Feet were clomping up the stairs. Her senses quickened in anticipation; she wiped her face, got up and went to the stair-well: he was coming back to say he was sorry. Me, too! she would say. Let’s start that conversation all over again, shall we? But it was Zoë, not Reuben. One hand on the rail, she hauled herself up, with weary, laborious steps, not even noticing Hilly till she reached the top stair. They stared at each other, tear-stained face to tear-stained face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Zoë said.
‘Nothing. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’ Zoë barged past. ‘Can’t I have my room to myself for five minutes?’
Chapter Twenty-two
Dumped
Dump, noun: a pile or heap of refuse, etc.,
dumped or thrown down; a dull, abrupt
blow; a thud; a bump
verb: deposit; throw down in a
lump or mass (rubbish); drop down with
a thud
Dumps, noun pl.: depression, melancholy.
The Oxford English Dictionary
The front door was wide open. For a moment Hilly thought Reuben had left it like that, but then she saw Heidigran outside with a garden trug, dead-heading the roses beside the path. Hearing Hilly’s tread on the doorstep, Heidigran looked round.
‘What’s going on?’ She rubbed the small of her back. ‘People stamping out, people stamping in! What’s upset your young man?’
‘He isn’t my young man!’
‘Had a tiff? I expect it’ll blow over. And what’s the matter with Zoë?’ Heidigran, evidently in one of her more lucid states, gave Hilly a sharp look.
‘No idea!’ Hilly felt full of fidgets. The rain had cleared, and the late afternoon was bright and cloudscuddy. It was tempting, after all, to go in pursuit of Reuben – indoors there was Zoë in one of her moods, and now Gran asking questions, and probably Mum had heard Reuben stropping off too, and would want to know why. Hilly pulled on her jacket, told Gran she wouldn’t be long, and was almost at the park before she realized that Reuben would quite likely have gone straight to see Saeed. Her mobile phone was at home in her bag, so she couldn’t ring him to find out.
Exasperated, deciding it wasn’t dignified to chase after him – he was the one who’d stormed out! – she walked all the way home again. Heidigran had finished her gardening and the front door was closed; Hilly, with no key, had to ring. Her mother answered, looking puzzled. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Why does everyone keep wanting to know what’s going on? I’d like to come in, if that’s all right!’
‘Where’s your key?’
‘Here, in my bag!’ Hilly pointed to the rucksack on the floor. ‘I didn’t take it with me, OK?’
Rose gave her a straight look, then, with the slightest of shrugs, went back to the kitchen. Hilly felt hemmed in with questions and trivia, and still annoyed with her mother for that slightest of slight pauses, that tiny frown, when Rashid’s name had been mentioned last night. In the early hours of the morning, Hilly had lain wide awake, thinking of that brief hesitation. But he’s—That, Hilly felt, was what was implied. Was Mum, for all her apparent fairmindedness, a closet racist? Did it take something like this to bring it out?
I seem to be annoyed with everyone, Hilly thought, hardly recognizing herself. Is this what Lurve does to you? Rashid! I want to talk to Rashid! But he’ll be working now, it’ll have to wait till later, and anyway what can I say to him? My mum seems to be racist and Reuben’s gone into Deep Huff at the mere mention of your name?
She grabbed her mobile phone and checked the messages: at once there was the loud bleep of a new arrival. U HAVE RMAIL. That was all: RMAIL meant an e-mail from Reuben.
OK, so he’d made the first move – unless his e-mail consisted of more reproaches. She’d better check before ringing him. Only snag, that meant going up to the computer, and Zoë was there. Resignedly, she went up both flights of stairs. Zoë was lying face-down on her bed, apparently asleep, one arm trailing to the floor. Good – Zoë asleep was at least tolerable.
She reached under the table to plug in the computer, and dialled up the internet connection. Reuben’s message appeared in the inbox, with :-( as the title:
Hilly,
Sorry sorry sorry! What a gallumphing great eejit. Me, I mean. Can’t believe I did that – behaved like a five-year-old in a tantrum.
But I do know why. Like John Lennon said, I’m just a jealous guy. Does that sound daft? I know it’s stupid and it was bound to happen sooner or later, that you’d find someone, I mean. And you’ve been great about Si, so I was well out of order. Like you said, I ought to be pleased for you.
I don’t want things to change, that’s what I’m saying. You and me. I can’t imagine not having you around. But why wouldn’t you be around? You’re only going out with someone, not clearing out of my life for ever. Why do I mind that it’s Rashid? I honestly don’t know! Because he’s Si’s brother? Dunno. I mean, I like Rashid (LIKE, I said, not fancy!). Maybe I’d be jealous of anyone you went out with. If that’s stupid, I’m sorry. I’ll do my best, honest. I’ll try to be happy for you and I really hope it works out. I mean, he’s OK. More than OK. And because I know you, and from what I know of him, it’s going to be the Real Thing, I bet. He’s right for you.
Only, make sure you leave time for me!
Kiss and make up? xxx (just in case)
But there’s another reason I’m sending this. It’s about that tape with your gran.
I knew there was something weird about it and when I got home I realized what. It’s that bit about the plane crashing in the street, a Stirling. The pilot killed, she said, and some bloke broke his leg when he got blown off his bike. Well, I knew I’d heard that before. So I looked up some books Dad’s got, and checked it out.
And there it is. Northampton. Gold Street. 1941. I’ll show you when you come round. But on the tape she was talking about Cologne.
Coincidence or what? Or not?
Have you forgiven me? Mail me back if you have. Piano lesson tomorrow? Go and practise!
Your more-than-friend R xxx (again)
Dear MTF Hilly typed in return,
How stupid are you? Stupid to think the Rashid thing will make the slightest difference to me and you, I mean. Yes, you’re my more-than-friend, and I can’t even begin to imagine not having you around, and hope I never have to find out what it’d be like.
I’m sorry too.
To be honest, I’ve had the jealous twinges about you and Saeed. And wondered how I’d feel if you went out with girls. That’d be harder. So that’s what it must be like for you. I should have told you before, and I don’t know why I didn’t. I’ll do better from now on, promise! Only DON’T walk out on me like that again, please! Don’t think I could stand it.
See you tomorrow then, same time, same place only NOT same mood?
I love you, you prat. Don’t you know? And that’s for always.
Hilly xxx
SEND: her message disappeared from the outbox. Now, after all her agitation, she felt soothed, restored. All was well. But the outburst had shown how much Reuben meant to her; and how much she meant to him. I love you. She had never told him that before; had never needed to; but it was true. Will I ever say that to anyone else? she wondered: to Rashid? Will anyone (no, will he) ever say it to me?
It’s going to be the Real Thing, Reuben had said. Tess assumed the same. How could they be so sure? Hilly re-read Reuben’s message, noticing the last section properly this time.
She began a new reply:
P.S. That IS weird about the plane crashing in Gold Street. But I suppose planes must have been crashing all over the place in wartime. Or else maybe Gran read about it, and got mixed up?
Till tomorrow, another x, Hilly.
SEND again, the message vanished from her outbox, and now she noticed that Zoë was not asleep but staring at the ceiling, shiny-eyed.
‘Oh – you’re awake!’
‘Don’t mind me,’ Zoë said, in a voice thick with tears. ‘You just carry on.’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Want to tell me?’ Hilly turned off the computer and moved round to her own bed, where she sat facing Zoë’s.
‘No! You’ll only rub my face in it.’
‘I won’t! Come on – if there’s something really bothering you, tell me. Perhaps I can help!’
Zoë gave a grimacing smile. ‘You help! You’re the last person I’d ask for help. Anyway, you can’t!’ Her eyes swam with fresh tears; her lower lip trembled. She struggled for a few moments before giving way. She sat up, knees to chin, head down to hide her face, her shoulders heaving with sobs.
‘Zoë!’ Hilly kneeled, put an arm round her, pulled strands of loose hair away from the hot, damp face. ‘Tell me what’s happened!’
She reached for a tissue and pushed it into Zoë’s hand; Zoë snatched it and dabbed furiously at her eyes and nose. ‘It’s – Grant, he’s – he’s …’
‘He’s what?’ Hilly said, with a sense of foreboding.
‘Dumped me.’ Zoë buried her head in her arms.
‘Oh.’ Hilly assimilated this; Zoë raised her head, glaring with wet, angry eyes.
‘Go on – gloat! Tell me you’re pleased! Tell me it’s what I deserve! You can’t pretend to be sorry!’
‘I’m sorry he’s upset you,’ Hilly conceded. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Found this other girl, hasn’t he?’ Zoë said through gritted teeth. ‘This other girl singer. Justine. A bit older, a lot sexier. Great voice, miles better than me …’ Her voice wavered. ‘I hate her! So she’s lead singer for Doppelgänger now. And being Grant’s girlfriend goes with the job, so I lose out both ways. And there’s the stuff about me giving names to the police. That’s down to you – not that you care! Either way, I’m out. Ditched. Dumped. He’s had enough of me—’
‘Don’t say dumped!’ Hilly hated the word – it made her think of rubbish tips, detritus, scraps and fragments left to be picked over by scavengers.
‘What d’you want me to say? What difference does it make?’ Zoë’s voice was muffled in her arms. ‘And that’s not even all …’
‘What, then?’
‘Promise you won’t tell Mum and Dad? Promise not to tell anyone?’
‘OK, I promise,’ Hilly said uneasily.
Zoë’s crying now took on a different tone – no longer hot and angry, but a quiet weeping that worried Hilly far more. She smoothed Zoë’s hair and shoulder, waiting. ‘Come on, Zoesie! Please tell me!’
‘I’m late with my period,’ Zoë managed to get out. ‘A few days. It’s never happened before.’
‘Oh, God—’
‘Right! Oh God. Only he’s not going to help, is he? If there was such a person. He’d be pleased I’ve got my come-uppance, just like you are—’
‘Zoë! I’m not. Please believe me! Are you sure – sure you haven’t got the dates wrong – I mean, a few days late wouldn’t necessarily mean—’
‘Course I haven’t got the dates wrong! I’ve checked and checked! Don’t lecture me, for Christ’s sake – what do you know about it?’
‘Not as much as you, and you know a bit too much, if you ask me! But weren’t you careful? Didn’t you use—?’
‘Yes, course!’ Zoë flared. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’
Better not answer that – there had been enough quarrelling for one day. ‘Shh – don’t yell at me! Mum’ll hear and want to know what’s going on—’
‘You won’t tell her, will you? You promised.’ Zoë began to weep quietly again. ‘Oh, Hill, what am I going to do?’
‘It’s too early to be sure,’ Hilly soothed. ‘But if you have to tell Mum and Dad, if—’
‘I can’t!’ Zoë wailed. ‘They’ll kill me, they’ll absolutely kill me!’
‘Course they won’t – wouldn’t. They’d want to help – do the best for you. Are you sure about dates and things? When were you due?’
‘Last – last Friday.’ Zoë put both hands on her abdomen, over her jeans, and pressed gently with her fingers. ‘What’s going on in there? God, I can’t be pregnant! There, now I’ve said it. First time I’ve used the word out loud.’ She fingered her tissue, a tight, sodden ball; she chucked it at the bin and reached for another.
‘Three days late? It’s not that long.’
‘It is for me! And – OK, Hill, I was an idiot. I might as well tell you. It was Bank Holiday Monday. We haven’t done it that many times, honest! And all the other times Grant did use a condom. It’s so unlucky! That day he’d run out, and we were – you know, well into it, and he just said, Don’t worry, I’ll be careful, it’ll be all right. Only he wasn’t – wasn’t careful enough! And it’s not him who’s got to—’
‘The bastard,’ Hilly said fiercely. ‘I wish it was him who had to go through this.’
Zoë began to giggle and weep at the same time. ‘Can you imagine? Counting the days since his last period! Making sure he’s got plenty of Tampax, just in case! Wondering if he’s getting PMT! It’s not fair, is it? Honest, Hill, I’ve never wanted it so much, that awful cramp, the zits, the moods, the whole bit! I keep trying to bring it on by imagining it!’
‘Come on, daft.’ Hilly gave her a hug. ‘Try and think about something else, then p’raps it’ll happen. If Mum and Dad notice you’ve been crying, tell them you’ve split up with Grant – that’ll help get things back to normal, at any rate. Let’s go down and see what’s for tea.’
Everyone was in the kitchen: their father had just come in, Rose was washing salad, Heidigran making a pot of tea. Zoë, being Zoë, was able to throw off her despairing mood so convincingly that Hilly gazed at her once or twice wondering whether she had imagined the entire conversation. It was as if, by talking about it, Zoe had passed the burden over. What if … what if … what if? Hilly kept thinking, all through the meal and the washing-up. For Zoë to be pregnant would be bad enough; to be pregnant by Grant would be complete disaster. Zoë was well rid of him, Hilly considered, but he’d offer no support whatsoever. There could be no question of Zoë going through with a pregnancy, could there? … she wasn’t even sixteen yet … but the alternative was hardly more acceptable. Oh Zoë, you stupid bloody idiot!
‘You’re quiet tonight, Hilly,’ said their father, getting out cups for coffee. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Hilly shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Sarah Reubens
The night of 9th November 1938 has come to be known as Kristallnacht. In Germany and Austria, Jews were targeted in acts of violence – businesses and homes were ransacked, synagogues set on fire, and Jewish individuals arrested, attacked and killed. It became impossible for German and Austrian Jews to remain unaware of the danger they were in, simply by virtue of being Jewish. Great Britain offered entry visas to ten thousand unaccompanied Jewish children from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia. The trains carrying these children to safety, and the whole operation concerned with the children’s removal from Nazicontrolled territory, have become known as the Kindertransports. Some of these youngsters were eventually reunited with their families; most were not.
Marta Rubenstein, Exodus
Home from school, Hilly registered stiffness and tension in the back of her neck, the beginnings of pressure above her eyes: the early signs of migraine. The sick grogginess would be next.
Well, she decided, I haven’t got time for a headache; Reuben’s coming. I’ll just ignore it and hope it goes away. She looked at the wipe-clean message board on the side of the fridge.
Her mother had made a new house rule that everyone’s comings and goings each day must be written here. It was mainly for Heidigran’s benefit, so that she could check if she became alarmed about who was looking after her, or even if she forgot the names of the people who lived here. My turn to cook – it would be, Hilly thought, wondering
whether to take her headache pills now or wait till later. If Zoë were here she’d ask if they could swap cooking duties, but Zoë was round at Nadine’s. Their mother was going out shortly, to one of her meetings at the Alzheimer’s Support Group, where carers shared experiences and discussed ways of dealing with problems. It was from the last meeting that Rose got the idea of the message board.
Hilly made tea for Heidigran and was looking in the fridge and freezer when Reuben arrived. As soon as she opened the door, he kissed her cheek and looked at her closely. ‘That’s for yesterday. OK? Are we definitely OK now?’
Hilly touched his arm. ‘Course! All forgotten.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ Reuben said sternly.
‘No, you’re right.’ She reconsidered; what had happened was too important to be forgotten. ‘Explained, then. Cleared of clutter.’
‘A one-off.’
‘A blip.’
‘A temporary interference.’ Reuben followed Hilly to the piano. It was a still, warm afternoon; the patio doors were open. In the relief of seeing Reuben, Hilly almost found herself launching into her new worry, Zoë’s dilemma, which had preoccupied her all through school and reduced her to silence during a seminar on The Great Gatsby which she would normally have enjoyed. Another secret from Reuben! But she had promised to tell no one.
‘Where’s your gran?’ Reuben asked.
Hilly gestured towards the garden, and Heidigran in her lounger seat with House Beautiful magazine.
‘Got something to show you.’ Reuben reached into the battered canvas bag he used for his files, folders and sheet music, and brought out a hardbacked book: Northampton’s War Years. They sat side by side on the piano stool. ‘The book I was telling you about. It’s Dad’s. He’s got all sorts of stuff like this.’ He flipped it open at a page marked with a Post-It, found the place, jabbed a finger at the text. ‘Here. Read this.’
Although Northamptonshire escaped the worst of the bombing raids [Hilly read], there were occasional incidents. Albert Street School in Rushden was bombed in October 1940, with the loss of 11 lives. In July 1941, a Stirling bomber crashed in Gold Street, causing considerable damage to shops and businesses. Casualties were surprisingly slight; most of the crew had baled out successfully, and only the pilot was killed, his body being found later several streets away. The only civilian casualty was a firewatcher cycling home from his spell of duty, whose leg was broken when he was thrown off his bicycle by the blast. Parts from the shattered plane were avidly collected as trophies by local schoolboys.
Sisterland Page 21
