The Year of the Rat

by Clare Furniss

  Her expression changes. It closes up. I know she knows who I am. At least he must have mentioned me, acknowledged my existence.

  ‘No one calls him James,’ she says, folding her arms.

  We stand staring at each other, her inside, filling the doorway, me out in the cold. I search desperately through my head for things that might be appropriate to say to the hostile wife of the father you’ve never met and draw a blank. So instead, I just stand and shiver because I was in such a rush to leave that I didn’t even think about putting on a proper coat. I’m wearing Mum’s old leather jacket, the one she wore in the garden when she first told me about The Rat. I’m so angry with her now that if it wasn’t for the sub-zero temperatures I’d have left it on the train. As it is, I try to pull the sleeves down over my numb fingers. My teeth are chattering.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she says flatly, though her face is saying something else.

  I step over wellies and trainers into the hall, hoisting my stupid case after me, knowing how presumptuous it must look.

  The house smells unfamiliar. Not horrible, just like someone else’s house.

  ‘He’ll be back any minute.’ She takes me to the toy-strewn sitting room. ‘You can wait in here. I’ve got to go and get on with the dinner.’

  She stops at the door. I know she wants to ask me what the hell I think I’m doing here. Verity reappears in a sparkly leotard.

  ‘Come on, Verity,’ the woman says eventually. ‘Come and help Mummy.’

  There’s a crash and a loud wailing from the kitchen.

  ‘Christ, Alfie,’ she says and disappears.

  Verity doesn’t follow her. She stands in front of me, watching closely. I sit uncomfortably on the sofa, crossing and then uncrossing my legs. My fingers and toes are burning with the shock of being out of the cold. There’s a Christmas tree in the corner with flashing lights that are making my head ache; Teletubbies is blasting out from the TV at about a billion decibels.

  ‘Do you like our Christmas tree?’ she asks proudly. All the decorations are at exactly Verity height, leaving the upper half completely bare except for an angel balanced precariously on top.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say. ‘Did you decorate it yourself?’

  She nods. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Very . . . Christmassy.’

  She stares at me some more. ‘Who are you?’

  I’m stuck for a moment. Obviously, I can’t tell her.

  ‘I’m Pearl,’ I say.

  ‘I’m Verity,’ she says and holds her hand out for me to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m a famous gymnast. Can you do gymnastics?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed. I can’t think of anything to say so I just stare at the TV.

  ‘Do you like Teletubbies?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Laa-Laa. Po. What’s not to like?’

  She gives me a rather scathing look. ‘I’m far too grown-up for them,’ she explains. ‘They’re for babies. Like Alfie.’

  Which makes me feel pretty stupid.

  She carries on staring. You know how some kids can stare in a way that makes you feel they’re boring into your brain? Like they can hear what you’re thinking? I shift in my seat and try not to think about what a cow her mum’s being, not even introducing herself or asking me if I’d like a cup of tea.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Verity says.

  I start. ‘Oh. Yes.’

  The kid’s starting to freak me out.

  ‘Yes please,’ she says sternly.

  She disappears under a coffee table and comes out again with a plastic teapot which she hands to me.

  ‘The whole pot? Just for me?’

  ‘Yep. Alfie hides the cups. Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Just a splash.’

  I pretend to swig imaginary tea from the pot. What am I doing here? I wonder if I should just make a run for it. But where would I go? Verity looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Is it delicious?’

  ‘Mmmm, delicious,’ I say.

  There’s a smell of burning fish fingers wafting through from the kitchen now, and what with being so hungry and tired and nervous, and the Teletubbies music jangling through my brain, it’s making me queasy. This isn’t what I expected. I think for a moment I might cry.

  ‘Verity!’ The woman yells from the kitchen over the wailing which hasn’t let up. ‘I want you in here now.’

  She ignores her mum, just carries on with the staring.

  ‘You don’t look very well,’ she says to me. ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Smoking makes you ill.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t. I’m just tired.’

  ‘My daddy smokes.’

  I look at her. ‘Does he?’

  ‘Except after Christmas. He gives up after Christmas.’

  So many things this little kid must know about my father that I don’t.

  The nausea rises again. Will he be angry that I’ve come? Will he shout and push me out of the door? That’s what she’d like him to do, the fish-finger burner, whatever her name is. I know she would.

  ‘Verity!’ She sounds angry now. I guess she doesn’t want her in here with me. ‘Come here right now. Tea’s ready.’

  I grimace at her, like a co-conspirator. ‘S’pose you’d better go. Smells good,’ I lie. Once she’s gone, I’m going to do it. I’m going to sneak out of the front door and run. I don’t know where I’ll go. But I’ve got to get out of here.

  She pulls a face. ‘You can have mine if you like.’

  ‘You’re all right, thanks.’

  She’s about to say something else when the yappy dog starts up again, getting louder and louder, as it runs into the hall. Suddenly I realize why.

  ‘Daddy’s home!’ Verity squeals and runs off.

  The front door slams and I hear her jumping up and squeaking at him, and him laughing and groaning, trying to talk to her, but it’s muffled because she’s climbing on him and kissing him. And I sit, bum rooted to the sofa, wishing I could just disappear or time travel or something, because I know, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  I know I shouldn’t be here.

  I peer round the door, hoping to see him before he sees me, but he looks up at that exact moment and he slowly puts Verity down and straightens up to look at me properly, and I have to come out from behind the door.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, puzzled. He’s tall and thin, greying hair in a ponytail, thinning at the front so it looks like his hair has slipped backwards off his head. I feel my face drop as I take him in; he is not any of the James’s I imagined. He’s not even James. He’s Jim.

  ‘Hello.’ It sounds like an apology. ‘I’m Pearl.’

  ‘Pearl?’ he says. He stands there, staring at me with an expression on his face like he’s in a cartoon and has just been hit over the head with a frying pan. ‘Pearl. Of course you are. I’m Jim.’ There’s an awkward silence while he presumably tries to work out what the hell I’m doing there. ‘You look just like your mum,’ he says at last.

  ‘No I don’t,’ I say quickly, because I’m so angry with her I don’t want to, and anyway it’s rubbish. I look nothing like her.

  ‘Yes you do,’ he says. ‘Your expression. Around the eyes.’

  I’m aware suddenly of the Fish-finger Burner’s looming presence in the kitchen doorway, holding Alfie tightly in front of her like a shield, and emitting vibes of doom into the hallway, though I can’t work out whether they’re directed at me or him or both of us.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he says and goes over and gives her a kiss on the cheek, but she hoists the sleepy Alfie up so he gets the kiss instead, and gives James – Jim – a look that screams Don’t You Hello Love Me. She has to clamp her lips shut to stop it actually escaping. But I know she doesn’t want to shout at him because I’m there watching.

  ‘So . . .’ Jim says nervously, and I can see in h
is eyes that he’s mentally spooling back the afternoon, wondering how long I’ve been there and how things are panning out between everyone, and probably working out that we haven’t been sitting around exchanging stories over home-made lemonade and cake. ‘You two have met.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And, er . . .’ I can see that what he really wants to say is What the hell are you doing here? but he can’t think of a polite way to do it.

  ‘Pearl’s come to stay,’ sings Verity loudly and does a little dance. ‘Pearl’s come to stay, hurray hurray hurray!’ The dog, who turns out to be large and very hairy, joins in with the singing and dancing. I wish again for any kind of natural disaster that might cause the ground to open and swallow us all.

  ‘Is it time for your bath yet, Verity?’ Jim says.

  The Fish-finger Burner turns to him. ‘Can I have a word?’ she says icily. ‘In private.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You needn’t bother. I’m just going.’

  ‘Going?’ Verity bellows. ‘But you can’t. You only just arrived.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I only popped in to say hello. I was just . . . in the area.’

  James looks at me, half surprised, half relieved. ‘You were just passing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking away.

  ‘How did you know the address?’

  ‘I found it on Mum’s computer.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call to let me know?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I look at my feet and feel him watching me, trying to work out what’s really going on. What if he gets angry? I can feel the panic rising again. I just have to get out of here.

  ‘Didn’t your mum and dad mind you coming?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘They do know you’re here, don’t they?’

  ‘Dad does. Mum’s . . . well, she died.’

  Verity hugs my legs. ‘Is that why you’re sad?’ she says.

  ‘What?’ James says. ‘Stella’s dead? When?’

  ‘Last February.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘How?’

  ‘She had a baby. She got ill suddenly.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again.

  ‘I’d really better be going. It was lovely to meet you,’ I say to Verity, pointedly ignoring the glowering Fish-finger Burner.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Jim says, ‘why don’t we go for a walk?’

  ‘Can I come, can I come?’ says Verity, bouncing from foot to foot.

  ‘No, sweetheart, just me and Pearl.’

  ‘But you can’t’ says the FB. ‘We’ve got all the Christmas presents to wrap.’

  He takes hold of her hand. ‘We won’t be long, I promise. Come on, Bel.’ He gives her a look I can’t read. ‘Imagine if it was Verity.’

  ‘Imagine if what was me?’ she squeaks and slides down the banister, landing in a heap at the bottom. I help her up. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’m getting really good at that, aren’t I?’

  ‘OK,’ the FB says and maybe she’s not a total cow because I think there’s a tiny hint of a smile as he kisses her on the cheek again. ‘See you in a while.’

  We walk along in silence. What must he be thinking? What had I been thinking? That he’d be waiting for me, arms outstretched? That he’d have a bed made up for me in the spare room, just in case I should turn up one day? I shrink down inside my coat with embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he says at last.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m giving up soon.’

  ‘I know. Verity told me.’

  He laughs. ‘She’s always giving me grief about it.’

  ‘I was the same with Mum. Not that she ever listened to me. She only gave up when she was pregnant.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about your mum,’ he says.

  I don’t say anything. It’s freezing and the ground is slippy with frost.

  ‘Here, hold on to my arm,’ he says. ‘It’s like an ice rink.’

  ‘No, I’m OK.’

  I look at him sideways and catch a little smile at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I was right,’ he says. ‘You are like your mum.’

  Down on the seafront the wind is sharp as a blade. Jim ushers me into a cafe. Inside, it’s warm and busy, festooned with shiny Christmas decorations. We order and sit down at a table with a faded red gingham cloth.

  ‘So what’s really going on?’ he says at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You weren’t really passing through, were you?’

  I think about lying, but it seems such an effort, I just haven’t got the energy.

  ‘So,’ he says gently. ‘What’s happened to make you pack your bags and turn up on my doorstep after sixteen years?’

  Everything I think of saying to explain why I’m there sounds stupid and childish.

  ‘Does your dad really know you’re here? If he doesn’t, you’ve got to let him know, Pearl. He’ll be worried sick.’

  ‘I told him I was coming here.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  I fiddle with a serviette on the table. ‘I didn’t give him much of a chance to say anything.’

  ‘You had a row?’

  I nod.

  ‘A big one?’

  ‘You could say so.’

  ‘What about?’

  I feel so stupid. ‘Everything.’

  The waitress puts a bowl of chips down on the table, with a hot chocolate for me and a bottle of beer for Jim.

  ‘Yeah, well. It can be like that. I remember me and my old man almost coming to blows when I was your age.’

  ‘Me and Dad always got on all right. Before.’

  Jim nods. ‘I can’t imagine what you must both have been through the last few months. It’s bound to put you both under pressure.’

  He pushes the bowl of chips over to me and I’m so hungry and they smell so good I can’t resist taking a few. I start to feel a little bit warmer.

  As I sip my hot chocolate, I look at Jim out of the corner of my eye, trying to see the kid in the passport photo.

  ‘How come things didn’t work out with you and Mum?’

  ‘We were only seeing each other for a little while,’ he says. ‘We got on all right, but we realized pretty quick that we didn’t have much in common. She was at art college, I was doing my plumbing apprenticeship, we had totally different friends. Didn’t even like the same music.’ He takes a swig of beer. ‘So we called it a day. We didn’t even split up as such because we were never really going out with each other as such. I didn’t phone her and she didn’t phone me. Then, a couple of months later, she rang me up out of the blue saying she was expecting you. It was a bit of a shock, I can tell you.’

  I imagine for the first time what it must have felt like for Mum, only a couple of years older than I am now, finding out she was pregnant.

  ‘Was she happy about it?’

  Jim looks uncomfortable. ‘It was a shock. I told her I’d stand by her whatever she decided to do. But she knew her own mind, your mum. Said she was going to do it by herself. About a year later, she sent me a photo of you. She told me she’d met your dad and they were getting married.’

  ‘Did you keep in touch?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘But Mum had your address?’

  ‘We agreed that if you ever wanted to know more about me when you were older you could get in touch.’

  ‘But you never wanted to get in touch? You didn’t want to see me?’ I try not to feel hurt. I know it’s silly; after all, I never wanted to see him either.

  ‘I did, as it happens. I suppose eventually I grew up a bit. I started to feel bad, that I’d let you down somehow. So I got in touch with your mum and said maybe we could meet up or something. Or maybe I could send you birthday cards or Christmas presents, that kind of thing. But Stella said no. She said it would be confusing for you. You already had a dad you loved. She said you knew he wasn
’t your birth dad, but that didn’t matter. You knew my name and that was it. She said maybe when you were a bit older we could talk about it again. I didn’t want to cause any trouble or upset you. I suppose I just wanted you to know I wasn’t a complete loser who’d abandoned his kid. But then I met Bel and everything changed. She already had Verity; she was just coming up for two then.’ His face lights up when he mentions them. ‘Look here, I’ve got a picture of Verity on our wedding day.’

  He opens his wallet and shows me a picture of a smaller chubbier Verity in a bridesmaid’s dress, tiara askew, face covered in chocolate.

  ‘She seems like a great kid,’ I say.

  ‘Bel says I’m a sentimental old fool,’ he says, ‘but when I look at her it’s like I know why I was born. I know what the point of my life is. Sounds daft, I know.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t sound daft.’

  ‘And the thing is, I realized that was how your dad must feel about you. And I thought how I’d feel if Verity’s birth father got in touch with her and wanted to see her – not that he’s likely to; he’s a total bloody waste of space.’

  He stops and takes another drink of his beer.

  ‘And the point is I knew I couldn’t do that to your dad. I knew it’d break his heart. He’d brought you up from a baby; he’d looked after you, hadn’t he? Worried about you when you were ill, and picked you up when you fell over, and made you feel safe when you’d had a nightmare or were scared about the monsters under the bed. Am I right?’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘I had no right to call myself your dad.’

  He looks at me. ‘Oh no, I’ve made you cry. Please don’t. I’m sorry.’ He rummages around in his pocket and passes me a handkerchief. ‘It’s clean,’ he says.

  I blow my nose.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he says. ‘That’s the last thing I wanted to do.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.

  ‘It is,’ he says. ‘Raking over the past. And look at you, you’re exhausted. Let’s get you back to the house. We’ll phone your dad and if he’s OK with it you can stay the night at ours and we’ll see about getting you home tomorrow.’

  I think about Dad and his face when I said I was coming here, and I can’t stop the silent slide of tears down my cheeks.

  ‘Everything’ll look better after a good night’s sleep,’ Jim says. ‘I promise.’