I turn away from her, still angry, but tired of arguing and sad that she’s drunk again. I busy myself with making a safe, cosy nest in my rucksack for Chardonnay, and I zip her in so Mikey won’t see.
there’ll be bluebells over the white cliffs of Dover…
Mikey’s waiting for us in a car I’ve never seen before. We throw our stuff in the boot and climb in. Mikey’s puffing away on a fat cigar. Mum shares her wine with him and off we roar, away from London, away from home.
“You excited, Tiffany?” asks Mikey, puffing thick cigar smoke all around the car. “Who knows where we’re going to end up, eh? Ooh, somewhere hot for me, please.”
I force a smile, do up my seat belt and peer at Chardonnay. Luckily she’s already snoozing away in her cosy rucksack nest. Mum and Mikey start droning on about boring stuff and making rude jokes. It’s dark and late and the car is full of smoke, but I know Mikey’s face and I know I saw it on Crimewatch. I guess I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know is that Mum is shaking me awake.
“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” she’s saying, “wakey, wakey.”
I open my eyes. It’s really dark outside and raining hard. I stuff my hand in my rucksack and give Chardonnay a reassuring stroke. She licks my fingers and snuggles back down. My neck aches from sleeping in the car and I badly need a wee from all the Shirley Temples that Chels and I had drunk. This doesn’t feel like a fun holiday to me, but Mum and Mikey are laughing and having a good time.
“We’re in Dover, Tiff,” says Mum, then she and Mikey start singing some old song, “There’ll be bluebells over, the white cliffs of Dover…”
We pull up in the line of cars queuing to get on the ferry. Mikey’s holding all our passports and he keeps tap, tap, tapping them on the steering wheel, waiting to get through passport control.
“All right, mate?” he asks the passport man when it’s our turn.
The man nods, peers into the car and then starts checking our passports, one by one. Mikey’s tapping gets louder and more and more impatient and Mum starts switching her diamond rings from one finger to another.
“Can we go home?” I whisper.
“Ssshhh, baby,” says Mum, leaning over and stroking my head with a hard hand, “Nearly there.”
The man hands the passports back to Mikey and waves us on.
“Phew,” sighs Mikey, relaxing as we pull away.
“Yay!” shrieks Mum, frantically jiggling my hand up and down. “Freedom, Tiff! Freedom!”
Suddenly, some policemen step in front of the car and wave us over to one side. Mikey starts tap, tap, tapping on the steering wheel again and Mum starts fidgeting with her hair.
“Just a routine check, sir,” says one of the policemen, leaning into the front window. “May we take another look at your passports, please?”
“Is this completely necessary?” says Mikey. “We need to board the ferry as soon as,” he says, waving a hand toward me. “The kid needs the toilet; know what I mean?”
“I’m afraid it is necessary, sir, and we’ll get you on board as soon as we can.”
I feel really awake now, because something’s not right. All the other cars are driving past us and climbing the ramp to board the ferry. But we’re stuck here with policemen asking us questions. It’s late and I want to be at home, asleep next to Chelsea, dreaming of The Wizard of Oz and Shirley Temple cocktails. I wish my mum had never had this stupid idea in the first place. I don’t even want to go on holiday. I want my normal Saturday with Chels and me cosying up in bed, watching TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub. With Mum and me, together, wandering through the shops and buying cool stuff. Getting dressed up in new clothes and having lunch out, like ladies do. And we’d planned to take Chardonnay to the park. Everything is going wrong.
The policeman looks at me, scratches his head, and then turns to Mikey. “Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle, sir?”
“Yes mate,” says Mikey, tapping and tapping. “It’s all in order, officer, I just bought it from my brother-in-law, he must have forgotten to send off the papers.”
The policeman scratches his head again and I wonder if he has nits, like Chels and I had in the summer. “If you’d like to get out of the vehicle, sir, and step this way.”
Mikey groans and opens the door. Mum lets out a wounded-dog squeal and starts rocking backwards and forwards humming the white cliffs of Dover song. Then we’re surrounded by blue flashing lights, and I know that Crimewatch was true and that Chelsea was right. A large ball of worry drops into my tummy and wobbles around, and a sharp lump sticks in my throat. I start tap, tap, tapping and humming the white cliffs of Dover song too because now I really know that my mum’s in trouble. Big trouble. And what about me?
All the doors are pulled open. There are policemen everywhere and handcuffs are snapped on to Mikey and Mum.
“Mum!” I call from the back seat, “Mum, what’s happening?”
“It’s all right, babe, Mama’s here, no worries,” her voice trembles as someone guides her towards a police car. “You and me, Tiff,” she calls through the rain.
“You and me, Mum.” I call back, panicking. “You and me.”
I watch my mum pulling and struggling against the policemen. She starts screaming at them and fighting, and I wish they knew how to soothe her tantrums.
A lady police officer climbs into the car and sits next to me. “I’m Benita,” she says. “What’s your name, love?”
“Tiffany,” I sniff. “What’s happening to my mum?”
“I’m really sorry, Tiffany,” she says, handing me a tissue, “we have to take your mum and dad into custody for a bit. There’s some stuff that’s happened and we just need to check it all out.” She’s trying to sound cheerful and reassuring. “We’ll have you all back together as soon as we can.”
“He’s not my dad,” I say, “he’s my mum’s business partner.”
Then, before I know it, I’m in a police car, and my little wheelie suitcase is in the back. My mum’s in another car being driven away from me, with blue lights flashing. I don’t even know where Dover is and I need the toilet and Chardonnay is wriggling in the bag. The large ball keeps rolling around in my tummy, making me feel like I’m going to be sick. I can’t stop my hand tap, tap, tapping on the car window and the white cliffs of Dover song is spinning through my mind, like it’s got stuck in my brain.
“Where are you from, Tiffany?” Benita asks.
“London,” I say.
“Is there anyone we can call for you, love? Your dad, maybe, or grandparents, aunts or uncles, friends?”
“There’s my school friend, Chelsea,” I sniff, “but her dad’s really angry with my mum.”
“Anyone else?”
I shake my head. “No one,” I say. “Just me