In the school holidays, when Dad was at work and Mum was at the hospital, I spent most of my time with Emma’s family. Emma’s sister, Natalie, was seventeen then and I can remember thinking how grown-up she was. She was tall and slim, with long black hair dyed with purple streaks. It was so long she could sit on it. She wore Gothic clothes and her eyelashes were coated in thick layers of black mascara. I remember her constantly sucking mint imperials, I realize now to disguise the smell of cigarette smoke.
When Emma’s family was away, Miss Grimes, our local babysitter, filled in. I hated my mother for making me put up with her. Miss Grimes wore the same old brown tweed skirt, boring lace-up shoes and flesh-toned tights that squashed down the black hairs on her white legs. Her hair looked like one of those Brillo pads we had in the kitchen sink. She wore steel-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. It was hard to believe she lived only three doors away from us; she looked as if she came from another country. One where all they ate was cabbage.
‘She is very nice, poppet,’ Mum told me when I wrinkled my nose in disapproval. ‘The main thing is I won’t have to worry about leaving you.’
Dad loved her because she brought over steamed puddings and lasagnes for our freezer. ‘She’s a one is Miss Grimes,’ he chuckled.
I will never forget the time she came to look after me for an entire night. Mum and Dad had taken Bells to hospital the day before her next operation.
‘You always have your nose in a book,’ Miss Grimes scolded me, leaning over to see what I was reading. She was knitting a sludgy green jumper the colour of the damp rotting moss that sat on our garage roof. ‘You’re far too young for a book like this,’ she said in a shocked voice and swiped it away from me. I tried to grab it back, clutching the air. ‘Oh, keep it then, I’ve already read Riders anyway.’
‘You’ll amount to nothing,’ she said to the click of her knitting needles. ‘You’re a little piece of fluff. Your sister has a lot more problems than you but she will be a proper person.’
I shrugged my shoulders and muttered, ‘Piss off.’
She lurched forward and hit me hard on the knuckles with her knitting needles. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She was doing that mad thing with her eyes again. When she was cross or excited they started to roll so all I could see was their whites.
I held in my breath, I did not want her to see that hurt. ‘You look like a mad blind lady!’ I told her, smiling to cover up the pain.
Before I knew it, I was being dragged upstairs and into the spare room. She pushed me inside and turned the key in the lock saying that would teach me. I banged on the door, I screamed and shouted but she ignored me as she watched Corrie.
Miss Grimes unlocked the door the following morning and told me she was sorry. I told her she was a sad old spinster woman. When Mum and Dad returned I told them what had happened. Mum said she knew how much I hated Miss Grimes and that I would do anything to get rid of her. I looked at Dad, who was so often my ally, but he told me not to harass Mum. Couldn’t I see how tired she was?
Miss Grimes continued to babysit for us, despite my telling Mum I was no longer a child. She carried on locking me in my bedroom; she even locked me in the attic once for being ‘insolent’. I never forgave them for not believing me. They closed their ears and eyes to it because they had too much else to think about.
When my father became an auctioneer, his salary increased and we could afford to have someone coming in during the day to look after Bells. This was when Mum started work in her studio again, working round the clock, working, working, working. I think it took her mind off the family problems and immersed her in a different world. Her life was divided between trying to meet Bells’s needs and completing commissions. It felt like she was not interested in me any more and we grew even further apart.
Bells was ‘Mum’s girl’. I know both Mum and Dad found her comparatively easy to live with by now, straightforward in comparison with me. Bells was ‘the artistic one’; Mum encouraged her to draw, paint, write, cook – all the things she’d loved as a child and still loves. Katie was ‘the rebellious one’.
‘What have you done to yourself, Katie!’ I can still hear Mum cry in that familiar despairing tone, green eyes glaring, mouth opened wide in reproach. ‘How could you have been so stupid? So idiotic?’ I can see her savagely untying her mucky apron which she then throws to the floor.
I had dyed my hair blue and pink, like an exotic bird. I was copying Natalie, who changed her hair colour as often as Madonna.
I can feel Mum’s arm pulling mine. ‘Which godforsaken hairdresser did this to you? It looks like you have pink and blue worms crawling in your hair.’ By the time we were going home in the car, she was upset rather than cross. ‘Why do you deliberately try to upset me all the time? Katie, what’s happened to you? You used to be such a sweet girl.’
Wasn’t it obvious? Did I have to get my tongue pierced next to get her attention?
I don’t think Mum has moved on from describing me as the ‘rebellious one’. I think she still believes that I lead this full-on crazy life in London, burning the candle at both ends. I am still the dissident.
When I think about it now, it seems almost trivial; people go through much worse things after all. But we don’t forget, do we? We don’t forget the smallest slight, let alone the feeling that we have been somehow abandoned. Left to play second fiddle to our own sister. It wasn’t Bells’s fault, I know she never set out to be the golden child in Mum’s eyes, and I know how much she has gone through, but there is still a part of me that blames her for needing Mum so much. If Mum wasn’t at home she was at the hospital. Bells had speech therapy classes every week, or her eyesight had to be tested, or her hearing aid needed to be fitted. There was always some appointment to go to. I suppose I have never spoken to Bells about it because Mum has always instilled in me how lucky I am not to have the same affliction. How dare I be angry or cross when I have my whole life ahead of me?
In many ways my childhood helped me. It made me strive to be independent. Yet I’m still not truly independent, am I? I have this need to be with people; look at the way I move in with every man I meet. I want to be loved; I want to feel needed. I have this gaping hole inside me which I have tried to ignore for years, yet it will never go away. When I hear Bells talking about Mum so freely all that old anger and jealousy returns.
We were close once, there was tenderness between Mum and me.
I light another cigarette and blow a smoke ring in the air. I will never forget Mum not turning up to watch me perform the leading role in our school production of Guys and Dolls. I had reserved two seats in the front row, but something had ‘cropped up with Bells’ was the same old excuse. I pretended I didn’t care. Maybe that’s my mistake? I am too proud. But I can still remember how it felt when my father sat down next to an empty seat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘He didn’t even call me later to see if I had found her,’ I say quietly down the phone to Emma. I am in the shop the following morning. Eve and Bells have popped out to buy some croissants and cappuccinos.
‘NO! That’s dreadful!’ Emma says. ‘What did you say to him?’
*
‘Sam, a fat lot of use you were.’
‘What are you on about?’ He was shaving and I was talking to his reflection in the mirror.
‘Yesterday!’ I shout in exasperation as I pull on my work jeans, catching my finger on the zip. ‘Fuck!’ I suck in my breath. ‘Bells went missing and you didn’t even call.’
‘Had she run off then?’ he remarks, without a flicker of concern. He might as well have been commenting on the weather. I hurl a trainer at him. It hits him on the back and thuds to the floor.
‘Jesus Katie, what the …’
‘You could at least pretend you’re interested. Show a bit of concern.’
‘Well, you found her, didn’t you?’ He turns to me impatiently. ‘You know what? I haven’t got time for this, I’m seeing my personal trainer i
n half an hour.’
I throw the other trainer at him. This one hits him bang in the face. Bull’s-eye.
*
‘NO! You didn’t?’ Emma gasps, and then laughs.
‘I did.’
‘Good for you! I hope it hurt. Then what did he say?’
*
‘What has got into you?’ he yells, touching one side of his face. ‘Great, I’m going to have a socking big bruise on my cheek. Thanks, Katie.’
‘Yesterday was awful,’ I say, lowering my voice but making sure it doesn’t lose its angry edge. ‘If it hadn’t been for Mark …’
‘Who?’ There is a slight twitch of interest, at last.
‘Mark.’
‘Who’s Mark?’
‘He’s a very nice man,’ I point out emphatically. ‘He found Bells yesterday. He came home for pizza too.’ This piece of information has done the trick. At last Sam pays attention.
‘For pizza? Why did you have to invite the guy back for pizza?’
‘To say thank you. If he hadn’t found her, I don’t know what would have happened. She had an asthma attack.’
‘Why did Bells run away in the first place?’ Sam asks, sitting down on the bed and putting his trainers on.
‘Because that’s what she does when she gets upset,’ I explain to him, as if he really ought to know. ‘It used to happen a lot at home.’ I tell him about the labels, wanting to find that Sam might in fact care a little. That he is human, after all.
‘Well, if you hadn’t shouted at her in the first place,’ he says smugly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, ‘then none of this would have happened, would it?’
*
There is an uneasy pause. I want Emma to say, I can’t believe he said that. How dare he swing that one back at you? Anything to make me feel less guilty. ‘What did you say?’ she finally asks.
*
I pick up his cup of coffee which sits on the bedside table. ‘Uh-oh, nervous twitch, might spill this all over the white sheepskin rug.’
‘Katie, don’t,’ he says imploringly, ‘put it down.’
I do put the mug down as I bought that rug and I love it. Instead, I grab his watch. ‘I would say this is an emergency situation, wouldn’t you, Sammy? Perhaps if I pull the emergency cord?’
Sam can’t watch. Instead he stands up in his jogging trousers, tight T-shirt and trainers. ‘Go on, pull it, and you can pay the fucking fine. I’m late for my PT.’ He storms out of the room.
I put the watch down. I feel so deflated. A week ago I was happy, things were going fine. My fashion show was a success. I hear Sam coming back and my heart lifts. He’ll tell me he’s been an idiot and not at all supportive.
He stands at the door and puts one hand against the wall. ‘You’ve had your say, now it’s my turn.’
‘What?’ I say, uneasily.
‘You never told me about Isabel and now, all of a sudden,’ he raises his eyebrows, ‘I am supposed to be deeply concerned about her welfare? Katie, I didn’t know that she runs off when she’s upset. I still don’t know a thing about her. I don’t feel comfortable around her because you haven’t made me feel comfortable.’
I sit in silence.
‘Did you think I would go off you because of her … you know, the way she is?’ he finishes. ‘It’s your own hang-up, Katie. If you hadn’t been so ashamed to tell me about her …’
I see Bells standing behind him now in her pyjamas and football slippers and I am frowning madly and buttoning my lips together but …
‘If you hadn’t been so ashamed of your own sister,’ he continues, oblivious, ‘things might have got off to a better start. OK, she’s different, but so what? I was on the tube the other day and there was this woman sitting opposite me barking like a dog. There are lots of Isabels around, she’s not unique.’
Bells looks at me and I put my head in my hands. She walks away and Sam glances round, finally realizing he wasn’t talking just to me. ‘I couldn’t do anything when you called because I was about to go into a meeting. I am to blame for not calling you back, and I’m sorry. But don’t blame it all on me. Perhaps you should take a good hard look at yourself too, Katie,’ he says before slamming the door behind him.
I lie down on the bed and stare up into the ceiling. Bells is now playing Stevie Wonder. Stevie Wonder is probably the only constant thing she has in her world at the moment.
The closeness we shared yesterday, the affection – well, it has all been undone in one swift blow and I’m taken aback by how much I care. I can’t let Bells think she isn’t important to me. Lord, oh, Lord, I feel dreadful.
*
Emma is now painfully quiet. Please tell me that Sam is in the wrong, I think. Yet deep down I know that there is a lot of truth in what he said. I should have told him about Bells. What was I thinking? Thankfully she does not say I told you so.
‘Is Bells all right?’ she asks. ‘Do you want me to talk to her? Her asthma hasn’t flared up again?’
‘Thanks, Emma. I think she’s OK but she has been quiet,’ I admit. ‘Oh God, I’ve really mucked up. When Mum and Dad come home I can hardly say Bells has had a great time.’
‘It’s not too late,’ she says.
‘You should be telling me, “I told you so”,’ I laugh hopelessly.
‘Yeah, yeah. I should but I won’t. I’m not doing much today,’ she says, as if she is brewing an idea, ‘so why don’t I fill in for you at the shop and you can take Bells out? Have some fun together.’
‘Are you sure? You really wouldn’t mind?’
‘No, Jonnie is being boring and spinning records at home so I’m free. Take her shopping. Spend some proper time together.’
‘Oh I’d love to. I could get her something for your wedding.’
‘Great idea. I haven’t even got my dress yet,’ she adds.
‘Thanks so much Ems,’ I say, thinking about the day ahead and how I can make it up to my sister.
*
‘How about this?’ I suggest to Bells, holding up a pale green skirt and an embroidered silk jacket. I peer at the label on the skirt. Size 12. I will have to take it up a good five inches.
‘I like it.’ She takes the jacket and skirt from me without really looking at them and shuffles off to the changing room. ‘No come in,’ she insists, pulling the curtain shut.
Next I can hear her stamping her feet in her big black DM boots. She is giving the purple pixie boots a rest today. I turn to apologize to the shop assistant, who says nothing. Instead she looks away. Why did I bother to say sorry? What am I actually saying sorry for? I open the curtain slightly. ‘Please let me come in,’ I ask. ‘Please.’
‘All right, Katie.’
I sit down on a stool in the corner of the cubicle. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No, can do it on own. Can dress myself.’
‘I know, sorry. What’s that funny thing you have in your hand?’ I ask, trying to break the ice between us.
She shrugs.
‘Come on! Show me.’
She holds out her hand. ‘You shake hand,’ she says. I place my hand in hers and something vibrates against my palm, making a loud buzzing sound. ‘What’s that?’ I shriek, shaking my hand free. ‘Do it again!’ I giggle. Bells laughs with me for the first time this morning. She said nothing on the bus; she didn’t even say hello to the other passengers. I found myself longing for her to ask the man wearing a turban his age. ‘Whose hand would you really like to shake? Apart from Beckham’s and Stevie Wonder’s,’ I add.
‘Tony Blair’s,’ she says, rocking forward again. ‘Vote Tory.’
‘You couldn’t say that in front of Mr Blair,’ I laugh.
‘Vote Labour,’ she says, sticking both thumbs up.
‘I’d like to shake Prince William’s,’ I tell her, and watch with fascination as Bells starts to take off her clothes. My sister’s style is what you’d call the ‘bag lady’ look. She takes off her denim jacket, covered in yet more football badge
s and stickers. Under this is her bright red Oxford University T-shirt.
‘On the catwalk, Isabel Fletcher now models a football shirt covered in Manchester United badges.’ I lean back against the wall. ‘Aren’t you boiling?’ I ask as yet another layer comes off. She’s like a Russian doll. I’m surprised she can even walk. ‘Bells, it’s the summer. You’re dressed for a day in Siberia.’
‘Feel cold,’ she mutters, extracting the next top, a holey and faintly smelly tank vest. I must get rid of it, I think to myself as I do a bit of fake snoring.
‘Ha, ha, very funny, Katie,’ she says, rocking forward with a smile.
I can see the shop girl’s pointed toes. She peers around the curtain and immediately shuts it again when she sees me attempting to get the jacket on to Bells. It’s too tight over her bosom. Bells has a heavy chest considering she’s only four foot ten. Nature overcompensated. If only we could do a swap. I could give her some of my height – I’m five foot nine and a half; and she could give me some of her bosom – I’m a mean 34 B.
‘Do you remember when Mum used to tickle us under the arms after we’d had a bath?’ I say, instinctively unbuttoning her jacket. It reminds me of dressing and undressing Bells when she was little. ‘Oh, Bells, sorry,’ I say, pulling away. ‘Sorry.’
‘All right, Katie. You help me,’ she says, nodding her head. ‘You are Fashion Queen.’
I break into a big smile. ‘Well, I think that jacket is too small. Do you want me to see if they have the next size up and shall we try another colour for fun?’
‘No, we don’t, I’m afraid,’ the shop girl says loudly through the curtain. I step out and she is hovering over our changing room like a prison guard.
‘Sorry? You don’t what?’ I ask.
Letters From My Sister Page 10