No, that's mean. As if it really matters anyway. All that matters is that I love Russell and he loves me. When Russell calls from the living room for the third time I get up to go to him, though I raise my eyebrows at Cynthia.
'I'd better go and see what he's on about,' I say apologetically.
'I know,' she says, smiling wryly. 'They snap their fingers and we're silly enough to jump.'
Still, when Russell's dad gets home it's obvious who's in charge in their relationship. Cynthia's all sweet girly charm and acts like she'll do whatever he says, but somehow she gets her choice of wine, her favourite programme on the television, and he's the one who takes over the cooking of the meal.
I'm fascinated. I wonder if Russell is going to end up like his dad. They certainly look like each other. Brian, Russell's dad, has got the same fair floppy hair, the same direct gaze, the same stance, the same walk – he's just a bit more lined and jowly and a stone or two heavier.
Brian calls me into the kitchen, asking me all sorts of stuff, laughing and joking, almost flirting with me, which feels a bit weird. Russell isn't very happy about this either and comes out to get me. Brian takes his time with the meal, but it's marvellous when it's eventually served. We start with fresh figs and Parma ham, then there's a big pasta dish with all sorts of seafood, and then a proper crème brûlée pudding. My dad can cook but his speciality is your basic spag bol. He certainly doesn't do any fancy stuff.
There is also wine, and I get a glass! OK, not a very big glass, but it's lovely to be given it all the same. It's such a grown-up meal. Our meals at home aren't a bit like this, mostly because Eggs is always yelling with his mouth full and slurping his orange juice and waving his knife and fork around and spilling stuff all over the place. We don't really talk properly at mealtimes, not to discuss stuff. Brian and Russell have this long involved conversation about politics, for God's sake. I get a bit anxious. I feel I should have my say too, but if I'm totally honest I have to admit I don't know a thing about politics. I mean, I'm into saving the environment and whales and whatever and obviously I want world peace and respect for everyone regardless of race, religion or sex, but I'm well aware that my political thoughts are as woolly as one of Anna's jumpers.
Cynthia talks about equal rights for women and their changing role in the modern world. She asks me what I want to do when I leave school. I say I want to go to Art School just like Russell. I quickly see this is a big mistake. Brian goes on about this being a complete waste of time and why should anyone spend three or four years daubing paint about and what on earth did that qualify you to do? You'd just end up teaching Art yourself.
'Ellie's dad teaches at the Art College,' Russell says sharply.
Brian looks embarrassed. 'I'm sorry, Ellie. I wish I hadn't said all that now.'
'It's OK. That's exactly what my dad says too,' I say.
'What about your mum?'
I swallow. 'Well, my real mum died ages ago. She actually met my dad at Art School. So did Anna. She's my stepmum. She isn't a teacher. She designs jumpers for children. She started off designing just for this magazine but she's diversifying now, doing all sorts of stuff for other people – woolly toys, adult knitwear, whatever.'
'Where does she sell her knitting? Craft fairs?' Brian asked.
'Oh no, she sells through shops. Special children's shops mostly. There was an article about her in last week's Guardian, and one of her jumpers was in a feature on children's fashion in Harper's,' I tell them, slightly resenting the craft fair remark.
Cynthia gets very excited and runs and finds her last month's Harper's, flicking through until she discovers Anna's little deckchair jumper with all these baby bunnies sunbathing and eating carrots like ice-cream cones.
'I love it! It's so cute! And she's now doing an adult range? I'd like one for me for holidays.'
Even Brian seems impressed that Anna's designs are in the papers and glossy magazines. I suppose it is impressive. Anna's become successful so quickly. You'd think Dad would be more thrilled. I suppose it's a bit unsettling for him. He's always been the professional – he used to teach Anna, for goodness' sake. And yet he's stayed a teacher, whereas Anna is a real designer ... Is that why he's being so grumpy with her nowadays? Is Dad simply jealous?
Chapter Six
Girls cry when
things go wrong
at home
Six
Girls cry when
things go wrong at home
It's very late when Brian drives me back home. I'm a bit scared that Dad will be furious because it's a school night. I take a deep breath when I let myself in. I wait for Dad to come pounding out into the hall, shouting at me. Nothing happens. I find Anna sitting all by herself in the living room. She's not sketching or doing little cross-stitch calculations or knitting up samples. She's not reading or listening to music. The television isn't on. She's just sitting, staring into space.
'Anna?'
She blinks at me as if she can hardly see me. 'Hello, Ellie,' she says in a tiny voice.
'Anna, what is it? What's wrong?'
'Nothing. I'm fine. "Well, did you have a good time round at Russell's?'
Normally I'd want to launch into a long girly discussion about Russell and his flat and Russell and his stepmother and Russell and his dad and Russell Russell Russell. If my mouth had a word-count then Russell would definitely come out tops. But for once I need to talk about someone else.
'Never mind Russell,' I say firmly. 'What's up? Where's Dad?'
'I don't know,' says Anna – and she suddenly bursts into tears.
I sit down beside her and put my arms round her. Anna sobs desperately on my shoulder. She's usually such a controlled and coping person that it's scary seeing her let go like this. I'm trying to be calm and comforting to help her but my heart is thumping and all sorts of fears are flying around inside my head like little black bats.
'He didn't come home from the college. I phoned his office but there's no one there. Then I phoned his mobile but it's switched off,' Anna weeps.
'Do you think he's had an accident?' I whisper. In my head I see Dad lying in a coma on a hospital bed while doctors and nurses struggle to revive him.
'I don't think so. He'd have his wallet and diary with him. Someone would have found my name and number and phoned me,' says Anna.
'Then where is he?' Dad's sometimes late back home. He takes it into his head to go out for a drink or two with his students and sometimes they add up to three or four or more. But the pubs will be shut now. It's nearly half past eleven. What's he doing?
I see another picture of Dad in my head. He's in bed again – but this time he's with a young pretty student. . .
I shake my head to get rid of the image. Anna has her hand over her mouth, her eyes agonized. The same picture's in her head too.
'Maybe there's some crisis with one of the students? Personal problems?' I suggest desperately.
Oh yes, Dad's getting personal with one of the students all right. A tear rolls down Anna's cheek. I find a tissue and dab at her gently.
'Don't, Anna, please. I can't bear it,' I whisper.
'I can't bear it,' Anna says, wrapping her arms round herself, rocking as if she's in terrible pain. 'How can he do this to me, Ellie? He knows how much I love him, how much it hurts. Why does he want to hurt me?'
'Oh come on, Anna.' I pluck the sleeve of the sweater she designed herself. She stares down at the black wool, fingering the fringing.
'OK OK, I know I've been ratty lately. I know it annoys your dad when there suddenly isn't any bloody butter. It annoys me too! But surely that's no reason to stay out all night?'
'It's not all night. He'll be back soon. And it's not because of the butter. Or you being ratty. It's your job. Don't you see, Anna? He can't stand it.'
'But he was quite supportive at first. He knew I was so bored just staying at home, especially after Eggs started school. He encouraged me—'
'Yeah, but that was when he t
hought it was just going to be some little sideline – Anna's new hobby to earn a bit of pin money. But now you've taken off, you've become really successful—'
'And I don't know how I'm going to cope. I need to expand, take on all sorts of staff. I need someone to look after Eggs when I'm tied up. I asked your dad if he'd pick him up from school more often. I mean, it's not often he's teaching late afternoon. But he practically blew his top and said he was a lecturer, not a child-minder.'
'See! It is what's getting to him.'
'But most men share childcare now.'
'Not old men like Dad! He's improved a bit. I mean, when I was little he didn't even put me to bed. I think he'd have passed out if he'd had to mop me up or feed me. My mum did it all.'
'Your mum did everything,' Anna sobs. 'She's the real true love of your dad's life, I know that. I know I can't ever replace her. I don't want to – but you've no idea how awful it is knowing that you're always going to come second best, with him, with you—'
'Oh, Anna. Mum was different. I'm sure Dad loves you just as much. And look at Eggs, he absolutely worships you. You're definitely first with him.'
'Not any more, not after I yelled at him this morning. I tried to make it up to him after school today but he acted so warily, as if I was about to explode any second. Then I had to see these three women who are going to knit up the bunny designs. I'd so much hoped your dad would be home to look after Eggs, but he didn't come and I was starting to get worried about him. One of these wretched women didn't seem skilled enough and I don't think she'll be able to cope. Another one's expecting a baby soon so maybe she won't be able to cope either. All the time I was trying to discuss things Eggs kept showing off and interrupting and driving me crazy so in the end I shouted at him. He ran away and hid. It took me ages to find him, under his bed, covered in dust. That's another thing – I never have time to do any proper housework. Poor little Eggs cried and said I was a mean mummy and he wanted his old mummy back—'
'Oh, Anna!' I can't help laughing.
She starts giggling weakly too, though the tears are still running down her cheeks. 'It's not really funny,' she says. 'Maybe . . . maybe I should give it all up, the knitwear design? That's really the whole answer, isn't it? It's not fair on Eggs. Maybe it's not fair on you or your dad either.'
'That's rubbish!' I take hold of Anna's shoulders and give her a little shake. 'Come on, Anna, don't be mad! It's wonderful that you've been so successful. You couldn't possibly give any of it up, not now.'
'I don't think I could bear it, I must admit. I know I'm tired all the time, and worried about getting everything done, but you've no idea how great it makes me feel, seeing the finished result, especially when it turns out just the way I wanted.'
'There! So you can't possibly let Dad stop you.'
'But the thing is, I love him. And you know and I know what he's up to right this minute, and I can't stand it.' Anna starts crying again.
'Look, let's go to bed, come on,' I say, helping her to her feet and leading her to the door.
'What am I going to do now? Lie all by myself on my side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling?' Anna weeps as we go up the stairs. 'And then what am I going to do when he eventually comes home? Pretend to be asleep? I've done that before, Ellie, just to keep the peace, but I don't think I can do it any more. It hurts too much.'
It's a relief when Eggs starts wailing sleepily, calling for Anna.
'Oh God,' Anna groans, but she straightens up, wipes her eyes and glides into his bedroom. 'What's up, little Eggs?' she murmurs softly. 'Is it your cold, my poppet? Let Mummy blow that poor old nose.'
Eggs snuffles something about a nasty man and Anna there-theres him and tells him there's no nasty man, it's all a silly old dream. I listen, feeling sick and shaky, wishing I was as young as Eggs and could be as easily reassured.
I hate being old enough to know what's really going on between Dad and Anna. I want to be told that they're very happy together, that my dad's not a nasty man and this is all a bad dream and soon we'll all wake up properly and Dad will be here, his arm round Anna, smiling and whistling and larking about, his old happy self.
Long after I go to my own bed I hear Dad come in and creep up the stairs. I wait, straining my ears. Then I hear the whispering start. My stomach turns over. I pull the sheets over my head and hunch up really small, trying to blot it all out.
I pretend Mum is still here for me. She's in bed with me, cuddling me close, telling me Myrtle Mouse stories. And then slowly, gradually, as I think about Myrtle, she starts to scamper about in my head, happy at first, her blue whiskers twitching, tail at a perky angle. She lives in a doll's house with Mama Mouse and Papa Mouse. But Papa Mouse scampers off and doesn't come back and Mama Mouse has a new litter of baby mice and has no time for Myrtle – so she packs her spotty nightie and her whisker brush and her dormouse doll, makes herself a big cheese sandwich, and sets off into the big wide world . . .
I fall asleep and dream Myrtle Mouse stories. I wake up very early. I sit up and listen. The house is quiet. I can't hear Anna crying or Dad arguing. Eggs seems to be sound asleep. I twist my ring round and round my finger, wondering if it's all over now – or only just beginning.
Chapter Seven
Girls cry when
their friends
have secrets
Seven
Girls cry when
their friends have secrets
I haven't done any of my homework but that can't be helped. I get out my sketchbook and spend an hour or more drafting little versions of Myrtle. It's fun designing different outfits for her. I decide she looks cutest in little dungarees with embroidered daisies and a matching daisy ear-stud in one round mouse ear. I experiment with her footwear. I try out dancing slippers and big boots and girly strappy sandals. I give her a little knapsack to pack when she leaves home.
Then I invent various adventures. I really put poor little Myrtle through a lot of trauma. It's like she's caught up in a little Mousy Melodrama. She's stalked by cats, chased by dogs, and attacked by a gang of rat-boys. She enjoys a gargantuan feast in a kitchen but very very nearly ends up in a mousetrap. She has a sore paw and is nursed back to health by a motherly hamster (Fudge resurrected). She goes on a long night trek with a gothic girl rat with twenty rings through her tail, and attends a muddy gig at Rodentbury.
I'm so soothed by my imaginary world of Myrtle that I almost forget the horrible Dad and Anna situation. I hear Anna get up, I hear her in the bathroom, I hear her chivvy Eggs into getting washed and dressed, but it's impossible to tell from her tone how she is.
Maybe it's all right again. Maybe Dad has a perfectly reasonable excuse for why he stayed out half the night. Maybe Dad and Anna made it all up after their argument. Maybe they'll be all over each other at breakfast, the way they used to be.
I always hated it when Dad wound his arm round Anna's waist and she nestled up to him. I'd give anything to see them snuggled up together now. But when I go down to the kitchen there's no arm-winding, no nestling. Anna is talking softly to Eggs, babying him with his cereal, letting him sit on her lap while he eats it. Dad is standing at the sink, drinking a mug of coffee, not looking at anyone, not speaking, acting like he doesn't belong to our family any more.
I look at Anna's sore eyes and white face. I feel so angry with Dad. How dare he mess around with her, mess around with all our lives?
'Dad? Dad, can I have a word with you?' I say, going up to him.
'What? Look, Ellie, I'm in a bit of a rush. Can't it wait?' says Dad, putting his coffee cup down and making for the door.
'No, it can't wait, Dad,' I say fiercely. 'I want to know what's going on. Where were you last night?'
'Don't, Ellie, not now,' Anna says quickly.
'Why not? Why can't I ask? What are you playing at, Dad? Why are you doing this?' I stand in front of him, chin up, fists clenched.
Dad looks angry too, his eyes blazing. 'Just mind your own business, Ellie,' he says
, pushing past me. 'This has got nothing to do with you.'
'It's got everything to do with me!' I shout.
'Not in front of Eggs,' Anna pleads as Dad walks out.
'But it's to do with him too, with all of us.' I run after Dad into the hall. 'You've got no right to mess around with us like this, Dad. Can't you see how unhappy you're making Anna? Just because you're jealous of her!'
'So you think I'm jealous?' says Dad, opening the front door.
'Yes, because Anna's doing so well. You can't stand it. That's just so typical of the whole male ego. You can't bear to be overshadowed. You didn't let my mother work, did you, even though she was brilliant at Art.'
'You know nothing about it,' says Dad. 'Your mother didn't want to work. She wanted to look after you.'
Girls in Tears Page 4