In fact, they’ve all forgotten I’m even here.
That evening, after Granny’s settled The Rat in her cot, Dad hauls all the boxes out of Mum’s study and puts up the sofa bed. I watch, furious, as Mum’s study becomes Granny’s room, filled with the never-ending contents of the violet suitcases.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ Dad’s saying. ‘I know it’s not exactly luxury accommodation. I was going to have a sort-out before you got here. I don’t know where we’re going to put it all.’
And suddenly I’m not furious any more.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind having some of the boxes in my room.’
When I’m sure Granny and Dad have gone to bed, I search through the contents of the (PERSONAL) box again, but I can’t find anything to do with James.
I try not to feel disappointed, but I do. Then a thought occurs to me. I drag my laptop out from where it’s been gathering dust under my bed, plug it in and switch it on. Then I sit in the lamplight staring at the screen. Why do I feel so nervous? I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I just want to find out a bit about my father. Nothing wrong with that. It’s not like I’m going to contact him or anything. It’s no big deal. I’m just curious. But still, I push one of the removal boxes against the door in case Granny decides to come wandering in. I can already tell she’s the sort of person who can sense when something’s about to happen that she disapproves of.
My other worry is that Mum will decide to appear and stick her nose in.
I type his name – James Sullivan – and, before I can think of reasons not to, I click on the search button. It takes a while to load: the internet connection is always crashing here. Then the screen flashes up. About 82,700,000 results.
Oh.
I sit there for a while, staring at the screen, feeling stupid. It’s hardly the most unusual name. I should have realized there’d be zillions of them. How was I going to track down the right one? I flick through a few pages. There are doctors and students and solicitors, assorted sportsmen, a lecturer in philosophy, a dog trainer; the pages go on and on. They live all over the world so I add ‘UK’ to the search, thinking this will narrow it down. It does – to around 21,500,000. And then I realize that, in any case, I have no idea whether he lives in the UK. He might have emigrated. He might not even call himself James. He might be Jamie or Jim or Jimmy, or he might call himself by some stupid nickname or his middle name. I flick through a few more pages. There are young ones and old ones and dead ones. Mum would have told me if he’d died, wouldn’t she? But would she have known? I realize I have no real idea whether they were even still in touch with each other.
I sit and think for a while, trying to remember the conversation we’d had about him all that time ago, vainly struggling to find any forgotten snippet of information that might be useful.
But I realize there’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to ask Mum.
‘Don’t mind us,’ Granny bellows cheerily at me, vacuuming around my feet with The Rat on her hip as I sit on the sofa, pretending to read a book. ‘We’ll be done in a minute, won’t we, Rosie Posie?’
She’s only been here three weeks, but it feels like forever, or possibly longer. The house is hardly recognizable. Everything’s been scrubbed and bleached and polished to within an inch of its life. You can’t put a coffee cup down without her picking it up, tutting loudly and putting a coaster underneath it. The Rat sleeps through the night without a peep. She ‘just needed a bit of routine’ Granny keeps telling us, sounding very pleased with herself.
‘Then perhaps you could help me purée some pears for Rose’s lunch,’ she says, switching the vacuum cleaner off. ‘My little treasure’s getting hungry, aren’t you?’ The Rat smiles and gurgles at her. I seethe silently at her disloyalty.
‘Perhaps you could even try your hand at feeding her?’ Granny says. She buys mountains of organic fruit and veg which she turns into mush for The Rat, who dribbles it down her chin or splatters it all over the kitchen floor. The whole process is revolting enough to watch, let alone get involved in.
‘I can’t,’ I say quickly, getting up. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
But as I’m heading upstairs the doorbell rings.
‘Get that, will you, Pearl?’ Granny shouts.
I open the door and standing on the doorstep is Molly, looking tanned and blonder than ever.
‘Oh, Pearl!’ she says, hugging me. ‘How are you? It’s been so long, I just had to come round and see you as soon as I got back. I’ve really missed you.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I say, sceptical. ‘While you were on holiday in your boyfriend’s luxury apartment in Spain?’
‘It was brilliant,’ she says, smiling. ‘But yes, of course I missed you. I thought about you every day.’
We stand there for a moment.
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to look after the boys. I just wanted to see you and . . .’ She pauses. ‘I wondered if I might be able to say hello to the baby.’
‘Oh right.’ So that’s why she’s here.
I stand in the doorway, trying to think of a reason why she can’t come in, but of course Granny appears at that exact moment with Rose in her arms and says, ‘You must be Molly. Pearl’s told me so much about you.’ Which is true, because MI6 and the CIA could learn a lot from Granny’s interrogation techniques. She wears you down until you’d tell her anything just to make her go away.
‘She’s my granny,’ I explain in a resigned sort of way. But Molly’s not looking at me, or at Granny. She’s transfixed by The Rat.
‘Rose.’ She says it reverently. ‘Oh, Pearl. She’s perfect.’
‘Isn’t she just?’ says Granny, delighted to have found an ally. ‘Come in, Molly dear, and have a cup of tea so you can meet her properly. We were just about to give her lunch, weren’t we, Pearl?’
I don’t say anything, just trail in after them and then sit watching them as they laugh and coo and feed the pear sludge to The Rat.
‘Can I hold her?’ Molly asks Granny when she’s finished.
‘Of course,’ Granny says, lifting the sticky Rat out of her high chair and placing her gently in Molly’s arms.
‘Hello, Rose,’ Molly says. Her face is lit up with excitement and tenderness, just as I’d known it would be. The Rat gurgles back at her. Molly walks her over to the window and points things out to her in the garden: the birds, leaves on the trees gently moving in the breeze. She looks so natural and happy with The Rat that I can’t bear to watch. I pick up Granny’s magazine from the table and try to concentrate on 15 Ways With Aubergines instead.
Eventually, reluctantly, Molly hands The Rat back to Granny.
‘I’d better go,’ she says. ‘Mum’s shift starts soon. Shall I come round on Thursday so we can walk in together to get our results?’
I feel a flash of resentment at her, trying to make everything normal, as if we can just pretend it’s all fine, just how it used to be.
‘I’m not going in to get my results,’ I say, flicking through the pages of the magazine.
There’s a pause, and I feel Molly and Granny turn to look at me.
‘What do you mean?’
I shrug, not looking up. ‘I don’t care about them. It’s a waste of time.’
‘Don’t be silly, Pearl,’ Granny says. ‘Of course you’re going to get them.’
‘I’m not,’ I say.
The Rat starts to whine.
‘Well, call me if you change your mind, won’t you?’ Molly says.
‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ I say, pretending to be riveted by an article on scented candles. ‘Didn’t you say you were in a hurry?’
After she’s gone, I head straight up to my room before Granny can start giving me a hard time.
‘You know you upset her,’ Granny calls after me. ‘Such a lovely girl too. You were really quite rude to her, Pearl.’
But I don’t care.
I can’t forgive Molly for loving Th
e Rat more than I do.
A few days later, The Envelope is sitting on the kitchen table when I come down for breakfast. The Exam Results Envelope. Dad and Granny had been on at me all week since I told them I wasn’t going to go in and collect my results. Granny had wheedled and threatened and bribed, but I wasn’t having any of it. Now they’re both standing, fixed grins on their faces, watching me intently. Even The Rat watches me closely from her high chair, where Granny’s propped her up with a cushion.
‘Morning,’ Granny says brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Would you like a coffee? Or tea?’ Dad says before I can answer her.
‘Actually, I think I’ll give breakfast a miss,’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’ I get up and head for the door.
‘No!’ Granny shrieks. ‘You can’t!’
‘But your results,’ says Dad, trying to sound calm. ‘Don’t you want to open them?’
‘No.’
There’s a pause.
‘Not in front of us perhaps.’ Dad smiles at me encouragingly. ‘I completely understand. It’s a private thing. You take them upstairs with you and you can tell us whenever you’re ready.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want to know.’
‘Look.’ Dad comes over and takes hold of my hands. ‘You mustn’t worry. We all know what a difficult time it was for you, what awful pressure you were under when you sat the exams. No one will be disappointed in you, love. And there’s always resits. We’ll be proud of you whatever the results are.’
‘I’m not worried. I just don’t care. What does it matter anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’ Granny says. ‘Of course it matters.’
‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘If it matters so much to you, you open them.’
‘We can’t do that,’ Dad says.
‘Oh yes we can,’ Granny says, snatching them off the table in case I change my mind.
‘You go for it. Knock yourselves out. I’m going to have a shower.’
I stomp upstairs and, as I’m closing the bathroom door, I hear shrieks from downstairs.
‘Pearl!’ Granny calls up gleefully. ‘Pearl? I think you’re going to want to see this, dear!’
I close the bathroom door and lock it.
I’m in the middle of shampooing my hair when there’s a loud sneeze from the direction of the toilet. I start and turn round, noticing as I do Mum’s hazy shape through the blotchy, yellowing shower curtain.
‘Can’t stop,’ she says. ‘Just popped by to say well done on the exam results.’
I smile, despite myself. ‘I don’t even know what they are yet.’
‘No, but given the frenzy of delight and excitement that’s going on downstairs I’m guessing you didn’t fail them all.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Granny’s probably busy thinking of reasons that it’s all down to her you’re a genius. She won’t let tiny details like the fact that she hasn’t seen you since you were four and has no genetic input whatsoever get in the way.’
‘So you know she’s here?’ I still can’t work out whether Mum knows more than she’s letting on about what happens in between her visits. I’d been thinking that I might have to break the bad news about Granny’s arrival to her, half dreading her fury, half looking forward to it; it would be good to have an ally against Granny.
‘Oh yes,’ Mum says, sounding very blasé. ‘I’d recognize that perfume anywhere. It always did make me—’ She breaks off and sneezes again. It’s true. Granny’s heavy, flowery scent seems to have permeated the whole house. Even in my room I get the occasional whiff of it, probably because she insists on going in there to clean on the rare moments I’m not there. I’ve been threatening to put a lock on the door. ‘And let’s be honest you can hardly miss her, can you? I’d forgotten just how loud she is. They can probably still hear her back in Edinburgh, poor things.’
She sounds disappointingly jolly about the whole thing.
‘I thought you’d be furious.’
Mum sighs. ‘Look, I’m not saying I’m delighted. But with Dad at work and you back at school soon someone has to look after Rose, don’t they?’
I know she’s right, but I can’t help feeling disappointed that she’s not more angry with Granny and Dad.
‘Easy for you to say,’ I grumble. ‘You’re not the one who has to live with her. She’s a nightmare. She’s always on at me.’ I do my best impression of her drawling, posh Scottish voice. ‘You should be out enjoying yourself at your age instead of moping about. You should be eating more. You should have a boyfriend. When I was your age, your Grampy, rest his soul, and I were already courting. She drives me mad.’
She’s also always on at me to do things with Rose. Ooh, could you just take her a wee minute, Pearl, while I go and spend a penny? Or Could you just take over this feed, so I can get on with making our dinner? Without fail The Rat wails inconsolably when she’s thrust into my arms. Oh, see, she loves her big sister, Granny always says implausibly. But I don’t mention any of this to Mum.
‘Oh dear,’ Mum laughs. ‘Poor you. I do pity you, Pearl, I really do. But Rose has to come first,’ she says firmly. ‘I know you understand that, darling.’
I’m so shocked that I can’t speak, and I’m thankful that the shower curtain means she can’t see the expression on my face.
‘Anyway, let’s not waste time talking about Granny. This is your day. I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.’
I don’t say anything.
‘You could try to be a bit more excited, for heaven’s sake.’
‘What does it matter?’
Mum’s unimpressed face appears round the side of the curtain.
‘Oh, don’t start all that again, Pearl.’
‘Mum!’
‘What?’
‘A bit of privacy wouldn’t go amiss’
‘Oh really. I’ve seen it all before.’ She looks at me closely. ‘Are you OK? Your eyes are all red.’
‘I’ve got shampoo in them,’ I lie. She mustn’t guess how hurt I am. ‘Pass me a towel, will you?’
No towel appears.
‘You never go out anywhere any more.’
‘Molly’s boyfriend’s having a party next week.’ Molly keeps phoning me about it. She’s desperate for me to get to know Ravi. ‘I might go to that.’
‘Promise me you will.’
‘Give me a towel.’
‘Promise me or I’m not giving you the towel.’
‘OK, I promise.’
She gives me the towel and a peck on the cheek.
‘You won’t regret it.’
‘Fine. Now will you please go away and let me get dressed in peace?’
As I walk up to Ravi’s front door, I’m glad I started on the vodka before I got here. I feel nice and warm inside and not at all nervous about the fact that Ravi’s house is much posher than I expected, or that I don’t know any of his friends, and even if I did I probably wouldn’t like them.
I nearly chickened out at the last minute, but, just as I was about to call Molly to say I wasn’t going to come after all, Mum stuck her head round my bedroom door and said, ‘You needn’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. A promise is a promise, Pearl. Go on, you’ll enjoy yourself once you’re there.’ So I swiped the vodka from the drinks cabinet and after I’d drunk a bit of it I decided maybe the party would be OK after all.
I ring the big brass doorbell and, after a moment, a very beautiful, sparkly woman, who I assume is Ravi’s mum, answers the door, which is a surprise. I hadn’t realized it was going to be that sort of party. I’m still wearing the clothes I picked up off the bedroom floor this morning with Mum’s moth-eaten old cardigan over the top. The woman looks at me as if she’s trying to work out whether I’ve come for the party or I’m going to try and sell her something she doesn’t want.
‘I’m Molly’s friend, Pearl.’
‘Oh yes,’ she says, flashing white teeth and lipgloss at me. ‘Lovely. I�
�m Sarah, Ravi’s mum. Go through, go through. Everyone’s in the garden.’ She waits to greet more people who have pulled up in a 4 x 4.
Ravi’s house has lots of thick cream carpets and shiny floorboards and cut flowers in vases, and the overall effect is very Hello! magazine. I imagine a picture of Molly and Ravi, sitting on one of the antique-looking sofas with fixed grins, and maybe a few kids scattered about the place. Molly and Ravi and the triplets invite us into their Gracious Home. This thought combined with the vodka makes me giggle and then I hope sparkly, smiley Sarah can’t hear, which makes me giggle some more.
The whole back of the house opens on to a veranda overlooking the huge garden where there’s a kind of marquee bar area and an industrial-scale barbecue going on. People in uniforms – in actual uniforms – are flipping burgers and serving drinks. That’s how posh this party is. There’s a band playing terrible music at the far end of the garden and fairy lights hanging in the trees and great big candle things stuck in the ground. There are lots and lots of people. Some are obviously Ravi’s friends; others look like relatives, aunties and uncles. I don’t know any of them, which is good. I take another swig from my bottle then stash it back in my bag.
‘Well,’ Mum says from behind me. ‘This is swish.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I was expecting cans of beer in the bath and people being sick.’
‘Oh well,’ she says, ‘I wouldn’t complain. Just enjoy yourself. Have fun for once. Go easy on the free booze though if you’ve been on the vodka. You don’t want to make a scene at Molly’s posh boyfriend’s house, do you?’
I head down the veranda steps towards the marquee where the bar is.
Molly comes running over and gives me a hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you might not come.’
‘It’s not really what I was expecting.’
‘Come on.’ She pulls me after her. ‘Get a drink and come and dance with me. Ravi’s so busy having to talk to all his relatives I’ve hardly seen him all evening.’
‘I’ll have a drink, but there’s no way I’m dancing.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a chat instead. A proper catch-up.’
The Year of the Rat Page 11