‘How do you know?’
‘I’m your mum, Pearl.’
I think about it. It’s so tempting just to tell her. About Molly. About everything. Dad and school and The Rat. What a mess everything is. How lonely and small and grey my life has become without her.
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
I shut my eyes and feel the cold against my eyelids as I swing. Mum doesn’t say anything.
I lean back again. The stars blur and I feel hot tears brimming in my eyes.
I sit up suddenly and stop the swing with my foot.
‘Mum?’
But I know before I look that her swing is empty, still swaying a little in the cold night.
I stare at the piece of paper with James’s phone number on it, feeling sick. I’ve waited until a Saturday morning when Dad and Granny have gone out and taken The Rat with them. They’re off to meet a cousin of Dad’s who’s in London for the day so they’ll be gone for ages. No doubt there’ll be lots of cooing over The Rat.
I go downstairs and get the phone. Then I sit on my bed and start dialling. My finger is poised over the last number when I stop. What will I say if he answers? I try to imagine it. Hello, is that James? It’s Pearl here . . . Or should I say your daughter Pearl, just to be clear? It’s unlikely he knows anyone else called Pearl, but it might be best, just to make sure there are no embarrassing misunderstandings. What then? Maybe once I hear his voice I’ll know what to say. Or maybe he’ll be so pleased to hear from me he’ll just start talking. Perhaps he’s been waiting for me to call all this time and he’s got years and years of things to tell me. Or there might just be one of those awkward pauses where no one knows what to say and the longer it goes on the worse it gets . . .
I throw the phone down on the bed. I know I’m not going to be able to do it. I could write to him instead. That way I could get everything straight in my head and write it all down properly and make myself sound clever.
I walk over to the window and look outside. It’s a bleak day, the wind whipping the bare branches of the trees, squeezing in through the gaps around the windowpane. They’ll be freezing up on the South Bank. I imagine Granny tutting as her perfectly coiffed hairdo is dismantled by the gales and smile.
As I watch, I hear Dulcie’s front door slam and Finn walks down the path. I run downstairs.
‘Hector,’ I call. ‘Walkies.’ He comes trotting out of the kitchen and I grab him, attach the lead to his collar, pull my coat on and run out of the front door. Hector trots along beside me, surprised and delighted by this unexpected turn of events. As we get to the gate, I slow down and try to look surprised as we turn on to the pavement and almost run into Finn.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Hello.’
He looks up and as he sees me there’s a flicker – isn’t there? – of a smile.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ I say. Then I look down and see he’s carrying a bunch of flowers and my heart thuds. Flowers.
He’s going to see a girl. He’s taking her flowers.
Well, so what if he is? It’s nothing to do with me. It’s a free country. Why should I care? Hector’s pulling at the lead and whining, desperate to get going on his unexpected walk.
‘Shut up, Hector,’ I snap, still looking at the flowers in Finn’s hand, deep red roses, the colour so vibrant it seems to imprint itself on my eyes so I can see them even when I blink.
‘They’re for my nan,’ he says quickly, noticing my stare. ‘She’s had to go into hospital again. I’ve just cut them from her garden. I thought it would cheer her up.’
‘Oh no,’ I say, trying not to look relieved. ‘Poor Dulcie, is she OK?’
‘No, not really. She’s been ill for a while now and . . .’ He looks away. ‘Well, she’s not going to get any better.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say uselessly.
He nods. ‘I’d better get going,’ he says. ‘I’m staying at the house tonight so don’t worry if you see the lights on. Mum’s coming down later too, as soon as she can get away from work. We’re staying for a few days while we sort things out.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Give Dulcie my love, won’t you?’
‘I will.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘I just remembered. You can’t take flowers to the hospital.’
‘What?’
‘They won’t let you. It’s some health and safety thing.’ Granny had sent a massive bouquet for The Rat when she was first in hospital and Dad had to bring it home. It had sat in its cellophane and tissue paper on the side in the hall until it went dry and brown and he had to throw it away.
‘Oh right.’ He looks so disappointed I think for an instant he’s going to cry. ‘You have them,’ he says suddenly and thrusts them at me.
I can feel myself blushing. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Take them,’ he says. So I do. ‘See you then.’
‘See you.’
I let Hector pull me away, his nose to the ground, on the trail of something or other. I’ll probably never see Finn again. What does it matter? I tell myself. What does any of it matter?
But even as I’m thinking it I’m turning back, pulling an unwilling Hector after me. Finn’s just crossing the road.
‘It’s the fireworks down on the Heath tonight.’ I can feel myself going as red as the roses as the words tumble out of my mouth. ‘I don’t suppose you want to go?’
He looks surprised and for a moment I’m worried he’ll say no. Then he smiles. ‘Sure,’ he calls back.
I turn away and smile. Hector is watching me eagerly. ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘We might as well go for a walk now we’re here.’
The wind is stinging as we walk down the road, but I don’t care.
Granny soon gets over her sulk about me refusing to go with them to be frozen to death by the Thames when she finds out I’m going out with Finn. She’s been moaning all week about the fireworks, due to the unfortunate effect they have on Hector. But now suddenly they’re not so bad after all.
‘But you can’t possibly go looking like that,’ she says when I come down in jeans and my parka.
‘We’re going to the fireworks,’ I say. ‘What do you want me to wear? Stilettos and a little black dress?’
She shakes her head in despair. ‘Let me do your make-up at least.’
‘It’s not a date,’ I say.
‘Course it’s not.’
She looks so smug I wear Dad’s West Ham bobble hat just to annoy her. I take it off once I’m out of the front door.
It’s bitterly cold on the Heath, crowded with people wrapped in scarves and hats waving glow sticks and sparklers. I was nervous about seeing Finn and at first it’s a bit awkward, but after a few minutes it’s fine. We ooh and aah at the fireworks: fiery flowers blooming in the clear night sky. It’s like magic. I feel like a kid again, swept up in the moment.
‘You look happy,’ Finn says at last. ‘I’ve never really seen you look happy.’ And I realize he’s been watching me, not the fireworks.
‘I am happy,’ I say. And when he takes my hand I don’t let go.
We don’t say much as we walk back. As the crowds thin out, Finn seems lost in thought and we walk along in silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward now. It feels right. I find I’m still smiling. But, when I look at Finn, he’s not.
‘Are you thinking about Dulcie?’
‘Yes,’ he says, surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘You looked sad.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
He pushes the hair back out of his eyes. ‘It’s hard, watching someone you love grow old.’
‘It’s hard not having the chance to see them grow old.’
‘I know,’ he says, squeezing my hand.
As we walk past the chippy, the smell of chips and vinegar wafts out into the cold night.
‘Shall we get some?’ Finn says. ‘I’m starving.’
And, to my surprise, so am I. We share a
bag as we walk.
When we get to the house, we stop under the lamp post, bathed in golden light, the dark all around us.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’d forgotten about feeling happy.’
He carefully pushes the hair back from my face so he can see me properly.
‘That first time I met you,’ he says, ‘when you yelled at me over the garden wall?’
‘Yes?’ I still blush thinking about it.
‘It was your mum you were shouting at, wasn’t it?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes.’
He looks me right in the eyes and for a second it’s as if he’s looking inside my head, right inside to where no one else sees, and I can’t breathe.
And then he kisses me.
And the world swoops off into the distance and there’s nothing, nothing except him and me, his lips on mine, his hand on my neck, the warmth of him against me, and I kiss him back—
‘No!’ I pull away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go.’
And I run up the path towards the house.
‘Pearl!’ he calls after me. But I don’t look back.
I pull the keys out of my pocket as I go and slam the door behind me.
Then I lean against it, breathing hard in the darkness, and I realize I’m crying.
There’s a noise upstairs and the landing light comes on.
‘Pearl? Is that you?’
Granny appears at the top of the stairs. She’s in her 1920s-film-star-style Chinese embroidered silk dressing gown and has cold cream smeared on her face and neck.
‘I was just off to bed when I heard the door go.’ As she comes closer, she realizes I’m crying. ‘Whatever’s the matter, dear? What happened? Did you argue? Did Finn . . .’
She leaves what he might have done to my imagination.
‘No. Nothing like that.’ I try to wipe the tears away with my sleeve.
‘Then what happened? He obviously upset you in some way.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘So what went wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Nothing at all.’
She looks at me and her brow creases and she takes my hand.
‘Oh, Pearl,’ she says. ‘You’re allowed to be happy. It’s OK.’
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘No it’s not.’
And I push her hand away and run upstairs.
I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Then I look at myself in the mirror. I look tired; bruised under the eyes, pale, thin. But still the same person I was before Mum died. It doesn’t seem right. I should look different; changed completely. I push my hair back, just as Finn had. What did he see when he looked at me? Did he see someone beautiful?
Mum’s face appears in the mirror behind me. ‘But you are beautiful,’ she says. ‘Please, Pearl. Granny’s right. I do want you to be happy.’
‘It’s not up to you,’ I whisper.
There’s a pair of nail scissors lying on the side and, without thinking about what I’m doing, I pick them up and start to cut my hair off. My hair is long and thick and it takes a long time. When it’s done, I look at myself and the person I see looks more like how I feel on the inside.
‘There,’ I say, turning to Mum. ‘Not so beautiful now.’
But she’s not there.
‘Pearl. Come in, come in.’
Miss Lomax flashes me a self-assured smile as she ushers me into her office.
‘Sit down. Would you like a coffee? I’m just having one myself.’
‘No.’
‘Biscuits? We’ve got some left over from a very boring meeting I’ve just been in.’
I shake my head. Presumably, this whole routine is supposed to put me at ease. She’s pretending we’re going to have a Cosy Chat.
I perch on the edge of my chair.
‘So, Pearl.’ She takes another sip of coffee and smiles sympathetically. ‘How are you doing?’
I shrug.
‘Really,’ she says, pushing her hair back. She’s wearing too much hairspray and it all moves in one solid chunk. ‘Tell me. I’m not just asking to be polite. I really want to know.’
I look at my hands. They look bony and the nails are bluish.
She sighs. ‘Pearl. I know how tough it must be.’
One of my nails has a jaggedy split in it, low down. I fiddle with it, bending it to and fro, pulling at it. It hurts like hell.
‘Really I do.’
Course you do. But . . .
‘But the thing is, Pearl, there are some things we just can’t turn a blind eye to.’
She waits for me to say something. I don’t.
‘We all understood that in the first few weeks it was hard for you to focus. Of course it was. And you did very well to get through your exams with the results that you did.’
There’s an ugly red smear of lipstick on the rim of her coffee cup. When Molly was in her hardcore vegan phase, she told me lipstick is made from pig fat and ground-up beetles. At the time I didn’t believe her, but maybe it was true after all.
‘The thing is, Pearl, this can’t go on indefinitely. We’ve shown you understanding and patience for several months. But there comes a point where this sort of behaviour becomes simply unacceptable. You can’t keep skipping lessons and expect to get away with it.’
I pull the broken bit of nail so hard it tears right off. The skin underneath it is raw and red and agonizing.
‘I don’t expect anything,’ I say.
‘Look. You’re a clever girl, Pearl. But if you don’t get your act together soon,’ – she pauses for dramatic effect and gives me a look to emphasize how serious she is – ‘you could find yourself seriously behind. You could even risk failing your A levels.’
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. A levels! The causes of the Second World War and Pride and Prejudice. She actually expects me to care about it all.
She bristles. She doesn’t like being laughed at so I try to stop.
‘It’s no laughing matter, Pearl. University. Your career. It could all depend on this. Your whole future.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What doesn’t matter?’
I almost feel sorry for her. She really doesn’t know. Where do I begin? How can I tell her that all of it – not just A levels and university, but all of it: watching TV and plucking your eyebrows and friendship and ambitions and love – it’s all just stuff we surround ourselves with to distract ourselves from the fact that anything could happen at any time. Swine flu. Nuclear war. Being struck by lightning. Asteroids hitting the earth and wiping us all out like the dinosaurs.
None of it matters.
‘No, forget it,’ I say. I feel old.
She purses her lips till they’re just a thin scarlet line. I wonder what the name of her lipstick is. Passione. Something pretentious and sexy, that’s what she’d go for. I reckon she thinks she’s pretty hot, Miss Lomax, with her high heels and her blouse you can see her bra through.
‘Look, Pearl. I think we’ve been more than understanding, but I’m beginning to feel that you’re abusing that understanding. There comes a point where it stops being about bereavement and starts being about behaviour. If your attitude doesn’t change, Pearl, I’m going to have no option but to call your father in. And we may have to take more serious action.’
Now we’re getting to it. So much for the Cosy Chat. Suddenly I don’t feel sorry for her any more.
‘Do you really think I care?’ I say. ‘Do you really think anything you do actually matters?’
She doesn’t like that. She’s used to getting her own way.
‘Don’t be childish, Pearl,’ she snaps. ‘This immature, attention-seeking behaviour is exactly what I’m talking about. I’m sure this isn’t what your mother would want.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘You don’t know my mother,’ I blurt, then blush stupidly. ‘Didn’t.’
‘No. But I know this isn�
��t what she would want. She wouldn’t want you to wallow in self-pity. She’d want you to get on with your life.’
I look at her face closely as she’s talking, hardly hearing the words. Her stupid, smug mouth daubed in pig fat and beetles.
‘Well, Pearl, is there anything you’d like to say?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve got lipstick on your teeth. And everyone knows you’re shagging Mr Jackson.’
She stares at me, her face turning red.
‘Right. I’ve had enough of this,’ she says. ‘Get out of my office.’
‘With pleasure,’ I say. I grab my bag and head for the door.
My heart’s pumping; it’s a good feeling.
‘I will be arranging a meeting with your father as soon as possible.’
I decide against slamming the door. I leave it wide open instead.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
‘Can I come in?’ Dad’s trying to make peace. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
We had a massive row last week about school. Miss Lomax called us both in to talk about my ‘behaviour’. Dad went. I didn’t.
When he got back, he’d sighed and said, ‘Well, I’ve done my best, Pearl. I told Miss Lomax you were a good girl really and you’d been through a lot. I said that when you’d had time to think I was sure you’d come to your senses and apologize.’
‘I’m not apologizing,’ I told him. ‘And I’m not going back. I’ll get a job.’
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he said.
And I said, ‘I don’t know either.’ And we haven’t spoken to each other since.
Now he sits down beside me on the bed. ‘You can’t just hide away up here. I don’t want us to fight,’ he sighs. ‘Forget about school and all that. We can talk about it later, when we’ve had time to think and calm down a bit.’
‘I have had time to think,’ I say. ‘I am calm.’ Through the window the sky is heavy and tinged yellow. They say it’s going to snow.
‘Please, Pearl. It’s only a couple of weeks till Christmas. Let’s just try to enjoy it, shall we? Together. As a family.’
But how can we?
‘We’re going to decorate the tree in a minute. Will you come and help us?’
The Year of the Rat Page 15