The Seven Rules of Elvira Carr

by Frances Maynard

  The information neatly organized, I watched Holby City with my feet up and the Cauliflower and Broccoli Gratin on a tray, something I would never have done with Mother. Eating in front of the TV was the death of conversation, she’d always said. I wouldn’t mind if it did die out. Not knowing what someone was going to say next made it exhausting.

  I put the tray down on Father’s carved wooden chest, my eyes already closing. I’d seen and interacted with more people in one day than I would have in a whole month at home, looking after Mother.

  • • •

  “Hello, hello, hello.” Karen looked up.

  “Hello. Hello. Hello,” I replied.

  “You’ve gotten here in the nick of time, Ellie. If it wasn’t for you, they’d find my mummified corpse six months down the line, buried under a heap of clean but threadbare sheets.” She closed her eyes and held her arms stiffly by her sides. I think she was pretending to be a mummy, but I couldn’t be sure because of there not being any bandages. I stretched my mouth and went to my table. There were the same piles of envelopes, address labels, and newsletters ready for me to organize, exactly the same as last week. I began to tidy them into neat stacks of identical height.

  • • •

  Paul sat next to me at lunch, drinking a Coca-Cola. He told me about a wood mouse he’d rescued from his next-door neighbor’s cat, and how he was nursing it back to health in a shoe box in his bedroom, and what it had eaten yesterday, and what its natural habitat was, and how many droppings it had done.

  “Have you got a granddad called Bill?” I asked, spreading the scrambled egg evenly over the toast.

  Paul stopped talking. “Yes, I have. How did you know?”

  “I did some computer sessions with him at the Library.” I cut my toast neatly into squares. I didn’t mind eating in front of Paul. “It was him who told me about Animal Arcadia in the first place. He said he had a grandson who worked here.”

  “That was me!” Paul laughed. “I’ve worked here for thirteen and a half months. I’m really good at computers.” He put his glass down and burped. “We could email each other. I’ll give you my address. I don’t do Facebook ’cause of bullying.” He got up. “Let’s go and see the wolves before you go back. I’ll tell you about their breeding program.”

  The wolves were loping around their enclosure or skulking behind the pine trees, their gray-brown fur blending with the foliage. Paul knew interesting Facts about them—such as that they roamed up to twelve miles a day in the wild—as well as the names of the foreign zoo each wolf had come from and the date it had arrived on. He knew each wolf’s date of birth too. I had to leave him there talking about them because it was the end of my lunch break. I knew—because of Rule One (Being Polite and Respectful is always a Good Idea)—that this wasn’t polite, but there was no other way to stop him.

  15.

  Plan each charted course, each careful step.

  —Frank Sinatra, singer

  “All going OK, pet?” Sylvia called.

  I made sure the wheelie bin was exactly parallel to the front wall and hurried over. I started to tell her about Pernama “talking” to me, and how wolves almost never attacked humans, but she couldn’t stop because she was on her way to the Club to meet Trevor for a drink.

  She squeezed into the driver’s seat. “It’ll take my mind off poor little Roxanna and my poor boy.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said, remembering a conversational comment, and then looked at my watch to check I hadn’t spoken for longer than two minutes. It was exactly two, which meant another tick on the checklist.

  I brought in the laundry and set up the ironing board in the living room. Before, I’d always had to do it in the kitchen. I’d spent a lot of time in the kitchen when Mother was at home. The living room was Mother’s room, really. Her Opera would be blaring, or there’d be a black-and-white film, with subtitles, on TV. In the kitchen, I’d look through my collection of Delia Smith cookbooks, or tidy the cupboards. I’d look out of the window too, because it was opposite Sylvia’s kitchen window, and sometimes she’d be there and wave.

  I sang as I ironed, something I’d heard Trevor sing, loudly and with flung-out arm gestures. I liked the song because it was about planning things and doing them in the right order, one step at a time, which was the only way I could function. I folded an apron—it was the one Mother had bought aboard the Pacific Princess, which featured Great Ports of the World—ready to go back in the drawer. I did what I had to do, I told myself, as I ran the iron over my new black trousers. Visited Mother every single day, whether she noticed or not. Contributed to animal welfare through volunteering. Maria (I bounced a little at the memory) had said I was a good girl do those things.

  Although I didn’t get the Caregiver’s Allowance anymore, because of Mother being in a nursing home, I was still—I counted on my fingers—helping endangered species, guinea pigs, older people (who held the guinea pigs) and now, Sylvia. Four helpful things! I hummed Trevor’s song again, the bit about standing up straight and tackling things, and got up on my toes to stretch.

  I put the iron down. I was helping Mother and animals, but not Sylvia. Sylvia was a friendly and cheerful person who had helped me. She always had to rush off to places to take her mind off Josh’s marriage situation. Always had her blood pressure checked because of other people’s problems, Trevor said. The hospital nurse said high blood pressure was bad for your health and might have contributed to Mother’s stroke. I didn’t want the same thing happening to Sylvia.

  I draped one of my long white nighties—far too big now, but Sylvia had never seen it to comment, and nobody else was likely to—over the ironing board. There must be something I could do to contribute to Sylvia’s welfare. I smoothed out a billowing fold of the nightie. Something that was me helping her, rather than always the other way around. I knew that this was what friends did, because Poppy, at school, had put my bags of cookies into alphabetical order for me, ready for a Show-and-Tell, and I’d sorted all the red paper clips from a packet I’d been given, to give her, because that was her favorite color. I blinked, returning to the present, then folded the nightie and put it on the pile of ironing to take upstairs.

  Sylvia was desperate to see Roxanna, who Shelbie sometimes left on her own. “Locked up as if she was a little prisoner,” Sylvia said. I chewed my lip. Mother had kept Social Workers at the back of her mind for when things got to be Too Much. Sylvia’s blood pressure shooting up and down might mean things already had for her. So far, I’d only emailed the Guild of British Guinea Pigs and Animal Arcadia, but I could email Social Services and tell them about Sylvia and Roxanna. I still worried that people—Jane, Trevor, Josh—might phone Social Services about me. Now would be my chance to take the initiative.

  I turned to a pile of T-shirts. Sylvia would get what she wanted. Roxanna would be released from prison to live with her and Trevor. She’d have more company because they didn’t go out to work. They could take her shopping and buy her pink clothes. And Sylvia’s blood pressure would come down. The iron flashed over the rest of the T-shirts.

  • • •

  Google found Sandhaven Social Services’s email address. I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, as I thought how best to outline Sylvia’s situation. Then I typed all the things I’d been thinking about, including the blood pressure and Roxanna’s prison. I pressed Send and sat back, smiling. Although I didn’t get the Caregiver’s Allowance anymore, because of Mother being in a nursing home, I was still—I counted on my fingers—helping: endangered species, guinea pigs, older people (who held the guinea pigs), and now Sylvia. Four helpful things! I hummed Trevor’s song, I faced it all, and I stood tall, and got up on my toes to stretch.

  • • •

  Social Services emailed me back the next day. They would call on me at five p.m. this Friday, and could I please confirm this would be convenient. I confi
rmed at once. Mother had always said computers and Social Workers with a snort and flare of her nostrils. But, now, both these things were helping Sylvia to see Roxanna. It was puzzling because Mother had told me she was never wrong.

  • • •

  Gail Dawson, the Social Worker, smiled a lot and talked about Mother and Father’s possessions, so conversation wasn’t as difficult as I’d expected.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Carr,” she said and sat down on the red tasseled sofa. “This room has such a lot of atmosphere. It’s like an explorer’s living room! Did your family live abroad?”

  I put my foot over a crumb I’d just noticed on the carpet and explained about Father engineering in Kenya and Japan.

  Gail Dawson took notes in a plain, official-looking notebook. “I believe you’ve got some concerns about the little girl next door? I couldn’t quite make it out from your email. About her being left alone?”

  I twisted a fold of my old gray sweater. I was wearing it for comfort because of never having had a visit from Social Services before. She might notice I wasn’t normal and think I wasn’t managing on my own. I’d spent all day tidying, cleaning, and polishing, and I’d rested the terriers calendar on the living room mantelpiece, with all my schedules clearly marked, so that she could see I was coping. “Her name’s Roxanna. She’s Sylvia next door’s granddaughter. She is left alone. But it’s in Spain.”

  Gail Dawson looked up from her notebook. “And how do you know this?”

  “Sylvia says it’s a pity Roxanna’s left alone when, if she lived over here, she could look after her. And she’s always talking about Roxanna getting sunburned and not seeing her father—that’s Josh, Sylvia’s son. And Sylvia says Roxanna is poor.”

  There was a long gap in the conversation while Gail Dawson wrote my words down. My chest swelled. I’d managed a quick glance at her eyebrows, which were bushy, when I spoke. She twiddled her black pen between her fingers. “There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of actual abuse.” I noticed her dark-navy skirt was made of denim; Mother had always criticized Social Workers for wearing jeans. “I’m grateful for your concern,” she was saying. “We always take child neglect or cruelty reports very seriously.” She closed her notebook. “I think perhaps I should have a chat with your neighbor.” She looked at her watch. “Five thirty. Would she be in now?”

  “Oh!” I blinked. “I don’t want you to talk to Sylvia about Roxanna. I want you to bring Roxanna back home without Sylvia knowing. I want it to be a surprise, a nice one. Then she’ll stop crying and getting sick with worry. And her blood pressure will come down.”

  “How do you think Roxanna’s mum would feel if her little girl was suddenly taken away?”

  It took me a long time to answer this. “Shelbie’s brushing up her hairdressing skills. She’d be pleased because she’d have more time to practice in the salon.”

  “I see.” Gail Dawson’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How do you think Roxanna would feel?”

  I looked out of the window at the neat, straight lines of Trevor and Sylvia’s hedge and thought about Roxanna. “Excited, because Sylvia would buy her pretty clothes and take her to Animal Arcadia. That’s where I’m a volunteer,” I added, glancing at the bushy eyebrows again. I wondered if she had to comb them.

  Gail Dawson nodded, tapping her pen against her lips. “Would she miss her mum, do you think?”

  I considered. “Well…Shelbie scratches her, but it might be by accident.” I explained about the claws that were hidden in photos.

  “Have you heard of the phrase Figure of Speech?” Gail Dawson asked, her voice soft.

  I gripped a fold of my sweater. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I’d been stupid to believe the claws were literally true. But how did people know? I hated Figures of Speech. I’d thought about creating a spreadsheet for them, organized into topics, so I could spot them more easily, but there were so many that even a spreadsheet couldn’t keep track. Why did people hide and twist what they were saying instead of just stating the Facts in a straightforward way? I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Her voice was even softer now. “What do you think her dad—Josh, is it—feels?”

  I thought for a minute, my eyes still shut. “I don’t know. He doesn’t say much.” Sylvia said people having things on their minds sometimes accounted for them being quiet. “He’s got a picture of Roxanna on his phone, and his heart is broken and he’s in bits,” I remembered.

  “Does he have any contact with his little girl, Roxanna?”

  “Not since Shelbie ran off to live the dream. He sees her when they Skype on Sunday evenings.”

  “Well, let’s see how Roxanna’s granny feels about the situation.” Miss Dawson put her notebook away in a briefcase and stood up.

  I got up too. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. “Shall I come with you?” I asked. “To explain? Sylvia doesn’t know I’ve emailed you.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary, thanks.” She smiled and headed for the door. “I always find people open up more when they talk in private, one to one.”

  This was true. I hated speaking in groups of people. They didn’t take turns, and at least one of them would end up staring at me. I wouldn’t open up in a group either. I guessed that open up was a Figure of Speech.

  She shook my hand and thanked me. I remembered to say Sorry, I must be off and mentally ticked my checklist. I saw her ring next door’s bell and Sylvia answer. Although Gail Dawson had spoiled my surprise by telling Sylvia about it, at least she could still help to bring Roxanna home.

  I wondered why Sylvia hadn’t thought of contacting Social Services herself. I had gotten something started on my own, something that could cheer Sylvia up permanently and, more importantly, save her life! At the door, I saw Sylvia put her hand to her mouth and look over at me, unsmiling although I gave her a little wave, and Gail Dawson reach out to touch her arm and then both of them go inside.

  16.

  It’s always nice to be appreciated. And apologized to.

  —Janice Drapkin, checkout operative, Asda

  A crash outside made me drop the wooden spoon into my Chili Sans Carne. The porch door slammed. I froze. The front door bell rang and kept on ringing. I heard a man’s voice shouting. Josh! This might be an emergency! Sylvia might have collapsed with high blood pressure. He might want me to phone the ambulance like I had for Mother. I hurried to the door, my heart racing.

  I opened it, and Josh burst through. He slammed it shut behind him. He came toward me, his finger jabbing and pointing as if it were a gun. His face was red, and all his teeth, even the lower ones, were showing. He looked exactly like the facial expression recognition card at school called Rage. He spat out his words, a bead of saliva running down his chin. I shrank back and back. He closed in on me until I was flat against the wall.

  “You fucking retard!” he shouted, his finger an inch from my face.

  My legs were shaking, and I reached out to cling to the living room door. Why was he in a rage? Had he gone mad? Was this a breakdown like the one Mother had had early in her marriage and that she wanted to avoid me driving her to again—although I could not drive?

  “Sticking your nose into my business, you spiteful cow!” Spit hung from his chin. “After all Mum’s done for you! This is the thanks she gets. You snitching on my family to Social Services! Well, two can play at that game. You wait till I have a chat with Social Services. Report you as a nuisance neighbor, you weirdo. None of my family has been inside. None of us have conned people or pranced around like Lord Muck. If it wasn’t for my mum, they’d have taken you away long ago and that crazy old bat, your mother. You wait! I’ll get you moved into a home where you can’t cause me or my family any more trouble! Do you hear?”

  My legs folded underneath me, and I fell to the floor.

  “Fucking drama queen!” Josh shouted. He stormed to the front door and slammed i
t behind him.

  When my heart had stopped hammering and jumping about, I crawled to the door and pulled myself up. I put the lock down and the bolt across. The Chili Sans Carne was burning. I went to switch it off. My knees buckled again, and I had to crawl upstairs on my hands and knees. I climbed into Mother’s wardrobe, gasping at its smell of mothballs and Je Reviens. I sat there, knees to my chest, hidden by my parents’ clothes.

  The doorbell rang again. I stiffened. I pulled the wardrobe door tightly shut. Josh wouldn’t be able to find me in here. A voice called through the letterbox. “Ellie, Ellie!” It was Sylvia. I stuck my fingers in my ears because I didn’t want to hear any more shouting.

  I stayed in the wardrobe all night with Mother’s blue evening dress draped around my shoulders for warmth. I couldn’t sleep because there was so little room and because of the blood rushing through my ears.

  Rocking to and fro made the coat hangers swing and rattle against the sides of the wardrobe. Which home would Josh get me sent to? Somewhere I couldn’t cause any more trouble, he’d shouted. I stopped. Did he mean prison? Was it against the law for me to contact Social Services? I didn’t think so, but I didn’t always get things right. Would the police come around to interview me like they had done once with Father?

  That had happened—I shifted my numb legs—when I was about ten or eleven. Two policemen, one in uniform, the other not, had sat with Father in the study for hours. They’d come around for advice about an engineering firm using substandard material for its bridges. While they were there, Mother had turned off her Opera and made me sit quietly and read my animal book from the Library, although I’d read it twice before. It wasn’t even so she could concentrate on the crossword or on reading The Emperors of Rome, because I remembered her hunching forward the whole time they were there, hands on her knees, staring into space, not reading anything.