Our mother has been desperate to marry Dave from the moment she set eyes on him, yet Dave, even with his divorce now finalized, has not proposed, clearly not prepared to take on the extra baggage of another large family. Our mother has already made her choice – but now I’m about to turn eighteen and legally become an adult I fear she may cut us off completely in a final bid to get that ring on her finger. Every time I force her to part with some money for the basics – food, bills, new clothes, school things – she starts yelling about how she left school and started work at sixteen, moved out and asked her parents for nothing. Reminding her that she didn’t have three younger siblings to care for is her cue to go on about how she never wanted children in the first place, how she only had us to please our father, how he’d wanted another and another until, tiring of us all, he’d run off to start anew with someone else. I point out that our father’s desertion does not somehow magically give her the right to desert us too. But this only provokes her further, prompting the cheap-shot reminder that she would never have married our father had she not accidentally got pregnant with me. I know she says this out of drunken fury, but I also know it’s true: this is why she has continued resenting me, far more than the others, all my life. This then leads to the usual tirade about how she works fourteen-hour days just to keep a roof over our heads, that all she asks of me is that I look after my siblings for a few hours after school each day. If I try reminding her that although this was the initial set-up when our father left, the reality now is very different, she starts screaming about her right to a life too. Finally I find myself reduced to blackmail: only the threat of us all turning up at Dave’s, suitcases in hand, will force her to part with the cash. In many ways I am thankful she has finally gone from our lives, even if it means that thoughts about the future, our future, weigh heavily upon me.
Sleep evades me once more, so in the early hours of the morning I go down to the kitchen to tackle the pile of letters addressed to Mum that have been accumulating on the sideboard for weeks now. By the time I finish opening them all, the kitchen table is completely covered with bills, credit card statements, payment demands . . . Maya touches the back of my neck, making me jump.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’ She takes the chair beside me, resting her bare feet on the edge of mine, circling her knees with her arms. In her nightdress, her hair hanging loose and smooth, the colour of autumn leaves, she looks up at me with eyes as wide and innocent as Willa’s. Her beauty makes me ache.
‘You look just like Tiffin when he’s lost a match and is trying to put on a brave face,’ she comments, laughter in her eyes.
I manage a small laugh. Sometimes, being unable to hide my emotions from her is frustrating.
The laughter leaves an unsettling silence.
Maya tugs gently at my hand. ‘Tell me.’
I take a sharp, shallow breath and shake my head at the floor. ‘Just, you know, the future and stuff.’
Although she keeps smiling, I see her eyes change and sense she has been thinking about this too. ‘That’s a big topic for three o’clock in the morning. Any part of it in particular?’
I force my eyes to meet hers. ‘Roughly from here up until the part where Willa goes off to university or starts work.’
‘I think you’re jumping the gun a bit!’ Maya exclaims, clearly determined to snap me out of my mood. ‘Willa is destined for greater things. The other day I had to take her to Belmont with me to pick up some homework I’d forgotten and everyone turned to mush! My art teacher said we should get her signed up with a children’s modelling agency. So I reckon we just invest in her, and by the time she’s eighteen she’ll be on the catwalk and supporting us! Then there’s Tiffin. Rumour has it, Coach Simmons has never seen so much talent in one so young! And you know what they pay footballers!’ She laughs, frantic in her efforts to cheer me up.
‘Good point. Exactly . . .’ I try to imagine Willa on a catwalk in the hope it will prompt a genuine smile. ‘That’s a great idea! You can be her, um, stylist and I can be her manager.’
But the silence descends again. It’s clear from her expression that Maya is aware her tactics haven’t worked. She skims her nails over the palm of my hand, her expression sobering. ‘Listen, you. First of all, we don’t know what’s going to happen with Mum and the whole financial situation. Even if she does marry Dave and tries to cut us off financially, we could just threaten to take her to court and sue her for neglect – she’s too stupid to realize we’d never go through with it because of Social Services. And by our mere existence, we’ll always have the potential to mess up her relationship – the threats about turning up at Dave’s in order to get her to pay the bills have worked so far, haven’t they? Thirdly, by the time you finish uni, a lot will almost have changed. Willa will be nearly nine, Tiffin will almost be a teenager. They’ll be going to school by themselves, will be responsible for their own homework. Kit may have grown a conscience by then, but even if he hasn’t, we’ll insist he either goes out and gets a job or takes over his fair share of the chores – even if we have to resort to blackmail.’ She smiles, raising my hand to her mouth to kiss it. ‘The toughest part is happening right now, Lochie – with Mum suddenly out of the picture and Tiffin and Willa still so young. But it’s only going to get easier: things will get better for all of us, and you and I will have more and more time together. Trust me, my love. I’ve been thinking about it too and I’m not just saying all this to try and cheer you up.’
I raise my eyes to meet hers and feel some of the weight lift from my chest. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that . . .’
‘That’s because you’re always busy thinking of the worst-case scenario! And because you always do your worrying alone.’ She gives me a teasing smile and shakes her head. ‘Also you always forget about the most important thing!’
I manage to match her smile. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Me,’ she declares with a flourish, flinging out her arm and knocking over the milk carton in the process. Fortunately it is almost empty.
‘You and your ability to send things flying.’
‘Well, exactly,’ she concurs. ‘And the very important fact that I’m here to worry with you and go through all of this – every little bit of it by your side: even your worst-case scenario, should it somehow come to that. You wouldn’t be doing any of it alone.’ Her voice drops and she looks down at our hands, fingers entwined, resting on her lap. ‘Whatever happens, there will always be us.’
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. I want to tell her that I can’t pull her down. I want to tell her that she has to let go of my hand in order to swim. I want to tell her that she must live her own life. But I sense she already knows these options are open to her. And that she too has made her choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Maya
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Francie begs. ‘Oh, come on, then – ten. Lochan knows you had a late class so surely an extra ten minutes isn’t going to make much difference!’
I look at my friend’s pleading, hopeful face and a moment of temptation flickers through me. An ice-cold Coke and maybe a muffin at Smileys with Francie while she tries to get herself noticed by the new young waiter she has discovered there – postponing the hectic evening routine of homework, dinner, baths and bed – suddenly feels like an absurd luxury . . .
‘Just give Lochan a call now,’ Francie persists as we cross the playground, bags slung over our shoulders, heads foggy and bodies restless after the long, stale school day. ‘Why on earth would he mind?’
He wouldn’t, that’s the whole point. In fact he would urge me to go, and that knowledge weighs me down with guilt. Leaving him to make dinner and supervise homework and deal with Kit when his school day has been nearly as long as mine and undoubtedly more painful. But more to the point, I ache to see him even if it entails spending another evening struggling against the painful urge to hold him, touch him, kiss him. I miss him after a whole day apart – I literally miss him. And e
ven if it means diving straight from a deathly history lesson into the manic home fray, I can’t wait to do it just to see his eyes light up at the sight of me, the smile of delight that greets me whenever I step through the front door – even when he is juggling saucepans in the kitchen, trying to persuade Tiffin to lay the table and stop Willa stuffing herself with cereal.
‘I just can’t. I’m sorry,’ I tell Francie. ‘There’s just so much stuff to do.’
But for once she displays no sympathy. Instead she sucks on her lower lip, leaning her shoulder against the outer wall of the school playground, the place at which we normally part. ‘I thought I was your best friend,’ she says suddenly, hurt and disappointment resonating in her voice.
I flinch in surprise. ‘You are – you know you are – it’s got nothing to do with—’
‘I know what’s going on, Maya,’ she interrupts, her words slicing the air between us.
My pulse begins to quicken. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘You’ve met someone, haven’t you.’ She phrases it as a statement, folding her arms across her chest and turning to press her back against the wall, looking away from me, her jaw set.
I am momentarily lost for words. ‘No!’ The word is no more than an astonished little gasp. ‘I haven’t. I promise. Why did you . . . ? What made you think . . . ?’
‘I don’t believe you.’ She shakes her head, still staring angrily into the distance. ‘I know you, Maya, and you’ve changed. When you talk, you always seem to be thinking about something else. It’s like you’re daydreaming or something. And you seem weirdly happy these days. And you’re always rushing off at the last bell. I know you’ve got all that shit to deal with at home but it’s as if you’re looking forward to it now, as if you can’t wait to get away—’
‘Francie, I really haven’t got some secret boyfriend!’ I protest desperately. ‘You know you’d be the first to know if I had!’ The words sound so sincere as they leave my lips that I feel slightly ashamed. But he’s not just a boyfriend, I tell myself. He’s so much more.
Francie scrutinizes my face as she continues to quiz me, but after a few moments she begins to calm down, appearing to believe me. I have to make up some crush on a boy in the Upper Sixth to explain the daydreaming, but fortunately I have the presence of mind to choose one who already has a steady girlfriend so Francie won’t try to matchmake. But the conversation leaves me shaken. I’m going to have to be more careful, I realize. I’m even going to have to watch the way I behave when I’m away from him. Just the tiniest slip could give us away . . .
I arrive home to find Kit and Tiffin in the front room watching TV, which surprises me. Not so much the fact that they are watching television, but that they are doing it simultaneously and that Tiffin is the one with the remote control. Kit is slouched down at one end of the couch, his muddy school shoes half untied, head propped up on his hand, gazing dully at the screen. Tiffin has traces of ketchup down his shirt and is kneeling up at the other end of the couch, transfixed by some violent cartoon, his eyes wide, mouth hovering open like a fish. Neither one turns as I enter.
‘Hello!’ I exclaim.
Tiffin holds up a packet of Coco Pops and shakes it vaguely in my direction, his gaze still fixed straight ahead. ‘We’re allowed,’ he announces.
‘Before dinner?’ I query suspiciously, tossing my blazer onto the sofa and collapsing on top of it. ‘Tiffin, I don’t think that’s a very good—’
‘This is dinner,’ he informs me, taking another large handful from the box and cramming it in his mouth, scattering the area around him. ‘Lochie said we could eat whatever we liked.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve gone to the hospital.’ Kit rolls his head round to look at me with a long-suffering air. ‘And I have to stay down here with Tiffin and live off cereal for the foreseeable future.’
I sit up slowly. ‘Lochie and Willa have gone to hospital?’ I ask, disbelief resonating in my voice.
‘Yeah,’ comes Kit’s reply.
‘What the hell happened?’ My voice rises and I jump up and start rummaging in my bag for my keys. Startled by my shout, both boys finally tear their eyes away from the screen.
‘I bet it’s nothing,’ Kit says bitterly. ‘I bet they’re going to spend all night waiting in Casualty, Willa will fall asleep and by the time she wakes up, she’ll be saying it doesn’t even hurt any more.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tiffin turns to him, his blue eyes wide and accusing. ‘Maybe she’ll have to get an operation. Maybe they’ll amputate her—’
‘What happened?’ I yell, frantic now.
‘I dunno! She hurt her arm, I wasn’t even down here!’ Kit says defensively.
‘I was,’ Tiffin announces importantly, shoving his whole arm into the cereal box. ‘She slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor and started screaming. When Lochie picked her up she screamed even more so he carried her out into the street to get a taxi and she was still screaming—’
‘Where have they gone?’ I grab Kit by the arm and shake him. ‘St Joseph’s?’
‘Ow, get off! Yes, that’s what he said.’
‘Neither of you move!’ I shout from the doorway. ‘Tiffin, you’re not to go outside, do you hear me? Kit, can you promise you’ll stay with Tiffin until I get back? And answer the phone as soon as it rings?’
Kit rolls his eyes dramatically. ‘Lochan’s already been through all this—’
‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes!’
‘And don’t open the door to anyone, and if there’s any problem call my mobile!’
‘OK, OK!’
I run the whole way. It’s a good two miles but the rush-hour traffic is such that taking a bus would be slower if not more torturous. Running helps activate the safety valve in my brain, forcing out visions of an injured, screaming Willa. If anything terrible has happened to that child, I will die, I know it. My love for her is like a violent pain in my chest and the blood throbs in my head, a pounding hammer of guilt, once again forcing me to acknowledge that since my relationship with Lochan began – despite my recent efforts – I have still not been paying my little sister as much attention as before. I’ve rushed her through baths and bedtimes and stories, I’ve snapped at her at times when Tiffin was the culprit, I’ve declined request after request to play with her, citing housework or homework as an excuse, too wrapped up in keeping everything in order to give her a mere ten minutes of my time. Kit commands attention constantly with his volatility, Tiffin with his hyperactivity, leaving Willa by the wayside, drowned out by her brothers during dinner-table conversations. As her only sister, I used to play dolls and tea-parties with her, dress her up, play with her hair. But these days I have been so preoccupied with other things I even failed to register that she’d fallen out with her best friend, failed to recognize that she needed me: to listen to her stories, ask her about her day, and praise her for her almost impeccable behaviour which, by its very nature, did not draw attention. The gash on her leg for example: not only was Willa stuck at school in pain all afternoon with no one to fetch her and comfort her, but – worse and more telling still – she didn’t even think of saying anything to me about the incident until I happened to notice the huge plaster beneath the hole in her tights.
I am close to tears by the time I reach the hospital, and once inside, trying to get directions almost sends me over the edge. Eventually I locate Children’s Outpatients, am told that Willa is fine but ‘resting’ and that I will be able to see her as soon as she wakes. I am shown to a small room off a long corridor and informed that Willa’s ward is just round the corner and that a doctor will come and speak to me shortly. As soon as the nurse disappears, I burst back out again.
Rounding a corner, I recognize, down at the far end of another blindingly white corridor, a familiar figure in front of the brightly painted doors of the children’s ward. Head lowered, he is leaning forward on his hands, gripping the edge of a wind
owsill.
‘Lochie!’
He whirls round as if struck, straightens up slowly, then approaches me rapidly, raising his hands as if in surrender.
‘She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s absolutely fine – they gave her a sedative and gas and air for the pain and were able to push the bone straight back in. I’ve just seen her and she’s fast asleep but she looks completely fine. After they X-rayed her the second time, the doctors said they were certain there’d be no long-term damage – she won’t even need a plaster cast and her shoulder will be back to normal in a week or possibly even less! They said dislocated shoulders happen to children all the time, that it’s really quite common, they see it all the time, it’s nothing to worry about!’ He is speaking insanely fast, his eyes radiating a kind of frenzied optimism, looking at me with a frantic, almost pleading look as if expecting me to start jumping up and down in relief.
I stop dead, panting hard, brushing the stray wisps of hair back from my face, and stare at him.
‘She dislocated her shoulder?’ I gasp.
He flinches, as if stung by the words. ‘Yeah, but that’s all! Nothing else! They’ve X-rayed her and everything and—’
‘What happened?’
‘She just fell off the kitchen counter!’ He tries to touch me but I move out of the way. ‘Look, she’s fine, Maya, I’m telling you! There’s nothing broken: the bone just popped out of the shoulder socket. I know it sounds dramatic, but all they had to do was push it back in. They gave her gas and air so it wasn’t too – too painful, and – and now she’s just resting.’
His manic demeanour and rapid-fire speech is faintly horrifying. His hair is on end, as if he has been running his fingers through it and tugging it repeatedly, his face white, his school shirt hanging loose over his trousers, clinging to his skin in damp patches.
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