Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  He looked so funny, Billy, solemn and tiny at the big piano, but playing with such confidence. He sat perched on the stool, his feet not even reaching the pedals. But Sarah watched him with a big, choking lump in her throat, because listening to piano music – any piano music – reminded her of Rachel. Every day at home Rachel practised. Scales and exercises and boring things like that, but then she’d play proper music too. Sarah’s favourite was called Für Elise and she knew it was by Ludwig van Beethoven. Last time Billy Watkins had played in assembly, it had been a piece from A Little Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, but Bach, like Beethoven, was a German composer, and Sarah supposed that no one wanted to hear German tunes now, because Germany was the enemy.

  Für Elise was still her favourite, though, and she knew it so well that she could hear it in her head, even if she would never hear Rachel play it again.

  She liked the way it started, as if leaning sadly into itself, falling into a run of deeper notes. The beginning bit was easy, Rachel said, and she even taught Sarah how to play it. Rachel had written the names of the notes above the line of music, and they’d play that bit together, Sarah perching on the stool to Rachel’s right, carefully playing her nine notes: E D# E D# E B D (making sure to play the ordinary note, not the black one this time) C A. Her fingers weren’t strong enough to give each note its proper weight, but Rachel didn’t criticize. She only smiled, waiting to come in with the solemn, deeper voice of the left hand, then both hands together, and Sarah would move back until Rachel nodded and it was time to play the same nine notes again. They kept coming back. Sarah would watch Rachel’s clever hands, bouncing and rippling over the keys, as the music became difficult in the middle part: crashing and dramatic, the notes on the score clustering themselves in black clumps and climbing right above the staves where Sarah had no idea what their names were. But right at the end her own phrase repeated itself, as if it had been waiting all the time to calm down the fierceness and make it peaceful again. I’ll be able to play the whole thing, Sarah thought, both hands together, when I’m as big as Rachel. All by myself.

  All by myself. Now she was all by herself, and it wasn’t what she had meant. Not what she had meant at all.

  Sarah was trying to scream, but no scream could get through the tightness of her throat. She strained and strained, eventually producing a wailing noise that sounded as if someone else was making it.

  And now someone was coming in, clicking the light switch, padding over to her bed: Aunt Enid, soft and cushiony in a candlewick dressing gown, smelling of talcum powder and face cream. ‘Shh, shh, lovey!’ she soothed, kneeling, clasping Sarah in a big cuddle. ‘Whatever’s wrong? Was it a bad dream?’

  ‘Rachel. I – want – Rachel—’ Sarah’s sobs were like hiccups, stopping her from breathing properly.

  ‘Who’s Rachel, love? I don’t know a Rachel.’

  ‘Yes, you do!’ Sarah shouted. ‘Rachel’s my sister and I want her here with me!’

  ‘Say it in English, lovey, you know I can’t understand.’

  Sister. Sister. That was the word. Not so different from the German Schwester.

  ‘Rachel is my sister,’ Sarah said in her heavily accented English. Auntie Enid frowned, and began to rock her.

  ‘No, no, lovey. You haven’t got a sister. You must have been dreaming.’

  ‘I have! I have got a sister!’ Sarah struggled to free herself from the soft, suffocating clasp. ‘She’s left behind in Germany!’

  ‘But—’ Auntie Enid held her at arm’s length and looked into her face. ‘You never said anything about a sister! You told me you were the only child!’

  ‘It was a secret,’ Sarah mumbled, looking aside because the light hurt her eyes. ‘When I first was here I didn’t want Rachel to come. Then I did, but now too late.’

  ‘Secret? Why would you keep something like that a secret?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sarah pulled at frayed threads on her eiderdown. ‘But I did.’

  ‘How old is Rachel?’ said Auntie, in a different, more serious voice that told Sarah she was beginning to believe her.

  ‘Eighteen, much older than me. Look, I’ve got photos.’ Sarah reached for the copy of Heidi on her bedside table. She kept them tucked into the back cover, the two black-and-white photographs Mutti had given her to put in her suitcase. For a long time Sarah had kept them hidden in the pouch compartment, but now that she’d told Helga about Rachel she kept them in her book, as a marker, to look at first thing each morning and at bed time. ‘Rachel went specially to the photographer’s studio to have this one taken,’ she told Auntie Enid. ‘It was her birthday.’

  Mutti had done Rachel’s hair in what she called earphones – parting it severely in the middle, making two long plaits, then winding them around Rachel’s ears.

  ‘Rachel hated it when she first got her glasses,’ Sarah said. ‘But she couldn’t see properly without them. And she said it was awful sitting there feeling silly while the photographer took ages messing about with lenses and hoods. That cardigan was a birthday present. I helped Mutti choose it. You can’t tell but it’s a sort of dark maroon colour – like plums, not the golden ones, the little dark dark red ones, damsons.’

  ‘In English, Sarah. Don’t you know the English words?’

  Sarah shook her head, giving up. There were too many words. She passed Auntie Enid the second photograph.

  ‘This is Rachel and me in the garden at home,’ she said in English. ‘We’re having a – a—’ The word defeated her again.

  ‘Picnic,’ said Auntie Enid, ‘it looks like.’

  Sarah and Rachel were sitting each side of a tablecloth spread on the lawn, under the big plane tree with its distinctive bark. Picnics at home were always rather formal, since Mutti could not bear to do without plates, cutlery and linen napkins. Sarah sat cross-legged in her pink dress with the embroidered pocket, and was showing her knickers; Rachel was more poised and elegant, her legs folded to one side, like someone in a magazine picture.

  ‘That must have been before she got her glasses. But Mutti’s written on the back, look. That’s Mutti’s writing. Rachel. Rachel and Sarah in the garden.’

  ‘And she stayed at home with your parents? She’d have been too old to come out, the way you did. Oh, lovey.’ Auntie Enid began to rock her again, holding her tightly. ‘My poor love, my poor little love. And you’ve kept it all to yourself, all this upset, you’ve never even said!’

  Sarah tried to push her away. ‘Mutti,’ she wept, ‘I want Mutti! And Vati. And Rachel.’

  ‘I know, I know, my darling lovey, of course you do. And Mutti and Vati and Rachel want you too, more than anything in the world – believe me, they do.’

  ‘I’ll never see them again, will I?’

  ‘Shh, shh, my love, don’t say that. No good making yourself miserable about something that hasn’t happened! Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe you’ll all be together again before long. Where was Rachel when you saw her last? Was she at home?’

  Sarah shook her head. She could not tell Auntie Enid about that.

  ‘Here,’ said Auntie, taking a crumpled hanky from the pocket of her dressing gown. Gently she wiped the tears from Sarah’s cheeks. ‘Have a good blow as well.’

  ‘Will Rachel be all right?’ Sarah said. The tears were still coming, quietly now, as fast as Auntie Enid could wipe them away, squeezing between her closed eyelids and running down the sides of her face, into her mouth. She could taste the salt, and that made her want to cry even more.

  ‘We’ll have to hope so. We must say our prayers for them. Every night you must pray to Jesus, and perhaps he will make everything all right. That’s all we can do, love. Shall we do it now?’

  Sarah had got used to saying prayers to Jesus at Sunday school. She thought of his kind face, in the picture where he carried a lamb under one arm and a lantern in the other hand. In the story he had searched and searched till he found the one lamb that was missing. That showed, said the teacher,
that he cared about everyone. He looked like the sort of person who might bother himself to look after Rachel, especially if he really was the Son of God and could do miracles, as he did in some of the stories.

  Stiffly, Auntie Enid got down to a kneeling position, facing the bed. She made her face solemn, put her hands together very neatly, fingers pointing up, and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again to look at Sarah and pat the floor beside her. ‘You kneel with me, love. Then I’ll say the words and you can just say Amen. Or join in if you want to.’

  I’d better think it in English, Sarah thought, in case Jesus doesn’t speak German. And what if he knew she was Jewish, and wasn’t supposed to pray to him at all? It was better to let Auntie Enid do the talking. Auntie Enid asked Jesus to look after Sarah’s parents and Rachel, and to take care of Eric and all the brave soldiers, and not let anyone be hurt. She finished with the Lord’s Prayer. Sarah knew some of that, and joined in, in case Jesus thought she wasn’t enthusiastic enough to have her prayers answered.

  ‘For Thine is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen,’ they finished together. It was like a chant when they said it at Sunday school, all the children reciting the words in an up-and-down rhythm, like a song without a tune. You could say the words without knowing what they meant.

  ‘There, love, that’ll make us both feel better.’ Auntie Enid got awkwardly to her feet; she straightened Sarah’s eiderdown and plumped the pillows into shape. ‘Back into bed with you, now. I’ll bring you some hot cocoa and a biscuit, and then you must try and settle back to sleep. Things’ll seem different in the morning.’

  Sarah’s feet had got cold while she kneeled on the lino. She let Auntie Enid tuck her snugly between the sheets. While she waited for her cocoa, she thought: wouldn’t it be easier to ask Jesus to stop the war? If he can do miracles, why doesn’t he do that?

  Where was Rachel when you saw her last? Was she at home?

  Yes, she was.

  Rachel wanted to read Sarah a bedtime story, the way she had when Sarah was little. ‘Heidi? Are you reading that again?’ She picked up the book from Sarah’s bedside table. ‘I used to love Heidi when I was little.’

  Rachel was like that sometimes. Wanting to be grown up. Making Heidi seem like a book only little children would read.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Sarah said. She grabbed it and pushed it under the bedcovers. ‘Is the door locked? We mustn’t leave the door unlocked at night.’

  ‘Yes, it’s locked and bolted. Don’t worry. Let me read to you!’ Rachel sat on the bed beside her. ‘A bedtime story. I’ll read one of your favourite bits, if you show me where.’

  ‘Want Mutti,’ said Sarah. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Sarah, please! Just a little bit of story, just for the two of us!’

  Sarah shook her head obstinately. ‘Why are you pretending? I know you don’t really care. You’re staying with Mutti and Vati and you can’t wait for me to be gone.’

  The lenses of Rachel’s glasses made her eyes look big and sad. And now shiny with tears. Sarah looked away.

  ‘Oh, Sarah!’ Rachel pleaded. ‘I know it’s hard for you to understand, but you must try. Mutti and Vati are sending you to England because it’s safer there. If we could all go together, then we would, I promise.’

  ‘You’re not going.’ Sarah stroked the cover of Heidi under the sheet. They like you better than me, she thought. They love you but they can’t love me. They can send me away, across the sea to a strange country, but they’re keeping you with them. How can I believe what they say?

  There was a big lump in her throat, as if she’d swallowed a whole hard-boiled egg, shell and all.

  ‘I can’t go to England,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m too old, or I’d go with you.’

  ‘Are you sure the door’s locked?’ said Sarah. ‘Those bad men won’t come back, will they?’

  ‘Yes, the door’s locked. And there won’t be any bad men in England.’

  ‘But you’re not going there!’

  ‘No,’ said Rachel, ‘I shall be in France instead – won’t that be exciting, you in England and me in France! I can think of it as a holiday, learn to speak French. And you’ll learn to speak English! Next time we meet we can show off our new languages.’ But Rachel’s voice was thick with tears, not excited at all, and she pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and turned her head to dab at one eye and then the other, as if she thought Sarah wouldn’t notice.

  You’re part of it, Sarah thought. You know what’s going on, and you think you can fool me by pretending it’s all exciting. She moved away to the farthest side of her pillow, and gazed across the room at Berthe, the big doll who sat on her chair. Berthe had been a birthday present last year; Mutti had sewn a dress for her, with tiny buttons, and Sarah had plaited her hair. But Berthe was too big to go in the suitcase, Mutti said, and she had found a much smaller rag doll instead, one Sarah hadn’t even looked at for months, with an ugly flat face and wonky sewn eyes that made her look as if she were squinting. Berthe had lovely golden hair and round blue eyes with real eyelashes.

  Berthe was staying here with Rachel and Mutti and Vati, and Sarah was the only one leaving. I’m going to be like someone in a fairy tale, Sarah thought: the poor stepdaughter, the one no one wants.

  ‘Don’t hate me, Sarah, please don’t,’ said Rachel. There, she was as good as admitting it now. ‘I’ll think of you every single day. I promise I will.’

  The lump in Sarah’s throat was swelling, pushing itself up into her mouth, bursting, and what came out was anger. ‘Go away! Go away!’ she shouted. ‘Leave me alone – I won’t listen to any more of your stupid lies! I hate you!’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’ Rachel was pale-faced, trembling.

  ‘I do mean it! Get out of my room! I hate you and I don’t care if I never see you again, ever!’

  Rachel stood up. As she left the room, Sarah hurled Heidi after her; it missed, bounced off the wall and fell to the floor with its pages splayed. She heard Rachel weeping as she went slowly downstairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shopped

  shop, v. to lay information on which a person is arrested; to deliberately get (someone) into trouble.

  A Concise Dictionary of Slang and

  Unconventional English

  ‘Fucking morons!’ Reuben exploded as they left the ward, getting a fierce tut and a young people today look from a woman coming the other way with a pot chrysanthemum wrapped in cellophane.

  ‘Sorry – he’s a bit upset,’ Hilly explained, while Reuben stomped on down the corridor.

  ‘And your sister,’ he fired at her as she caught up. ‘Can’t she see what those blokes are like? What’s the big attraction?’

  ‘Sex! That’s the attraction. But don’t say I haven’t tried!’ Hilly clung to the one shred of comfort: ‘At least she wasn’t actually there . She might be besotted with Golden Boy, but she’s not completely out of her mind. She wouldn’t go along with something like that.’

  ‘How d’you know she wouldn’t?’

  ‘I just know. And she wasn’t there – Saeed said.’

  But Zoë had lied. She said they were having a band practice. Hilly did not tell Reuben this. She was saving up for a mega-row with Zoë when she got home, and not looking forward to it. Maybe the police were already on to Grant and his friends, and Zoë would have to stop pretending that they spent their evenings harmlessly rehearsing songs.

  Reuben kicked at a stone. ‘What shall we do?’

  For want of any sense of purpose, they wandered in the park, looked at the ducks, argued, talked, tried to console each other; they went over and over what had happened, all the what-ifs and why-dids, and the merits of castration versus community service as fit punishment for racist yobs. Later they went back to Reuben’s, where he said he was ravenously hungry and made his speciality French bread pizza with olives, which they ate in his bedroom.

  ‘Play something for me,’ said Hilly, when their plates
held only crumbs and olive stones. ‘It’ll take your mind off it.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood,’ Reuben grumped, but he switched on his electronic keyboard and sat on the stool. He crashed a few angry-sounding chords.

  ‘Not like that!’ said Hilly, from his bed. ‘Chopin. Play Chopin.’

  ‘I’m not in a Chopin mood.’ Reuben doodled a tune on the keys with his right hand. He lingered on two notes for a moment, then launched into a sad little phrase that Hilly thought she knew.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Für Elise. Beethoven.’

  ‘Go on, play the rest,’ Hilly said.

  ‘It won’t sound right on this stupid thing,’ Reuben complained, but played it anyway. Hilly listened closely, recognizing the simple, haunting phrase that kept returning after the interruptions of more excitable stuff in the middle.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said when Reuben had finished. ‘I wonder who Elise was?’

  ‘No idea. I learned this when I was doing Grade Four or Five. It’s a standard test piece.’

  ‘Oh, so you polished it off when you were about three, I suppose. It amazes me, all the music you carry about in your head!’

  ‘I’m not sure it is in my head,’ Reuben said, playing the first section again. ‘It’s my fingers that remember.’

  ‘Wish I had fingers as clever as yours,’ Hilly said, flexing hers.

  ‘You could play it, you know – the beginning bit, anyway. It’s quite easy, listen. Just a few simple chords in the left hand.’ He demonstrated.

  ‘Simple for you!’

  ‘And for you. Come and try. If you like it I’ve got it in a book somewhere. You can practise for your next homework.’ He nodded towards the shelf that ran above his bed, sagging in the middle under the weight of stacked music books and scores.