No Sister of Mine (ARC)

by Vivien Brown

  up and down as if she was expecting water to come running out down our arms. ‘I’m Suzanne.

  Stupid name. Just call me Annie.’

  There was much smiling and nodding, a few basic questions about home towns and

  family, most of the answers to which I was sure I would forget, and the awkward unfamiliarity

  of half-hearted hugs with strangers. Fran’s father beat a hasty retreat and we all propped our

  doors open so we could stay connected and carry on talking, or shouting more like, as we

  unpacked. From my room I could hear Annie’s feet thump across the hall as she went to help

  Fran open a tricky lock on one of her bags, and Ruth making coffee and unwrapping a cake her

  mum had made and asking if anyone would like a slice.

  Within a day or two the initial wariness had worn off and we had become friends of a

  sort, despite probably having very little in common beyond finding ourselves at the same place

  at the same time, and all of us feeling more than a little out of our depth.

  It didn’t take long to sort out who would have use of each shelf in the cupboards and

  how to divide up space in the two enormous fridge freezers, and where the washing machines

  were, once Fran had found them in another building a good five minutes’ walk away. We’d

  meet up in the kitchen sometimes and have a chat, maybe share a packet of biscuits but, beyond

  that, I spent a lot of time alone, lying on the narrow bed in my own room, listening to music,

  poring over leaflets for way too many clubs and societies I knew I would never join, and trying to make sense of the map of the campus and the notes I’d made during the first introductory

  lectures.

  Sarah wrote to me often in those early weeks, providing a much-needed lifeline to

  home. She told me about Buster catching a frog and not knowing what to do with it, and about

  Dad winning a ten-pound cheque from a crossword he’d sent in to the local paper and treating

  them all to fish and chips, and about some boy at school called Colin who seemed to have

  developed a crush on her and wouldn’t stop following her about.

  That unnerved me a bit, the thing about Colin. What if he took things too far, got carried

  away and wouldn’t take no for an answer, like Arnie O’Connor? What if he put my little sister

  in danger, tried to touch her, scared the life out of her? I thought about writing to warn her, or calling her from the communal phone in the hall, but what could I say? Arnie was still my big

  secret, one I was desperate to forget, and I knew it wouldn’t be right to judge every boy either of us ever met by his nasty drunken standards. And besides, I didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t

  17

  want to tell anybody. So I pushed all thoughts of him aside, just as I’d planned all along, decided that Sarah would just have to look after herself, and threw myself into university life.

  My course was fantastic. We were studying the novels of the nineteenth century that

  first term, and reading the Romantic poets. I lost myself for hours on end in the fascinatingly provincial world of George Eliot’s Middlemarch that reminded me, in so many ways, of my own home town, and luxuriated in the lilting words of Wordsworth and Lord Byron. It felt as

  if I had truly arrived in heaven, not forced to take lessons or exams in subjects I had no interest in, and no silly school rules or assemblies to tolerate. The study of English, its beautiful

  language and its centuries of richly engrossing literature, was all I had to concentrate on. It was what I increasingly believed I had been born for, and already I knew I wanted to make a career

  of teaching it to others.

  ‘Head in a book again, Eve?’ Jodie said, one Friday evening, as she and Lauren were

  getting ready to dash to the station and pay their families a weekend visit. ‘Make sure you have some fun while we’re gone, won’t you? All work and no play, and all that . . .’

  I nodded, peering over my dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, my head still lost

  somewhere on the moors with Cathy Earnshaw. ‘Course I will. There’s a party over in Block

  K. Some of the English group. I’ll probably go to that.’

  ‘Well, don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!’ The two of them giggled as they linked arms

  and left. I couldn’t help noticing how close they’d become, and how quickly. Still, I had no

  reason to feel jealous. I had my books, and my own visit home to look forward to. It would

  soon be Christmas.

  The party was in full swing by the time I reluctantly closed my book several chapters

  before the end and made my way across to Block K, my head still full of windswept landscapes

  and long-lost loves. The kitchen on the ground floor, identical in size and shape to ours, was

  packed with people, most of them holding beer cans, talking way too loudly, and looking and

  sounding decidedly pissed. I hovered at the edges for a while, suddenly realising I should have brought some booze. Maybe I could just make my way to the sink and pour myself a glass of

  water. Everyone would assume I was drinking vodka, if they even bothered to look at my glass,

  or me, at all.

  ‘Can’t come in empty handed!’ Harry, one of the boys from my course, said, wagging

  a finger at me and slurring his words. ‘’Snot allowed.’

  I giggled, suddenly imagining something slimy emerging from his nose. ‘Right. I’ll go

  and get something then, shall I?’

  18

  ‘Thassa girl.’ He merged back into the throng as I hovered again, undecided about whether I even wanted to stay, let alone drink. Well, maybe just for an hour or so, and just for one drink, to be sociable. The shop would still be open. It always was, on Friday and Saturday

  evenings, when a high demand for alcohol seemed to be the norm. I’d get a cheap bottle of

  wine, and some cream crackers or something to help soak it up. It didn’t look as if there was

  much in the way of food laid out and I got the general idea that this was very much a bring-

  your-own sort of a party.

  Despite the well-lit paths, there was something a bit desolate about the outer reaches of

  Brydon’s sprawling campus at night, so I was glad to reach the central plaza and the shop with

  its lights on, the door open and a bustle of customers coming and going.

  ‘Hi, Evie Peevie!’ Beth’s boyfriend Lenny, who seemed to have picked up on the

  nickname she had given me on the train, greeted me from behind the counter with a wide smile.

  ‘A ready meal for one, is it? Like every other bugger in here tonight. Or can I get you the latest copy of The New Scientist? Oh, don’t worry, I’m only teasing. I know science isn’t your thing.

  English, right? Beth says you write awesome poetry. I’ve been having a go myself, actually.

  What do you think of this one? There was a young lady from Wales, who at uni went right off the rails. She dropped her drawers, on too many floors . . . Sorry, I haven’t got any further than that yet. Not quite Poet Laureate material, I know. Couldn’t help me out with a last line, could you?’

  ‘Afraid not, Lenny,’ I laughed. ‘You really should be a comedian, you know. You’re

  wasted in this shop.’

  ‘In other words, don’t give up the day job, eh? I know sarcasm when I hear it! Right,

  what can I get you, my lovely?’

  I picked out a bottle of wine, a packet of Ritz and a small block of cheddar, and put

  them on the counter.

  ‘Cor, you really know how to live, don’t you? I hope this isn’t your evening meal.’

  ‘Party food. I don’t expect to be staying there long. I’ll probably get some chips on my

/>   way back later, if I’m hungry.’

  ‘No hot date tonight then?’

  ‘I wish!’ I paid for my things, which Lenny had dropped into a carrier, and gave him a

  wave as I went back out into the dark. I had no idea why I’d said that. Just one of those things people say. Did I really wish I had a date, a boyfriend? No, probably not.

  19

  The last time I had been with a boy at a party . . . it had been Arnie. And I had kissed him. Why had I done that? It had been more out of curiosity than anything else, I suppose,

  because I didn’t actually fancy him at all, but I’d wanted to find out how it felt, to be kissed like that.

  Sweet and deep, and packed with longing. I knew I was a bit of a late starter, my head

  still full of wild romantic notions fuelled by weepy films and all the dreamy lovey-dovey books I borrowed from the library and read avidly under the bedcovers. Arnie was just someone to

  practise on, as far as I was concerned, ready for when ‘The One’ came along. Nothing more. If

  only he had known that. Or maybe he did, but ignored it anyway. For him, that awkward first

  kiss had worked like a green light. Full speed ahead to probing fingers and crushed breasts, and a frenzied attempt at getting his hands underneath my skirt.

  He hadn’t taken it well when I said no, and kept saying no. Told me I was frigid. Told

  me that I was just teasing, that I wanted it – and him – but was playing hard to get. Sucked hard at my neck. Hurt my arm. Kept on pushing and probing, his fingers forcing onwards, tugging

  at the edges of my underwear, jabbing roughly into my flesh . . .

  I know I had a lucky escape. Well, the knee I jerked up hard and fast between his legs

  made sure of that. And then I ran, tripping and gasping, all the way home, and he didn’t follow me, so I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

  It hit me hard though, the fear that came after, and the realisation of my own

  vulnerability. I stopped drinking so much and stopped going out after dark on my own. I

  couldn’t risk seeing him, couldn’t take the chance that it might happen again, or that he would tell people, twist things, say I was a tease, make out it was all somehow my fault . . .

  I shook the memories away. This was different. I was safe here. Safe, because this was

  my new life and I was in control now, and that felt good. Empowering. There was no way I

  was going to get drunk, or let myself get into a situation like that, with anyone, ever again. I wasn’t going to kiss any more frogs and hope they turned out to be princes. And, as for ‘The

  One’ . . . I doubted now that such a person existed.

  As I re-joined the crowded party, the carrier bag was scooped from my hands almost as

  soon as I was through the door, and I was left standing alone in a sea of semi-strangers. I didn’t much like being at places like this on my own. I knew that a boyfriend wasn’t the answer, but

  it would have been good to have someone to arrive with, and walk back with afterwards. The

  girls I shared with were friendly enough but they were all off doing their own thing. I’d met up with Beth for lunch or a coffee a few times, and I wasn’t short of people to talk to when I went 20

  to lectures, but right at that moment I missed Sarah. My sister was like my other half, the one person I had always felt totally comfortable with, building secret dens out of blankets, curled up in our pyjamas on the sofa, whispering in the dark when we were meant to be asleep. Maybe

  I’d call her later, before she went to bed.

  I followed my carrier bag across the room, anxious not to let it out of my sight or the

  hungry hordes snaffle all my cheese before I got any for myself. The boy who had taken it

  turned and smiled as he emptied the contents onto the draining board. ‘Want some?’ he said,

  pulling the packet of crackers open and ripping at the plastic wrapper on the cheese with his

  teeth.

  I nodded, quickly reaching for my bottle of wine as an arm appeared from behind us

  and tried to grab it. ‘It should be me asking you that really, shouldn’t it?’ I said, clutching the bottle to my chest. ‘Seeing as it was me who brought it.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t worry about any of that nonsense here,’ he said, his accent one I couldn’t

  immediately place, but was clearly northern. ‘Share and share alike.’ He dug his thumb in and

  pulled a ragged chunk of cheese from the corner of the block, holding it out to me as he put the rest of it down. He rummaged about in the sink for a used glass and quickly swilled it under

  the tap. ‘I’m Josh, by the way. I’ve seen you around but I don’t . . .’

  ‘Eve.’ I took the cheese and chewed at it, preventing me from having to say anything

  else, at least for a while.

  ‘English, right? The course you’re on, not your nationality!’ He laughed at his own

  joke. ‘Like most of the others here.’

  I nodded, taking the chance to study his face, his deep-brown eyes looking slightly

  glazed over. He had obviously had a few drinks already this evening. I swallowed. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, boring stuff. Business Studies, and Maths. Into my final year already and it doesn’t

  get any better. I’m more or less destined to become an accountant or a banker or something

  equally dreary.’

  ‘Why do it if you don’t want to?’

  ‘I didn’t say I don’t want to. Just that it’s boring. But then, most things are, aren’t they?’

  ‘Are they? I’m not sure that’s true.’

  He tilted his head to one side and stared at me, for just a little too long. ‘Tell me

  something that isn’t. Go on, I dare you to think of something you find truly exciting. That stays exciting, and doesn’t end up boring you rigid in the end.’ He took the bottle from me and

  21

  twisted its top off, then poured some wine into the grimy glass and thrust it into my hand, tipping the rest to his mouth and taking a big swig straight from the bottle.

  I watched him wipe his sleeve over his chin to catch the drips and could instantly

  imagine what my parents would have said if I’d ever done anything like that in public, or even

  at home for that matter. ‘You don’t care much, do you?’ I said, trying to sound disapproving

  but ending up sounding just like my own mother.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About anything. Your course, your future, what other people might think of you . . .’

  ‘That’s about it, I reckon. You’ve summed me up pretty well there, Eve. Careless,

  carefree, call it what you like. Doesn’t stop me wanting to care though, does it?’

  I sipped slowly at my wine. I’d had very little to drink since that night with Arnie, and

  I could feel a small alarm bell starting to ring in my head. Josh was looking at me very intensely, and the last thing I wanted was to give him the wrong idea. It was time to seek my escape,

  while I still could.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Josh, but I see someone over there I really want to talk

  to, so . . .’

  ‘Yeah, okay. I get it. A better offer on the table, eh?’

  ‘For your information, I am not on offer, to anyone.’ I picked up my food and slid it

  back into its bag. ‘And certainly not on the table! As I said, nice to meet you. Keep the rest of the wine. You sound like you might need it more than I do.’

  22

  CHAPTER 4

  SARAH

  Mum had decided to stay at home and cook, and probably run the vacuum around our room yet

  again while she was at it, so it was just Dad and me waiting on the platform that Friday

  afternoon when Eve’s train pulled in.

  There was still
more than a week to go until Christmas but winter had definitely arrived.

  Dad worked at a local insurance company. He had asked if he could leave early, so he could

  be there to meet her, and was still wearing his suit and tie, his battered old overcoat pulled over the top. There was an icy wind blowing, so even Dad, usually as tough as old boots, was

  muttering about how he should have brought gloves. A few shrivelled brown leaves skittered

  haphazardly about our feet as we stamped them to keep warm.

  Eve looked different somehow as she climbed down from the train, turning to lug her

  case down the step behind her. The coat, the scuffed boots, the hairstyle, or what I could see of it sticking out under her woolly hat, were all just the same as they had been before she left, but Eve wasn’t. I suppose if I had to try to explain it I would say that she looked like an adult now, as she stood absolutely still and scanned the platform, lifting her arm to wave as she spotted us and started to wheel the case slowly and steadily towards us.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ She went to him first, lifting her cheek to be pecked, and handing the case

  over into his care before turning to me. ‘Sprout!’ She pulled me to her, crushing my face against the rough wool of her coat. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you!’

  Sprout! She hadn’t called me that in years, not since the days when she had been a good

  six inches taller than me and anxious to affirm her superior big-sister status. Still, it sounded good, hearing her say it. Like we were kids again, and her only role in life was to be bigger

  than me, and to protect me. I sank into her chest, felt her arms squashing me in tight, and clung on like a limpet. We pulled apart eventually, running to catch up as Dad strode off towards the Underground, Eve’s case bouncing noisily along behind him.

  By the time we reached the house, a dour-looking semi tucked away in the older part of

  Ealing, dusk was falling. Mum had pulled all the curtains closed and lit the gas fire, making

  the living room feel extra warm and cosy. Our old artificial Christmas tree and the tatty

  cardboard box of decorations we had used for as long as I could remember were ready and