find online. We’d look at books and old newspapers. We’d done that before; but now the libraries were all shut. Mum said we’d have to make do with the internet, but then her eyes lit up.

  ‘I know what we can do!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ I asked – but Mum wouldn’t tell me. This is because she’d glanced up at the wall clock. It was nearly eight o’clock. Her eyes popped open and she stood up from her chair.

  ‘We’re going to miss Bobby Bunns!’ she cried. She ran upstairs and got changed, after which we had to stand in the living room in front of the TV – while I groaned. I really wanted to know about her plan. I asked her again what it was but she just started shaking her arms out, as Bobby Bunns came onto the screen. First, he did his big cheesy smile, which is so wrong for that time of day. How could he be so cheerful IN THE MORNING? I would have really liked to ask him that, but I couldn’t, of course, so I just sighed as he started doing these stretches, his body so muscly he looked like those balloons at parties that you turn into sausage dogs.