Mimi

by John Newman

  “Now picture this. There are twenty-five olives on the pizza. How many olives on each slice?”

  At this stage, I was seriously sorry that I had asked for Dad’s help at all. “I don’t like olives,” I said.

  “Well, bits of pineapple, then. It doesn’t really matter if it’s olives or pineapples or lumps of rock!” said Dad, and his voice was getting a bit louder. So I was glad when at that very moment the doorbell rang.

  It was Mrs. Lemon from the shop. I don’t think she had ever been to our house before. Well, maybe when Mammy died. Lots of people came then “to pay their respects,” but otherwise for Mrs. Lemon this was a first.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lemon,” I said, opening the door wide.

  “Hello, Mimi,” said Mrs. Lemon in a quiet voice. “Can I speak to your father, please?”

  I didn’t have to call Dad because he was right behind me. I wasn’t sure if he even knew Mrs. Lemon.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Lemon. From the shop,” she explained. “Could I have a private word with you please, Mr. Roche?” She nodded her head toward me in that way that adults have of saying, “Not in front of the kids, please.”

  So Dad told me to run along and finish my homework while he showed Mrs. Lemon into the sitting room — but I stayed behind the door and put my ear quietly up against it. I could hear almost every word.

  Mrs. Lemon sounded very embarrassed. She kept apologizing and, at first, I didn’t know what she was talking about. I was sure that Dad didn’t have a clue either. It was worse than pizzas and olives.

  “I’m really sorry to disturb you like this, Mr. Roche,” she started, “because I know you must have enough on your plate since your wife died, and it can’t be easy with three children . . . and they must be very upset . . . so I suppose you can’t blame Sally for . . .” and she trailed off.

  “You can’t blame Sally for what?” said Dad.

  “Mr. Roche, I can assure you that I haven’t gone to the police about this, and I’m just so sorry to trouble you with —”

  “The police?” repeated Dad, sounding a bit upset now.

  The police? What had Sally done?

  “You see, when I got the CCTV camera installed I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t even know how to work it properly, to be honest with you, but stuff kept disappearing off the shelves.”

  “What stuff?” asked Dad.

  Yeah, what stuff? I wanted to know.

  “Well, stationery, mostly. Pens and markers and folders and such.”

  “I know what stationery is,” said Dad, a bit rudely.

  A bad thought was growing in my mind. I had to cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Are you accusing my Sally of shoplifting, Mrs. Lemon?” said Dad very loudly and angrily. I wondered if Sally could hear him from her bedroom. “Because if you are, you are very much mistaken! I will have you know that my daughter Sally would never, never steal from anybody!”

  I wished I felt as sure about that as Dad seemed to.

  “Of course not. Of course not,” wailed Mrs. Lemon, and she really was wailing now. “It’s just that she is on the films. . . . Here, see for yourself. I’m really sorry.”

  It went quiet then. I could hear Dad pushing a DVD into the machine and the whirring sound it made. Oh, why was this stupid door not made of glass!

  Then I heard Dad saying quietly, in a broken kind of voice, “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

  So I supposed Sally had been caught on camera after all.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Roche. It really is.” I could hear Mrs. Lemon trying to console Dad. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s nothing really. She probably just misses her mother.”

  Then there was a sudden rushing sound and the door flew open. I nearly fell into the room — but Dad just rushed past me as if I wasn’t there. “SALLY!” he yelled. “GET DOWN HERE AT ONCE!”

  At first Sally denied everything. She cried and wailed and said that it was all a big mistake and she even accused Mrs. Lemon of making it all up.

  “So now you’re lying on top of stealing,” said Dad in a hard voice.

  “Don’t you trust me at all?” she shouted at Dad, who was standing there with his arms folded and his face like thunder.

  Nobody seemed to notice me now, so I just sat quietly and watched. Even Conor had appeared. He was standing in the doorway. He said nothing but he was listening very intently.

  Then Dad pressed PLAY on the remote, and the image of Sally came up on the screen. She looked all around, checking whether anyone else was there. There was nobody else near her, and in the background you could see Mrs. Lemon with her back turned. Then Sally grabbed a packet of markers and slipped them into her schoolbag. She was very quick, just like a real thief. It was a clear image and there was no mistaking her. Then she walked up to the counter and said, “Hello, Mrs. Lemon,” as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And then the picture showed Mrs. Lemon smiling at Sally and pressing some free sweets into her hand. That made me feel quite mad at Sally — but I felt sorry for her at the same time, because she was just standing there saying nothing now, tears running down her face, and she kept wringing her hands.

  “I’m sorry, Sally,” said Mrs. Lemon quietly. She was sitting in the middle of the sofa looking like a little mouse.

  “It’s not you who should be sorry, Mrs. Lemon,” said Dad. “Sally, what got into you? Bringing shame on yourself and on this family. If your mother were alive today, she —”

  But he didn’t get to finish. Suddenly Sally looked up straight into Dad’s eyes and screamed, “But she isn’t, is she?” Then she ran out of the room and up the stairs and slammed the door of her room so hard that the house shook. Then she must have thrown herself onto her bed, because the light in the ceiling moved.

  Everyone was quiet then, except for Mrs. Lemon, who was whimpering and sniffing into her handkerchief. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have come.”

  Dad helped her to her feet and led her gently to the door. “Mrs. Lemon, I’m deeply sorry that this has happened, and I assure you that every item stolen from your shop will be paid for,” he said in a very serious voice. “I do appreciate your not informing the police. I will be having a very serious word with Sally, and she will be appropriately reprimanded. I am deeply embarrassed and ashamed that my daughter should have caused you such upset.”

  Dad didn’t come back into the sitting room when Mrs. Lemon left. He headed straight upstairs to Sally’s room.

  “Do you think Dad is going to kill her?” I asked Conor.

  “Well she deserves it,” said Conor. “But I think she’s locked her door.”

  Sure enough, Dad was yelling through Sally’s door, ordering her to open it, but she wouldn’t. Which I thought was a good idea under the circumstances.

  Then my phone beeped. It was a text from Orla. Who steals soap from the bath? Robber ducks! Lol Orla X X.

  I read it to Conor and we both started giggling, which was a bit strange when you think that our whole family was falling apart.

  We both stopped pretty quick when we heard Dad coming back down the stairs. He was still shouting. “All right, have it your own way, Sally, but this isn’t just going to go away, you know. There has never been a thief in this family before and, by God, there won’t be one now. Lie on your bed and feel as sorry for yourself as you like, but you and I will talk about this tomorrow!”

  Can you believe it? I’ve lost count of the number of days it is since Mammy died. I’ll have to check Sally’s diary, which won’t be too hard now that she’s gone. It’s the first day that Sally’s been gone. The last time I heard her she was sobbing away on her bed. I thought she’d never stop. I tried to shut her out by putting my hands over my ears, but that didn’t work. The walls in our house must be very thin, you can hear so much — which I don’t usually mind, especially when people are on the phone and I can listen in. But last night I hated it. It was like the days after Mammy was ki
lled, except that I was crying then as well and my pillow used to get all wet and horrible. I bet Sally’s pillow was soaking last night. And she kept doing these gulps. I felt like going into her room and giving her a hug, but I knew that Dad would kill me if I got out of bed, and her door was locked, anyway.

  I must have gone to sleep in the end because I didn’t hear her leave. Nobody did. We didn’t even know until it was time for school. Dad roared up at her a few times while Conor and I stood waiting in the hall, but there was no answer. Then he shouted that he had had quite enough of this carry-on and she’d better come out at once or he’d break down the door. I’d like to have seen that! Dad charging like a bull at Sally’s door and flattening it just like the Incredible Hulk. But he didn’t have to in the end because her door wasn’t locked anymore, so he just turned the handle and walked in — and there was nobody there. Sally had gone.

  Dad just stood there for a moment looking very cross, but then he went pale. He opened the wardrobe and looked inside, and then he bent down and looked under the bed. Of course, she wasn’t there. Her bed was made (very unusual that), and Sally was gone.

  “Where’s Sally?” Dad turned to me.

  “I don’t know,” I answered as fast as I could, but he didn’t wait.

  He pushed past me and raced down the stairs and out into the front garden and out into the middle of the road. Then he started looking up and down frantically. “Conor!” he shouted. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No,” said Conor.

  Then Dad walked very quickly back into the house. “Stay calm, children,” he said to Conor and me — but we were calm, at least compared with him. Then he was on the phone to Aunt B. and he wasn’t calm at all. “Betty, she’s gone!” he told her, and his voice was all shaky. Aunt B. must have asked who, because he said, “Sally, of course.” Then he put down the phone and said that Aunt Betty was coming over and we weren’t to panic, and that there was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for Sally not being in her room, and had either of us heard anything at all last night, and what were the names of all her friends, and that it was probably too soon to ring the police. And while Dad was saying all that without even stopping to take a breath, he was wringing his hands together as though he was trying to get them clean.

  I couldn’t help it — I started to cry, because first Mammy was gone and now Sally was gone, and even though I knew it wasn’t really the same thing I kept thinking, what if she doesn’t come back ever?

  Conor had his mobile phone out and he was trying to ring her. It was probably the first time he had ever tried to ring Sally. It was a surprise to me that he even had her number. He held the phone to his ear for a long time, but there was no answer.

  “Try again,” said Dad.

  So Conor did, but this time the phone did not even ring. It went straight to voice mail.

  Dad grabbed the phone off Conor. “Sally,” he shouted, “pick up the phone at once. You have us worried sick. Where are you?”

  But Sally did not pick up. Instead her phone went dead.

  Dad slumped into a chair. He looked very old and worn-out all of a sudden. Conor put his hand on his shoulder, and I put my arms around his neck.

  “It’s going to be all right, Mimi,” Dad said. “Sally will show up soon enough, you’ll see.” But his voice sounded flat and defeated, and I just knew he thought that she was gone forever, just like Mammy.

  Then Aunt B. arrived in her car, and she must have rung Aunt M. because she was in her car right behind. Aunt B. stepped out from behind the wheel and walked quickly up the path, Aunt M. trotting along after her. “Paul, put on the kettle,” she ordered Dad, “and you two go with Marigold. She’ll take you to school. And Mimi . . .”

  “Yes, Aunt B.?”

  “Stop sniffling. Sally is going to be perfectly all right.”

  On the way to school, Aunt M. told us to write down the names — and telephone numbers and addresses if we knew them — of all Sally’s friends. Of course Conor didn’t know any of their names and I only knew a few. Sally had hung around with new friends since Mammy died, and they didn’t really talk much whenever I met them. They just stood and looked bored and chewed gum, and sometimes they smoked.

  “They all wear black,” said Conor. “They’re Goths or something like that. What’s the one with the stud in her tongue called, Mimi?”

  I knew that one because she was Sarah’s sister. She looked frightening but she was nicer than her bully sister. “Her name is Tara Sinclair. I know her sister. She lives at fifty-six Bayside Close. But that’s the only one I know,” I told Aunt M., but she said that was fine. Tara would know the names of the other friends.

  “We should stay at home and help look for Sally,” said Conor.

  “We’ll let you know if there’s any news,” replied Aunt M., not really answering him. “There’s no point in everyone getting their knickers in a twist,” she said with a grin, and squeezed Conor’s knee.

  That was just like Aunt M. If you were on a sinking ship, like the Titanic, she would say something to make you smile and take your mind off things. “A lot worse things than Sally going missing for a few hours have happened on Southsiders, haven’t they, Mimi?”

  I knew she was just trying to cheer me up — and it did make me feel better when she said things like that.

  She dropped off Conor first. I was late again, so Aunt M. came into the school with me and talked outside the door with Ms. Hardy for about ten minutes. When she came in, Ms. Hardy just smiled at me and said nothing — but I could see Sarah making her narrow eyes, and I knew that there would be trouble at recess.

  However, at recess Ms. Hardy asked me to stay back. When everyone had gone out, she called me up to her desk.

  I thought I was in for it. “I meant to get my homework done, Ms. Hardy,” I blurted out in a rush. “I was in the middle of math when Mrs. Lemon rang the doorbell —”

  “Shh!” said Ms. Hardy in a kind voice. “That’s not what I want to talk to you about, Mimi.”

  “Oh,” I said, but I could feel this stupid lump in my throat, and I knew if I said anything at all I would just start crying.

  “Cry if you feel like it,” said Ms. Hardy in such a gentle voice that the next thing I knew I was hugging her and crying and crying, and she was rocking me gently to and fro and whispering, “Shh! There now, there now.”

  In the end I stopped crying. My face felt all wet and snotty. Ms. Hardy handed me a tissue and I blew my nose like a foghorn.

  “Mimi,” said Ms. Hardy, in her normal voice, “don’t worry about your homework until your sister shows up. You know, she’s probably at home right now having a cup of tea,” she finished with a smile. “Now, run along before you miss all of your break.” And she shooed me out of the room.

  Ms. Hardy was wrong. Sally was not at home when I got back after school. Grandad and Granny were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea.

  “Well, if it isn’t young Mimi herself,” declared Grandad when I walked in, but I could hear in his voice that he was only trying to be cheerful.

  “Now, Mimi,” said Granny in her bossy voice, “I want you to sit down and drink this lovely hot soup I’ve made!”

  So I drank my soup. Granny and Grandad just sat and watched me. It isn’t easy to drink soup when you are being watched. When I slurped it seemed very loud, and soup kept dribbling down my chin. Granny handed me a napkin. I just wished they would behave normally and fuss about. The silence seemed to stretch on and on like an elastic band until I was sure that it would snap. I could even hear a door closing next door. It was weird.

  “How was school?” asked Grandad in the end.

  “OK,” I answered, and then it was silent again.

  So I was really glad when my phone beeped. Granny and Grandad jumped.

  “Is that Sally?” said Granny before I could even get the phone out of my pocket.

  But it wasn’t. It was Orla. I heard bt Sal. B der in an hr.

  “Read it out
,” said Granny.

  “Only if you want to,” added Grandad.

  Well, I didn’t mind. “It’s from Orla. She’s heard about Sally and she’s coming over in an hour. I don’t know why.”

  “Oh, is that all,” said Granny, sounding disappointed.

  “It’s nice of her,” said Grandad. “You know who your friends are when you have troubles.” He squeezed my shoulder.

  Then the key turned in the front door and we all jumped up. It was Dad and Aunt B. and Aunt M. They didn’t look very cheerful.

  Dad slumped onto a chair. “Hi, Mimi,” he said, and held out his hand to me. I went over to him and he curled his arm around me and gave me a little hug, and I can’t explain why but that made me feel like crying again. But I didn’t this time. Aunt M. was talking.

  “So I spoke to Tara Sinclair, Sally’s friend, and she gave me the names of some of her other friends, and I’ve spoken to them too and Sally hasn’t been in touch with any of them. They had no idea where she might be, but I gave them my number and if they hear anything they’ll be in touch straightaway. It seems she has turned off her phone, or maybe the battery is dead. Is it time we called the police?”

  I could feel Dad stiffening when she said that.

  “I think we should, Paul,” said Aunt B.

  I remember when the policeman came to our house after Mammy had been run over. He had his cap in his hand and he looked really uncomfortable. I didn’t know why he was there. I thought maybe Conor had done something wrong, but Dad just went white and stood back to let the policeman come in. Then he said he had some very bad news about Poppy, and Dad just sort of fell into the armchair and covered his face with his hands and cried, “No, no.” Then the policeman put his hand on Dad’s shoulder and said that there had been an accident — and that was the worst day of my life.

  “I don’t want you to tell the policeman,” I whimpered.

  “I think we have to,” said Dad.

  “Just wait,” I cried. And I pulled out of his arm and ran out of the room and up the stairs and into Sally’s room.