If You Knew My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  ‘Good morning,’ she says curtly, her Scottish accent soft and breathy. ‘I understand you would like to discuss the potential schooling of your children.’ I nod agreeably, but lose my smile and replace it with seriousness. ‘Usually such meetings are organised in advance and occur by appointment. Especially since we have just got started with the new school year.’ She wants to remind me who’s in charge, but the very fact that she has bothered herself, wriggled those hips out of a chair no doubt too small for her, means she isn’t going to turn me away. I try to be charming.

  ‘I know, I am terribly sorry.’ I augment my accent, try to sound a little more upmarket than normal. Like the kind of woman who doesn’t have to work. I hold out my hand and she takes it, somewhat reluctantly, but her grip is firm. ‘I happened to be in the area and just stopped by in the hope that you might be able to see me. Not to worry if it is too difficult.’ Her exterior cracks a little, a simper of a smile breaking through like sunlight after a storm.

  ‘No. It’s all right.’ She reaches behind, pulls her office door closed. ‘If you are going to join us, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. My name is Miss Endicott. Schoolmistress for thirty-five years. It’s a long time, but I have plenty of years left in me yet.’

  Miss Endicott marches down a corridor and into a large hall with parquet flooring set in a dogtooth pattern. I follow. It reminds me of my first school. The one where I hardly spoke, despite the speech therapy the school provided, and where I walked with a frame I christened Henry.

  ‘As you can see, we are a small school. It was not the case when I began my working life here. But slowly, as the years pass, families are enticed by the towns and cities, and therefore there are fewer children left in the village who require schooling.’ We arrive at a galleried corridor that looks out over the school yard. Although it is difficult to count the moving targets, I estimate there are probably no more than twenty pupils. ‘We used to take in many more children from a much wider catchment area, but there are newer schools now.’ She says it like there is a bad taste in her mouth. Newer schools, like what do they know? ‘I won’t lie to you, Mrs…’

  ‘Jackson,’ I say.

  ‘Mrs Jackson. There are other options. Larger schools closer to the city. But what we offer here is focused learning, developed with your child in mind. Individualised educational programmes. We have five members of staff. That is only five children per teacher.’ She opens another door to reveal a bright room that smells faintly of mud. She takes a quick sniff. ‘The children have been creating clay pots in the style of the Aztecs and Egyptians. Very good for dexterity with their hands and development of creativity. Plus, we are keen to enrich their learning with a taste of other cultures. It’s important they learn empathy for all, especially those who are different.’

  ‘I agree, very important,’ I say, wishing that somebody had taught such a concept at my school. I was different, and I don’t remember a single child who demonstrated any empathy for that. Not until Elle showed up and taught one of them a lesson he would never forget. ‘I really would like my children to attend the local school. I want to get to know the village, Miss Endicott, and build our lives here.’

  She smiles and looks flattered as we head up the corridor. She opens another door, presenting the science room. ‘Three science sessions per week, per child. There is no larger school that can replicate that at this key stage in development.’ I have a nose inside, spot a few Bunsen burners and battery packs left lying out on the laboratory benches. They even have gas taps, which I’m sure can’t be safe for such little kids. ‘You have come to the right place, I can assure you. I have been teaching here for nearly all of my thirty-five years of working life, and I am Horton born and bred. I have lived in the little end cottage just along from the post office all my life. That’s why the garden is so well developed.’ She stops herself, giggles at her own apparent naivety. ‘What I’m trying to say is that you will not find anyone who knows the village and its history quite like I do.’ She closes the door and takes a good look at me. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but are you all right? Your eyes are very red.’

  ‘High pollen count,’ I say, reaching into my pocket for a tissue. I dab at the corners of my eyes and she carries on up the corridor with a sympathetic hand placed on my shoulder. ‘As you were saying, Miss Endicott, about knowing the village so well … that’s most fortunate for me.’ I wonder if perhaps my father is not the only person who can answer my questions. If the people at Mam Tor believe that things are best left behind closed doors, I’ll find someone who knows how to open them. ‘I’m sure there are many questions you could help me answer.’

  We continue the tour and she shows me the classrooms, the computer area where they have just installed a PC with Windows; Miss Endicott announces this with an inappropriate sense of pride, as if they have made a revolutionary development. I wonder why anybody would choose this school and rely on this dinosaur for their child’s education. ‘The village must have changed a lot over the years,’ I say, driving the conversation in my chosen direction.

  She nods in agreement as she plods forward in her heavy lace-up shoes. ‘We have seen many children come and go. All on to bigger and better things. That’s what I like to think, at least.’ She turns back and flashes me a big smile, full of brown teeth from the cigarettes she smokes in her office. I can smell them on her clothes. ‘I like to create memorable childhoods, and an environment that enriches the children’s emotional development.’

  ‘And I assume you share a special relationship with the local families. For generations, perhaps,’ I suggest. We pass a set of entrance doors from the yard and she stands aside to let the rowdy band of sweaty children hurry inside. She pats each one on the head as they race past.

  ‘Of course,’ she announces as she closes the doors behind the last one. She almost looks offended that I should even have questioned it, her gaze lingering a little too long. ‘There isn’t a child that has gone through this school whom I don’t remember. But I must say, I am surprised you are here today. As far as I was aware, there are no houses for sale in the village. Where did you say you were moving to?’

  I stumble briefly as I cobble together an answer, borrowing from my surname and mother’s first name to create a couple of imaginary children. ‘We are still looking for a property. We found the village first and just fell in love with it. We were here only a few weeks ago, and little Harry and Cassie were running around…’ I look off to the ceiling as if I am lost in the memory of them gambolling in the fields like a couple of von Trapps.

  Miss Endicott steps back, her face pale. She ushers me forward, and for a second I wonder if I have offended her, although for the life of me I can’t think how. I try to move the situation on.

  ‘We just have to settle on a house. It is very hard to find one in such a small and beautiful place. But there are some wonderful properties nearby. There is one in particular I saw on the way in. A fairly new place, double-fronted, with a large circular driveway, set back from the road. That would be perfect for us.’

  She stops just before the reception area, smoothes her hands over the dog-eared corner of a child’s wall-mounted painting. ‘I’m not sure of the property you mean.’ Her inability to make eye contact intrigues me. It’s impossible to believe somebody who can’t look you in the eye. That’s how I knew my father really meant it when he told me that I shouldn’t have come here, because he looked straight at me.

  ‘Oh? You can’t miss it,’ I push. ‘The last house on the right before you hit the main village, if you’re coming from Edinburgh. About twenty minutes on foot from here. It has a name plaque outside. Mam Tor.’ I have to make her admit she knows my family home. There is no way she can’t know the house, which means there is no way she doesn’t know my sister. She remembers every child, after all, and where else would Elle have gone to school?

  ‘Oh, that one,’ she says unconvincingly. ‘Yes, I know the house you mean.’ She takes a long look at my fac
e, twitches her nose, shakes her head before adding, ‘But I don’t think it’s for sale.’ I consider pushing it further, suggesting that I have seen people coming and going. I want so much to ask her about my sister, my family, whether she remembers me and if she knows why I was given away. Somebody must know. Before I can think up the next question, she is speaking again. ‘Anyway, Mrs John—’

  ‘Jackson,’ I interrupt, as if the facts of my fictional life are important.

  ‘Sorry, of course, Mrs Jackson. I really must be getting back to work. Should you wish to make a further appointment, I would be more than happy to see you again. If you would like to leave a number, I will contact you if I hear anything regarding properties for sale.’

  She escorts me through the lobby and we chat about the weather, the forthcoming church fete, and the local topiary club, of which she is president. I add that I can’t wait to show Harry and Cassie where they will go to school, and she smiles, although I note less enthusiastically than before. I leave my actual telephone number and take the steps from the building, past some very nice topiary planters for which, no doubt, Miss Endicott is responsible. Just before I reach the pavement, she calls out to stop me.

  ‘Mrs Jackson, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say as I turn around. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you by any chance have family in Horton? Any distant cousins or aunts, for example.’ She tries to make her question sound casual, like the answer is irrelevant and she doesn’t really want to know. Yet I doubt there is anything casual about Miss Endicott.

  ‘No. Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason in particular. Just a final thought.’ She holds up the paper on which I have written my telephone number. ‘If I hear of any properties for sale, I will be in touch. I hope your eyes get better soon.’ Without waiting for an answer, she closes the door.

  14

  The morning of the funeral has a buzz about it much like I would imagine a family wedding would, should I ever have been to one. Frank and Joyce jostle about the house; him out of place, unsure of where anything is, her hindered by her gammy leg and weak hand. I can hear Elle bellowing instructions, the first resounding up the stairs as though she is using a megaphone at about 6.25 a.m., by which point I am wide awake with all the lights on. Put a table here. Locate some flowers in this alcove. Move the Chinese urns from the hallway. No, you are doing it wrong, you stupid, stupid cripple.

  She flaps into my room before I am out of bed and catches me in the jumper she bought me. I haven’t taken it off since the trip to the gym; I still can’t bring myself to undress, because to do so would mean slipping into an ordinary routine. Something natural, an acceptance of being here. After my father told me I shouldn’t have come, I just couldn’t bring myself to pretend that anything about this place was normal for me. I haven’t even showered, and as I hide myself under my dusty covers, I catch a whiff of my armpits. It isn’t good.

  She sweeps in, black dress in one hand, carrying a small leather box in the other, here to ready me. The last time I saw her was as I ran from the living room two days before. But there is a seriousness about her this time, refined and businesslike. This isn’t supposed to be fun like Sisters’ Day.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going like that. They will all know who you are and we cannot have the whole village talking about you.’

  Following my trip to the school, I spent most of the day in the Enchanted Swan. The pub was full, with interested eyes cast towards my seat at the bar for most of the night. They were all wondering who I was, an outsider in their midst. I think I stumbled back to the house around 9.30 p.m., no doubt already the subject of village gossip. And that’s before they realise I’m a Harringford.

  Elle drags me out of bed and bundles me into the bathroom. At first I protest, much like a child might. I keep my arms by my sides, hesitant, not looking at her. But she tugs and yanks at my jumper, dragging it over my head, pulling at my ear lobes.

  ‘All right, all right,’ I say as I accede to the removal of the jumper. ‘Just get out. I can shower on my own.’ Reluctantly she leaves, turning to look at me as I turn the shower tap on. She is standing in the doorway as she whispers something to me, but I don’t hear what she says.

  I reach back and turn off the tap. ‘What did you say?’ I ask.

  ‘I said, we are sisters, you know. You don’t have to be shy. I know what you look like underneath those clothes. I know about the scars that cover your hip. I know the way your belly button is an outie and not an innie. You should let me in, don’t push me away. There are lots of things I know about you.’ She shuffles awkwardly and smiles, runs her fingers up the brittle frame of the door. ‘Like the fact that you liked mashed-up banana for breakfast as a baby, and always used to pee as soon as they took off your dirty nappy. Plus, I know how you feel. I know how it hurts to be unwanted.’ She waits there, staring at me, reminding me that I was, and remain, unwanted. I have to grip the sink for support. Then she closes the door behind her without waiting for a response.

  I leave the bathroom fifteen minutes later, skin clean and dripping wet. I pass the cupboard of photographs, keeping my head down so I don’t have to look, because to get through the next couple of hours will take all my strength. When I open the door to my bedroom, Elle is sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheets draped across her. My bag is beside her, spilling open.

  ‘Do you remember that time when I jumped from the aqueduct?’ she asks me, without any introduction or appreciation of the fact that I am virtually naked, wrapped only in a towel too small for my body. She sets the picture of me and Antonio down on the bedside table. Last night, in a moment when I was sure I was about to leave, I packed it away. I take the bag from her and rustle inside for some fresh underwear.

  ‘Yes, of course I remember,’ I say, almost able to feel the cold wind that whipped against my skin as I stood on the railings. It was a winter’s day, no more than three degrees. A crisp layer of frost was clinging to the ground. There were patches of ice on the water below where it had started to freeze, and a big hole where Elle had fallen through. She only kicked for a moment, until the cold got her.

  The moment when we left the garden was probably the only time they took their eyes off us. Just a second for her to lure me away. That was all it took. Perhaps they were distracted by my mother’s tears. Elle said she wanted me to go with her, something she had to show me. I hesitated, maybe because Aunt Jemima had told me never to follow a stranger. I suppose there was a chance I was scared of what she might show me. But the truth, if I’m honest, was that I was scared of her. I could see there was something about her, as clearly as if she had a birthmark across her face.

  ‘You would have died if that passer-by hadn’t dragged you out.’ Jumping, Elle said, would unite us. They would never be able to separate us again. But there was something in me that couldn’t go through with it. All the while I was standing up there in only a T-shirt, shivering, watching her floating, I wondered why I hadn’t kept my promise. Any distant hopes that our parents had of reuniting our family died that day. ‘Why are you bringing it up now?’

  ‘After that, they wouldn’t let me see you any more. You know, that’s the last time we saw each other for years.’ She rests back on the bed and pulls the covers up tightly under her chin, never appearing more fragile. ‘Until I found you again.’

  ‘I know. Aunt Jemima moved house so that you wouldn’t know where I was.’ I sit down next to her limp body, holding on to my towel. I remind myself that it is the day of the funeral, that I should be softer with her, sweeter. ‘I know all this, Elle. Why won’t you tell me the things I don’t know?’

  She ignores my effort at truth-digging. ‘But I found you, didn’t I? They couldn’t stop me; I found you.’

  ‘Yes, you always found me, Elle.’ I think of the first time, when she attacked Robert Kneel. The last was at the hospital when security dragged her away. Every time she found a way back. And every time I fel
t a wave of relief that she never stopped searching. Even this time, if I’m honest. I shuffle up towards her head, rest my hand on her arm and rub it.

  ‘I had to. You understand that, right? You understand now why I had to find you?’

  ‘Because we are sisters,’ I say as I stroke her hair from her eyes.

  ‘No,’ she laughs, sitting up. ‘It’s got nothing to do with being sisters.’

  I stand, snatch up the dress she brought with her. I turn away so that she cannot see my scars, even though she knows they are there. I pull the dress over my head slowly, waiting for the flush of embarrassment to pass. When I turn around, she is staring at my hip.

  ‘So what is it then?’ I snap. I fasten the zipper and think how this time she got the size just right. It’s a nice black shift dress, three-quarter-length sleeves. Something I would buy. ‘Somebody to do crazy shit with you, like jumping off bridges or taking drugs?’

  ‘No,’ she says, raising her gaze in the direction of my face. ‘To learn the truth, Irini. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me. But I knew that one day you would be here in this house, back in your old room, and that finally I would know.’ She breathes deeply, lets out a long, steady breath. ‘I’m a patient woman, Rini. And now I do.’

  The words hit me like a train wreck, and I stagger back, gripping the frame of the tiny bed to stop myself falling.

  ‘This is my old room?’ The words stutter out, shameful and afraid. My eyes skirt around the details, the lame picture that I have hidden away behind the furniture, the drawer where I have stowed an ornament. Mine? ‘My room when I was a baby?’

  She screws up her face, as if what I am asking is one of the dumbest questions she’s ever heard. ‘Where did you think I had put you? This is your room, exactly as you left it.’