Reuben was Hilly’s best friend, and had been since primary school. He was not her boyfriend, though at one time she had thought he might be, and still found it useful sometimes to pretend that he was, just as he sometimes used her as a smokescreen. Since leaving school and starting at sixth-form college, a year ahead of Hilly, Reuben had stopped pretending that it was girls who attracted him. S, Hilly assumed, was for Saeed – a shy, handsome Middle Eastern boy Reuben had met earlier in the summer. Certainly, before she left for France, Reuben had been in a most uncharacteristic mope, after Saeed – scared off, Reuben said – had ended the short-lived flirtation. Hence Hilly’s promise of daily postcards to Reuben, a small effort to cheer him up.
Staring at the moorhens, she wondered how she felt about Reuben’s news. Reuben always kept her fully informed of various fancyings, skirmishes, misunderstandings and embarrassments, but – even allowing for his typical extravagance – this was the first time he had used the L-word. She had seen him only yesterday, but it was results day, dominated by exam hysteria. Hilly had spent the day with Tessa and her other friends, collecting and comparing grades, talking over and over again about successes, disappointments and plans, and finishing up in a pub in town. Reuben had gone to school with her, seen the results, then drifted off on his own.
And now here he was, approaching from behind a bed of scarlet dahlias: mop of unruly hair, broad grin, quick bouncy walk. ‘You look pleased with yourself!’ she called.
‘So do you, Miss A-Grade.’
‘Only three. I’d better make the most of it. Next year it’ll be Zoë’s turn, and she’ll get starred As without even trying. Sickening, the way she does it.’
‘Never mind about her. And three’s two more than I got,’ said Reuben, who only really put himself out for music. He plonked himself on the bench next to her.
Hilly elbowed him. ‘Come on then, tell me! About lurve. Is S for Saeed?’
‘Course! Who else? How fickle do you think I am?’
‘Come on, then. I’m all ears.’
‘Right.’ Reuben settled back. ‘After you went off boozing with your mates yesterday—’
‘I went boozing, you went cruising?’
‘Hilly!’ Reuben’s expressive eyebrows moved independently of each other – one up, one down. ‘What have you been watching? OK then. I cruise into the music shop and there he is. Like it’s meant to be – eyes meeting across a crowded shop and all that. I’m thinking, s’pose he’s still not talking to me, and stand there dithering. But my feet decide to walk over, and next minute we’re having a conversation with subtitles.’
‘Subtitles?’
‘Yeah. I say Hi, and he says Hi, and I go How’s things, and he goes Oh fine. You? And I go OK, thanks. Another minute or two and we’d have been on to the weather and the Test Match. But the subtitles are zapping like crazy, and luckily they’re a lot more interesting. God, I’ve missed you. Me too. It’s been awful. Can we have another go? You bet.’
Hilly giggled. ‘Lucky you could both read them. Then what?’
‘We went to McDonald’s – lucky we didn’t bump into your lot. Ditched the doublespeak and did some straight talking – well, you know what I mean. Spent all day together, and sorted out a load of stuff.’
‘And?’
‘We’re fine. It was all a bit of a mistake, before. Family pressure, and all that.’
‘What, his folks know about him and you?’
Reuben shook his head vigorously. ‘No! No-o-o! He got scared of what’d happen if they found out – they’d go ballistic, he says. So he tried to kid himself he didn’t need to see me. Problem was, he couldn’t stand it – well, you can’t blame him, can you?’ He pretended to preen himself. ‘Which was lucky, ’cos it was doing my head in. The whole time you were away. Lucky I’ve had the concert rehearsals and hours of practice, or I’d have gone completely up the wall.’
‘Sorry,’ said Hilly. ‘Bad timing. But they’ll have to know some time, won’t they?’
‘He’s not ready for the kamikaze dive, not yet. But he knows and I know. That’s enough to be getting on with.’
‘Well, I’m glad for you,’ Hilly said, trying to inject a note of genuine enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Saeed’s lovely.’
Reuben gave her a stern look. ‘You fancy him as well?’
‘Wouldn’t be a lot of point, would there?’ Hilly said. ‘What’s it feel like, then – Lurve, the Big L? How do you know?’
Reuben looked up at the sky, down at his feet, made a vague gesture with both hands, smiled a smug, private smile. ‘I just know. Can’t explain it.’
‘Go on, though,’ said Hilly. ‘Try.’
Hilly’s Saturdays were spent in the Oxfam shop in the High Street, where she had worked for nearly a year. To Zoë, who had a part-time holiday job at their father’s sports shop, this was derisory.
‘Why do that when you could easily work at Dad’s?’ a typical conversation would go. ‘You’re mad, you are. You really like sorting through heaps of grungy old tat? Careful you don’t get fleas.’
‘I like grungy old tat, thanks.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ Zoë would grumble. ‘It’s embarr assing. Suppose one of my friends saw you in there?’
‘Why should it bother them?’
‘It bothers me! ’Specially when you actually wear Oxfam stuff, like a bag lady. Anyone would think you had to.’
‘Recycling,’ Hilly said. ‘All my favourite things come from Oxfam. And if you’re talking about tat, how about all that High-Street Clone-Wear you love so much? Those shops rake in more than enough money, without me contributing.’
‘Oh, you’re weird. Why can’t I have a normal sister?’
‘Why can’t I have a nice sister? You used to be nice.’
‘You used to be sane.’
‘As if you could tell!’
And so on. These verbal spats rarely meant much, and were instantly forgotten. But Saturday night and Sunday morning were more serious.
By the time the shop closed, Hilly knew from the tightening in the back of her neck that a headache was imminent. For as long as she could remember, she’d had mild headaches, but nothing a couple of aspirin couldn’t shift. Recent ones had been more persistent, accompanied by groggy sickness and lasting two or three days; often they coincided with her period, as if that wasn’t enough to put up with. Damn. She had to go to Sainsbury’s on the way home; she and Zoë had agreed to cook lunch tomorrow for Mum and Dad and Heidigran, and she wanted to make a lemon cheesecake tonight, to avoid a panic in the morning. Later she was meeting Tess and some other friends at the cinema.
She took two paracetamol from the shop’s First Aid box, swallowed them with water, said her goodbyes, did the shopping, lugged it home, unpacked, made the cheesecake and put it to set in the fridge. The pills weren’t helping much; the headache tightened its grip around her forehead, stabbing into her right eye. She thought about the cinema and knew she couldn’t go; the intensity of sound and picture would send the pain into overdrive. She rang Tess to explain. That done, she had a slice of buttered toast and a glass of milk – all she could face – and sat down at her piano in the front room. Zoë had said she’d be out, refusing to specify where, who with, or what time she’d be in.
Hilly knew that she’d never be able to play the piano as well as she wanted – as well as Reuben did, the music seeming to flow from his fingers – but nevertheless here it was: sturdy, willing, hers. She had bought it for twenty pounds from someone who had come into the shop with a card for the notice board. A place had been cleared, it was carted in with much heaving and straining from Hilly’s father and Geoff from next door, and a man had come round to tune it, which cost more than the piano itself. Hilly’s progress was laborious and uninspired, working from a book Reuben had romped through before he was five, a book of jingly little tunes for child beginners. Reuben was her teacher. He had promised her a new book next week if she could play all the pieces and scales to his sati
sfaction.
She started with the exercises and arpeggios he had set her, flexing stiff fingers. When Reuben played he made it seem a different matter entirely, his hands roaming over the keys as if by instinct. Her wrists and fingers lacked the strength for a regular touch, aching whenever she practised. And practising wasn’t easy, with the piano in the main room where everyone gathered for meals and TV. Tonight, with no one to be annoyed, she ought to practise and practise for hours, but the headache was affecting her vision; when she gazed at the staves, the notes danced and blurred. Instead of playing properly she doodled a tune, picking it out with her right hand only. One hand was manageable; using two was a feat of co-ordination she thought she’d never master, even when she was able to concentrate properly. The gap between notes on the page and the required finger-action was too much for her brain or her hands to process.
A hot bath, that was what she needed. She would soak and unwind, and think the pain out of her head, wafting it away with the steam. With no one at home, she could wallow for as long as she liked.
Ten minutes later she was lying in scented water. A candle, the radio playing soft music, the mirror steaming up. Eyes closed, she found herself thinking about something Reuben had said yesterday in the park: ‘It’ll happen to you one day.’ After he’d explained about Lurve. Well, would it? Did she want it to? And did it happen by some inevitable process, or did you make it happen, by wanting?
She had only the vaguest idea of her imagined Someone. Older than her, he’d have to be. Someone she could respect. Someone she could talk to. Someone she could be herself with. But which of her selves did she mean? By now she could recognize several. The self that inhabited her at school wasn’t the same self she was with Reuben, and the version Reuben got was different from the one Zoë knew; Tess got another one again. So which, Hilly thought, is the real me, the real Hilary Craig?
And would it be frightening, to find someone who could see through the layers of selves? At the moment all she wanted to do was retreat deep into some peaceful core of herself, if it were there to find, beyond sense, beyond feeling …
She was half-dozing, drifting into a pleasant steamy haze that soothed away the pressure in her head. Then, in a moment, jolted into alertness by the sound of the front door crashing open, and loud voices at the bottom of the stairs.
For a second her mind blurred with panic. Then, hearing Zoë’s voice among the others – a whole crowd of them, it sounded like, mostly male – she pulled out the plug and climbed quickly out of the water to close and lock the bathroom door, which she had left wide open. So much for her peaceful evening! Fear was replaced by annoyance; it sounded as if Zoë had brought a football team home. Hilly heard them moving into the main room, voices raised; the front door slammed shut. While she was drying herself, someone started thumping the keys of the piano. Her piano! Really thumping, not playing: like a boisterous child ramping over the keyboard. Maybe it was a boisterous child. She dressed quickly, rubbed her glasses on the towel and put them back on. The front door was opened again, and she heard sounds as of removal men carting boxes of stuff through.
Reluctantly she went down. A strange boy was lounging on the sofa, feet up. The one at the piano continued to attack the keys. Someone else was unravelling the lead of an electric guitar; two others were positioning black boxes that could be amplifiers. They all looked older than Hilly – eighteen or nineteen. She recognized none of them. The one on the sofa stared as if she were the intruder; no one else took the slightest notice.
‘Where’s Zoë?’ she asked the room in general.
The boy on the sofa jerked his head towards the kitchen. Hilly marched through, tripping over the guitar lead. Someone holding it – partially shaven head, both ears multi-pierced and studded – glared at her. ‘Watch it, can’t you!’
‘Hello, nice to meet you too. I’m Hilly, I live here, in case you were wondering. And that’s my piano,’ she added to the boy who sat at the keyboard.
He changed to a plinky-plink little tune in the upper octaves that somehow seemed patronizing. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Since you ask, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
The boy was big-faced, with hair unbecomingly parted in the middle, and a cigarette between his lips. He banged down the lid. ‘It’s crap anyway.’
‘Thanks. And would you mind not smoking?’
‘Christ – laugh a minute, aren’t you?’
In the kitchen, Zoë and yet another boy were wrapped in an uncomfortable-looking clutch, like drowned and entangled swimmers: mouth to mouth, as if in a desperate attempt at resuscitation.
‘Zoë!’
Zoë made a token effort to detach herself. The boy – tall, gelled fair hair – still held her, giving her ear a last lick; she looked at Hilly, mildly discomfited. ‘You said you were going out!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘What d’you think?’
‘I don’t mean in here.’ Hilly turned her head. ‘I mean in there. The guitar. The equipment.’
‘Oh.’ Zoë giggled. ‘Didn’t I say? We’re having a band practice.’
‘We? Since when have you been in a band?’
‘Since now,’ said the boy, holding Zoë by both shoulders. ‘She’s our female vocalist.’
‘Vocalist! Since when have you been able to sing?’
‘I’ve got hidden talent,’ Zoë said. ‘We’re called Doppelgänger.’
‘Doppelgänger? Meaning?’
‘Fuck knows,’ said the boy. ‘Clyde got it from somewhere.’
‘Zoë, you can’t play here,’ Hilly said. ‘What about the noise? The neighbours?’
‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy! Grant, this is Hilly. My sister.’
‘Not much alike, are you?’ Grant gave Hilly a quick up-and-down – not impressed, he made that clear.
‘No, we’re not,’ Hilly said, aware of how she must look: barefooted, in jeans and a striped grandad shirt, one of her Oxfam bargains; hair lank and bedraggled from bathroom steam; wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Zoë, make them cart all that stuff out. You’ll have to find somewhere else.’
‘You tell them, then. Spoilsport. We only want to go through a few songs. It’s all right for you and Rubes, isn’t it? Same thing.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Grant flashed a smile. ‘Don’t make such a big deal about it. We’ll keep the noise down, promise. I’ll make sure you don’t get in trouble with Mummy and Daddy.’
‘Big of you.’
‘It’ll be OK, Hilly, honest,’ said Zoë, trying a different tactic. ‘You can go upstairs and leave us to it if you want.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Yeah, have a listen, I would,’ Grant said. ‘We’re red-hot, I’m telling you.’
Was this, Hilly wondered, the recipient of the jokey stork postcard from Alsace? He was tall, bland-featured, but with flawless tanned skin and eyes of strident blue, and a cocky, confident smile. Acknowledging his attractiveness, Hilly disliked him on sight. He was too old and surely too experienced for Zoë.
‘Well …’ She felt too weary to continue arguing. Her headache was returning, throbbing and insistent. In the next room, the boy with the electric guitar played a series of chords that filled the house with a loud and – she had to admit – thrilling sound. Zoë, obviously thinking she’d given in, said, ‘I’ll make sure we clear up after, honest,’ and moved past her to join the others. Grant, as he went, put a hand on Hilly’s arm – obviously thinking he had her mesmerized with the sexual glow that radiated from him. ‘You can audition for backing vocals if you want.’
‘Thanks, no.’ Irritably, Hilly moved away, went to the sink and ran herself a glass of water.
Now what? She was handling this badly: showing herself as a bad-tempered prude, but failing to do anything definite about the situation. She urgently wanted to go upstairs, take more paracetamol and lie down, soothed by quiet music. Instead, she was going to have to listen to whatever came out of the amplifiers, and she felt
a duty to loiter downstairs. Typical Zoë, she huffed to herself: ruining my evening (more than it was ruined already) … making me feel responsible … doing just as she likes … all precisely as per usual!
Hilly hung around. Fortunately, no one took the slightest notice, giving her the chance to observe. Nothing she saw or heard encouraged her to like Zoë’s new friends any better. Although the music – produced by a guitar, an electronic drum kit and a synthesizer – was not at first too loud, it was raucous head-banging stuff, the product of energy rather than of musicianship. Zoë was an indifferent singer, but encouraged by Grant put a lot of effort into aggressive-sexy posturing. The lyrics, such as they were, were difficult to hear properly; Hilly wasn’t bothering to try, but one chorus, repeated several times, caught her attention:
You want your freedom, but I need my space.
Don’t breathe my air, just get out of my face.
You can keep looking, but don’t you look here.
Nobody needs you, we don’t want you near.
Get back where you came from, this isn’t your place.
You’re not a paid-up member of the human race.
Only after this had pounded into her ears a few times did Hilly recognize it for what it was.
By this time the headache could not be ignored any longer, and she really was going to be sick unless she lay down on her bed. She could hardly trust herself to walk through the clutter of leads and equipment to the door, and the blessed solitude of upstairs. ‘Zoë! Not much longer, OK?’ she managed.
‘Yeah, yeah, don’t make a fuss. We’re only just getting going,’ Zoë said.
‘I’m down to my last fag. Is that Paki shop down the road still open?’ she heard Pete, the guitarist, remark behind her.
Hilly would not normally have let that pass, but her stomach was threatening to heave. She gave him a shrivelling look, and caught sight of something that disturbed her still farther.
Sisterland Page 3