Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  Rashid removed her glasses and placed them on the windowsill. ‘They get in the way.’

  ‘I can still see you without them. I’m hopelessly short-sighted.’

  ‘I like the way you look in your glasses. Serious.’

  ‘Like an old-fashioned schoolmarm, Zoë says.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her. You’re lovely, with or without them.’

  ‘Rashid, there must be plenty of opticians in Oxford. You’d better book yourself an appointment.’

  Rashid shook his head. ‘I’m not letting anyone put you down. Not your sister – not you, either.’

  Stillness, fitful sunlight through the greenery at the window, and looking and smiling, and then Rashid pushed her gently back against the pillow and his weight over her, and now they were touching and exploring, stroking and smoothing, moving against each other, wanting and wanting, pulses pulsing, breathy breathing, temperature rising, his hand cupping her breast, his knee parting her legs, her hand fumbling at the button of his jeans, and she thought, Oh, this is what it’s like, this is what I’ve imagined, only more, because it’s him, not some vague Someone – this isn’t playing, isn’t pretending, it’s real! Her body knew what to do, how to respond; the heat and swell she could feel through his jeans was answered by a thrill and a deep ache of longing that cried, Oh, please, I love you, I want you … The thought came into her head that there was nothing to stop them, no disapproving adult, no one about to barge in, nothing apart from …

  ‘Hilly,’ Rashid said into her ear, suddenly still. ‘We can’t. I haven’t, you know, got anything.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hilly was shocked into realizing that this urgent practical matter had not entered her thoughts. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think – I mean, I didn’t plan this—’

  ‘And I certainly didn’t—’

  ‘No—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hilly said again.

  Rashid lay back against the pillow, eyes closed, breathing rapidly. ‘Oh, f—’ Then he looked at her and laughed, and pulled her against him. ‘Matt’ll be back any minute, and his dad’s coming round to see how we’re getting on. Time and place not quite right. But nearly. Cold shower, anyone?’

  Hilly giggled. ‘But I’m glad neither of us planned it. That would have seemed a bit – calculating.’

  He began to re-fasten the fiddly loop and button arrangement on the front of her cheesecloth shirt. ‘If it just happens, that would be nice. But it can’t, unless you’re prepared. And if you do prepare, then it hasn’t just happened.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hilly said, ‘for future reference, what we need is a bit of – of pre-arranged spur-of-themomentness.’

  ‘Contrived spontaneity,’ said Rashid. ‘Safe recklessness.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Rashid clasped her hand; they both looked down at their interlaced fingers, hers pale, his darker. ‘It would have been the first time,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Well, I thought. So we must get it right, the time and the place. It might take a bit of invisible organizing.’

  ‘Surreptitious scheming.’

  ‘I still can’t believe this,’ said Rashid. ‘You turning up here.’

  ‘Must have been beschert. Do you think? That’s a Yiddish word Rachel told me for meant to be.’

  ‘What did I tell you? You’re learning Yiddish already.’

  ‘But I’ll learn Arabic as well, if you teach me.’

  He spoke rapidly and incomprehensibly into her ear.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘I’ll write it down for you,’ said Rashid.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Going …

  When she went indoors again she found her grandfather had made her a lovely sweet-smelling bed, with hay which had not long been gathered in, and had covered it completely with clean linen sheets. When she lay down in it a little later, she slept as she had not done all the time she had been away.

  Joha na Spyri, Heidi

  Oscar was lying flat on his side on a sunlit patch of carpet, purring. Everything was all right when Oscar purred. Heidi was at the dining table, helping Rose sort photographs, though she couldn’t remember why. Rose had a cardboard box full of photos and she was sorting them into piles and choosing some to put in one of those – what was the word? Al—ali—alibi – no, gone. She was writing words on sticky labels to go with them.

  Heidi remembered some of those photos, though she didn’t know who all the people were, but sorting and labelling them meant they were fixed in one place and she could look at them again if she wanted. From time to time Rose would say something like, ‘Here, Mum. Here’s a nice one of Charles, in his school uniform,’ or ‘Here’s you and Dad – Brighton Pavilion, isn’t it?’

  She did remember the man called Dad. That was Ken, dear Ken. But surely he was older than that? She hadn’t seen him for a while now, but perhaps he’d turn up.

  ‘Are we going to that place again?’ she asked.

  ‘Brighton Pavilion?’ asked Rose.

  ‘No.’ Heidi shook her head, smiling. It was hard to get through to Rose sometimes. ‘That – that other place. The yesterday place.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Fairlawns!’ said Rose. ‘The residential home. Yes, we’ll go there again on Wednesday, again on Friday. Every Wednesday and Friday from now on. Did you like it there?’

  ‘Like it?’ Heidi considered. It was hard to remember. Chrysanthemums in a vase, there had been, that lovely bronze colour, her favourite. And a chair with a fringed cushion. Faces, she didn’t know the names of those, but she hadn’t minded that because there was a big tabby cat that had chosen her lap to sit on. Out of lots of laps. Rose was still looking at her for an answer, but what was the question? ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I asked if you liked it at Fairlawns yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I liked it. Are we going there again?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Wednesdays and Fridays. I’ve written it on the message board in the kitchen, so you can look there if you forget.’

  Heidi nodded. ‘Is it nearly lunch time?’

  ‘Mum! We’ve had lunch, more than two hours ago.’

  ‘So is it lunch time then?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not.’

  She could hear laughter upstairs. They seemed happy today, those girls, both of them. The blonde one – Heidi could never remember her name – she was a lovely-looking girl once she got that scowl off her face. Shame about the other one, but she could do more with herself if she made a bit of an effort. Often at it hammer and tongs, the two of them were, but today they seemed almost friendly. Were they sisters? I think I might have had a sister, once, Heidi thought, frowning. I wonder what happened to her?

  ‘Mum!’ one of them yelled from upstairs. ‘Mum?’

  Rose went to see what was the matter, and Heidi pulled the photo book over to her and flipped back through. It was new, bought specially, made of transparent pages you slid the pictures into. The first page had two pictures of the girl Heidi knew was called Rachel. Someone had said that the other girl at the picnic – the one showing her knickers – was her, but she couldn’t remember it. ‘Rachel, Heidi’s sister’, Rose had written for the first one; and under the second, ‘Rachel and Sarah (Heidi) in their garden in Cologne, 1937/8 (?)’

  ‘Do you remember, Gran?’

  She hadn’t realized the girl had come into the room, the older one, the one that played the piano not very well; sneaking up behind her, fit to make her jump out her skin. ‘Remember?’ she said. ‘I remember Cologne. Eau de Cologne, in a nice bottle. I like the smell of that. Have I got some?’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Gran. Rachel wants you to know that it’s not your fault.’

  ‘Well, of course it’s not my fault!’ Heidi said crossly. What was the girl talking about? ‘Aren’t you Rachel?’

  ‘No, Gran. I’m Hilly.’

  ‘Are you?’ Heidi said, puzzled.

  The front doorbell rang. ‘Oh, that�
�s for me!’ said the Hilly-girl, brightening. ‘See you later, Gran.’ She gave Heidi a quick kiss, and was gone. Then Rose’s voice in the hall, and a deep male voice, in conversation, before the door closed.

  ‘Mind the corners,’ Heidi said, wondering what that could possibly mean. She got up stiffly from the table and went to the front window. The girl who had been here just now was walking down the path with a dark-haired boy, his arm round her shoulders, hers round his waist. Heidi peered at the car parked outside. There were two other boys in the back: one of them she knew was the boy who came here to play the piano, though she couldn’t remember his name, and the other she didn’t recognize.

  Rose came back into the room. ‘All right, Mum?’

  ‘She’s gone off with three boys,’ said Heidi. ‘The one that comes here, but I don’t know the other two.’

  ‘Reuben, Mum. You know Reuben! One of the others is Reuben’s, er, friend, and the one who came to the door’s called Rashid. Hilly’s boyfriend – he seems very nice.’

  ‘What are they – Indians?’ said Heidi. ‘Are you happy to let her go round with Indians? And three boys – isn’t one enough for her? She’ll get herself into trouble, she will, the way she carries on.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ said Rose, laughing. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the album.’

  Album! That was the word she’d been looking for.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Gone

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks are due to Diane Samuels, whose play Kindertransport has stayed vividly in my mind since I saw it at the Palace Theatre, Watford, seven years ago. To my first readers, for their encouragement: Linda Sargent and Andy Barnett (who also took me to see Kindertransport), Adèle Geras, Ann Jungman, Helen Taylor, Naomi Turner and Jean Ure, and particularly to Ann for a riveting account of her trip to Israel. To David Fickling, Bella Pearson and Maggie Noach for being such a supportive editor/agent combination, to Sophie Nelson for her meticulous copy-editing, and especially to Bella for introducing me to the Gershwin Preludes.

  When Greg stumbles across the beautiful ruins of Graveney Hall, an old mansion, he becomes intrigued by its history. He and his new friend, Faith, are drawn into a quest to uncover the fate of Graveney’s last heir—Edmund, a young soldier who mysteriously disappeared during the First World War.

  But soon Greg finds that his investigations have a disturbing effect. His confused relationships with Faith and Jordan, a schoolmate, and his changing views on love and religion ultimately reveal more about himself than Greg could ever have imagined.

  “[A] haunting British exploration of faith and sexuality.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A pitch-perfect tale of contemporary teenage life.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “There are some novels written for young people which cause adult readers to wish they had experienced them when younger. This is one of them.” —Financial Times (UK)

  Also by Linda Newbery:

  THE SHELL HOUSE

  THE DAMAGE DONE

  SOME OTHER WAR

  NO WAY BACK

  BREAK TIME

  WINDFALL

  Published by Laurel-Leaf

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003 by Linda Newbery

  All rights reserved.

  LAUREL-LEAF and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  RL: 7.4

  July 2006

  www.randomhouse.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-43377-0

  v3.0