Sisters ... No Way!

by Siobhán Parkinson

  I plodded back up the stairs to bed, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. My heart was still racing. After a moment I heard the click as Mum put the phone down, and then I heard another, softer sound, like the phone being picked up again, and the whirring in the ringer that meant she was dialling. She dialled twelve or thirteen numbers. Long distance. She must have been phoning him back, in Lisbon. She was ages. A good fifteen minutes.

  This is going to cost a fortune, I thought. I started to do sums in my head, trying to work out how much it would cost, but I didn’t have any figures to start with, so it was a bit of a how-long-is-a-piece-of-string exercise. But still my brain kept trying to do the sum. Suppose it’s 12p a unit, and suppose a unit to Lisbon is fifteen seconds, that’s…, no, let’s suppose a unit to Lisbon is five seconds, but it’s at a low-rate time, so let’s say it’s seven seconds, now multiply seven by… what will I multiply it by?

  My head was whirling with these irrelevant, pointless calculations, and I had to make a conscious effort to stop myself. As soon as I did, my brain started to work on what she must be saying to him. She had to be telling him. Otherwise she’d never ring him back and stay on for so long. She’s careful about the phone.

  After what seemed hours, I heard the phone clicking again, and soon afterwards I heard Mum’s weary step on the stairs.

  Mum? I called out, hoping she’d come in and we could have a chat.

  Go to sleep, Ashling, she said firmly.

  I heard her door closing, and the muffled sounds of her getting back into bed. My head felt like a concrete block on the pillow.

  This morning, she overslept again. This time I didn’t go in to check her out. I knew what it was. I had a quick breakfast myself, and then I made her a cup of tea.

  We’re out of Earl Grey, I said, leaving the cup down beside her and opening the curtains.

  Oh, Ashling? she said, opening her eyes and blinking. I must have overslept. The phone call. It was very late.

  Overslept? I said. Oh, I thought maybe you weren’t well.

  She didn’t reply.

  Are you OK, Mum? I asked, turning back to look at her as I left the room.

  She still didn’t reply, but there were tears running down her cheeks.

  Wednesday 30th July

  Mum was in the garden when I got home this evening, kneeling on her little garden hassock and wearing her gardening gloves. She even has a special gardening apron with slots for her trowel and so on. People give her that sort of thing for Christmas.

  I brought her an iced soft drink. It was one of those lovely long summer evenings, still warm but with that evening feeling about it, the birds getting twittery and the sun sending out long yellow slants of light. We sat at a little cast-iron table we have on our lawn, under a walnut tree. I asked her how she was feeling, and whether she thought she should be doing all that bending and stretching. I tried to make it sound genuinely concerned, but she must have caught an edge of something knowing or judgmental or sarcastic in my voice in spite of myself.

  She put her hand up to her face to shade it from the sun and looked at me and said quietly: You know, Ashling, don’t you?

  I said I did.

  She was silent for a long time then, and I thought she was thinking what to say next, that she was going to launch into a long justification, and I was embarrassed, waiting for her to break the silence. But when she did speak, it was to ask something quite incomprehensible: Was it the eau de cologne?

  What? I was really stumped by this one. The eau de cologne? What eau de cologne? What about it?

  I can’t bear any sort of chemical smells, she said, like perfumes or strong soaps or washing powder, in the early months. They make me sick, make my skin all come up in goose-pimples. I thought that might have been it, how you’d guessed, when I asked you to get rid of the eau de cologne.

  The way she said ‘in the early months’ gave me a creepy feeling. It made the whole thing seem so real, an actual physical and medical reality, whereas up to now I had been regarding it as an emotional problem, a family issue, something whose consequences had to be discussed. She, on the other hand, had already slipped into pregnant woman mode. She would be talking about scans and EDDs and backache and pelvic floor exercises before I knew where I was. (I know all the jargon. Our house is full of pregnancy manuals, along with the personal development books. Also books on holistic healing, herbal medicine, aromatherapy, Bach flower remedies, homeopathy, shiatsu – you name it.)

  The pregnancy wasn’t just a point of discussion for Mum any longer. It had taken on a life of its own. I remember thinking those very words, and then I suddenly realised how that was literally true. A life of its own. It wasn’t just a pregnancy, something related to a pregnancy kit in the bathroom. Here was the start of a life. There was going to be a baby.

  Oh Mum! I suddenly wailed, and threw myself into her arms. We hugged very tightly then, not saying anything. I wondered if I should say congratulations. But I just whispered Oh Mum! several times into her ear. Each time I said it, she just hugged me tighter.

  Well, she said, releasing me, was it the eau de cologne?

  No, no, it wasn’t that, I said. It was…

  But then I stopped. I couldn’t possibly tell her I’d seen the packet in the bin. It was just too undignified. And I certainly couldn’t tell her that I had thought it was Alva, or that I had discussed it with Bob. She would die of mortification.

  Come on, Mum, I said then, in a jolly tone. How could I possibly have known that eau de cologne has that effect on you? The last time you were pregnant I was what? – three!

  We both laughed a small laugh at that, and then we just sat for a long time and sipped our lemonade. We didn’t talk much, just enjoyed the garden and the evening. When we’d finished our drinks, I said I’d start the dinner.

  She reached out then and pushed my hair back from my forehead and tucked it behind my ears, the way she used to when I was little. That was all.

  Can I ask Bob around later? I asked.

  Ask him to dinner, she said. Alva won’t be here. He can have hers.

  Alva was at Sarah’s again. This time she’d taken her sleeping bag and was staying over. When Alva and Sarah get together in Sarah’s house they go on cleaning binges. They clean the bath and the cooker and the fridge and they wash the floors. It’s a sort of playing house, I think. No wonder Sarah’s mother loves Alva to come over. They never do it in our house. I don’t know why.

  We had a lovely evening, just the three of us. I made a big bowl of pasta with garlic and olive oil, and a big bowl of salad, and we took it into the garden, and ate under the walnut tree. Afterwards we had strawberries that Bob brought. We talked about gardening and music and films and food, nothing at all to do with real life. It was lovely, like a little interlude in reality.

  Bob had to go early, because he’d arranged to meet a friend back at his house. He was going to show him how to use the Internet, I think. He asked me to come too, and I really wanted to. I wanted to be with him, to saunter down the road with him in the evening light, with our fingers interlaced, and also I wanted to see this famous Internet. But I said no, another time.

  When we were washing up, I asked Mum when Richard was due home. She didn’t answer, just stood there watching the washing-up water swirling down the plughole. Then she said: Come on, let’s go for a walk, just around the block, before it gets too dark.

  Friday 1st August

  Today was my last day in the bookshop. I’m really going to miss it. I enjoyed it, and it was nice to have extra money for things too, though I saved most of it. The people in the shop sent out for doughnuts at eleven o’clock – I think they’ve got the idea that I love doughnuts, because I bought them one day – and one of the staff made a pot of real coffee, and we had a little party in Mr George’s office, and he ceremoniously handed me my last pay packet and gave me a peck on the cheek and said I’d been a star worker. Nobody ever called me a star before, any kind of star.

&nbs
p; Friday 15th August

  Bob’s Leaving results came out yesterday. He’s done very well, by normal standards, but he hasn’t done well enough to get into pharmacy, which is what he really wants to do, so he’s disappointed. It seems so unfair, because almost anyone else with results as good as his would be over the moon.

  Some of them thought they could jump over it anyway. We went into town, and wandered around Temple Bar. The pubs were bulging, people were spilling out onto the streets, and there were people everywhere who were out of their heads, on wild drinking binges. But Bob just didn’t feel like celebrating. I bought him (at least, I got Mum to buy him) one of those little bottles of champagne, the ones that only hold one glass, like you get on aeroplanes, but he didn’t even open it. He’s just down. It’s such a shame, because his results were really great – two A’s and a string of B’s. Some of those idiots who were running riot in town last night probably had a quarter the number of points that he had, and they were obviously delighted with themselves. It seemed crazy that we were so glum about such excellent results. In the end, we just had a hamburger and came home and had an early night.

  Thursday 21st August

  Mum’s invited Richard and Cindy to lunch on Sunday week.

  I thought you’d bust up with him! Alva said.

  Well, yes, we had agreed to stop seeing each other for a while, Mum said carefully. And he went away for a bit, on a holiday. But we stayed friends.

  Friends! snorted Alva.

  Yes, said Mum, evenly, and we kept in touch, by telephone, and then I decided I thought I would like to see him again, after all.

  Oh, you decided, did you? said Alva, really cheekily.

  Alva, Mum said, very firmly, very calmly, I am very sorry if you don’t like Richard, or if you don’t like my seeing him, but there are things involved here that you don’t know anything about.

  Such as? Alva was still defiant.

  Alva, Alva, Mum said. You can’t ask people about things that are private. You know that. There are public aspects to my relationship with Richard, of course. There are you two girls to consider. And Cindy. But you will have to accept, Alva, that I have to make my own decisions about these matters, taking all sorts of things into account, and whether you like my decisions or not, I want you to know that I don’t make them lightly, and when I do make decisions I make them carefully, and with regard to all our happiness.

  Oh lord, said Alva. Spare me the lecture. Save it for your pupils. And anyway, you don’t consider all our happiness. I hate Richard. I hate Cindy. I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I’m going to live with Daddy!

  There was a silence after she said that, a silence like a stone, huge, immoveable, solid.

  After what seemed a long, long time, Mum said: Alva, you can’t go to your father. The arrangement is that you live with me.

  Alva looked miserable, sitting there, staring at her plate. She was dry-eyed, and she didn’t shout her next words. It was as if she was squeezing them out: I don’t care about your old arrangement. If I want to live with Dad, you’re not going to stop me.

  No, Alva, I wouldn’t stop you, if that was what you really wanted, and if I felt your father could look after you, and if that would be best for your happiness. But it wouldn’t work out, love. It wouldn’t, and you’d be more miserable than ever.

  Well, then, why don’t you stop making me miserable, so I can stay here?

  I’m not trying to make you miserable. I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us. Look, you needn’t be at the lunch if it upsets you that much. I’ll ring your dad and see if you can go over there on Sunday.

  Yes, OK, do that, Alva said quietly. But you are not trying to do what’s best for all of us. You are just doing what you want.

  That’s enough, Alva, Mum snapped. I’ve had enough now, do you hear? I’ve tried to explain that there are factors here that you don’t understand, but you don’t seem to be prepared to listen to that. Now, I’ve said you can go to your dad for that day, and that is the end of this discussion. Right?

  Saturday 23rd August

  Mum told Alva today, about the baby, I mean. I was upstairs in my room, practising. I’m trying to catch up on all the practice I missed out on while I was working in the shop. I heard Alva thundering up the stairs and her bedroom door banging. I didn’t take much notice, because she flies into rages all the time, these days. But when I came down to lay the table for Mum, whose turn it was to cook today, I found her (Mum, I mean) sitting completely still at the end of the table, not crying, not doing anything, just staring, with a concentrated look on her face. I knew then that the row with Alva must have been serious.

  She sighed when I asked her what the matter was, and started to talk: I rang Philip (that’s my dad) about Alva’s going over there next week, and he said he couldn’t possibly have her, that Naomi’s nerves are in shreds and Alva drives her up the wall, and anyway Gavin has chickenpox. That part’s just an excuse. He’ll be better by next weekend, but I didn’t argue. It was clear that he just doesn’t want her. I had to tell Alva she couldn’t go. She was furious, of course, and then she started on again about how I shouldn’t be seeing Richard anyway, and how much she hated Cindy and Richard, and how I wasn’t taking her happiness into account. So in the end, I had to tell her about the baby. She said terrible things to me, and then she banged out of the room. Oh Ashling!

  I’ll talk to her, I said.

  I went up to her room, and tried the door, but she’d locked it. I could hear her crying behind it. I rattled and knocked, and eventually she let me in, when she realised it wasn’t Mum. I sat on the edge of the bed and rocked her in my arms, and then we talked and talked, for ages, about all sorts of things, not about Mum and Richard and the baby at all, but about school, and clothes, and television programmes, all sorts of things. I brushed her hair for her, and we tried it in different styles, but it’s quite bushy, like Mum’s. It didn’t look right tied up or in pigtails, and in the end, we put it back the way it always was. She asked me to make her up, but I don’t wear makeup, except lipstick, but she said that would do, so I went and got three colours, and she tried them all on, and then she used one of the lipsticks, which is a sort of a brownish colour, as eyeshadow. It sounds daft, but it worked. She looked nice.

  We talked about boys, then, and she told me about a secret passion she had had for a boy in third year, Aidan, who’s a rollerblade champion, but that it had worn off when she discovered he liked Blur. I laughed at that, but she is committed to Oasis, as well as Boyzone, and it seems that anyone who is for Oasis has to be against Blur. I never knew that. It’s all just pop music to me. And anyway, she went on, he supports Everton. She practically spat that bit out. It seems to be the greatest offence of all. And he’s tone deaf, she added.

  Which presumably explains why he’s for Blur? I concluded.

  No, that’s not true, she said, very fairly, I thought. It hasn’t got anything to do with their music. You’re just for one or the other, that’s all. But being tone deaf means he doesn’t understand real music. Not like we do. If he knew I played the flute, he’d probably think that was silly or affected or something.

  Not half as silly as the double-bass, though, I said.

  We lay on our stomachs then, across her bed, and waved our feet at the ceiling, and Alva asked me about Bob, and why I’d broken off with him, and why I’d got back together with him. I said I didn’t really know why I’d broken with him, that I had felt confused, and that I got back with him because I missed him, which is true, but not the whole truth. Then she told me she thought she’d never have a boyfriend because she isn’t pretty enough. That made me feel really wretched, after what I’d been thinking about her and the pregnancy kit.

  I told her that in the first place she is pretty, which she is, and that secondly, even though being pretty undoubtedly has something to do with it, it isn’t really the main thing, and people get together for all sorts of reasons, and that anyway, lots of fourteen
-year-olds feel like that, and they usually end up married by the time they’re twenty-five. And anyway, I added, very wisely, having a boyfriend is not the most important thing.

  It is, she answered. It’s OK for you to say that, you’ve got Bob. And look at Mum. She couldn’t last without one, and now look at the situation she’s in. It is important, Ashling. I know it shouldn’t be the most important thing, that there’s music, and God, and being kind to children and old people, and saving the environment, and getting involved with your community, and study, and careers, but none of those things will do.

  I suppose she’s right. Sort of. I know that shouldn’t be so. But it does seem to matter terribly, doesn’t it?

  Monday 1st September

  School has started. I’m in my final year, now, and everyone is telling us it’s terribly important to work hard this year. Bob’s going to college next month, to study engineering.

  I’m beginning to agree with Alva that Cindy really is unbearable. I gave her the benefit of the doubt the first time, but she was insufferable yesterday. At least she dressed decently this time. In fact she overdid it a bit. She had her hair all piled up in an elaborate style, and her makeup would make you run for a facecloth. And she hung onto her father’s arm as if she owned him. She looked around our living room as if she was buying the house, and was trying to convey that she didn’t think much of it, to keep the price down. I felt I should be running around plumping up cushions and hiding things she mightn’t approve of. But she seemed to disapprove of everything. ‘Haughty’ is the only word I can think of.