‘What are you doing out here?’ I’d asked. ‘It looks like it’s going to chuck it down again any minute.’
‘I just needed some air,’ she said. ‘I felt a bit—’ She stopped and put her hand over her mouth suddenly, as though she was going to be sick.
I looked at her. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible.’
‘Of course,’ she said, attempting a bright smile. ‘Just . . .’ Her skin was pale and waxy, smudged dark under the eyes. She tried to smile. ‘I’m absolutely fine, really.’
I looked at her, surprised. I knew from years of watching Mum lie that she could fib without a flicker. Never about anything serious. Just about parking tickets or library fines, or imaginary disasters that meant she was going to be late for work. When I was a kid, she’d have me believing her, even though I knew what she was saying bore absolutely no resemblance to the facts. Afterwards, she’d give me a big wink and say, Just a little white lie, Pearl. But this wasn’t a little white lie. This was something big; so big she couldn’t hide it.
‘You’re not fine. Why are you lying to me?’
Now I thought about it she hadn’t seemed right for a while. Tired all the time. Not eating much.
‘Oh my God. You’re ill, aren’t you?’
‘Honestly, Pearl, you’re such a drama queen.’
But she looked nervous, not meeting my eye.
I started to panic. ‘It’s something serious. That’s why you’re lying.’
It seemed obvious now. The tiredness and the sickness. Three mornings that week I’d been hopping around outside our toilet while Mum vomited. She’d said it was food poisoning, but, oh Christ, it all made sense now. Dad fussing round her all the time. She’d even given up smoking. It had to be something serious. What else could explain it? The tiredness. Giving up smoking. Sickness . . . every morning . . .
Oh.
I looked at her, disbelieving. ‘You’re pregnant,’ I breathed.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Well . . . Yes. Dad’ll kill me for telling you. He wanted us to do it together. You’ll have to pretend it’s all a big surprise when we do.’
I stared at her. ‘You’re going to have a baby,’ I said, still not really believing it.
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘And you’re always telling me to Be Careful.’
She looked embarrassed. ‘Actually, it wasn’t an accident.’
I tried to take all it in. ‘But you’re too old.’
‘No I’m not,’ she said, frowning. ‘I’m thirty-seven. Which is very young actually, Pearl.’
I tried to get it all straight in my head.
‘When is it due?’
‘Not for ages. I’m only a few weeks gone.’
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Dad’s convinced it’s a boy.’
We sat in awkward silence for a moment. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Are you pleased?’ she asked. ‘About the baby?’
‘I don’t know.’ The whole thing was freaking me out a bit. She looked disappointed.
‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It’s just a surprise.’ I thought about it a bit more. ‘Are you pleased?’
‘I would be if I didn’t feel so sick,’ she said. ‘Dad’s over the bloody moon.’
We sat there a while longer, the scent of rain on dry earth hanging in the air around us.
Funny how things get linked in your head. When I smell it now, that smell of rain and mud and things growing silently, it feels like a warning that you don’t know what’s coming; that the world can tip. At the time it just smelt fresh and clean and new.
‘Wow,’ I said at last, smiling. ‘A baby.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It is pretty amazing.’
She reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘I’m so glad you’re pleased,’ she said. ‘You’ll make a fantastic big sister.’
‘Can I have your leather jacket?’ I said. ‘You’ll be too fat for it soon.’
It seems like another life, thinking back on it now. I open my eyes. Has it worked? Surely she’ll be here. But the garden is still.
‘Mum?’ I say at last. ‘Mum. Are you there?’
I wait.
‘Please.’
There’s the lazy buzz of an aeroplane overhead. A tear slides down my nose. Why should she be any more reliable now she’s dead than she was when she was alive? The thought flashes, unwelcome, into my head and suddenly my patience has gone.
‘Why did you let him persuade you to have a stupid baby in the first place?’ I shout at the empty garden. ‘Why aren’t you here when I need you?’
Shouting feels good.
‘You’re a selfish bitch!’
I’m so angry my hands are shaking. But rage feels good. It feels hot and powerful and fierce and I feel alive. I shut my eyes again and breathe deeply and slowly. As the anger drains away, I feel limp and exhausted and a bit ridiculous. The garden sounds very quiet now I’ve stopped ranting. And yet – I open my eyes – not as quiet as it should. There’s a shuffling sound in the leaves on the other side of the wall. I sit up, tensed.
‘Who’s there?’ For a second I think maybe it’s Mum. But no, if she’d heard me shouting at her, she wouldn’t be hiding behind a wall, she’d be yelling right back at me. But if it’s not her . . .
It’s probably just Soot, I tell myself, trying not to panic. Then the shuffling stops and someone clears their throat in a slightly embarrassed way.
I’m guessing it’s not the cat.
Christ. Whoever it is must have heard everything. It must be Dulcie, the old lady next door. But no, it didn’t sound like an old lady kind of cough at all—
‘Are you all right?’ says a male voice abruptly.
I freeze. I think about scuttling back into the house and hiding there forever. I think about lying down on the ground and pretending to have had some kind of fit, or a bang to the head or attack, that would explain everything or at least provide a distraction and mean I didn’t have to speak. I think about invisibility cloaks and stories in the news about sinkholes opening up and swallowing people whole. But disaster never strikes when you want it to.
‘Hello?’ says the voice uncertainly.
In the end I decide the only option is to pretend it never happened.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to sound surprised that he’s asking such a stupid question, whoever he is.
There’s a pause.
‘Are you sure?’ It’s a gruff voice, with a northern sort of accent.
‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’
‘You sounded a bit . . .’ He’s obviously trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying ‘insane’. ‘Upset.’
‘I said I’m fine.’
Another pause.
‘Right.’ Is he being sarcastic? I stand up and stare at the wall, trying to get a sense of the person on the other side. Is he laughing at me? My fists clench. I’m not having him laughing at me, and attack, as Mum was fond of saying, is often the best form of defence.
‘What the hell are you doing there anyway? Hiding behind walls, listening in on people’s private—’ I stop. Private what? You could hardly call it a conversation. ‘. . . Stuff,’ I finish lamely.
A head appears over the wall and it doesn’t look impressed. Also, it’s the head of someone younger than I expected, with rather wild dark hair. He can’t be that much older than me, two or three years at the most, which just makes it all worse, if it could possibly get any worse than being caught shouting abuse at shrubbery.
‘I’m gardening. You know, like people do in gardens? Well,’ his eyes scan the jungle of weeds behind me, ‘some people do anyway. That all right with you?’
It really couldn’t be any more excruciating.
‘S’pose,’ I say. I sound like a five-year-old. He pushes back the dark hair hanging over his eyes and it stands up in mad corkscrews on top of his head. We stand t
here awkwardly for a moment.
‘Right,’ he says uncertainly. ‘Fine.’
‘You just carry right on with your pruning or whatever,’ I say, unable to let him have the last word. I try to make it sound like a faintly perverted activity. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
He stares at me and opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Then he shakes his head and disappears behind the wall again. I sit down on the bench, but before I can feel relieved up he pops again like an angry jack-in-the-box.
‘What’s your problem? I was only trying to help.’
‘I thought you’d gone.’ I try to sound bored, inspecting my nails.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head again.
‘Suit yourself.’
He disappears behind the wall once more.
I sit for a minute or two, trying to pretend I’m just having a nice relaxing time in the privacy of my own garden and not at all concerned about the fact that he’s on the other side of the wall, a few metres away from me, thinking I’m deranged. But in the end I have to admit defeat. I get up and trample my way through the undergrowth back towards the empty house. As I do, my phone buzzes with a text message. It’s from Dad.
Hope you’re OK. Rose is doing so well the doctors think she should be home in the next few weeks! See you later x
I stare at the message and suddenly all the anger and frustration and humiliation is just too much. Without thinking about what I’m doing I throw the phone into the fishpond. I don’t need it. I’m on my own now. It makes a satisfying plop, then its light disappears under the thick layer of green algae, sinking into the dark without leaving a trace.
‘Bollocks!’ says Mum.
There’s a cracking, scraping noise over by my bedroom window as I sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasp.
‘No,’ she grins, holding a cigarette between her lips and rummaging about in her pockets for a lighter. The sun streams in through the window, making her hair glint amber. ‘Just little old me. See. No beard.’
I stare at her. I’m so relieved to see her I feel faint, so angry it’s taken her this long I could scream.
‘Mum!’
But she’s not even looking at me; she’s too busy leaning against the window of my bedroom, pushing all her weight against it.
‘I can’t get this damn thing to open. Some idiot’s painted it shut. Give us a hand, will you?’ She’s talking as though we saw each other yesterday, not weeks ago, and definitely not as if she’s, well . . . dead. Typical. I bet it hasn’t even occurred to her how upset I’ve been.
‘MUM.’
‘What?’ She turns to look at me, noticing at last that I’m furious. Her eyes do the wide, innocent Oh, I think there must be some mistake thing that she used to use on traffic wardens. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’
‘I AM!’ I shout as loudly as I dare; I can hear Dad clattering about downstairs in the kitchen. ‘Of course I bloody am.’
‘Well, you could’ve fooled me. Come on. Spit it out. What have I done now?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Well, apart from scaring the life out of me and waking me up—’
‘Well, exactly. That’s precisely why I’m here actually.’ She smiles indulgently. ‘But then you looked so sweet and peaceful lying there asleep that I thought I’d give you five minutes while I had a cigarette. Except then the window . . .’ She gestures at it as if it explains everything.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Stop. Go back. What’s precisely why you’re here?’
She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘I’m your wake-up call. Come on. Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Spit spot.’
I blink at her.
‘First day of your exams and all that?’ she says slowly, as if to a small child. ‘Shouldn’t you be up and about by now?’
In fact, I’d been lying in bed, pretending to myself that I was still asleep, trying not to think about this very thing, when she appeared. Not that I care about the exams. How could I now? But the thought of the lines of desks in the hall, You may turn your papers over now, everyone scribbling away like mad and then gabbling on about it afterwards . . . I could do without it. But I’m not going to let her distract me from my anger.
‘Never mind that,’ I say, trying to keep my voice down. ‘Where the hell have you been?
‘Oh,’ she says vaguely. ‘Well. The thing is I can’t really talk about that.’
‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’ As I say it, I feel my eyes fill with unexpected tears and I get up and turn away from her. I take my dressing gown from the hook on the door and wrap it round me.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. I’ve been waiting for you. Ever since the funeral.’
‘Don’t remind me about that funeral, Pearl,’ she groans. ‘Wasn’t it dreadful? I wanted one of those funerals in a field where everyone has fun. You know. People wear yellow—’
‘Yellow?’
‘And everyone would have to tell stories about how marvellous I was. Beautiful and hilarious, that kind of thing. Kind to animals and a friend to the downtrodden and—’
‘OK, I get the idea.’
‘—and then dance and get drunk. That’s the kind of funeral I wanted.’
‘Well then, you should have made a will,’ I snap. ‘Apparently, it’s very inconvenient that you didn’t. There’s all sorts of forms and stuff you didn’t fill in. Dad’s been doing his nut. Anyway, I hate yellow.’
‘That was just an example obviously. Not black was what I meant.’ She frowns. ‘I don’t think you’re really entering into the spirit of this, Pearl.’
‘I like black. Anyway, you’ve changed the subject.’
There’s a pause.
‘Well, I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t realize you’d be worried.’
‘Are you? You don’t seem very sorry.’
‘Yes, of course I am, darling. I don’t want you to be upset. But I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘I suppose.’
She’s finally got the window open and is sitting on the sill, blowing a plume of smoke into the clear morning. I watch her, wondering.
‘So go on then,’ I say at last. ‘What’s it like?’
‘What?’ she asks.
‘You know what.’
She gives me a caustic little smile. ‘You’ll have to wait and find out for yourself.’
‘Oh great. That’s really cheered me up.’
She laughs. ‘You asked.’
‘Where then? Just tell me where you’ve been since I saw you in church.’
She sighs impatiently. ‘I told you, Pearl. I’m not going to talk about any of that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because it’s not for you to know. It’s not for anyone to know.’ She says it with an air of finality. I think about it for a while.
‘Would it rip a hole in the space-time continuum?’
‘No.’
‘Would my head explode?’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you really want to find out?’
‘Oh, come on. Can’t you just give me a clue?’
‘A clue?’
‘Without actually saying anything.’
‘You want me to do a mime of the afterlife?’
‘Maybe.’ I suppose it does sound a bit feeble.
‘Oh, OK,’ she says. ‘Sure. And then maybe you could try to express infinity through the medium of – oh, I don’t know – tap dance?’
‘No need to be sarcastic.’ I lie down on my bed and put my hands behind my head. ‘I just want to know what happens.’
‘And you will, my love, you can be sure of that. But for the moment life is complicated enough. Just concentrate on that for now.’
She turns, blowing smoke out of the window. ‘How’s it been anyway, at school?’
I think back over it. I’ve been back for three weeks now. The first few
days were excruciating, everyone either talking loudly about nothing in particular in case they upset me or squeezing my arm in a heartfelt way. Then they all forgot. Miss Lomax, the new Head, had called me to her office for a ‘chat’. It must be hard coming back to school, especially with the exams coming up, but a bit of normality will probably help. Normality! I almost laughed out loud when she said that. But I didn’t. She gave me a big spiel about the school counsellor and how important it was not to bottle things up. And of course I’m always here if you need to talk, she said, looking at her watch as she ushered me out.
I’d rather chop my own leg off, I said, but only to Molly afterwards.
‘It’s been fine,’ I say to Mum.
‘I’m so glad you’ve got Molly to look after you,’ she says. ‘She’s such a good friend. I always said she was like a second mum, didn’t I? Reminding you about your homework. Making sure you had everything you needed for school. She’s a treasure that girl.’
‘We’re on study leave now anyway,’ I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from Molly. Not that I’ve been doing much studying. Molly keeps trying to get me to go to the library to revise with her, but I can’t face it. Anyway, Ravi’s always there too, studying for his A levels, and I don’t want to play gooseberry, thanks very much.
‘And how’s . . . everything else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, you know. Rose? Is she OK?’ She says it lightly, as if she’s just making conversation. But I know she’s not.
What if that’s the only reason she’s here? To make sure The Rat’s OK? Maybe she hasn’t really come to see me at all. I start to panic. What if she realizes how much I hate The Rat? She’d disappear then for sure, and I’d never see her again. I can’t let her know.
I don’t look at her. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes, she’s fine.’
‘But she’s not home yet,’ Mum says. It’s a statement, not a question.
‘How do you know?’
‘Too quiet,’ she says. ‘Houses with babies in are much noisier than this.’
‘She’s still in hospital,’ I say. ‘Dad too, most of the time. But she’s fine.’
The Year of the Rat Page 4