You Have a Deal
I originally wrote this story a couple of years ago, but now I, like my fictional characters, am in the middle of house move (though not because of any bullying!), it seemed appropriate to post a revised version here. The story is about the lengths some parents will go to, in order to secure their child’s happiness.
‘Three hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds! And it needs modernising! Storage heaters indeed – as if that was a selling point. Those are from the 1980s!’ Dad glared at the agent’s back as she retreated with her clipboard and her notes.
Milly sighed as her mobile vibrated yet again in her pocket. This time she didn’t even move her hand to reach for it. Dad had already turned his steely gaze on her, and Mum had hissed ‘turn the damn thing off!’, when she’d been noticed looking at it on their way to the car. She hadn’t bothered to argue when they said, ‘We’re going for a drive.’ Homework was done, and sitting in her room with only gut-wrenching fear and her phone for company had limited appeal. But why look at houses? It’s not as if Dad needed the ideas, or more building jobs, and why the hell had he taken this Saturday, of all Saturdays, off work if he was going to be in such a foul mood? Not that a foul mood was new: ever since grandad had died just after Christmas and ‘new-girl-Jess-so-we-must-be-nice-to-her’ had joined her class at school, life had been one bad event after another … The silence snapped her to awareness: Dad was peering out of the front window.
‘There’s asbestos on that roof,’ he pointed, Mum’s head nodding like a yo-yo that’s reached the end of its too-short string: ‘Those tiles will have to come off. I said I’d have to replace the whole damn outbuilding!’
Mum was doing her ‘yes, dear,’ and the agent was there, suggesting there ‘might be some movement’ on the price, for the right purchaser.
Dad sniffed. Mum simpered at the agent. OMG, Milly thought, they weren’t usually like this. She closed her eyes. What a weekend! No, they’d said at school, no-one was going out. Who cared if it was Friday night? They all had too much homework. Milly hadn’t believed them, but what could she do other than get her chores done and then choose between sitting alone in her room so she could see the pictures and the messages flick up on social media in real time, or watch ‘Death in Paradise’ with Mum and Dad?
That morning, at the estate agents, Dad had wanted them to look at the place by themselves, but there was “no way” Becky – that was the agent’s name, it said so on her badge – would let them go to even an empty property unescorted. She had to come too; so, two cars had nosed their way down Acacia Avenue. Milly glanced right and left. All the houses had been extended, they all had at least two new (or new-ish) cars on the drive. This was clearly the sort of place where no-one worked at the weekend. For some reason, Mum decided to talk to Milly about the 1930s. She pretended to listen. Just because she’d said she wanted to start History GCSE next year didn’t mean she needed to be told the past life of every place they went to.
They’d parked in front of the garage.
‘Wood’s rotting.’ said Dad, almost before he’d climbed out of the driving seat. Becky ignored him and strode to the front door, standing aside to let the family into the house. Milly caught her eye as she followed her parents. They both shrugged. Yes, this was a waste of time: Mum and Dad were going to look round, find everything possible wrong with the place and storm off. Milly had never been house-buying before, they’d always lived in their semi, miles from this place, but even she knew you only looked at houses you actually liked. Ones you might actually want to buy. Milly stopped in the hallway.
‘That’s hardly a utility. More like an old-fashioned larder, and certainly cold enough!’ Dad came through from the back of the house. Mum trotting on behind. Becky, in the hallway with Milly, muttered ‘it’s a pantry’ as Dad brushed past.
‘Why don’t you go back to your car – or the garden if you prefer – I don’t want you trailing after me.’ Not waiting for a reply, he headed to the front room: ‘Coming, Milly?’
Milly, obeying her father, gave the poor agent another shrug. Instead of taking the hint, the agent followed.
‘I said, give us some space to look by ourselves! Despite what you said about the housing market, this place hasn’t been snapped up – so I need to see what’s wrong with it. Without a jumped-up sales girl trying to get me to avoid all the faults! There’s damp in that kitchen.’
‘Mr Gardner, I assure you I am fully trained.’
‘To sell houses – not to assess them. Just give us five minutes’ peace!’
Becky stood there; mouth open.
‘If you want an offer …’ Dad pointed at the door.
Becky glared, but stalked from the room. They heard the back door slam. Mum eased her way through the sliding doors between the lounge and dining room, and returned in seconds with two fingers by her mouth. A cigarette: Becky was occupied.
‘Thank God for that! Come on! Upstairs!’ Dad led the way, giving the bannisters a good shake on the way up. They regrouped on the landing.
‘Milly, which room do you want?’ She gaped at her father’s change in tone, ‘As your bedroom.’
‘George! We really should have explained – your poor daughter won’t know if she’s on her head or heels!’
Dad heaved a huge sigh: ‘You’re right. Come here, my lovely.’ He held his arms open for her. Still puzzled, she let him hug her. After a long moment he released her and held her at arm’s length.
‘Look at me.’ With a jolt, she realised there were tears in his eyes, she glanced at her mum and she was smiling a watery smile too.
‘I’d ask you to sit, but there’s only the floor and we’d be towering over you.’ Dad paused, pinched the bridge of his nose: ‘My daughter is being bullied. And that’s not right. And that’s not fair. And that’s not acceptable.’ Dad was choking up as he ticked his points off on his fingers. Milly opened her mouth: how did he know? But Dad continued: ‘My daughter shouldn’t have to hide in her room, afraid of her phone. I’m sorry, but we looked: we know your password, remember? Your school claims they have to be fair to all parties – which means your tormentors will be allowed to claim it was “all a joke,” or whatever today’s phrase is. And they certainly won’t be confiscating any phones from anyone. But “if your daughter really has got problems, she knows the rules.”’
Milly nodded. She also knew what happened to those stupid enough to go to the Pastoral Team. The staff wouldn’t proceed without names, and the first thing they’d do is get those names into the room with her: the names would say ‘sorry,’ and the incident would be declared closed. Milly shuddered, but Dad was still speaking, ‘… you can come here. We already know Dansfield has a good bullying policy. Barry told me his niece had an issue earlier last year. Sorted in twenty-four hours. Bully’s phone confiscated and her parents – her parents – had to come into school with her to reclaim it.’
Milly liked the sound of that, but Mum was opening her mouth: ‘You’d better tell her the downside.’
Dad smiled: ‘Sorry, love – no, it’s not that bad! Just more homework. How long did you spend on this weekend’s homework? Half an hour?’
Milly nodded. It was twenty minutes, but her mind was spinning too fast for her to say a word.
‘Barry’s niece: two and a half hours. But Dansfield Grove gets good results.’
‘Dad! I can do that! And I don’t care which room is mine!’ It must have been the chance of escape opening up: tears, great big, sobbing tears falling from her face onto her denim top. She and her mum ended up in the tightest cuddle they’d had since forever.
After what seemed like another forever, but she was told – after they’d moved in and Amy, Barry’s niece, had become a friend – it was only a minute or two, Dad had joined them over by the window, which he gazed out of while he spoke.
‘I’ve only ever told your mum before today. I know what it’s like to be bullied. Every day, having to go into school waiting to be picked on. That’s not going to happen to you: not anymore.’ Dad paused: ‘Barry’s buying a third of my business, and we’ve got that money from grandad’s will, so there’s over three-hundred grand. We can live at home while we sort this place. But – whoa!’ Milly had left Mum and flung herself on him.
‘Your Dad’s said we’ll be in by September. And we’re going to make good memories. Deal?’ Mum said.
Milly, with a release from Jess and her gang in the offing, could only nod.
‘Mr Gardener, are you ready to leave?’ Becky’s voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs.
Dad winked at them, and raised his voice: ‘Well, I’ve seen enough, but, what with the condition of the place – you do know there’s damp in the one and only bathroom, don’t you? – I’m only prepared to offer two ninety. It’s a cash offer. Take it or leave it.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘You’ve got their number, haven’t you? I want a decision before we leave here – and this house off the market.’ Milly and Mum followed Dad out onto the landing.
Becky went away. Mum looked worried: ‘That’s a bit low, isn’t it? Thought it was a seller’s market?’
‘Just wait: they know this place needs work.’ He looked at Milly: ‘Don’t worry, lovely, it’s all negotiation.’
Becky reappeared: ‘They won’t take two ninety. They’re looking for a three as the first number.’
‘They’re not getting full price,’ Dad muttered. Then, aloud, after a pause: ‘Three oh five. Final offer, and the house is off the market instantly.’
Becky murmured into her phone. Then she looked up at him again: ‘Mr Gardener, you have a deal.’