The Year of the Rat

by Clare Furniss

  ‘I’d better go and check on her,’ I say, turning away.

  Then I think of something. ‘You won’t say anything to your nan, will you?’ I call after him. She’d be bound to tell Dad if she knew I’d left The Rat on her own.

  Finn looks back at me and gives a small shrug. ‘About what?’

  Then he disappears round the corner.

  The Rat is fast asleep on her play mat, just as Finn said. I tiptoe up to her and kneel down and rest my hand gently on her chest, just to make sure she’s breathing. I leave it there for a moment, feeling the warm rise and fall under my hand. Now she’s asleep she looks so small, so vulnerable, just lying there in the middle of the floor.

  ‘I’m back,’ I whisper. But she doesn’t stir. It makes no difference to her whether I’m there or not.

  Once the panic leaves me I’m exhausted. I lie down on the floor next to her and close my eyes and I think that I’ve never felt so alone. I only told Finn that I’d go round to see Dulcie to get rid of him. But lying here, I know I can’t bear it. I can’t be on my own in the house with her again. So I lift her into the Moses basket, carefully so as not to wake her, and carry her next door, making sure I don’t slam the door, hoping the fresh air and traffic noise won’t disturb her.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, trying to sound calm and confident as Dulcie opens the door. I’m still in a bit of a state and I’m hoping she won’t notice. As I walked over, I told myself anything would be better than staying at home with The Rat screaming at me again. But now I’m here I just feel embarrassed, and terrified she’ll suss out how useless I am at looking after babies. ‘Finn said I should come round? But I can go if it’s not . . .’

  But my voice disappears mid-sentence and I find I’m crying. I turn away, horrified, and put my hands over my face and let my hair fall forward so she won’t see me, but it smells of sick which just makes everything worse, and my silent sobs keep coming. I’ve completely messed everything up. Now Dulcie will know that I can’t look after The Rat and probably tell Dad I’m having a nervous breakdown or something and that’ll be that. He’ll hate me and he won’t trust me to look after her again and he’ll have to quit his job and we’ll be homeless and it’ll all be my fault and then Mum will never forgive me either . . .

  I feel Dulcie’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Shhhh,’ she says as if I’m the baby. The Rat is lying completely silent in her Moses basket. Of course. ‘Shhhh. It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I try to say. It’s really not. But her hand feels calming and gentle and her voice is soothing.

  ‘Sometimes you just need to cry,’ she says gently. ‘Even at my age. But one thing I have learned over my many years of experience is that doorsteps aren’t the best place to do it. Why don’t you come in and cry in my kitchen instead? I have tissues and tea. I find they usually help. Possibly some cake too if Finn hasn’t eaten it all.’

  Gratefully, I turn and follow her inside, hoisting up The Rat as I go.

  In the kitchen she makes me tea, moving slowly. I can see it’s painful for her.

  ‘Do you want me to do it?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You just sit there.’

  I look down at The Rat fast asleep in her Moses basket. A brass band could start up right next to her now and she wouldn’t notice.

  ‘She wouldn’t stop crying,’ I say to Dulcie.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’ve had babies of my own. You don’t have to tell me. It’s enough to drive you mad. It drove me to tears on many occasions.’

  ‘Really?’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘Of course. And they were my babies, who I loved more than anything. In your situation . . .’ She looks down at the sleeping Rat. ‘Well, it must be very hard for you.’

  I watch her for a moment and she looks at me with those fiercely blue eyes and I know that she understands that I don’t love The Rat more than anything. And it’s like a weight shifts from my chest.

  ‘You mustn’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  I want to say thank you, to tell her how grateful I am, but I can’t speak so I just nod.

  She makes her way over slowly and gives me the tea and a large slice of cake which I nibble, wondering where Finn is. Perhaps he’s gone out. I can’t work out whether I hope he has or not.

  As I drink, I feel calmer and I look around. Dulcie’s house isn’t like I thought it would be. It’s a mirror image of our house, everything reversed on the other side of the wall. And where our house feels so empty, the walls still without pictures, the mantelpieces bare, Dulcie’s house feels as though it’s bursting at the seams. There are photos of far-flung places, Manhattan and the Taj Mahal, jungles and deserts, posters from old films and plays, paintings and wall hangings and books. I’d imagined an old lady’s house, full of pot-pourri and ornaments of kittens and shepherdesses, but her home is full of the life she has lived.

  On the mantelpiece is an old black-and-white photo of a very beautiful, glamorous woman and a 1950s-film-star-looking man.

  ‘Is that you?’ I say, incredulous.

  She laughs at my surprise. It’s an unexpected laugh, open and mischievous. She seems younger suddenly. ‘I wasn’t born eighty-seven, you know.’

  I stare at the younger her in the picture, the curve of her throat and cheekbones, the lipsticked smile, the wide clear eyes fixed on the man next to her. ‘You were beautiful,’ I say.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘not really. But he thought so.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles, but her eyes look far away. She unfolds herself slowly out of her chair and walks over to the mantelpiece. She picks up the photo and brings it over to me.

  ‘He was quite a looker,’ I say, smiling at her.

  ‘I always think Finn’s just like him,’ she says, amused, and I wish for the billionth time in my life that I didn’t blush so easily.

  I hand it back to her quickly and she sits there, gazing at it for a moment or two, half smiling, and I wonder if she even remembers I’m there.

  ‘It wasn’t so very long after that picture was taken that he died,’ she says. ‘A year. Maybe two.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, shocked. He looks so alive in the picture. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Cancer. He smoked like a chimney of course. We all did back then; didn’t know it was bad for you.’

  I wonder suddenly if that’s what she cries about.

  ‘Does it get easier?’ The words are out before I’ve even really thought them.

  She looks at me; thinks about it.

  ‘When someone you love first dies, they’re all you can see, aren’t they? All you can hear? Blotting everything else out.’

  I nod, hardly breathing.

  ‘That changes,’ she says. ‘They get quieter over the years. They still whisper to you sometimes, but the world gets louder. You can see it and hear it again. There’s a gap in it, where they used to be. But you get used to the gap; so used to it that you hardly see it.’ She takes my hand in her fragile, old one. ‘And then some days, out of nowhere, you’re making the tea or hanging out the washing or sitting on the bus and it’s there again: that aching, empty space that will never be filled.’

  There are tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose that’s what you wanted to hear.’

  I look at her and very gently I squeeze her cold, thin hand. ‘I’m sorry too.’

  She smiles at me, sad.

  From upstairs there’s the sound of a musical instrument being played, a cello I think.

  ‘Finn,’ she says. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’

  We listen for a while. It’s so sad and beautiful I can’t believe it’s Finn who’s playing. I don’t want it to stop.

  ‘He’s got a place at one of the best music colleges in the country,’ she says proudly. ‘Up in Manchester.’

  She looks tired.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say, though I find I’m just the tiniest bit disappointed that Finn
didn’t make an appearance.

  ‘I wish you could come round again tomorrow, but it’s one of my hospital days,’ she says as I heave the Moses basket to the front door.

  ‘You won’t say anything to Dad about how upset I was, will you? It was silly really and he’d only worry.’

  ‘He’s got nothing to worry about,’ she calls after me as she closes the door.

  When the door slams behind Dad the next morning, I know one thing: I’ve got to get out of the house. But this time The Rat’s coming too.

  I collect together all the things on Dad’s Going Outside list. It takes forever. You’d think we were going on a month-long expedition. By the time I’ve got it all together, the nappies, wipes, bottle, milk, spare sleep-suit, sun hat, changing mat, muslin squares, The Rat is already almost hoarse with crying. I plonk her down into the pram as quickly as I can and with some difficulty manoeuvre the pram out of the front door.

  The funny thing is that as soon as we’re outside everything feels different. The Rat seems to shrink. In the house she seems so big and knowing. Out here she just looks like a tiny baby. I feel a bit self-conscious about the huge shiny pram at first. It’s so noticeable and steering is trickier than it looks. But once I get going it’s easy and after a while I realize that people look at it rather than at me. In fact, it turns out that when you’re pushing a pram you might as well not exist. People who do notice are only interested in the baby. I walk right past Jodie and Kev who used to live next door to us in Irwin Street, Phoebe Monks from school and they just don’t see me at all. I feel invisible. It’s a good feeling. All this time I’ve been looking for a hiding place, where everyone would leave me alone. And now, with the exception of a few old ladies who want to cluck over The Rat, I’ve found one.

  She goes to sleep almost as soon as we’re moving. I find that, if I stand at exactly the right distance, the angle of the pram cover means I can’t even see The Rat; her strange, pointy little face is out of view. I pretend the pram is empty as I push it along, letting the breeze push my hair back from my face and neck. Even with all the traffic of the main road it smells faintly of summer. As long as I keep walking, I know she’ll sleep. And the sun is warm on my skin and just being out of the house, just walking feels good. I feel alive. I’d forgotten what it was like. So I keep on going, all the way down to the Heath, then take the corner entrance into the park and head for the flower garden. It’s in full bloom, the air heavy with the scent of flowers.

  I sit down on the grass and park the pram, worrying that The Rat will wake up once we stop. But she doesn’t stir. There are a few other people around, a group with toddlers and babies on picnic blankets, but no one’s interested in me. I can just sit here in peace. I close my eyes.

  ‘Pearl!’ I start, opening my eyes to see a man waving at me. As I squint to get him into focus, I realize it’s Mr S, my old science teacher from school. He retired a couple of years ago, but he looks exactly the same as he comes striding over: far too tall, his hair a bit long and untidy.

  ‘Well, fancy meeting you here,’ he says. He peeks in at The Rat. ‘And just look at this one, eh? She’s a little belter, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s not mine,’ I say hastily.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, Sheila told me about your mum.’ Mrs S is my English teacher. ‘I was so sorry to hear about it, Pearl, I really was. She was a lovely woman, your mum.’

  Mum loved Mr S. She always used to flirt with him at parents’ evening. It was excruciatingly embarrassing.

  ‘So you’re looking after the nipper, are you?’

  ‘Just for a week or two.’

  ‘Good for you. Hard work, isn’t it?’ he grins. ‘I look after my little grandson one day a week now. It takes me the rest of the week to recover.’

  ‘Yesterday was a nightmare,’ I say in a rush. ‘She started crying and I didn’t know how to make her stop.’

  I’m not sure why I’m telling him. It’s just a relief to share the horror of it.

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ he says. ‘Still, you’re obviously doing a good job. Look at her now, happy as you like and fast asleep. You should give me a few tips.’

  I smile at him gratefully. ‘It’s better now we’re out of the house.’

  ‘Tell you what, do you want to come and have a cup of tea with me?’

  I know he’s just saying it because he feels sorry for me, but for some reason I don’t mind. I always liked Mr S and I know he won’t try to make me talk about how I’m feeling or ask me difficult questions. He’ll be too busy telling terrible jokes.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say.

  He pushes the pram as we walk down to the tea pavilion. ‘How did your exams go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ And I don’t care, I want to add.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘You’re not as green as you’re cabbage-looking, you.’

  I laugh. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

  ‘And I sincerely hope you’re planning to carry on with English next year,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll have Sheila bending my ear about it.’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’ I haven’t even decided whether I’ll go back and do A levels. The idea of going back to school doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. On the other hand, it’s better than being stuck at home with The Rat. And I know everyone will give me a hard time if I don’t, including Mum.

  We sit at one of the picnic tables outside to drink our tea. Mr S makes me laugh, telling me silly stories about the good old days when his pupils used to blow things up and set fire to their hair in science lessons.

  When The Rat wakes up, he volunteers to give her a bottle of milk and he chats away to her while he does it, explaining the names of the different field placings in cricket. Short square leg. Silly mid-off. ‘I hope you’re listening, young lady,’ he says. ‘This is an important part of your education.’ She stares, intrigued. ‘Periodic table next time.

  ‘Good to see you, Pearl,’ he says when it’s time to go. ‘You’re doing a grand job. Good luck with your results.’

  It’s late by the time I get home and Dad’s already there. As I open the front door, he’s on the phone.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he says quickly as soon as he sees me. ‘I’ll speak to you about it at the weekend.’

  He puts the phone down and comes to help me get the pram through the front door.

  ‘How are my girls?’ he says.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, looking shifty. ‘Just something to do with Rose.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Childcare. Sort of. I’ll tell you about it later. Anyway, where have you been? I brought some work home so that I could see you both and then you weren’t here. I was starting to get worried.’

  He lifts The Rat out of the pram and smiles at her.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to check up on me, you know.’

  ‘So it’s going OK?’ Dad says. ‘You’re sure you can cope for the rest of the week?’

  ‘Course,’ I say.

  When I go up to my room, Mum’s sitting on the bed, waiting for me.

  ‘You scared the life out of me,’ I say.

  ‘How’s Rose?’ she says excitedly. ‘She’s home now, right? I just wanted to check how it’s all going.’

  She fixes me with her most piercing stare. I know I’m going to have to make this good. I can’t let her have any suspicion about what’s really been going on. If she knew what a mess I was making of everything, how I’d abandoned The Rat, I’d never see Mum again. I’ve got to convince her, and I never could lie to her without her seeing through me. You can’t kid a kidder, Pearl, she used to say, eyebrow raised.

  But maybe I can. Suddenly I know how to do it. I won’t tell Mum about The Rat. I’ll tell her how it would have been if things had gone right; if we’d brought home the baby I’d imagined when Mum was pregnant, the nappy-advert one with the dimples and blonde hair.

  ‘It
’s great,’ I say, picturing in my head how it should have been. ‘She’s so good. She hardly ever wakes up in the night.’

  ‘Really?’ Mum looks surprised. ‘You woke up every hour on the hour for the first two years from what I remember.’ She’d made a big point of telling Dad about this when she was pregnant with The Rat. Since he’d missed out on the night feeds and nappy changing with me, she’d been determined he’d be making up for it this time round. ‘She sounds angelic.’

  ‘Oh, she is,’ I gush. ‘She’s adorable. Everyone says so. Really smiley. I’ve been looking after her this week while Dad’s been at work and she just loves being with me. Dad always says her face lights up when I come into the room.’ I remember The Rat screaming at me as I held her out in front of me, her little body rigid with rage. Was it rage? Or was it something else? I push the thought away and focus again on the imaginary baby. ‘She loves it when I feed her,’ I add for good measure. ‘And when I sing to her.’

  Hmm. Perhaps that was overdoing it. Mum looks sceptical.

  ‘Have you had her hearing checked?’

  ‘You’re not funny.’

  ‘Well,’ Mum says, ‘she sounds positively perfect. Almost too good to be true. I take it she does produce the occasional smelly nappy? Or does what comes out of her rear end have a faint aroma of meadow flowers?’

  I realize I have been overdoing it slightly.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Smelly nappies. Yes, of course. Yuck.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted it’s all going so swimmingly,’ says Mum and there’s a faint edge to her voice. Does she know I’m lying?

  ‘Are you ever here without me knowing?’ I ask suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just sometimes I get the feeling you’re watching me. Like the other day I was talking to Dad in the sitting room about . . . something. And I thought maybe you could hear.’

  ‘What? You think I’m spying on you?’

  ‘Not exactly . . .’

  ‘Shuffling along, hiding behind a rubber plant? Sitting in cafes, reading newspapers with holes in? Wearing those glasses with the fake nose attached?’ She laughs so hard she starts to cough and has to take a swig of my glass of water. After a while, she tries to control herself. ‘I always rather fancied myself as a gumshoe actually. Private investigator. Lady detective. I’d be great at it. I have all the necessary attributes. Discreet. Inconspicuous. Very good at blending in, chameleon-like. Don’t you think?’