The Endsister

by Penni Russon

  It is the first day at Clancy’s new school, which looks half like his old school and half like the Natural History Museum. Clancy sees Pippa in a crowd and calls out, but Pippa merely glances back over her shoulder and keeps moving away from him. The other children throng between them, with blank, unsmiling faces and he pushes through, desperate to get to Pippa. When he does finally catch up to her, it’s in a large classroom, but there are no desks or chairs. He taps her on the shoulder and she turns around. ‘Love,’ she says, and starts swaying her hips from side to side, like she’s dancing. Clancy sees that all the other children in the classroom are also girls and they all start swinging their hips, with their strange, serious faces. ‘Love,’ they drone, swaying three times. ‘Love,’ they say again. Over and over, saying ‘love’ and swaying their hips, swinging their long ponytails, never smiling.

  Finn has found the box of family photographs. He’s rummaging around inside, looking for pictures of himself, but all he finds are photographs of Oscar. Oscar swimming, Oscar running, Oscar playing cricket and football. Oscar smiling straight into the camera. ‘What’s the difference?’ Else asks. ‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’

  Oscar is playing sport but there’s no ball and he’s not sure of the rules. Everyone’s running around on the field, and he runs with them. All the boys shoulder each other out of the way, jostling each other. Unprepared for a flying tackle, Oscar gets knocked off his feet. ‘You lose,’ the tackling boy tells Oscar. ‘You have to get off the field now.’ Oscar goes to the sidelines and the coach tells him that he can’t play without his twin, but when he looks around, it’s not Finn running out on the field, it’s Sibbi.

  Olly is standing in the lounge room of Outhwaite House, which is very formally furnished. There is a fire in the fireplace. She is seventeen years old, and wearing a straight, sensible grey skirt and a cream-coloured silk blouse. Her father is standing by the piano. He says, ‘Don’t be foolish, Dorothy. That is the last I will hear of it.’ And Olly says, ‘But I’ve almost finished my doctoral thesis, Papa.’ Her father says, ‘I find that very hard to believe, young lady, you’ve hardly written a word.’ He hands her an envelope. She opens it up and inside is her PhD thesis, handwritten on thin sheets of paper. She can see that it’s not enough, but she looks at her father and says, ‘You stupid man, can’t you see I’ve written on both sides of the pages?’ He roars, furious, and sends her out. In the hallway she leans against the wall, and tears her thesis into little pieces. Instantly she regrets it. She’s on hands and knees, sweeping the pieces of paper towards her, but it’s too late, the damage is done. Only it’s not a thesis. It’s a love letter and a goodbye.

  Dave is in the front room of Outhwaite House, with the curtains drawn. There are two coffins, a long one and a short one. ‘Well, it was a cruel time,’ Olly says, slipping her arm into Dave’s. ‘No antibiotics. No immunisations. Filthy streets and hospitals. Children died all the time. I’m thinking about writing a book about it. It’s terribly interesting.’

  ‘But who’s in the coffins?’ Dave asks.

  ‘Oh, David,’ says Olly. ‘Honestly. Who do you think?’ She turns to him, smiling. ‘We’re so lucky,’ says Olly. ‘We’re so frightfully, frightfully lucky.’

  Else is standing in the road. It is Mortlake Road, but not how it is now; it’s how it must have been more than a hundred years ago, before cars and electric lights. She’s wearing all black, Victorian mourning clothes; she’s buttoned, sheathed, laced and bound, layers upon layers of restrictive garments, from neck to knee and she can hardly breathe, but that might be because she is weeping. There’s a funeral procession – a tiny child-sized coffin being carried down the street. The girl standing next to Else digs her nails into her arm. Else recognises her as one of Sibbi’s ghosts. She says to Else, ‘You never wanted a sister. Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Else protests. She looks down at her hands and finds she is holding Prince George’s tiny violin.

  ‘Every wrong note was hurting her,’ says Almost Annie, sorrowfully. ‘It’s all your fault.’

  ELSE

  I WAKE SUDDENLY to the sound of a horn blaring.

  I’m standing in the middle of Mortlake Road. I’m wearing the clothes I went to bed in: T-shirt, loose gym shorts. The night air is cold on my skin. A horn blares again. I leap out of the way of a black cab coming towards me, with no intention, apparently, of actually slowing down.

  ‘You all right?’ There are two guys walking up the street, both wearing tight tops, tight pants, like they’ve been out dancing.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell them.

  For a moment the dream takes over again and the street flickers back to Old Mortlake Road. I remember the coffin and shiver.

  ‘You lost?’ they ask me.

  ‘I must have been sleepwalking,’ I say.

  ‘Hey, that’s okay,’ one of them says. ‘Sleepwalking’s cool. Only the best people continue their adventures in their sleep.’

  His partner frowns, concerned. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  I nod. I’ve reoriented myself, Outhwaite House is behind me and the front door is open. The two guys walk up the street holding hands. As one leans his head on the other’s shoulder, I’ve never felt more alone.

  ELSE

  AT BREAKFAST I can barely stand to be in the same room as any of my family. I eat two bites of my Weetabix, Sibbi eats half a bite of hers and starts whimpering, and Olly joylessly works her way through a bowl of rolled oats and yoghurt.

  We step out into the street. Olly flinches when the door to Outhwaite House slams behind her.

  ‘Come on. Keep up.’ I stride down the street ahead of them.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ asks Olly.

  ‘I don’t smell anything,’ I snap back over my shoulder. But it’s probably the plastic bags full of rubbish on the streets, because they don’t seem to have a proper bin collection here. Though it’s drizzling, the air is oddly warm and the rain feels slightly greasy. Olly and Sibbi look pale and shaky, as though the colour of home is slowly seeping out of them. Instead of that arousing my sympathies, it makes me feel even crosser, especially with Olly. The rest of us have adjusted. Why can’t she?

  Olly keeps tight hold of Sibbi’s hand, though Sibbi squirms and tries to pull away. Olly fumbles with the credit card, trying to buy a ticket. It’s me who has to explain how it’s done. Olly sits back passively, clutching Sibbi as I watch the names of stations slide past us.

  At Hammersmith I stand up. ‘We change here for the Piccadilly line,’ I tell Olly, and she leaps up in a panic even though the train hasn’t so much as opened its doors yet.

  ‘Let’s stay together,’ Olly keeps gasping as we walk to the other platform. She tries to take hold of my arm but I pull away. We board safely. I sit away from Olly and Sibbi, holding the violin case on my lap. I watch my reflection in the opposite window, pretending I don’t belong with Olly and Sibbi. I catch sight of Olly’s reflection as she reaches up to push her hair out of her face. Olly has always looked young for her age, but now her face looks pinched and pale and unhappy. Middle-aged. My mother looks middle-aged. I feel no pity. Only rage.

  I look strange too. I am a stranger to myself. My outside doesn’t match up with my insides. My face appears calm and still, but inside I am churning with anger.

  ‘Get off here,’ I bark, as the train pulls into Knightsbridge.

  Mortifyingly Olly stops to ask someone for directions, but I tug her away.

  ‘We don’t need directions. We follow the signs.’ I point to one that says Harrods. I wave my Oyster card, still in my wallet, at the gate and it opens. Olly fumbles to get out her own card, and then pulls Sibbi hurriedly through the gate with her, again as if they might get separated. Sibbi cries out, ‘You’re hurting me.’ People turn around to glare at Olly and I try to disappear.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie.’ Olly loosens her grip, but she doesn’t let go. Olly is supposed to be the grown-up, the one in charge, but
she seems entirely diminished by London, and even more so by the opulence of Harrods.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ I say. ‘It’s only a department store.’

  I march up to someone serving behind a counter and ask for directions to school uniforms. We take the escalators up to the fourth floor. Olly gazes around like a tourist, but she seems to take no pleasure in the architecture, or the golden Egyptian statue, or the gleaming floors of designer goods, toys, manchester. Champagne flutes for ten thousand pounds apiece. I know what Olly will be thinking. She hates luxury.

  ‘Don’t. Touch. Anything,’ Olly hisses to Sibbi, who looks pale and small.

  Meanwhile I am fascinated by the song of the expensive things, the high-pitched humming of diamond-studded goblets, of little cakes decorated with real gold leaf, of a richness of objects beyond my imagination. I want to touch everything, try on the hats, drape scarves and necklaces around myself, cloud myself in perfume, slip between the sheets of beds on display. I want to wear Harrods like a costume, and become someone else entirely.

  Sibbi pulls at Olly’s hand as we sail up past the toy department. ‘Look at the castle. Look at the teddy! I want to see the big teddy.’ Sibbi tugs, but Olly holds on tight and says, ‘Shush, Sibbi. Later.’

  In the school uniform department, it is not simply a matter of trying on clothes. First I must be measured. I stand stiff and embarrassed while the woman pulls the tape measure around my bust.

  ‘You can put your violin here if you like.’

  I hadn’t realised I was still holding it.

  ‘Do you play?’ the saleswoman asks, wrapping the tape measure around my waist. ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ I answer shortly. ‘I’m returning it today.’

  The woman sticks her head out of the curtain. ‘Will she require the orchestra uniform?’ she asks Olly.

  ‘Orchestra uniform?’ Olly sounds vaguely panicky, like the woman is speaking a language Olly doesn’t understand.

  ‘She’ll need the summer skirt, two shirts at least, a blazer, a V-neck jumper and a boater. Lacrosse uniform?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘And do you want her fitted for a winter uniform now too?’

  ‘How much is all this going to cost?’ Olly asks.

  ‘Shall we begin with the summer uniform?’ the woman says, kindly and without judgement. ‘And you can wait and see about the rest.’

  ‘Why are we still so poor?’ I demand loudly. ‘We’ve inherited this big house and all that stuff, I don’t get it.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Olly says through the curtain. ‘We’re not poor,’ she reassures the saleswoman with the tape measure. ‘We were never poor,’ she tells me. ‘You don’t know what it even means to be poor. We’ve always had food to eat and somewhere to sleep. We’ve always been safe and warm.’

  ‘Quite right, dear,’ says the saleswoman, who is at least twenty years older than Olly. ‘Young ’uns today don’t know what it is to go without, do they?’

  I seal my mouth shut, quietly fuming.

  For a moment I think the saleswoman is going to stay with me and watch me try the things on, but she finally leaves me alone with the various garments. I step into the knee-length skirt, and button up the modest lavender shirt. With black tights and school shoes, I’ll look more like I’m dressed for a boring office job than school. The skirt is loose enough that it doesn’t show any curves but tight enough that I won’t be able to stride comfortably in it – the sort of girly attire I’ve avoided most of my life. Even in orchestra I was allowed to wear pants.

  The girl in the mirror is, and is not quite, me. She is an approximation. She is Harrods. She is Lady Jane Whatsit. She is Someone Else.

  I come out of the change room to show Olly. Olly shrugs. ‘You’re the one who has to wear it. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a uniform,’ I say. ‘I’m not supposed to like it.’

  The woman with the tape measure brings Sibbi out of the change room. ‘What do you think, Mother?’ says the woman, seeming misty-eyed herself. ‘I do like to see a little girl in a proper school uniform.’

  Sibbi wears a pleated skirt, a shirt with a collar, a tartan tie and a buttoned-up cardigan.

  What’s happened to Sibbi? It’s not just the uniform. Sibbi’s whole self is changed. Paler and weaker. This little English child, scrawny and pasty, could never climb a tree or spin around and around under an expansive Australian sky. Some quality of Sibbi – her very Sibbiness – has been turned down, like turning down the volume of a television. There is something curiously flat about her face, like she is not quite a girl but a very good likeness of a girl.

  London is pulling all of us apart in all directions, but I suddenly realise it is physically hurting Sibbi to be here.

  ‘They grow up so fast,’ the woman with the tape measure says.

  ‘Do they?’ says Olly. ‘Yes, I suppose they do.’

  Olly! So vague, so insular and withdrawn, as if everything that happens to her happens deep within, somewhere we children can’t see.

  In the change room, I strip off the uniform and pull my own street clothes back on. Suddenly I want to be out of Harrods. I’ve tried it on, and now I just want to get away as fast as I can. I want to get Sibbi away too. I want to take Sibbi to a park, to a big expanse of green and run with her and shout and climb. I want to see Sibbi play.

  But then I remember the violin. I pick it up. I have to return it. I have to return the violin, and buy the uniform and go to the Lady Emily Hartington School for Girls. This is the tight little life I have made for myself, the life I have bound and laced myself into, and there’s no way back, no seam to unpick without everything unravelling around me.

  SIBBI

  KNOCK KNOCK. WHO’S there? Mirror. Mirror who?

  The schoolgirl looks at Sibbi. She is Sibbi and she is not Sibbi and Sibbi does not have the black forever texta to scribble her out. If she had the sharp scissors she would cut cut cut. Cut Sibbi’s hair. Cut cut cut. Cut Sibbi’s school uniform. Cut cut cut. Cut the measuring tape of the helper lady. But Mama took the sharp scissors and carried them away.

  Sibbi takes off the schoolgirl clothes and lays them on the floor in the shape of a girl. Sibbi thinks it is a good girl. Sibbi thinks it is a naughty girl in the shape of a good girl.

  Sibbi puts on her blue shorts and red T-shirt and brown sandals and looks in the mirror again.

  Knock knock. Who’s there? Nobody. Nobody who? Nobody nobody.

  She walks out of the change rooms. Mama is just over there and the helper lady with the tape measure is plussing all the numbers of the things they have to buy. Olly will be ages because grown-ups always talk and Sibbi is ready now, ready to see the toys.

  ELSE

  OLLY IS AT the counter, her face tense as the woman adds up the purchases. She glances up at me.

  ‘Where’s Sibbi?’ she asks.

  ‘Isn’t she with you?’

  ‘She must still be getting her shoes on, can you hurry her along?’

  ‘Why do I have to?’

  I go back to the change room.

  ‘Sibbi?’ I call out. I tweak open the curtain. ‘Come on, time to go.’ But Sibbi isn’t there. The uniform is laid out on the floor, empty.

  I feel a tight, sick squeeze. It’s not like Sibbi’s never wandered off before, but this is Harrods, a huge department store with floors and floors. This is London, a sprawling city, a foreign land, far from the Australian hills Sibbi has been roaming since she learned to walk. There’s no kind Aunty May keeping an eye on her as she trots up and down the kangaroo tracks.

  ‘Mum!’ I call out. ‘She’s not here.’

  Olly and the saleswoman look at each other in shock.

  ‘Sibbi!’ Olly calls. She and I call for Sibbi, looking around the clothing stands and displays. ‘Sibbi! Sibbi!’ Other shoppers look up, annoyed or curious, but none offer to help.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Olly, tapping the arm of
a passing woman. ‘Have you seen a little girl? Four years old and . . .’ The elderly shoppers shake their heads and move away, the woman rubbing her arm where Olly made contact.

  I try with someone else. ‘Excuse me, have you seen my sister? She’s this high, wearing, um . . .’ I can’t remember what Sibbi was wearing. All I can see is Sibbi in her school uniform, little sickly Sibbi.

  ‘She’ll turn up, love,’ the lady says. ‘She’ll be in among the toys, no doubt.’

  But the more I look, the more Sibbi is not anywhere.

  The saleswoman picks up the phone and speaks quickly and sharply into it. An announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Harrods. We have a missing girl in the store, four years old, wearing a red T-shirt, blue shorts and brown sandals. If you see her please contact a member of staff. Thank you.’

  Olly says, ‘You go up, I’ll go down.’

  ‘What if we can’t find her?’ I say. ‘What if –?’

  ‘Stop,’ Olly snaps. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, then says, ‘Let’s just look, okay? We need to keep our cool. We’ll see more if we’re calm. Breathe.’

  This was so Olly. If I lose a library book or Dave can’t find the car keys, she will say, ‘Stress narrows your focus. Breathe and be calm. Stay open to all possibilities. The lost thing will reappear.’