Lemonade Sky. Jean Ure
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As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew that something was wrong. When you live in a basement it is always a bit gloomy, but I could tell from the way the sun was shining through the tops of the windows that it had to be late.
I lay for a moment, watching the dust specks dancing in the light. Where was Mum? Why hadn’t she woken us?
From across the room there came the sound of gentle snoring. Either Tizz or Sammy, whiffling in her sleep. I raised myself on an elbow and gazed across at them. Tizz, in the top bunk, was lying on her back with her arms outside the duvet. Sammy was scrunched in a heap, sucking at her thumb. She was the one that was whiffling. Little snuffly noises, like a piglet.
Somewhere outside, further up the road, a church clock was striking. I sank back down, counting the bongs. Ten o’clock! If Mum was awake, she’d have come crashing in on us hours ago.
“Up, up! Glorious sunshine! Don’t waste it! Out you get!”
I strained my ears, listening for some sign of movement. Anything to indicate that Mum was up and about. All I could hear was Sammy, whiffling, and the occasional sound of a car going past.
I pulled the duvet up to my chin. There wasn’t any actual need to get up; it wasn’t like it was a school day. Sometimes at weekends, if Mum was in one of her depressed moods, she’d let us go on sleeping cos she’d be sleeping herself. But just lately she’d been on a high. What we called a big happy. When Mum was in a big happy she’d be up half the night, chatting on the phone to her friends, rearranging the furniture, even painting the walls a funny colour, which is what she did one time. We woke up to discover she’d painted the living room bright purple while we were asleep! Another time she’d spent the night baking things. The kitchen looked like a hurricane had blown through it. The sink was full of pots and pans, and everything was covered in flour. But Mum was so pleased with herself!
“See?” she said. “I’ve been cooking. Just like a real mum!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the lovely cake she’d made tasted like lumpy porridge. Sammy spat it out, but Tizz and me were brave and forced ourselves to swallow it. After all, Mum had been up half the night making it for us. It would have hurt her if we hadn’t eaten it.
Even at weekends, she still got up at the crack of dawn. When she was in one of her big happies she didn’t seem to need very much sleep. We’d hear her, at six o’clock in the morning, dancing round the sitting room, playing music, or just clattering pans in the kitchen.
This morning, there was silence. Nothing but the sound of passing cars, and Sammy, snuffling. That’s how I knew that something was wrong.
I slipped out of bed and crept through to Mum’s room. I thought the worst would be that I’d find her asleep, which would mean she’d come out of her big happy and slipped into one of her depressions, and then I’d have to decide whether to shake her awake or just leave her. I wasn’t ever sure which it was best to do. But Mum’s bed was empty. It was difficult to tell whether she’d slept in it or not. The pillow was crumpled, and the duvet was thrown back, but that wasn’t anything to go by. Mum never bothered much with bed-making or housework. Either she was in one of her big happies, which meant she had more exciting things to do; or else she was depressed, in which case she didn’t have the energy. There were the odd moments in between, but not very many. Mostly she was either up or down.
I felt the sheet to see if it was warm, but it wasn’t. It was quite cold. My stomach did this churning thing. Where was Mum? I rushed through to the sitting room, burst into the kitchen, threw open the bathroom door. There wasn’t a sign of her. Not anywhere.
I shouted, “MUM?”
I don’t know why I shouted. All it did was wake up Tizz and Sammy. They appeared at the door together, in their nightdresses, Sammy still sucking her thumb. Tizz said, “What’s going on? Where’s Mum?”
I shook my head. “I dunno. She’s not here.”
“So where is she?”
“I said, I don’t know!”
“She’s prob’ly still asleep.”
“She’s not,” I said. “I’ve looked.”
“So where is she?”
I could hear the note of panic in Tizz’s voice. I knew that we were both remembering the last time this had happened, when we’d woken up to find Mum gone.
Sammy took her thumb out of her mouth. “Who’s going to get breakfast?”
Tizz snapped, “Shut up about breakfast! This is serious.”
It wasn’t fair to turn on Sammy. She was only little. Not quite six, which was far too young to have anything more than vague memories of that other time. Just a baby, really. Eighteen months, that’s all she’d been. I’d been eight, and Tizz had been the age Sammy was now. We could remember all too clearly.
“Maybe–” With a look of fierce determination, Tizz strode across to the door. “Maybe she’s gone to see Her Upstairs.”
“No! Tizz! Don’t!” I yelled at her, and she stopped.
“I’m only going to check whether she’s there.”
“But s’ppose she isn’t?”
Tizz bit her lip. She knew what I was thinking. Her Upstairs was a busybody at the best of times. She’d immediately want to know what was going on and why it was we were looking for Mum.
Tizz turned, reluctantly, and came back into the room. “She could just have