‘Maybe you’d better get the cupboards cleaned up, like your sister said. Then you can put all this china safely away,’ Bruce said.
He stood me on a chair with a wet J-cloth and a tin of Vim. I scattered the white powder over the black grime and mouldy crumbs. I gave the shelf a little rub. Nothing much happened. It was like powdering a very dirty face.
‘You need to give it a bit of elbow grease,’ said Bruce, showing me how to scrub vigorously.
I tried to copy him but I couldn’t reach comfortably. It made my arm ache and I rattled around on the chair so much I nearly skidded right off.
‘Careful, Dixie! I don’t think you’re very safe wobbling about on that chair. Maybe you’ve done enough work now. I should go and have a little play in the garden.’
‘But what about the cupboard?’
‘I’ll give it a going over for you when I’m done here,’ said Bruce. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get this house shipshape in no time.’
‘Shipshape?’
‘Everything running smoothly.’
I thought about it. Things had never run smoothly, not even in any of our old flats. If we were in a ship it was always an old leaky one, and we were tossing up and down in a storm. Still, as long as we were all clinging together, safe inside the ship, that was all that mattered.
10
I SKIPPED OFF out of the door and into the jungle. Bluebell came fluttering out of my Vim-crusted cuff and swooped up and down in delight. She sang a wild Australian song (I cheeped ‘Waltzing Matilda’) her wings spread wide.
‘Don’t fly too far, Bluebell. We’re going to go and see Mary.’
We trekked through the jungle together and then I hauled myself up onto the Great Wall of China. There was Mary on the swing, in a blue-check dress, white ribbons fluttering on her plaits, lacy white socks and navy patent button shoes. She was peering round. When she saw my head above the wall she smiled and jumped off the swing, running towards the gate.
I clambered over the wall and ran across the alley.
‘Hi, Mary!’ I said.
‘Hello, Dixie. I’ve been looking and looking for you! Do you want to come in and have a swing?’
‘Yes please! But I don’t want to get you into trouble. You said your mum won’t let you have friends round to play.’
‘Mummy’s out at church. Daddy’s here, but he’s still in bed. So you can come for a bit, but we have to be quiet.’
‘As a mouse!’ I said. I twitched my nose and went ‘Squeak-squeak.’
Mary giggled. She seemed happy to see me, but her eyes were red and sore, and her voice was husky, as if she’d been crying again.
‘Are you all right, Mary?’ I asked, wriggling onto the swing.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, though she didn’t look fine at all.
She was as pin-neat as ever, her plaits pulled so tightly back behind her ears she could barely blink. There was something the matter with her hands. She had them curled into tight fists.
‘Have you been crying?’
‘No,’ said Mary nervously.
‘It’s OK. I cry lots. We all cry in our family. My mum says it’s a wonder we’re not sloshing about ankle-deep in tears. Hey, Mary, guess what! Mum’s had her baby. I’ve got my baby brother. He’s so sweet. Maybe I can bring him round to see you soon. Do you like babies?’
Mary didn’t look sure.
‘I’ve got a baby boy,’ she said surprisingly.
‘No you haven’t!’
‘I’ll show you.’
She ran off, her feet stiff in her patent shoes. She went in her back door and came out a minute later pushing a baby buggy almost as big as a real one. There was a peachy-skinned plastic baby doll sitting up in it, a fixed grin on his face.
‘Oh wow! He’s beautiful,’ I said, though that grin looked a bit scary, and I didn’t like the way his rigid pink fingers were reaching out, ready to grab at me.
Mary didn’t seem too relaxed with him either. She pushed the buggy half-heartedly, and didn’t touch the baby, even when he tipped over to one side.
‘What’s his name?’ I said.
‘Baby,’ said Mary.
‘Baby what?’
‘Shall I call him Sundance too?’
‘You could call him Butch, then they could maybe be friends. Do you take Baby Butch to bed with you?’
‘Oh no. I’m not allowed. I might mess him up. I take my teddy to bed with me. I like my teddy best, even though he’s old.’
‘Old toys are much nicer.’
‘Like Bluebell?’
‘I’m not a toy, I’m a bird,’ Bluebell chirruped. ‘I like your garden, Mary. I think I might make a little holiday nest here.’
I flew Bluebell round and round, looking for twigs. There were none on the velvet-green grass, so I had to snap some off the hedge. Mary looked tense. She didn’t help me. Her fingers were still curled inside her palms.
I tried to bundle my little twigs together but they kept collapsing. ‘I think birds must have secret gluepots,’ I said. ‘Oh, blow this for a game of soldiers. Hey, look, we could turn all the twigs into little soldiers and play armies.’
‘I don’t know how to play armies.’
‘We’ll just make it up.’
‘I don’t know how,’ said Mary, sounding upset.
‘OK, OK. Let’s play families. Mother twig, father twig, lots of little kiddie twigs, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mary, but she kept her hands in little clenched fists, not taking hold of any of the twigs.
‘Just watch me then,’ I said. I took hold of a twig. ‘Hello, hello, hello, I’m little Tilly Twig and I’m going to dance a jig,’ I said, making her dance in front of Mary’s face.
Mary smiled.
‘You make little Tommy Twig dance with her,’ I said.
‘No, you do him too,’ said Mary.
So I made Tilly and Tommy twirl for a minute.
‘Find new little baby Titchy Twiglet and make him dance.’
‘Babies can’t dance,’ said Mary.
‘OK, he wants to crawl. Yeah, he can be crawling around and Tilly and Tommy keep falling over him.’
‘You make him crawl, Dixie,’ said Mary.
‘You’ll have to help. I haven’t got three hands. There!’ I snapped a tiny piece off a twig. ‘Look, here he is, tiny Titchy. Isn’t he sweet? Oh, he’s crawling away from me. Catch him, Mary!’
I threw the little piece of twig. Mary obediently cupped her hands to catch him. The tips of her fingers were bright pink and sore, each small nail cut right back to the quick.
‘Mary! Your nails!’
She dropped the little twig and curved her hands into fists again.
‘Whatever did you do to them? Did you try and cut them yourself?’
‘Yes,’ Mary whispered, head bent.
‘But it must have hurt awfully. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you get your mum to cut your nails?’
Mary said nothing.
‘Mary? Did your mum cut your nails?’
Mary said nothing. Her chin was on her chest, her white parting painfully obvious, raked into her head. I put my arms round her.
‘She did, didn’t she?’ I said.
Mary started crying. ‘They were dirty nails and Mummy said I’m a bad, dirty girl and I can’t have nails like a little animal even though I act like one. So she cut them off,’ Mary sobbed in a rush.
‘Why didn’t you run away?’
‘She had me tight between her legs so I couldn’t.’
‘But it must be so so so sore.’
‘I couldn’t stop crying and that made Mummy cross.’
‘Did she smack you?’
‘You always get a hard smack if you cry.’
‘My mum doesn’t ever smack me.’
‘My mummy smacks me lots. I deserve it because I’m bad,’ said Mary.
‘That’s rubbish. You’re not a bit bad. I don’t know how your mum would cope with Rochelle. Or Jude. Or Martine. What about
your dad – does he smack you too?’
‘No, he gives me cuddles. But he says I’ve got to try not to be so naughty because it upsets Mummy.’
‘But you’re not naughty.’
‘I am. I do really dirty things,’ Mary said hoarsely.
‘Like what?’
‘I pick my nose. I scratch myself. And sometimes I don’t get to the toilet in time.’
‘You and everyone else in the entire world!’
‘I get my clothes dirty.’
‘You’re the cleanest little girl I’ve ever seen. You always look like you’ve just jumped out of your bath. Heaps and heaps and heaps cleaner than me.’
‘Mummy says I’m still dirty. Sometimes the dirt doesn’t show but she can see it. Or the dirt’s inside me and I have to take medicine to get it out.’
I stared at her. ‘Your mum’s nuts,’ I said.
Mary looked startled. ‘No she’s not!’
‘She’s worse than nuts. She’s cruel,’ I said, gently picking up one of Mary’s tiny hands. I blew softly on her poor pink fingers. ‘I’m blowing fairy dust on them. That’ll make them get better quickly.’
‘They’re better already,’ Mary fibbed politely.
‘I’m going to tell my mum what your mum did,’ I said.
‘No! No, you mustn’t! Please please please don’t tell, Dixie,’ Mary begged. She seized hold of me, even though it must have really hurt her fingers. ‘Promise you won’t tell. I told a girl in my class at school and her mum said something to my mummy. She said it was all a mistake and I was just telling stories. But then when I got home she got the scissors out of her sewing basket and said she’d cut off my tongue if I ever told tales again.’
‘She wouldn’t really cut off your tongue, Mary,’ I said. But what sort of mother could cut her little girl’s nails right back so savagely? How could I be sure?
‘Will you promise you won’t tell? If you don’t keep your promise I’ll drop down dead and die!’
‘I promise! But you won’t drop down dead and die, Mary. Don’t say that, it’s horrible. Your mum’s horrible.’
‘No, she’s not. She’s the loveliest nicest kindest mummy in the whole world,’ said Mary.
She’d used these exact words before. She’d obviously been taught to say it.
I didn’t know what to do when I went back to my own house. I wanted to cry when I thought of Mary being hurt. I knew I should tell someone, but I’d promised. I knew it was silly, but I could see myself telling Mum and then Mary keeling over and dying right in front of me.
‘You look a bit doleful, Dixie,’ said Uncle Bruce, when I went into the kitchen. ‘What’s up? You can tell your Uncle Bruce, can’t you?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I said, sighing.
I heard someone moving around in the living room. ‘That’s Mum!’I said.
I went running in to see her. Mum was hanging onto a pile of cardboard boxes, her face grey. Sundance was clutched tight in her other arm.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m OK, Dixie,’ she mumbled.
‘You’re not. I think you’d better lie down again.’
‘No, no. Look, I’ve got to go upstairs to the bathroom, sort myself out. Will you help me, lovie?’
‘OK, Mum. Here, lean on me. Why don’t you let me take Sundance?’
‘No, I’ve got him,’ said Mum.
He was awake now, his eyes wide open. They were a beautiful clear blue, though the lashes were black, like his soft tufty hair. He had lovely little arched eyebrows too, each tiny hair perfect. It seemed astonishing that he’d been forming in Mum’s tummy all this time, all the delicate differences – soft skin, shiny eyes, downy hair.
‘Don’t go all moony on me, Dixie! I’m in a bad way, bleeding,’ Mum said impatiently.
‘Oh Mum! You’ve got to go to the hospital!’
‘No, love, it’s natural. It happens after you have a baby. I’ll be all right.’
‘Uncle Bruce could take you, just to make sure.’
‘No! I’m not going back to that hospital. I’ll be fine. I just need a bath. Now, let me lean on you.’
Mum shuffled along, Sundance still clutched tight. Halfway up the stairs Martine heard us and came running.
‘Come on, Mum. I’ll help you,’ she said, dropping her brush and pail. ‘I’ve just cleaned the bathroom.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ Mum said weakly. She leaned against the wall. ‘Oh God, everything’s spinning.’
‘Look, I’ll help you into the bath, come on,’ said Martine. ‘Dixie, take the baby.’
‘No! No, I must keep him,’ said Mum, swaying.
‘Yeah, right, and you’re going to drop him on his head any minute, so how daft is that!’ said Martine. ‘Dixie, take him!’
I hooked little Sundance out of Mum’s arms. She staggered into the bathroom with Martine. I heard them murmuring together, the bath running.
I looked down at my little brother. He was surprisingly heavy for such a tiny baby. He was warm and wriggly … and very very wet. He’d wee’d right through his nappy and his little blue sleeping suit. Even his shawl had started to get soggy.
He started snuffling, mewing softly like a kitten.
‘It’s uncomfy, isn’t it?’ I whispered. ‘I’m going to get you sorted out, little brother.’
I carried him very carefully downstairs, checking every step as I went. I could feel Sundance tensing inside his shawl. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I whispered. ‘I’m your big sister Dixie. I’ll look after you.’
I carried him into the crowded living room and put him down very gently on Mum’s mattress. I spread a towel under him, just in case, and found the pack of nappies and a box of tissues and some baby cream.
‘There!’ I said, proud of myself. ‘OK, little boy, we’ll soon have you clean and dry and happy.’
I unravelled the shawl carefully, as if I was unwrapping a very special present. Sundance kicked his damp legs happily. I caught hold of his dear little feet.
‘I think you really are going to be a footballer,’ I said. I unpopped his sleeping suit and peeled his little legs free.
‘There! That’s good, isn’t it? Oh, you’re so cute,’ I crooned. ‘Now, we’ve just got to get your gungy wet nappy off. Hold still a minute, there’s a good boy.’
I tugged the plastic ties undone and cautiously pulled the nappy away from his bottom.
Then I stared.
I looked for Sundance’s little willy.
He didn’t have one.
He wasn’t a baby boy.
He was quite unmistakably a little girl.
11
I DIDN’T KNOW what to do. I kept blinking at Sundance’s little bare bottom, hoping it would rearrange itself in front of my eyes.
Sundance was a boy. Mum had known right from the start. She’d consulted her star charts, read the tarot, dangled rings above her stomach, gazed into her crystal ball. Jude had scoffed – but then Mum went to the hospital for her scan and they confirmed it. She was definitely having a baby boy.
Mum had bought a pair of little blue booties that very day. She’d stuck them on the ends of her fingers and made them dance up and down her tummy. She’d had a little baby boy. She’d said so. She’d called him her little son.
Perhaps the hospital had made a terrible mistake and mixed up the babies. Maybe my little brother Sundance had been whisked away by the wrong mother, leaving this dark little changeling girl by mistake.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered to the baby.
She didn’t know. She kicked her tiny legs, her little feet arching, her toes so weeny, each tipped by the tiniest slither of nail. Her bottom looked very bare indeed as she lay there, flat on her back.
I got her a clean nappy and covered her up with it. I thought about finding her another sleeping suit as the legs were damp, but then Mum would know for sure that I’d undressed her.
I bundled her back into the damp leggings and wrapped the shawl round her. She didn’t seem to
mind. I looked at the wet nappy, not knowing what to do with it. I couldn’t let Mum find it.
I gazed around the crowded room desperately. Rochelle’s fancy white dressing table with the little gilt handles was right in front of me. She’d seen it at a car boot sale and nagged Mum rotten until she bought it for her. I opened the top drawer quickly and shoved the sopping nappy inside. Then I picked the baby up and held her against my thudding heart.
I didn’t know what to do. I wished Jude hadn’t sloped off. I heard Bruce whistling in the kitchen and wondered about telling him, but it seemed too extraordinary, too personal, too strange. I was already starting to wonder if I could possibly have been mistaken. I didn’t know much about babies after all. I’d never seen a baby boy naked. Maybe they had very tiny willies at that age and I’d simply not noticed it. I wanted to undress the baby all over again to have another look but I could hear Martine murmuring above my head and I wasn’t sure how long they were going to be.
I sat cross-legged on the mattress, holding the baby in my arms. ‘Are you my sister?’
She looked at me with her strange blue eyes as if she understood, but couldn’t tell me one way or the other. Then Mum and Martine came back, Mum a little pinker now and wearing her rose-red silky nightie and black embroidered kimono, trying to look pretty. Her hair was wet and tied back in a ponytail. She usually looked very young when she tied her hair back – schoolgirly, like our sister instead of our mum. But today she looked like an old lady.
She looked at me anxiously. ‘Is Sundance asleep?’
‘Nearly.’
‘I’ll feed him in a little while, get him changed, and then we can both have a nap,’ said Mum. ‘Give him here, Dixie. You two girls run along. Thank you, Martine. I feel a new woman now.’
We settled Mum down on the mattress and then went out into the hall together. Martine was shaking.
‘I had to bath her,’ she said. ‘She’s in such a state. Her tummy’s all saggy and flabby still. I thought they just snapped back into place. And her boobs are all swollen. They look awful. She looks awful.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ I said, because it seemed so mean to agree.
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