Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  Sarah liked looking at the board more than she liked playing. Playing made her feel anxious. It was too dangerous. No matter how diligently she worked her way up the numbered squares, moving her counter (always the red one) towards the winning corner, the next throw of the die could send her into the jaws of a lurking snake, and the dizziness of the slide right down to the bottom.

  Die, dice. Auntie Enid called it a dice, but Uncle Donald said that was wrong, because dice meant two of them. If there was only one, it was called a die. The English language didn’t seem to follow sensible rules, like German. If it was die, dice, why not one pie , two pice or one lie, two lice? That would make sense. But she always remembered die. Throw it and die. Throw the wrong number and the snake would swallow you.

  The war was like Snakes and Ladders. Listening to the news she heard good news followed by bad: the aircraft factories were turning out more and more Spitfires, but the Germans had reached Paris. The local paper showed Northampton army boys posing in uniform, ready to go and fight Jerry, but in France people were leaving their homes, carrying their belongings in wheelbarrows and handcarts. There were more snakes than ladders, Sarah thought.

  ‘German Measle,’ some of the children called her at school, the bullying boys. ‘Slimy German Measle. Go back where you belong! We don’t want you here.’

  But I don’t belong anywhere, Sarah thought, not now. Not in Germany, not in England. Only at Shoe Lane, where they never call me German or Measle, where I’m just Sarah or Lovey.

  And now Dunkirk. The advancing German army was the hugest snake of all, obscenely fat. It had gulped and swallowed great bites of the British army, and sent the rest slithering and sliding all the way back to England. Sarah had seen a map in the newspaper with muscular black arrows snaking their way across France, pushing the feebler English arrows as far as the sea and then into it. The little ships had flocked to the rescue, to fetch soldiers from the Dunkirk beaches. Sarah knew that the sea was vast and green, but on the map it was a thin strip, so narrow between Dunkirk and Dover that it looked as if the German army could take one easy step across to England. The little pleasure boats and launches were like children’s toys that had strayed into a war, the wireless said, and there were tales of heroism, of pluck, of last-minute rescue. The little boats were like frail matchstick ladders for the lucky few to cling to, escaping from the greedy German snakes.

  And Rachel’s ladder to safety had taken her to France and now to danger. She was somewhere among the black snakes that got fatter and fatter as they stretched. What would happen to her now?

  Only time will tell, Auntie Enid said. We must pray for her, and for Mutti and Vati. Hope and pray that God will keep them safe. Maybe it isn’t as bad as we think.

  Heidi clambered out of her chair. There was only one of them, a woman, in black uniform. The bell had rung and straight away that silly girl had opened the door instead of bolting it, and had let her come in. Heidi expected more of them to follow, like last time, but the policewoman – hardly more than a teenager, she looked – was on her own. She stood there smiling. A trick, it would be.

  Quick, hide! Heidi ducked behind her chair, clutching its velvet back. ‘I told you!’ she shouted at the girl. ‘Told you to bolt the door, only you wouldn’t listen! Don’t let them come in! Shut them out!’

  And now Rachel was here too, with a tray of tea, staring. She should have got away sooner, found somewhere to hide. It wasn’t safe here.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Gran!’ said the blonde girl, the moody one.

  ‘Please don’t be alarmed, Mrs – Mrs Craig?’ The policewoman came round the side of the chair and held out a hand, pretending to be friendly.

  ‘No,’ said Heidi, backing up against the sideboard. ‘No!’

  ‘You won’t get any sense out of her,’ said the girl. ‘Not when she’s in this mood. She’s our grandmother, staying with us. Unfortunately.’

  Rachel was scared, Heidi could see she was, but she put the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Come on, Gran! It’s all right – nothing to be worried about. Sit down, come on, sit back here.’ She patted the seat of the chair, and picked up the knitting from the floor.

  Now Heidi stood in confusion. It wasn’t Rachel after all, her name was something else, and she was the kinder one. Gripping the chair-back, Heidi made her way round it and sat down carefully, her eyes fixed on the pretty face of the policewoman, who smiled back. Why had they sent a young girl round, a girl on her own, instead of the usual gang of thugs? She wasn’t so stupid that she couldn’t recognize a trick when she saw one.

  ‘Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?’ the Rachel-girl asked the policewoman. Tea! Offering tea now!

  ‘Thanks, Hilly, that’d be lovely.’ The police girl sat on the sofa.

  Hilly, yes, of course I know that name, Heidi thought, but I do wish she wouldn’t keep pretending to be Rachel. It’s not fair. And you can’t trust anyone – why was she being nice to the policewoman, inviting her to stay? The two of them, those two strong girls, they should have bundled her out into the street and bolted the door behind her.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have startled you,’ the police girl said, still smiling. ‘Mrs Craig, is it?’

  ‘Mrs Craig’s not here,’ Heidi said loudly. ‘She’ll be back soon and then you’ll be out on your ear. Barging in here!’

  The blonde girl made a snorting noise. ‘She thinks you want Mum,’ she said. ‘Gran’s name’s Richardson, not Craig.’

  Heidi glared. ‘Heidi Thornton. My name’s Heidi Thornton. Heidi. Thornton. Don’t you try to tell me what my name is!’

  The policewoman looked at her and nodded. ‘Thank you. Heidi – what a lovely name – like the story! I loved that when I was little, but I’ve never met anyone called Heidi before. Is it all right if I call you Heidi, then?’

  ‘Heidi,’ said Heidi, clutching the arms of her armchair. ‘Heidi.’ She had the feeling that her words were coming out much more loudly than she meant.

  ‘Thornton was her name before she was married,’ said Hilly. ‘It’s Richardson now.’

  Married? thought Heidi, her mind blurring. Yes, I suppose I must be married. Where is he, where’s Ken? He ought to be here.

  ‘Actually, Heidi,’ said the policewoman, ‘it’s your granddaughter I’ve come to see.’ She looked at the younger girl. ‘You’re Zoë, are you?’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Zoë, with a what’s-it-to-you lift of her chin.

  ‘Is your mum or dad at home?’

  ‘No!’ Heidi shouted. ‘It’s no use looking for them – they’re dead!’

  Everyone turned and stared at her.

  ‘No, no, Gran!’ said the Hilly girl. ‘You’re getting confused again. Mum’s upstairs in the shower, and I think Dad’s playing squash,’ she told the policewoman.

  But now a strange sound was coming out of Heidi’s head, and they were all gawping at her again. ‘They are dead!’ she wailed. Her mouth twisted and tears blurred her eyes. ‘You don’t know! They’re dead and I’ll never see them again! They shouldn’t have sent me away—’

  They were all talking at once. ‘No, Gran, no one’s sending you away—’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I had no idea—’

  ‘Take no notice, she’s like this half the time, no one’s got the faintest idea what she’s on about—’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Heidi blinked, and brushed tears from her eyes. She wondered why she was crying; all this noise and fuss had pushed it out of her head. But now Rose was here in the doorway, dressed for some reason in a white dressing gown though surely it was late afternoon. Rose would know what to do.

  ‘Oh, Rose dear, there you are,’ Heidi said. ‘It’s lucky you’ve come, but why aren’t you dressed yet? We seem to have got ourselves in a bit of a muddle – perhaps you can sort it out. This young lady’s looking for Mrs Craig. Do we know a Mrs Craig? This is my daughter, Rose,’ she told the policewoman. ‘Now, what was it you wanted?’ She pic
ked up her knitting and started a new row of ribbing: knit two, purl two.

  And was this the truth? Could you tell, with Zoë? Hilly listened intently as Zoë answered WPC Jo’s questions.

  The members of Doppelgänger had intended to have a band practice in the garage of Tuck’s house in Radford Road, where he lived with his older brother; Zoë and Grant had got there at about eight, having met earlier in town. Clyde and Oz were late, and Grant realized that he’d left the sample CDs at home, so he and Zoë had gone on the motorbike to fetch them. Arriving at Grant’s house in Duston, they had found it empty, his parents out, and had stayed there a while (Zoë glossed over this. ‘Listening to music, just messing around,’ was her phrasing; if WPC Jo guessed, she chose not to pursue it). When they got back to Tuck’s, they found the door on the latch and a note on the kitchen table saying that the others had got fed up waiting and gone out for lager and a takeaway. It must have been just after ten, Zoë thought, when they came back with the Chinese food. No, they said nothing about any incident in town. No, they didn’t look as if they’d been fighting.

  ‘And the names of these boys?’ WPC Jo’s pen was poised.

  ‘I don’t know their real names. Just Tuck and Clyde and Oz.’

  ‘But you do know the address? The house where Tuck lives with his brother? Radford Road, you said?’

  ‘Number ten,’ Zoë said sulkily. ‘But that might be wrong.’

  ‘And Grant, your boyfriend? You must know his surname?’

  ‘Griffiths. Grant Griffiths. But he wasn’t even there, I’ve told you – he was with me!’

  ‘And his address?’

  While this conversation was going on, Heidigran sat knitting calmly, with Oscar on her lap, but the girls’ mother was intent and concerned, her eyes hardly leaving Zoë’s face. When WPC Jo had left, she told Zoë: ‘You’re not to leave the house. Do you hear me? Dad’ll be in soon and he’ll be devastated to hear all this – as horrified as I am—’

  ‘Hear what? Weren’t you listening? It was nothing to do with me!’

  ‘We don’t like you hanging round with these people. I’m sure you’ve got more to tell us, and we’ll hear it when Dad’s here, we’ll have a proper discussion. OK?’

  ‘You’ve got nothing against them! Only because of what she said!’ Zoë gave Hilly a venomous look. ‘It’s your fault that policewoman was here, isn’t it? You grassed me up! What have you been saying?’

  ‘All I told her,’ Hilly said, ‘was that I’d seen your friends hassling Saeed at the coffee bar. Don’t tell me that’s not true.’

  Zoë flushed, and glanced edgily at her mother.

  ‘I see,’ said Rose, tight-lipped.

  ‘– ninety-one, ninety-two,’ said Heidigran, counting stitches. ‘Can’t we have the TV on?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ said Zoë.

  Hilly decided it was time to retreat. She took refuge in the attic bedroom with a book, but was disturbed a few minutes later by Zoë clumping up the stairs.

  ‘I hate you! I really hate you, d’you know that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!’ Hilly said, not looking up.

  ‘Melodramatic! You bring the police round here and make me shop my boyfriend, and you think it’s melodramatic to complain! Can’t you keep your mouth shut?’

  ‘That’s good, coming from you!’

  ‘What have you got to go on? Come on, what makes you so sure it was them?’

  ‘If it wasn’t, there’s no problem, is there?’ Hilly said, knowing full well that the calmer she remained, the more Zoë would be infuriated. ‘Grant wasn’t even there. Which was only a bit of luck, as far as I can see, ’cos I bet he’d have thought it was a bit of a laugh, beating up Saeed. As for the others, bloody good job if they get arrested. Why d’you want to protect them?’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t make an announcement about the under-age sex as well! Did you forget? Want to go down and tell Mum? Run after your policewoman friend and put her right? I’m sure you can get Grant in trouble for that if you really try.’

  Hilly turned a page.

  ‘Now I’ve got to go through it all again, when Dad comes in! Thanks a lot!’

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ Hilly said, looking up. ‘You know how to get round Dad, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know – do your sweet little girly act, a bit of pouting and hair-flicking – be his cute little Zoesie—’

  Zoë gave a humourless laugh. ‘You’re jealous!’

  Stung into silence, Hilly remembered that Tessa had said the same thing – calling her jealous of Saeed and Reuben. Maybe I am, Hilly thought, staring at her book: jealous of everyone. Jealous, sour and crabby. Sometimes I don’t much like myself.

  ‘I’m sick of living here!’ Zoë fumed, chucking clothes from her bed into a heap on the floor. ‘Parents who don’t trust me – Gran getting battier by the day – and to top it all, having to share my room with you. The last person in the world I want to be lumbered with, right now. My room, in case everyone’s forgotten! God, I never get a minute’s privacy in this house!’

  ‘Me, on the other hand,’ Hilly said, giving up, putting her book face down on the floor, ‘I find it such a joy, your charming company. Your cheerful personality brightens every hour. Your consideration for others never fails to inspire me. Your radiant smiles—’

  ‘Give it a rest!’

  ‘Privacy, you want? Have it. I’m going out.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Don’t hurry back.’

  Hilly turned at the stairs for one last attempt. ‘There’s no getting through to you, is there? What do Grant’s friends have to do – find another victim, kill someone, kick someone to death? Or would you find excuses even then? Just a game? Bit of a laugh?’

  ‘You said you were going – get out! I can’t stand the sight of you – scrawny, sexless cow!’ Zoë hissed. ‘Pathetic mummy’s girl! Grungy saddo!’

  ‘At least you could try to be original.’ Hilly managed to have the last word, but found, going downstairs, that she was trembling.

  Reuben. She had to talk to Reuben, tell him what had happened.

  Her mobile was in the bag she’d dumped by the front door; she switched on, selected Reuben’s number, but the only answer was voice-mail. ‘Where are you? Give me a ring?’ she asked it. Was he still at the hospital? She looked at her watch; it was a bit late to go there.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come back,’ said Heidigran, through the open door to the front room. ‘Play the piano for me, would you? I love to hear you play.’

  Hilly remembered the Für Elise music Reuben had given her earlier; it was on the hall floor, under her bag. Was that really only today? She felt as if a week’s worth had happened since this morning.

  ‘For a few minutes, then, Gran,’ she conceded. Playing the piano would be a soothing thing to do; or rather, it would produce its own frustrations, to push away the more pressing ones that nagged and nudged at her. She opened the book at Für Elise, did a few finger-limbering exercises and began to play. Only the opening, Reuben had said; concentrate on that and see if you can do it smoothly. Behind her halting notes, Hilly heard the music as it ought to be: simple, haunting.

  After a few tries, she turned to see Gran sitting alertly on the edge of her chair, watching.

  ‘Do you know this, Gran? Lovely, isn’t it, if only I could play it properly?’

  ‘Play the rest,’ Gran commanded. ‘The whole thing.’

  ‘I can’t, sorry! Wish I could.’

  ‘Play the rest. The whole thing.’

  ‘It’s best if I learn the beginning first. It gets much harder after this.’

  ‘Play the rest. The whole thing.’

  ‘Gran, you’ve said that twice already.’ Hilly went back to the beginning. Left hand only; she could manage that, if she concentrated hard. Right hand only, ditto. Maybe eventually she’d be able to put them together without her mind going blank. Out in the hall
, her mobile rang.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Gran. ‘Is it the police again?’

  It was Reuben. ‘Hi! I’m at the hospital – they’re letting Saeed go home. Rashid’s coming for him in about fifteen minutes. Want to come?’

  Copying Reuben, Hilly took off her shoes at the door, adding them to a row left by various family members. The Anwars lived in Weston Favell, on the east side of town; their house, a brick semi almost identical to the one Hilly lived in, was plushly furnished, with lots of midnight-blue upholstery and velvet cushions, and a framed Arabic text on the wall which Hilly assumed was taken from the Koran. Besides his parents and Rashid, there was an uncle, aunt and two young cousins, who apparently lived in the same road. Hilly and Reuben were welcomed warmly; a tray of sweet pastries was brought out from the kitchen, and coffee served in tiny, elegant cups. Saeed, still rather embarrassed, occupied centre stage on the sofa. Hilly felt rather impressed by the family’s determination to make a celebration out of something as awful as a racist attack.

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Reuben, when Saeed had tired of the attention and looked on the point of falling asleep.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you both,’ said Saeed’s mother. ‘Please come again, won’t you?’

  Rashid jingled his car keys. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘Please!’ Mrs Anwar raised a hand as Hilly began to say that she could easily get the bus. ‘It’s nearly dark, and I’d much rather you were seen safely to your doors. And besides, here is Rashid, eager to show off his new toy.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rashid. ‘I’m like a big kid.’

  They wouldn’t be so kind, Hilly thought, putting on her shoes by the front door, if they knew about Zoë. When she could speak to Saeed without his family around, she would tell him about WPC Jo and Zoë’s statement, but not now. She followed Reuben and Rashid out to the car that stood in the driveway. Whether or not it called for special admiration, she had no idea.

  ‘Where do you both live?’ asked Rashid when they were all in and belted, Hilly in the front, Reuben in the back. ‘Who shall I drop off first?’