BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS OLGA JASTRZEBSKA

One-Way Ticket

she couldn’t see, yet she knew precisely when to leap or sprint, like second nature. She timed it perfectly and didn’t even take a tumble.

The whole, dull day, she’d gripped the table tightly, as each tick of the clock had made her heart beat faster and faster, until the bell had sounded and she’d made it to the giant, grey doors before she realised she’d forgotten to take a breath.

Finally, she was racing blindly down the flowing, concrete steps, the blazing colours of her knitted scarf flapped wildly in front of her eyes and she was swallowed by a warm figure with a soft scent. She felt the roughness of her mum’s leather glove on her face and squinted, as the rich colours of autumn flooded her eyes, blurred by the bite of the bitter, brisk air.

There was no time to be spared: she couldn’t bear the thought of wasting a single second: every minute from half three till six was precious. It made her passionately upset to have to leave her gran’s promptly at 6pm every Friday, to the point where she’d even threatened to run away if mum didn’t let her quit Brownies. She leaped into the back seat, jammed the seatbelt in and begged her mum to hurry up.

Tapping her foot aggressively, she was becoming more and more offended, as each traffic light tried to delay her arrival at Gran’s.

Her mood marginally improved as they passed the first landmark: a fish and chip shop where she ordered a large portion of chips with extra salt every week; not long after, they passed the Tesco where dad always bought her three-for-two strawberry laces if she promised to learn her spellings; and soon they would rush off the roundabout, past Smyth’s Super Toy-store and speed off down the bumpy road before turning right, then take a left and then another left in order to arrive at Gran’s with only three minutes wasted. Despite being agitated, she was extremely proud of her time: previously she’d lost six minutes, but was able to make herself feel better by justifying her sluggishness as a case of the ham sandwich she had eaten, which had caused her to develop a stitch.

Confusion hit her; then shock, followed by more confusion. Her mother was lost. Or confused? All the spinning around on the roundabout must have made her dizzy and now she’d taken the wrong turning: she’d completely dodged Smyth’s Super Toy-store and was heading straight down the ring road to their luscious, little suburban neighbourhood, where it was a miracle they had managed to find a house.

Stunned into silence, her foot stopped tapping, her mind went blank momentarily and all she could do was blink. A thorough questioning ought to be performed, she decided: maybe they were taking a different route? But that would mean her having even less time with Gran, which was wholly unfair. It wasn’t like her mother to be confused.

Only then did it strike her that her mother had not yet inquired about her day. This only irritated her further: if her mother wasn’t going to talk to her, then surely all her concentration should be completely centred on taking the correct route, so that they’d arrive punctually at half three?

It took her a few moments to register that they hadn’t even been moving for several minutes now, and that the ring of trees around them was in fact the wall of evergreens Dad had planted to stop the neighbours from spying; and the dog plodding cheerlessly towards them was, in fact, her dopey golden retriever. And it made her even more miserable to realise that they were parked in the driveway of their suburban house.

Grabbing her book-bag, she exited the car hastily and followed her mother expectantly inside. Only when her mother walked purposefully up the stairs did she draw the line, and stubbornly plonked herself on the stool in the hallway, book bag on her lap, shiny school-shoes still securely fastened and arms crossed in frustration.

A few lengthy minutes passed before her mother returned downstairs and encompassed her with a hug. She felt obliged to hug her mother back, rather reluctantly, as she could hear her sniffing and did not wish to catch a cold for fear of being unable to go trick-or-treating the following week.

After a tedious staring competition, several sighs and many jumbled mutterings, her mother finally had the decency to inform her that Gran had gone away.

A wave of misery took over her at the thought that Gran had not personally informed her that they wouldn’t be seeing each other that week. That whole monotonous week, all she could focus on had been her weekly trip to Gran’s – eating carrot cake for dinner, watching Strictly together, and leaving with her pockets overflowing with enough sugar to rot her teeth and another threadbare scarf to add to her collection.

An episode of Dora The Explorer sent her mind racing down a different path. How lucky Gran was, off on another adventure. Memories of Gran proudly showing her countless photo albums filled with snapshots of countries that weren’t England overwhelmed her: she remembered France and Spain, which she could find on the big map in the classroom, but then there were others – Mexico, Greece, Morocco and even Australia. Gran had visited them all.

But Gran always sparkled with excitement as she pondered her finest idea of having a colourful beachside home in the Caribbean, which was far way, all the way across the Atlantic. Gran had gone to chase her dreams. She was overjoyed for her, and even more excited by the idea of a present from a world so far away.

Over the few weeks that followed, the joy she felt for her grandmother decreased substantially, and she was even more annoyed to hear that her Gran hadn’t thought to share any photos with her parents. While her parents were engrossed in dire adult conversation, she thought of ways in which Gran could compensate for leaving her, and she settled on skipping Brownies and having double servings of carrot cake.

The fourth week passed and by now the trees were bare, their leaves an unsightly slush in the roads that had her yelling when they took her feet out from under her. By now, her mother insisted she wear the unbearably thick and uncomfortable woollen tights which the school required; and by now she had carefully compiled a long list for