My Perfect Sister

by Penny Batchelor

  ‘Appears is the operative word though,’ she goes on. ‘We only see patients’ hospital faces, not how they’re managing at home. How’s she doing? Is she eating well, keeping warm, staying free from stress?’

  ‘I only came back a few days ago. We’re not close… but I’m making sure she eats healthily, not that she eats a great deal really.’

  ‘And you? How are you coping? You’ve moved back in with your mum, yes? That’s a big life change for you.’ She takes another bite of her chocolate bar. ‘What people tend to forget is that cancer doesn’t only affect the person who has got it, it has an impact on the whole family.’

  ‘I’m taking it as it comes really.’ I feel a pang of guilt at what Una thinks is my great sacrifice.

  ‘It’s all you can do but remember that there are people you can talk to. There are leaflets on the ward about support groups for people whose loved ones have cancer. And if you want to ask me anything when I’m around then feel free.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, then cut to the chase. ‘How long, erm, what I mean is, will she get better?’

  ‘There are no guarantees. You need to talk to her oncologist. What I can say is that she appears to be responding well to treatment and many people in her position do recover and have a good ten or twenty years left.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’ I feel relieved, then strange for sensing that emotion.

  ‘So carry on with your life as normally as you can. What do you do?’ Una puts the last two chocolate squares in her mouth and throws the wrapper into the bin.

  ‘Call centre work usually. I’ve temped a lot. I was made redundant from my last job.’

  ‘Rough. Are you looking for another one?’

  ‘I’ll need to soon,’ I admit. ‘My purse has moths flying out of it.’

  ‘Tell me about it! Once my salary goes in it nearly all goes straight out again in bills and my student loan. Listen, I don’t know if you’ve thought about healthcare assistant work but I know they’re always looking for people to join the bank here. It’s zero hours contract work but there are lots of shifts for people who they can call on at the last minute.’

  ‘What does it involve?’

  ‘Bedpans, feeding people, helping them wash, that sort of thing. You get training.’

  ‘Sounds better than most of the call centre jobs I’ve done. I’m sick of being shouted at on the telephone.’

  ‘Give it a whirl, I’ll find the HR number for you before you go home.’

  As we walk back to the ward our conversation changes to her plans to see her boyfriend after her shift and I tell her a funny story about one night I was supposed to see Shaun early on in our relationship but turned up to the wrong restaurant not realising there were two of the same Italian chain in the city. I feel myself relaxing.

  Back on the ward there are a couple of new patients. Mel has dozed off. I make small talk with Mother and tell her about the healthcare assistant job. She says it’s worth finding out more and I agree. I think I’d enjoy working with people. Briefly the thought goes through my head of what Gemma would have done for a job if she were here. Investment banker? Hot-shot lawyer? Super-clever Gemma was set to go on to do A levels – I’m sure she wouldn’t be slopping out bedpans for a living. My jaw clenches. There she is in my head, her angelic face smiling out from the photograph. She’d be doing something far, far better than me. Montage-like I remember the policeman knocking at the door; silence followed by sobbing; mother’s bedroom door always firmly shut; no one bothering to notice where I was.

  I rush to the ladies to throw up, purging my acrid bitterness down the loo.

  At least I know it’s not morning sickness.

  6

  The Phoenix pub is beginning to empty of underage chancers who have most likely moved on to the town centre for a livelier scene now the time is approaching 9 p.m. Priti arrived late in the afternoon. I met her at the nearby B&B that was cheap but not very cheerful, where she checked in, dropped off her bag and I then took her on a swift walking tour of my old manor to make the most of the dying sunshine.

  Inevitably the walk ended at the pub where we order a two for one burgers meal deal and a bottle of Pinot Grigio between us with a glass of water each as an afterthought. She tells me all about her brother-in-law’s latest misdemeanours and I laugh heartily, the wine going to my head a bit. I’m enjoying having fun with my good friend.

  ‘Look,’ says Priti after a story about a pair of skid-marked boxers being left on the floor in the bathroom, ‘at the bar, second from left. He keeps looking at you. Salt and pepper hair, blue long-sleeved T-shirt.’

  I do the well-worn routine of pretending to look in my bag whilst cricking my neck to get a sneaky look. Priti laughs at my feeble attempts at being discreet. Her cackle grabs the man’s attention and he looks our way with amused eyes. Caught. I could look guiltily away but instead grab the mettle, smile briefly back and down more than a modicum from my glass.

  The man in question seems friendly enough, if somewhat older than my usual type. His short hair is mostly grey with a smattering of white at the temples. I’d say there’s a lot average about him: average height, about 5’11”; average build, neither skinny nor fat but with the tiny beginnings of a beer belly; averagely dressed, wearing the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt combo that’s the casual uniform for most men in early middle age on a weekend. What stands out are his eyes: openly friendly, dark brown and twinkling with a hint of mischievousness as if to say, ‘come on, talk to me, I dare you’.

  I always did love a dare as my school exclusion record will testify. A challenge to press the fire alarm button to get the class out of double French ended up with me sitting at home for a week before I was allowed to go back. Not going to school was a gift rather than a punishment and I spent that week under house arrest, although my sleeping mother wouldn’t have been aware if I’d hitch-hiked to Land’s End for the whole week and didn’t return. It was my father who told me that it wasn’t the teachers he was worried about, it was me, because I had let myself down. No arguing, no slapping, no histrionics, just him looking sad. There was too much sadness in our house already, so I spent that week batch-cooking lovely dinners to eat when he came home from work and to stockpile in the freezer for the future. I got through most of the Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course book from the library. With every successful moussaka, coq au vin and toad in the hole, I felt a sense of achievement I’d never experienced at school.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come over? He’s alright isn’t he, for an older bloke,’ smiles Priti.

  ‘It’s a bit too soon, isn’t it?’ I reply.

  ‘You know what they say, to get over a man you have to get under another one,’ she winks. I groan at the well-worn cliché.

  Despite her dirty jokes, Priti is rather conservative. She swears hers wasn’t an arranged marriage but her parents had been casually organising for her and Tamwar to ‘accidentally’ meet at family parties for months until cupid’s arrow struck and they became an item. Priti belittles Tamwar sometimes and likes nothing better than to roll her eyes whilst she recites his annoying habits but deep down I know they have a strong love, the kind of which I’ve never felt. Never felt yet, I hope. My theory is that she likes to feel she’s in control because the depth of her feeling for Tamwar frightens her. Although she’s part of a tight-knit family she doesn’t like to rely on other people. One late, blurry night she admitted she’d be lost if anything ever happened to him. That’s something she doesn’t usually like to admit, even to herself.

  ‘Women don’t need men. They’re just useful now and then,’ I say. Priti widens her eyes at me. I turn. The man has approached our table.

  ‘So men are useful for putting up shelves and unblocking the sink?’ he says playfully. ‘Is this the 1950s?’

  I smile with embarrassment at having been overheard in the middle of a private conversation but can’t think of anything witty to reply. There follows an uncomfortable silence.

  He
breaks it by offering his hand to me and then to Priti to shake. ‘I’m Gareth. I think we may have met before actually. Can I get you ladies another drink?’

  ‘More Pinot would be gratefully accepted, thank you,’ simpers Priti and I shoot a warning glance at her. I want to spend time with her tonight, not feel obliged to make conversation with some random man because he’s bought me a drink.

  ‘Would you like to join us?’ I kick Priti under the table but she carries on smiling and doesn’t retract her offer.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that if you both don’t mind. I don’t want to interrupt a girls’ night.’

  ‘Are you not here with anyone?’ I ask, hoping he’ll take the hint.

  ‘My mate and his missus,’ he replies, pointing his head towards a smartly-dressed couple at the bar. They can cope without me for a bit. I’ll get the drinks in.’

  I take the chance to admonish Priti. ‘Relax!’ she replies. ‘Be open to new experiences. If he’s a plonker at least he’ll give us something to laugh about later on. Free booze, Annie, free booze!’

  The man returns carrying two glasses of wine (250ml I notice, he’s not a skinflint – or is he trying to get us drunk?) in one hand and a bottle of premium beer in another. He puts them down on the table, avoiding the beermats, God love him, and takes a seat in between us.

  ‘I’m Priti and this is my wonderful friend Annie. I’ve got a free evening pass away from my husband and am visiting her this weekend.’

  Priti has laid her cards straight out on the table. See what I mean about being conservative? She talks the talk but perish the thought that any man would think she’s single and try to hit on her.

  ‘I’m Gareth. Sorry, I told you that already.’ A small, rather endearing blush flushes his cheeks. I get the feeling he doesn’t regularly chat up women.

  ‘Annie, I think we’ve met before, though you were a child then. Your sister, is she, was she, Gemma? You look like her – your face, I mean, not your hair colour.’

  Talk about puncturing the mood like a pin bursting a balloon.

  I look down at my glass. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so, I was at school with her, a couple of years below. I knew her from the school orchestra. I came around your house a few times to practice a tricky part – she was first violin, I was second. Sorry, I’m gabbling on.’ Then he adds, ‘I’m sorry she hasn’t been found yet.’

  Once again, I can’t think of anything to say. Gemma’s ubiquitous smiling celluloid face swims in my subconscious. Priti sees my discomposure and swiftly takes over, although I rather suspect that the mention of Gemma has piqued her interest.

  ‘Did you know Gemma well?’ she asks.

  ‘Not that well; if it weren’t for the orchestra she wouldn’t have noticed me. Girls don’t tend to hang around with boys two years their junior. She was a lovely girl though and took time to help me practice. I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘You got children yourself, Gareth?’ Priti’s now getting down to the nitty gritty. I’ve already clocked her looking at his left hand to see the absence of a wedding ring. That doesn’t mean anything though, some men don’t like to wear them or he could have taken it off before coming out.

  ‘No, I was married for ten years but we didn’t have any kids. Divorced two years ago.’

  We all take a gulp of our drinks in unison.

  ‘I, I don’t remember Gemma that much,’ I say, inquisitiveness taking me over. ‘I was only little when she, she… Anyway, you said she was kind, what else was she like? I’ve always had the feeling she was perfect.’

  Gareth looks at me as if he doesn’t know what to say. ‘Well, like I said I didn’t know her very well, but she was always kind to me. I think she was quite academic and had lots of friends although she wasn’t in the cool group – the kids who bunked off and went smoking, clubbing and drinking. She got teased sometimes I think because she got good grades. I once saw another kid calling her a swot because she’d done well in her mocks. I don’t think she cared though. She made some jibe about the boy having a small penis.’

  Priti and I snorted with laughter. This anecdote certainly broke the tension. Making jokes about small penises (or is that penii or penes)? That’s my kind of man.

  The chat continues amiably. Gareth says he hasn’t seen me around here before and I tell him I’ve recently moved back to look after my mother. He’s a supermarket manager, sick of aisles of baked beans, and hopes to retrain as a lawyer. In the evenings and weekends he’s studying for a law degree with the Open University. Tonight he’s out to celebrate his friend Mo’s birthday, the chap sporting the expensive-looking clothes at the bar. He’s known Mo for years from working at the supermarket. Priti buys another round.

  Talking about Gemma feels both wrong and strangely appealing. I’ve only ever heard my parents and Aunty Lena’s side of the story. Perhaps she wasn’t so perfect after all; would I have liked her if she’d lived to adulthood? Could we have even become friends?

  When there’s a lull in the conversation about whether wine or beer is better and our favourite comedy catchphrases, Priti blurts out the question that’s on the tip of my tongue before I get the chance to.

  ‘Have you any idea what might have happened to Gemma?’ she asks Gareth.

  ‘No, it was so long ago.’ He takes another swig from his beer bottle and starts fiddling with the beer mat, peeling off bits into soft, white shards.

  ‘I remember the police came to the school to talk to her friends and her teachers but I wasn’t interviewed. I think the feeling was that she’d run away. There were rumours that she was worried about taking her GCSEs and that she wasn’t happy at home. When weeks passed and she didn’t turn up the gossip was that she must have been murdered. Sorry to be so brutal, Annie.’

  Priti presses him further. ‘Was there anything out of the ordinary you’d noticed about her? Any friends, boyfriends we don’t know about?’

  ‘Again, it was all so long ago and I wasn’t close to her. She never confided anything to me. As well as having a group of girlfriends she seemed to be as thick as thieves with a bloke called Mike who played the trumpet in the orchestra. I think they were in the same form.’

  It’s getting late now and I simultaneously feel tired and stimulated by the alcohol. I down my untouched tap water in one.

  ‘It’d be nice to see you again if you’d like to, Annie?’ says Gareth. Time has swiftly passed and his friends are glancing over as if they want to leave. ‘Can I take your number?’

  I hesitate and ponder whether to give him a false one but then realise I’m far too old for those games. Gareth seems nice and one date won’t hurt. At least it will show Shaun I’m moving on – I’m sure it will get back to him via Priti and Mark.

  I punch my number into Gareth’s phone and he sends me a text to give me his.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘Do you like Indian? Italian?’

  ‘Italian,’ I reply with a smile. Priti is practically bursting over with excitement at the thought of my going on a date. I can imagine her galloping in a hat towards the finishing line two years too soon and boasting that it was her who brought the happy couple together.

  ‘Perfect. Italian it is.’ Gareth shakes our hands again and gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘Good to meet you, Priti.’ He turns to walk back to his friends then stops and turns back.

  ‘I don’t know if you know this and it’s probably not relevant, but a boy who was in Gemma’s form was sent to prison a couple of years ago. I don’t know whether Gemma had much to do with him at school. Toby Smith his name is. He went down for attempted murder of his wife. It was a big scandal around here.’ With that he walks off to the bar.

  Could Toby have had something to do with Gemma’s disappearance? Was he always violent? Priti buys another bottle of wine, to go, from the bar. ‘Is your mum staying at your Aunty’s?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Then let’s go back to your house for a bit. It’s time for us to look in Gemma’s room. Maybe there are some letters
or a diary? We can see if there’s any mention of Toby.’

  I’m too drunk to protest.

  7

  If I’d been reading Jane Eyre recently, I’d be rather perturbed by the gothic creaks and thuds emanating from Gemma’s room; but knowing that Mother wouldn’t have invested any money in the upkeep of the house, I put the groans down to the death rattles of the central heating system.

  Priti and I are in Gemma’s museum, swigging out of the rather disgusting bottle of wine, the type you only drink when you’re too pissed already to care what it tastes like, and are about to start our Famous Five-style hunt for clues.

  Being in this place with Priti has taken the edge off my resentment of Gemma’s bedroom still being here, mausoleum-like. Maybe it will be a blessing and not the curse I took it to be. Thanks to the wine the whole situation seems rather funny.

  Priti seems sure she’s going to find something that will solve the whole mystery, as if my life is a one-hour television drama with only five minutes to go before the denouement.

  Instead of turning the main light on and announcing what we’re doing to the whole street, we’ve put on the 1980s bright yellow bendy side lamp and are swathed in its shadows. Priti is sitting on the immaculately-pressed duvet cover, now crinkled, and the wine bottle is on the bedside table. I’m cross-legged on the floor wondering where to begin. Despite myself, I’ve fetched some toilet roll from the loo to act as a coaster for the bottle and warn Priti not to spill it over the bed. Somehow, that would just feel wrong, although the wicked side of me would quite relish trashing the place.

  Priti is gabbling on enthusiastically, gesticulating wildly with her arms to make her not-quite-so-coherent points. I’m long gone from being sober and that certainly helps with following her train of thought. She’s trying to decipher what happened to Gemma, as if being in her bedroom will imbue her with her spirit. Thank goodness she hasn’t suggested a Ouija board.

  ‘So Gemma’s disappearance. What are the possibilities?’ she says, rustling in her handbag, pulling out a biro and a bank-letter-looking sheet of A4 paper, which she then turns over and begins scribbling on, drawing outlandish spirals first to get the pen to work.