The Year of the Rat

by Clare Furniss

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Pearl. And Granny is too. You’re not seeing your friends. You’re too thin. You’re obviously very unhappy—’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You were talking last night. About Mum . . .’

  ‘Dad. Don’t.’

  ‘I wish you’d talk to me about her when you were sober,’ he says. ‘You know you can.’

  I close my eyes and try to pretend he’s not there.

  ‘Or if you can’t talk to me . . .’ He pauses. ‘Perhaps you should talk to someone else. A professional.’

  ‘You want me to see a shrink?’ I croak. ‘Dad, I got drunk. That’s all. Don’t worry. The way I feel today it’s not going to happen again any time soon.’

  ‘Just think about it, Pearl.’ He walks to the door. ‘Oh and I went round to thank Finn this morning. Ever such a nice lad. He’s going to come round next week to paint the kitchen and do a few odd jobs around the house. You know how Granny’s been nagging me about getting the place sorted out a bit.’ Oh brilliant. ‘He seemed very keen when I suggested it. I expect he could do with the money. He’s off to music college next month. Very talented apparently. Plays the violin.’

  ‘Cello,’ I try to say. But all I can manage is a low moan of despair.

  Much later, after another long sleep, I manage to stagger out of bed down to the kitchen. All I want is some more water, but Granny sits me down at the kitchen table and insists on trying to make me eat something, throwing out suggestions – toad-in-the-hole? macaroni cheese? – which only make me feel like vomiting all over again. In the end she settles for giving me sugary tea and a short lecture. I’m too weak to argue so I sit there, limp, watching Granny spoon orange gunge of some sort into the mouth of The Rat, who’s in her high chair.

  It strikes me suddenly how different she’s looking, rounder, more contented, as if she’s grown into herself somehow. Granny’s going on and on, telling me how concerned they are about me, and how Dad’s got enough to be worried about without me, and how they want to help, but they can’t if I won’t help myself, all interspersed with the whole ‘Here comes the little aeroplane’ bit with The Rat.

  But all I can think about is how The Rat is becoming more of a person, more solid and real, and I’m becoming less of one. I think of the ghost girl in the window, my moment of confusion about which of us was real. I feel as though I’m blurring at the edges somehow, the me that I was before leaching away until one day I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone completely.

  I decide I really need to go back upstairs and sleep. It’s probably just the hangover making me feel like this. But, just as I’m trying to find the strength to stand up, the doorbell goes.

  ‘Oh good,’ Granny says. ‘That’ll be Molly.’

  ‘What?’ She’s the last person I want to see.

  ‘Yes, she called earlier, worried about you. I said you’d got home OK, but I told her I knew you’d be pleased to see her.’

  She gives me a Look and, before I can argue with her, I hear Dad answer the door and Molly comes through to the kitchen.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I was so worried when you disappeared last night. I just came to check you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, feeling about two hundred years old. Molly looks perfect and fresh.

  ‘Good. That’s a relief.’ She looks over to The Rat.

  ‘Hello, Rose,’ she says, smiling, and The Rat waves her spoon at her excitedly.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, anxious to get her away from The Rat. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  When we get to my room, we just sit there awkwardly in silence.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she says. ‘Are you angry with me?’

  I look at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? About your parents splitting up?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ she says, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sure Mum and Dad will sort themselves out. It’s just a temporary thing. Dad just needed a bit of space, that’s all. Just needed to get his head straight. You know what it’s like in our flat with the boys and the bloody dog; it’s enough to drive anyone insane. And Mum’s been doing loads of late shifts which hasn’t exactly been helping.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me. You told Ravi.’

  ‘You’ve had enough going on. It didn’t feel right to be moaning on about my problems. And . . .’ She stops.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  Molly hesitates. ‘You haven’t wanted to talk to me. Not about your mum or Rose. I thought . . . Well, we’ve always talked about everything, haven’t we?’

  I think of all the things we’ve shared over the years: silly jokes, embarrassing secrets.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I just feel like, if I could find the right thing to say or do, or if I could be a better friend, you’d be able to tell me how you’re feeling.’ The words tumble out of her mouth. ‘I’ve tried to be there for you. I’ve tried to give you space. I know I always talk too much and sometimes I say the wrong thing without realizing. I want to help. I feel like I’ve failed you somehow, but I don’t know how.’

  I look away from her. ‘You haven’t.’

  I can feel her watching me.

  ‘I brought you this.’ She hands me a small package wrapped in tissue paper. ‘Me and Mum were having a clear-out the other day and I found it. I thought you might like it.’

  I unfold the tissue paper. Inside is a faded old photo in a frame of me and Molly when we were only five or six. We’re out in the back garden at our old house in our school uniforms, arms round each other, gap-toothed smiles on our faces.

  I look up into Molly’s concerned face. She looks prettier than ever, older somehow, more grown-up. Hard to believe we were ever the two little girls in the photo. I wish so much that I could explain to her; that I could get everything that’s inside me out, to share it, be rid of it. But I can’t. I can’t even find the words for what’s inside me. It’s just noise; or maybe it’s just silence. Whatever it is, it’s not something I can share. I’ve locked it away out of sight, like you do with things that are very precious or very dangerous. It cannot be allowed out.

  I shake my head.

  Molly flicks a tear from her eye with the back of her hand as she pushes back her hair, hoping I won’t notice. Then she stands up.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ she says, her voice catching in her throat.

  After she’s gone, I look at the picture for a while longer and silent tears trickle down my cheeks. Then I wrap it up back up in the tissue paper and I put it away where I can’t see it.

  ‘Pearl,’ Granny calls down from upstairs. ‘Could you fetch me the wet wipes, please, dear? I think I left them on the side in the kitchen.’

  I know exactly what she’s doing. Finn’s painting in the kitchen and she’s trying to engineer situations where we have to talk to each other.

  ‘You get them,’ I call back.

  ‘I’m changing Rose’s nappy.’

  ‘Can’t Dad get them?’

  ‘He’s in the garden.’

  I sigh. Finn started work yesterday and I’ve done a brilliant job of avoiding him so far. I know I should thank him for getting me home after the party, but the thought of it is just too humiliating. I haul myself off the sofa and scurry into the kitchen, keeping my head down, hoping he’ll be too busy painting to notice me.

  ‘Hello,’ he says from the top of a ladder.

  ‘Hi,’ I mutter, trying not to think about the fact that last time he saw me properly I was so drunk I couldn’t walk. I grab the wipes off the side and head for the door.

  At the last minute, I turn back, my conscience getting the better of me.

  ‘Thanks for getting me home safe. Before, I mean.’ I feel myself blush.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he says. He puts the roller down in the paint tray and grins. ‘How was your head the next day?’

  I half smile back. ‘Not gre
at.’

  He climbs down the ladder. ‘You were . . . upset,’ he says tentatively. ‘Really upset. Do you remember?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I guess you’re off to music college soon?’ I say, changing the subject. ‘I heard you playing round at Dulcie’s. It was beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, looking embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I’m off next week.’

  ‘Aren’t students supposed to spend their summers backpacking round India or something? How come you ended up here?’

  ‘I haven’t got the money to go backpacking round India,’ he says. ‘Nan hasn’t been well and she needed stuff doing to the house and garden. She asked if I wanted to come and stay, and said she’d pay me for the work. It’s better than being at home anyway.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘My parents run a B. & B. in the middle of nowhere. If I was at home, I’d have spent the summer cleaning toilets and making beds. I thought it would be more exciting to be in London.’

  ‘And has it been?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anyone and I can’t afford to go anywhere,’ he says, smiling. ‘But it’s still better than cleaning toilets at home.’ He pauses. ‘It’s a shame we didn’t get to know each other.’

  I smile.

  ‘Well, you know me now. Sort of.’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ he says. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You’ve got paint in your hair by the way,’ I say with a smile as I walk out of the door. Then I take the wipes up to Granny.

  ‘And what are you looking so pleased about?’ she says.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Kitchen looking good, is it?’ She gives me a knowing smile.

  ‘Didn’t notice,’ I say.

  ‘Of course it would be the longest, hottest summer in living memory the year I’m too dead to get a tan.’

  In the heat of the sun my limbs feel heavy. I can’t be bothered to sit up so I just turn my head and squint over to where Mum’s sitting in the shade of a nearby tree.

  ‘Oh please,’ I say. ‘That is just so . . . British.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Moaning about the weather. Even from beyond the grave.’

  She gives me a look that I assume is meant to be withering, but since she’s wearing sunglasses all I can see is myself reflected back and the glare of the sun.

  ‘I’m not moaning. I’m just making an observation. Rather a poignant one actually.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re moaning. About the weather. Next it’ll be how the buses are always late. And how nobody queues properly in . . . heaven. Or . . . wherever.’ I roll over to look at her properly, propping myself up on my elbow. ‘Wherever it is you go.’

  She looks at me over her sunglasses.

  ‘And what exactly is it you think people would be queuing for in heaven, Pearl, just out of interest?’

  ‘Ah! So heaven does exist,’ I say triumphantly.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘So it doesn’t exist?’

  ‘I didn’t say that either. Anyway, shouldn’t you be at school?’

  ‘No,’ I say. As it happens, I’m missing an appointment with the school counsellor. I nearly did go, just to get Dad and Granny and school off my back. But then, as I was walking down the corridor, it suddenly didn’t seem such a good idea. It was such a lovely day and I sort of had this feeling that if I went to the park and just lay back in the sunshine that Mum would turn up. ‘It’s all different now we’re in the sixth form,’ I tell her. ‘Lots of free periods and stuff.’

  ‘I see.’

  I can’t resist the urge to lie back in the sun. The grass is cool and tickly under my neck. I close my eyes and feel the warmth on my eyelids and cheekbones. I roll on to my side and prop myself up on my elbow to look at Mum.

  ‘So about heaven,’ I begin.

  Mum tuts. ‘Pearl. I’ve told you. I’m not going to talk about this.’

  ‘I’m not asking what it’s like. I’m just asking does it exist?’

  ‘Well, that’s fine, but don’t ask me. Ask Father O’What’s-his-name who did my funeral. Ask Stephen Hawking. And then make your own mind up.’

  ‘I mean, I know it can’t be angels and harps and fluffy clouds and all that . . .’

  ‘La-la-la-la.’ She puts her fingers in her ears. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘But if it’s not like that,’ I persevere, ‘then what could it be like?’

  I try to sound casual, as if I’m just musing to myself, but I watch her closely to see if her reaction gives anything away. She swats irritably at a fly that’s buzzing round her nose.

  ‘And where is it?’ I muse. ‘I mean, it can’t be up there, in the sky. Obviously. Or can it?’

  But she doesn’t reply.

  ‘Is it there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes. You’re exactly right. There’s a big magic garden in the sky with angels and rainbows and frolicking bloody unicorns. We all skip around, hand in hand, singing all day long. Happy now?’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to be like that.’

  ‘Yes there is actually,’ she says sharply. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time worrying about what’s going to happen after you die. It’s pointless. Think about what’s happening now. In your life. That’s what’s important. So change the subject, will you?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, annoyed. ‘I’ve got an interesting subject we can talk about.’

  ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘James,’ I say. ‘Tell me about him.’

  She sits up sharply and pushes her sunglasses back on her head. ‘What?’

  ‘James. Sullivan. My father.’

  She stares at me. ‘Yes, Pearl. I’m well aware of who he is.’

  ‘Well, go on then,’ I say, meeting her gaze. ‘Tell me about him.’

  She shakes her head, confused. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just interested. I’ve got every right to be. He is my father after all. You always said if I wanted to know about him I could ask you. So now I am.’

  ‘But why now? It’s the worst possible time you could be bringing all this up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, have you thought about how Dad will feel for a start? He’s got enough on his plate without you stirring things up, causing complications. He’ll be hurt, Pearl. He needs you at the moment. He’s already lost me. He’ll think he’s losing you too.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘that’s his problem.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She looks so furious I backtrack a bit. ‘I just mean I don’t think it’s such a big deal. And Dad’s got the baby now, hasn’t he? So he probably won’t be that bothered.’

  She stares at me as if she can’t believe what I’m saying. ‘That’s ridiculous, Pearl, and you know it. You’re being childish and selfish.’ She pulls her sunglasses back down over her eyes and lies back. ‘I’m not going to discuss this with you.’

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll find out for myself. I don’t need your help.’

  And I scramble to my feet and walk off, leaving her lying there on the grass.

  I walk straight home, working out excuses for Granny as I go about why I’m home so early. But when I get there she’s taken The Rat out somewhere. The house is empty. I go up to my room and open the drawer of my bedside table. In it are the passport pictures of Mum and James. Who is he now? Where does he live? Did Mum even know? Perhaps they’d lost contact completely. But they can’t have done. Mum had said if I ever wanted to get in touch with him we’d talk about it. She must have kept his address somewhere. But there was nothing in the box. And then I have an idea. Her computer is still on the desk in Granny’s room.

  I creep in there, listening out for the sound of the front door, telling myself I’m not doing anything wrong. I switch the computer on and find her contacts. Ye
s! There he is. James Sullivan. He lives in Hastings – isn’t that by the sea? – assuming this is still his address. I scribble it down and close the computer.

  I was right. I don’t need Mum’s help. I can find him all by myself if I want to.

  ‘Stop gawping at the boy and go and take him this cup of tea,’ Granny says.

  I’m standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and, however hard I try, I keep finding that my eyes are drawn to Finn. He’s working in the garden, his dark hair sticking out from under a battered trilby. His T-shirt clings to his back and as he digs I can see the muscles of his shoulders move under it. I look down quickly to the plate I’m washing up, rinse the foam from it, stack it carefully in the drainer. But my eyes drift back to the garden. To him. To the curls of hair that cling to his neck and the slow rhythm of his movement as he turns over the soil with his spade.

  He’s finished painting the kitchen now. It’s not dark and shadowy any more; it’s light and airy and he’s cut back all the wisteria that was hanging down over the patio doors and window so the sunshine floods in. Dad persuaded him to sort out the garden too before he leaves. Dulcie’s given us a load of seeds and bulbs and cuttings from her garden, and Finn’s going to plant some before he leaves tomorrow.

  As I watch, Finn turns to the house, as if he can feel my eyes on him. He doesn’t wave, just gives a half-nod and then carries on with what he’s doing. I grab another plate quickly and sink it into the bubbles, feeling as I always do that he’s caught me out.

  ‘I’m not gawping,’ I say to Granny. ‘I’m standing in front of a window that he happens to be on the other side of. I can hardly avoid seeing him. Unless you want me to do the washing-up blindfold.’

  ‘Talk about protesting too much,’ Granny smirks. ‘Just take him the tea, will you?’

  Finn’s totally absorbed in what he’s doing, paying no attention to me.

  ‘I brought you some tea,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, taking it from me. ‘Thanks.’

  I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t, just takes a sip of tea, then puts it down and carries on, picking up a rake that’s leaning against the wall and making a line in the soil with it.