Taking Flight

Sheena Wilkinson

Description

‘Beyond the fence everything is dark, but in here is our own lit-up world. Just me and Flight. Our breath snakes into the night like the aftermath of a firework.’ The only riding fifteen-year-old Declan has ever done is joyriding. When he’s forced to stay with his snobby cousin ‘Princess’ Vicky on the other side of Belfast, he’s shocked to find himself falling in love with horses. Vicky would do anything to keep Declan out of her already perfect life and away from her precious showjumper, Flight, no matter who gets hurt… Moving from a harsh Belfast housing estate to the glamour of the showjumping ring, Taking Flight is a fast-paced story full of conflict, jealousy and courage.

Sujets

• Alternative Family
• Sports
• Drugs
• Social Themes
• Juvenilee Fiction
• Horses
• Substance Abuse
• Drug
• Equestrian
• Recreation
• Animals
• Horse
• Alcohol
• Family

Informations

• Publié par: Little Island Books
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908195647
• Langue: English

Extrait

Taking Flight
About the author
Sheena Wilkinson has won many awards for short fiction and has a Masters with Distinction in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast. She teaches English in Belfast and lives in County Down where she spends far too much time writing and reading. A lot of the ideas for this book came to her when riding her pony in Castlewellan Forest. Taking Flight is her first novel.
Taking Flight
Sheena Wilkinson
First published 2010 by Little Island an imprint of New Island 2 Brookside Dundrum Road Dublin 14
www.littleisland.ie
Copyright © Sheena Wilkinson 2010
The author has asserted her moral rights.
ISBN 978-1-84840-949-1
All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.
British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover design by Inka Hagen Inside design by Claire Rourke
Printed by Cox and Wyman
Little Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Mummy, John and Rhona with love; and in memory of Scarlet, the best pony ever
Acknowledgements
It seems a long time since I first started scribbling the notes that became Taking Flight . I am grateful to Malorie Blackman who, at an Arvon course, saw the potential of an early version, and especially to Lee Weatherly, mentor extraordinaire, who is unfailingly generous with advice, criticism and encouragement.
I am indebted to the English Department at Queen’s University, Belfast, partly for the full scholarship which enabled me to do the Masters in Creative Writing in 2008/9, and also for the guidance and support of the Seamus Heaney Centre staff, especially Glenn Patterson and Ian Sansom.
The Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig never fails to work its magic and I am thankful for the part it plays in my writing life.
Thanks to all the readers – friends, family, critiquing partners – who have ploughed their way through numerous drafts. My sister, Rhona Wilkinson, checked all the showjumping details.
The aptly named Faith O’Grady, and Lauren Hadden, have given me all the support a writer could wish for from her agents. Finally, a huge thanks to everyone at Little Island, especially Siobhán Parkinson and Elaina O’Neill, for believing in Taking Flight , and helping me to make it the best story it can be.
Chapter 1
DECLAN
First the crack of bone, then the gush of blood. I never knew blood came out that fast. I flex my fingers. ‘That’s the last time you call my ma a slag, McCann.’
Emmet McCann doesn’t say anything, just stands there in the playground with his hands up to his nose and blood spurting through his fingers. The knot of boys and a few girls who two minutes earlier had been egging us on with, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ now mutter, ‘Payne’s coming!’ and melt away. Seaneen Brogan is last to leave. ‘Good on you, Declan,’ she says.
Payne looms up and Seaneen scrams.
‘Fighting again, boys?’
Emmet mumbles and splutters and points at me but he can’t talk.
‘Sir, he started it. He called – well, he was saying stuff.’
‘ Saying stuff .’ Payne sighs and gives me his usual you’re-a-piece-of-dog-turd look. ‘Your articulacy never fails to astound me, Kelly.’
I rub my fist on my school trousers.
‘McCann – school nurse; Kelly – my office. Now.’
He can’t drag us – they’re not allowed to touch you – but he marches between us back to the main building. ‘Another phone call home,’ he says in a bored voice as if he has better things to do.
Emmet turns to me before he goes into the nurse’s room. ‘My da’ll get you for this, Kelly.’
‘Oh, I’m so scared.’
‘Enough!’ roars Payne. ‘In here, Kelly.’
Mr C. Payne, Deputy Head (discipline) makes me stand while he lets on to be doing something dead important at the computer on his desk. He’s probably playing solitaire or looking up porn. It’s just one of his techniques, making you wait. Making you sweat. I am sweating, but only because I’ve just been fighting and maybe a bit because I’m thinking about Barry the Bastard McCann and what he might do when his precious wee Emmet tells him Declan Kelly broke his nose. Cause I’m pretty sure it is broken. I can’t help smiling at the memory of that sickening, satisfying c-r-a-c-k!
‘Take the smirk off your face, Kelly.’ Payne stops looking up porn and reaches for the phone on his desk. ‘Didn’t have the pleasure of seeing your mother at last week’s Year Twelve parents’ evening, did I?
‘No.’
‘No, sir .’
‘Sir.’
She never comes up to the school. Or anywhere else these days. At first I thought it was better than having her hang round Barry’s flat all the time, sometimes for days, but now I’m pissed off with it. Every day, sitting in front of the TV, sometimes still in her jammies at tea time. I imagine the phone ringing in the living-room. She won’t answer. I glance at the clock on the wall. Five to two. She might not even be up yet.
When Barry first dumped her, she used to leap on the phone every time it rang, but it was never him.
Payne puts down the receiver and gives me a dirty look. ‘Does your mother work, Kelly?’
‘No …’ I leave it as long as I dare. ‘… sir.’
‘This is not the first time you have assaulted a fellow pupil, Kelly.’
Assaulted . Payne is so far up his own arse. ‘Sir, he called my ma a slag.’
Payne winces, like I just dirtied his precious office. ‘Kelly, it is not helpful to bring these’ – he sniffs – ‘domestic issues into school. Now, I have been familiarising myself with your record. Not terribly impressive, is it?’
I shrug. ‘Dunno, sir.’
He raises grey eyebrows behind gimpy specs. ‘Oh, let me assure you, Kelly. Very unimpressive indeed. Poor work; anger issues. Then, of course,’ he sneers, ‘let us not forget last year’s little … eh, holiday.’
They always bring it back to that. It wasn’t a holiday and it was nothing to do with school. But there’s no point saying anything.
Payne’s starting to sound bored. ‘You know the punishment for fighting as well as I do, Kelly.’
Should do by now , he means.
‘Suspension, sir.’
‘And reintegration only following parental interview,’ he snaps.
Whatever.
Payne taps a few keys and the printer whirrs and hums. He must have a letter on file and just changes the names – there’s fights all the time at our school. He makes a big deal out of sealing the envelope and thumping down on it just to make sure. ‘Take this home to your mother now . You are suspended pending parental interview.’
I stuff the envelope in my blazer pocket. At least I’ll get out of the Friday afternoon boredom – Personal Development with Mr Dermott (bearable) and English with Psycho Sykes (not).
The corridors are quiet, just a few after-lunch crisp packets and chip papers drifting in corners.
‘Oi, Declan!’ It’s Seaneen Brogan again, heading out of the photocopying room with a pile of papers that look like very like Mr Dermott’s PD worksheets. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home. Suspended.’
‘God, Declan, you’re an eejit.’
‘Thanks.’
She clutches the pages tighter to her chest. She has massive tits. ‘You know Emmet McCann’s da’ll be after you for this?’
‘So?’
‘ So he’s a psycho. Seriously, Declan – watch your back.’
‘Go on back and suck up to Dermie. He must be missing you by now.’ I lift the top worksheet. ‘What am I missing? “Assertive, not aggressive.” Christ. God love him, he tries, doesn’t he?’
‘He’d need to. See ya, Declan.’ She wiggles down the corridor, arse and curly pony-tail bouncing.
‘See ya.’
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head through the main doors. The shiny silver Jeep – BAZ 67 – crouched outside makes my stomach nosedive and I press myself back into the doorway until it’s gone. Barry must be taking Emmet to casualty. I make sure the Jeep’s well away before I carry on, head down against the rain.
I’m dead.
When I get to the top of our street I do my automatic check to see if the curtains are open. No. Shit.
She’s staring at the TV – some daytime crap; she’d watch anything. When I flick on the light she jumps. ‘What are you doing here at this time?’
I fire the letter at her. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I say while she rips it open. ‘I just got the blame as usual.’
She explodes of course. I zone out. Heard it all before. Can’t cope; you’re out of control; can’t hold my head up in the street after the last time …
Sure she’s never in the bloody street.
‘And I’m going up to no school,’ she finishes. She ties her dressing gown belt tighter, like she’s getting ready for battle. There’s a tea stain down the front of it. ‘I’m not having them tell me I’m a bad mother.’
‘You’re not a bad mother.’ I sit down beside her and try to slip a fag from the packet in her dressing gown pocket, sort of joking, but she slaps my hand away, hard. I catch the greasy stink of her hair.
‘Don’t you try and get round me. I’ve had as much as I can take.’
‘Mum, you’re overreacting.’
‘And don’t you dare patronise me! You sound like our Colette.’
The phone rings. She hesitates, then picks it up. From the look on her face I think I’d be as well to hide out in the kitchen. Maybe even make her a cup of tea.
But when she slams into the kitchen five minutes later she goes straight for the vodka cupboard.
‘Mum, it’s only three o’clock …’
She swings round. The glass trembles in her hand. ‘You never told me who it was!’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Course it matters!’ She slams the glass down on the fridge then reaches for it again. ‘How d’you think I felt? That snobby get saying they wanted to keep domestic issues out of school. He knew all my bloody business.’ Her voice shakes.
No he didn’t. And neither do you. You don’t know what Emmet said about you. Drunken slag – and me denying it! You’re a crap mother. I