Sisters ... No Way!

by Siobhán Parkinson

  Bring Bob, Joan said brightly when she rang. I didn’t answer her about that part, and when I turned up on my own she didn’t ask where he was, or if he was coming later. It’s amazing really how nobody has noticed the Bob-shaped gap yet.

  I hope Richard isn’t a creep. I mean, I hope he wouldn’t back off if he met us. If he did, I suppose that would mean he wasn’t worth the candle anyway, but still, it would be dreadful for Mum. I’d better talk to Alva about this. We don’t want her frightening him off. She’s quite liable to. On second thoughts, maybe that would only give her ideas. She might set out to put him off. No, I don’t think I’ll say anything, just try to keep her well out of his way.

  Sunday 15th June

  We are quite conservative about Sundays in our house. We always spend them together, just the three of us, except those very occasional weekends when Alva and I go to visit Dad and Naomi and Gavin. So it was a bit of a shock when Mum announced after lunch today that she was going out for a little while. It’s not so bad to have a summer Sunday spoilt, because we’re together a lot anyway in the summer, but even so.

  With Richard? asked Alva, resentfully.

  Mum is defensive about Richard when she is talking to Alva. She knows Alva doesn’t like it that she has a boyfriend. She never stops talking to me about him, every opportunity she gets she mentions his name. I’m starting to get tired of hearing about him, but she keeps quiet about him when Alva is there. She still hasn’t noticed that Bob isn’t around any more. Neither has Alva.

  Yes, with Richard, Mum said, in a dignified tone.

  She’s always with him, Alva hissed, as Mum left the room. She has no time for us any more. She prefers him to us.

  That is ridiculous, Alva, I said, and I know it is ridiculous, she couldn’t possibly prefer him to us, I know that. But still, a bit of me feels she shouldn’t go out with him on a Sunday, that it’s not fair to us. Sometimes it’s hard to see things from the other person’s point of view, even if it’s your mother.

  Mum put her head around the sitting room door when she’d got her jacket on, to say goodbye. We were listening to a Bach organ concerto and playing chinese chequers. I love Bach. Alva loves chinese chequers. Mum sang out, I won’t be long, her words floating across the room to us over the music. Neither of us replied, which was a bit mean of us, but I suppose we were both feeling hurt.

  Let’s go and get ourselves a Magnum each, I suggested to Alva, after Mum had left.

  Magnums are wickedly expensive, but they’re delicious. Bob loves them. It’s funny how many things remind me of Bob.

  Yeh, let’s, said Alva. Let’s live dangerously.

  It’s so easy to distract her. It’s hard to believe this same Alva wanted to go to a rave only a month ago. I don’t think she has a clue what a rave is.

  Wednesday 18th June

  I’ve landed myself a holiday job. I just happened to be in the local bookshop, trying to decide if I could afford to buy A Brief History of Time. I’ve ordered it from the library, but I won’t get it from there till the end of August, and by then I’ll be nearly back to school. It’s the sort of thing you need to take a summer to read, I think. I had decided that the best thing was probably to try the ILAC library, so I was putting the paperback copy back on the shelf when I noticed a little hand-printed notice on a cork noticeboard beside the bookcase. It was so self-effacing, it almost looked as if it didn’t want to be read. It said:

  Wanted:

  Temporary staff

  Must be literate

  Apply to Mr George

  George must be a surname. I thought at first it was like one of those old family firms, where you call the junior members of the family ‘Mr’ followed by their christian name.

  I didn’t stop to think. That only makes me nervous. I went straight up to the desk and asked to speak to Mr George, and I was shown into a poky little office at the back, piled high with books and papers. There were coffee rings on the few places on the desk where you could see the surface, and there was an old-fashioned manual typewriter, the kind with a red and a blue ribbon, and the place smelt of paraffin, from an old heater he had snuffling away in a corner. The air was like cotton wool. He didn’t exactly interview me. He didn’t ask my age, or where I was at school, but he asked if I was literate. I said I was, but I wasn’t literary.

  Hmph, he said (he was very large and old, just the type to say Hmph), well, if you’re literate enough to tell the difference, that’ll do. It’s £2.50 an hour, start Monday, half-past eight till six, late night Thursday till eight-thirty, every other Saturday off. Until end of July. Lad comes back then. Right?

  He had an English accent, like on Emmerdale. I don’t know what he’s doing in our local bookshop, but he seems to be the boss. I’m looking forward to starting on Monday. I have no idea if £2.50 an hour is a decent rate. It sounds OK. It’s more than I get for babysitting anyway.

  Tuesday 24th June

  Working in a bookshop is exhausting. My feet are killing me. All that standing. But it’s only for a few weeks. You can stick anything for a few weeks. I like going into the store-room at the back, next door to Mr George’s office. It’s completely airless and muffled in there, but there is this intense smell of paper that I love. My fingers are starting to develop an extra layer of skin already, from handling the books. They get surprisingly dusty.

  Wednesday 25th June

  Bob came into the bookshop today. It’s more than three weeks, but I have managed to avoid him, until now, because it’s the summer holidays. It would have been tricky in term time. He was clearly surprised to see me, standing there at the till, but he acted really cool. Still, I had the advantage over him: I saw him first. I had time to duck down behind the counter and cool my burning face with my hands and let my heart stop racing. It wasn’t excitement or even embarrassment. It was just shock, I think.

  Hiya, Ashling, he said, handing me a copy of Sense and Sensibility and a fiver. It’s terrible how cheap these classics are.

  He didn’t even avert his eyes or shuffle from foot to foot or anything. I felt like doing those things, but since he didn’t, I decided to brave it out too.

  Oh, hi Bob, I said, trying to sound ultra-cool. How’re the exams going?

  I suddenly felt terribly guilty. Was it very mean of me to break up with him just before the most important exam of his life? Yes, it was, selfish and thoughtless. I may have ruined this boy’s career prospects.

  Fine, fine, he said. Thanks for the card, by the way. Only German left. Tomorrow. I saw the movie, he added, indicating the book. Last night. I went with an old friend of mine.

  What was he doing going to the cinema in the middle of his exams? I want to see that film, but I have been putting it off because there is nobody to go with. Not since there’s been no Bob in my life. I got a sudden stab of nostalgia. I realised then that I didn’t feel dismayed that he was going to the cinema in the middle of his exams. I felt dismayed that he was going with somebody who wasn’t me. But maybe that was what I was meant to feel. Maybe that was why he was telling me.

  Good, was it? I asked coldly.

  Brill, he said, absolutely bloody brill.

  He never used words like that when he was with me. Brill, I mean, not bloody.

  Oh? I said, trying to sound as if I didn’t really care, trying to sound half-distracted, as if I were only making small talk. I thrust the book at him, sellotaped into its paper bag.

  She just finished her Junior Cert last week, he offered then. She needed a break.

  Who? I asked, but my mouth was dry.

  Becky, he said.

  Who’s Becky? I asked.

  Oh, just someone I know from way back when, he said. She used to live near me. We went to playschool together. She’s years younger, but she was sent at two, because her mother couldn’t cope with her at home, and I was still there, because my mother couldn’t cope with the idea of sending me to real school. He gave a snorting sound, which I think was meant to be a laugh. I didn’t
laugh with him. I used to mind her, he went on, because I was the oldest and she was the youngest.

  Meaning they were ‘just good friends’, I suppose.

  Oh? How did she get on? I asked. Your playschool friend, I mean.

  Fine, Bob said. But she’s not at playschool any more.

  Well, that was pretty obvious.

  She recommended I should buy this (at this point he waved the paper bag containing the book in the air), since I enjoyed the film so much.

  I never recommended books to him. I don’t know much about books, really, though I know a bit more since I’ve been working in the bookshop. Last week, I was able to tell a customer who said she wanted Surely by Jane Eyre that what she was really looking for was a copy of Shirley by Charlotte Brontë. I don’t think she’s going to enjoy it, but I sold it to her anyway, which is what I’m here for.

  I had tried to get him interested in music, Bob, I mean. I took him to concerts. I even made him come to some of our rehearsals – I’m in an orchestra at school, you have to be with the double-bass, it’s not exactly a solo instrument – trying to get him to share some of the excitement of it all. But all he ever said was, very nice, very nice. He never said it was bloody brill, that’s for sure.

  Thursday 26th June

  Mum told us today she’d been asked to lunch at Richard’s on Sunday. We didn’t say anything. Alva didn’t because she is completely obnoxious on the subject of Richard. I didn’t because I was taken aback at the idea that she would go out to Sunday lunch. It’s one thing going out on a Sunday afternoon, but Sunday lunch is sacrosanct.

  She let it hang in the air for a moment. Then she added, He asked me to bring you two as well. He’d like to meet you. And he’d like you to meet his daughter too.

  Oh god! his daughter, I thought. I’d sort of forgotten about the daughter. I didn’t really want to meet her. Girls of that age are so tedious. I prefer small children, boys of my own age, and adults. I bet she’s another Alva. But it was obvious we were going to have to meet Richard, and if he and Mum felt the relationship had got to the point where we had to meet the daughter as well, then we just had to, that was all there was to it.

  Alva was eating ice-cream, and she just went on spooning it in, unconcernedly, as if Mum had said it was her turn to wash up. I tried to catch her eye, but she was staring at the wall.

  That’s nice of him, Mum, I said brightly. Isn’t it Alva?

  Alva still went on eating her ice-cream like an automaton.

  Alva, I said loudly, pressing down hard on her toe under the table.

  Ow! she said. That hurts, Ashling. I got a belt of a hockey stick on that toe.

  I’m sorry, Alva, I said, I didn’t realise. But we’ll look forward to that, won’t we? Lunch with Mum’s friend Richard. Won’t we?

  I pressed again on her toe.

  Yeh, ow, stop, yeh, yeh, we will, great, yeh, ow!

  I mentioned then that I had sold Bob a book yesterday, to change the subject. Also, I thought it would be a good idea to mention his name. They might think it odd if I never did.

  Nobody must have thought much of this as a conversational opening, because nobody said anything. Is it me? Or is it Bob? How come nobody notices what I’m doing with my life?

  Sunday 29th June

  I told Alva I didn’t think she should wear her jeans to Richard’s house. Not the ones with the tears in them anyway. She sulked at that, but she said she would look and see what she could find. I thought she would probably wear one of her long dresses. That’s all she ever wears, disreputable jeans and long dresses, as if she is afraid someone might catch a glimpse of her legs. They must be pale and atrophied, like those white worms that live under stones and never see the sun. But she appeared in a neat little polo neck and the navy tartan skirt she bought that day when we went into town to spend her birthday money. It looked really nice on her. She has a good figure, only you don’t often get to see it. She even had navy tights to match. I bet she nicked those from my room. She’d never have a pair of navy tights of her own. She’s always nicking my stuff.

  I laughed when I saw her in the tartan skirt, because I was wearing the skirt I’d bought that day, too. I often wear mine, because I like it. I don’t think Alva has worn hers at all since she bought it, except once, just to give it an outing. She says wearing a skirt reminds her too much of school uniforms.

  Will this do? she asked. Oh, and I borrowed these, she added, opening her hand.

  Lying in her pink little palm were four identical pearl stud ear-rings. I must explain that Mum is fanatical about pearl ear-rings. She must have about ten pairs. I think the only reason she let us get our ears pierced was that she fondly imagined us in pearl studs. But Alva goes around all the time with enamel fried eggs dangling from her ears, and I usually wear dream-catchers, except at school, of course, where we wear silver sleepers.

  What are you doing with those, Alva? I asked. Did you take them from Mum’s room? You’re terrible. You know she hates you taking her stuff, because she has to go all over the house looking for it.

  She’ll like this, though, Alva said with a grin. Here, you take two.

  So we both put the ear-rings in. They made us look about twenty.

  Now we’re respectable enough for the great Richard, aren’t we? said Alva, grinning into my bedroom mirror.

  She had obviously decided to get into the spirit of the thing, instead of trying to kick against it. I think that’s pretty big of her, actually, because I know she finds it hard. I put my arm across her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze, our eyes smiling at each other in the mirror, to show I appreciated it.

  Just as well the Boyzone crew can’t see you now, I said. They’d never recognise you.

  Mum blinked when she saw us. Then she noticed the ear-rings and she laughed. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee, she said. But you could see she was nervous. I was glad we’d made a bit of an effort, for her sake.

  Which is more than can be said for Richard’s daughter. It turns out her name is Cindy. It’s all right for a doll or a supermodel, but a real girl called Cindy! She certainly didn’t look like a supermodel. She wore a T-shirt that looked as if she’d slept in it and awful jeans. Not only had they tears in them, I think they were actually dirty.

  Their house is really lovely. It’s big and old and it has a bay window and a marble fireplace and real glass chandeliers and a beautiful walnut piano. I was itching to try it out, but it looked as if nobody ever played it. They have a parquet floor in the dining room and a persian rug. At least, I don’t know if it’s persian, but it’s beautiful, all lovely rich reds and blues. Everything looked as if it came out of an antique shop. Even the pouffe in the sitting room was real leather. And the food was delicious too, proper Sunday food. Lamb I think we had. Richard cooked it himself. He is quite proud of his cooking. You’d expect somebody interested in food to be fatter.

  He fussed around with chafing dishes and chargers – I never even heard of these things until I heard him talking about them – at a great rate, but Cindy just sat there and looked bored. She hardly said a word all through the meal. I thought at first maybe she was shy, and I tried to say a few things to her, but she didn’t pick up any of my conversational openings, so Alva and I ended up just saying things like pass the butter. We were trying very hard, for Mum’s sake.

  Her dad produced a bottle of red wine. He’s really a very nice man, or seems to be. He offered me some. I had a little drop, but I don’t really drink, so I topped it up with water. I think that was a mistake, because it tasted terrible. Alva got Coke, and I was sorry I hadn’t asked for some too. But Cindy really lashed into the wine, and after her third glass she was jabbering away about nothing in particular, mostly stories about friends of hers, particularly somebody called Lisa, which were of no interest to us. I think Mum quite enjoyed some of it, because she knew the people she was talking about, from school. She talked about the teachers a bit as well, and told Mum what their nicknames were. They weren�
��t very original. And she was rude about the food. Alva said the dessert was scrumptious, and she looked witheringly at her and said it was scum, not scrum.

  Then she passed out. I felt sorry for Richard, trying to make it all seem normal. We had to pretend not to notice. It was so embarrassing. Then Mum had a brainwave.

  Let’s all go for a walk. Palmerston Park, maybe? (They live quite near there.) Or what about Dún Laoghaire pier?

  That’s a great idea, said Richard. A nice brisk walk on Dún Laoghaire pier – just the thing to sobe… eh, blow away the cobwebs. Come on, Cindy, wake up, there’s a good girl.

  He had to put her jacket on her. She was too drunk to do it for herself. He managed to get her into the back of his car, and we all drove off to the sea. We put Cindy between us, Alva and me, and sort of propelled her along the pier like that. She came to after a bit.

  It wasn’t my idea of a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but you could see that Mum was enjoying it, in spite of everything. You could tell just by the way she looked at Richard that she’s really fallen for him. I hope it all turns out all right for her. I don’t want her getting hurt. Not again.

  Tuesday 1st July

  Alva threw a wobbly yesterday. A real wobbly. I haven’t seen her like that since she was a small child, not even when Dad left. Then she just cried and cried. But this was anger. She stamped her foot and said all the usual things. It’s not fair was the main one. That really wasn’t a very good argument. I don’t see how fair comes into it.

  This was all because Mum said she was going away for the weekend with Richard. We’re going to Dad this weekend. That was arranged ages ago. So it’s no skin off our nose what Mum does. She didn’t even need to tell us. She could just have gone off on the quiet and been back before us and we’d never have known. What’s really not fair is that Alva is giving her hell when all she’s doing is trying to be honest and up-front with us, telling us she is going away with him.