‘Take the nappy off, Mum.’
‘You leave him be!’
‘Look, Mum!’ I said, scrabbling at Sundance’s legs, trying to get hold of the nappy.
‘Stop that! I don’t want to look. I won’t!’ said Mum.
‘Don’t be mad, Mum. You can’t pretend Sundance is a boy!’
‘I can!’
‘But what are you going to do – hide her bum from everyone for ever? That’s just crazy. What about the baby clinic? Are you going to dress her in boys’ clothes all the time? What about when she starts nursery? They’ll take her to the boys’ toilets in her little trousers and then what’s she going to do? She won’t be able to wee standing up.’
‘All right, all right, give it a rest, Dixie. I know I can’t keep her a boy for ever. I just want a few days, that’s all. That’s not too much to ask, is it? I wanted a boy so much. Every single symbol and sign showed I was having a boy – it was in all the charts, all the readings. I was so sure. I wouldn’t ever swap you girls, I love you to bits, but you know how much I’ve always wanted a boy.’
‘What about the scan, Mum? You said they told you the baby was a boy.’
‘They did, they did. Well. I was sure they would have done. I so needed the baby to be a boy I didn’t want them to cast any doubts. They’re all such know-alls at these hospitals. That’s why I came home just now, as soon as I could nip out without them noticing. I didn’t want them telling me what to do, talking about my little girl, my baby daughter. I’ve got my daughters. I want a son!’ She cradled Sundance, her hand cupped round her small head.
‘She’s not a son.’
‘Let me pretend for a bit, Dixie. Just for a little while, to make me happy. I can’t bear it that I got it all wrong. You’re my daydream pretender girl. You know what it’s like. Not like the others. Don’t tell your sisters!’
‘But—’
‘You can’t tell them, Dixie. They’ll think I’ve gone nuts.’
‘I think you’ve gone nuts.’
‘Martine’s upset enough as it is, going on about her blooming Tony. Jude’s even stroppier than usual. Rochelle’s acting extra flighty. They can’t handle this the way you and I can. Just give me a few days, Dixie. Please. Don’t tell on me.’
‘All right then, Mum. I won’t tell.’
Mum burst into tears. ‘Oh darling. Thank you. Thank you so much. You promise, now?’
I found Bruce’s hankie and mopped Mum’s eyes. ‘I promise,’ I said. ‘But it’s just for a little bit. We’ll have to tell quite soon. But you can pretend for now if it makes you happy.’
‘You’re such a good girl to me, Dixie,’ Mum said, eyes brimming again. She held Sundance up and made the baby’s soft cheek brush mine.
‘He’s giving you a kiss. He loves you so much already,’ Mum whispered. ‘You’re his favourite big sister.’
12
MUM STAYED STUCK on her mattress with Sundance, as if they were marooned on a desert island. Martine and Jude and Rochelle came visiting but she sent them away, saying she was tired and wanted to rest. She didn’t notice Martine had been crying. She didn’t notice Jude had a sore nose. She didn’t even notice Rochelle was all dressed up in her best (damp) jeans and silver sparkly top.
I was the only one Mum wanted. She let me make her a cup of tea, she let me help her to the loo, she let me fetch Sundance’s clean nappies. She even let me stay while she changed her, though she kept her back to me, bending over Sundance, blocking her blatant little-girl bottom from my view.
‘I’ll give him a little feed now,’ said Mum. ‘You go off and play for a bit, Dixie. You’ve been such a good girl.’
I felt too grown up and important to play. It was so lovely to feel I was the chosen one, Mum’s favourite. Sundance liked me too. I was good with babies. Maybe I’d be a nursery nurse when I was grown up. No, I’d have my own nursery, and all the babies would have little white rocking cots with red and green and yellow and purple blankets so no one would know whether they were boys or girls. They’d have mobiles hanging above each cot, little birds flying round and round, and the babies would reach up with their little fat fists to try to catch them.
I’d feed them and change them and they’d all have a bath together in a special big shallow baby bath and then I’d cuddle them all in a huge white towel and tickle their tummies and play piggies with their tiny toes. I’d be Nurse Dixie and every single baby would love me and stop crying the minute I picked them up.
I thought about Mary. I wanted to stop her crying too. She didn’t know how to play properly and have fun. She seemed worried about spoiling that scary baby doll. I thought about my old Barbies. They’d nearly all torn their clothes and they had skinhead haircuts and permanent gel pen tattoos. Maybe Mary could have a good game with them. It wouldn’t matter in the slightest if they got spoilt.
I rummaged in my box and seized a handful of them. Rochelle was in the kitchen, trying to brush her red suede shoes.
‘Got fed up playing real babies?’ she said. ‘Now we’re back to normal and little braindead Dixie’s playing dollies.’
‘I’m not going to be playing with them,’ I said haughtily. ‘I thought my friend Mary might like them. I’m going to show her how to play.’
‘Who do you think you are, Mary blooming Poppins?’ said Rochelle. ‘And actually, they’re not your Barbies, they’re mine, and you haven’t half ruined them! What’s happened to their hair? Have you cut it all off?’
‘You shut up, or I’ll cut your hair off,’ I said, and then I rushed out the back door quick before she could get me.
I hitched myself up on the wall, the Barbies clutched in one hand like a weird bouquet. Mary wasn’t on the swing. The baby doll wasn’t there in its buggy. The garden was empty.
I sat on the wall, swinging my legs. I waited. Then I got fed up with waiting. I decided it would be fun to arrange the Barbies in a little circle just inside Mary’s gate, with their right arms all raised as if they were waving to her. She’d have a little laugh when she found them.
I jumped over my wall, crossed the alley, carefully opened the stiff latch and crept inside. I squatted down by the gate and propped each Barbie up against it, their hands up. They looked much dirtier in Mary’s garden, their haircuts more brutal. I’d tipped all their breasts with red felt pen and now I wished I hadn’t. I licked my finger and tried rubbing their chests hard to get it off.
‘What are you up to, eh?’
I was so startled I fell backwards on my bottom. I looked up, scarlet in the face. A man was staring down at me. He had huge scary scissors in his hand. I gave a little squeal.
‘Hey, hey, it’s all right. Don’t be frightened!’ He saw me looking at the awful scissors and dropped them on the grass. ‘It’s all right, they’re just my pruning shears. My little girl doesn’t like them either.’
‘You’re Mary’s dad?’ I said.
‘You know my Mary?’
I nodded, but I didn’t say she was my friend. I didn’t want to get her into trouble. But he was smiling at me now. He bent down and helped pull me up. The Barbies trembled and then fainted simultaneously.
‘Are these your dollies? Why were you putting them in my garden? What are they, Pretty Maids all in a row?’
‘I thought Mary might like to play with them,’ I whispered.
‘What a nice thought,’ he said, though he looked at the Barbies a bit doubtfully.
‘Can I see her?’
‘Well, I think she’s finishing her tea right now,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit of a picky eater, our Mary. She’s in trouble with her mum for not eating her crusts. Do you eat your crusts?’
I nodded, though I was fibbing.
He took a deep breath. ‘Well, why don’t you come in and show Mary a good example, eh?’
I gathered up the swooning Barbies and trotted along beside him, up the green striped lawn to the patio. He paused at their back door.
‘Wipe your feet, dear. My wife’s a bit pa
rticular. Very very houseproud.’ He took his own gardening shoes off and walked indoors in his fluffy socks. I followed him on tiptoe.
I couldn’t believe their house. Their kitchen looked like it was still in a showroom, brand new and pin-neat, every pan in place and shining like a little sun. The kitchen table was scrubbed clean and totally bare. They didn’t eat in there.
They had a special dining room where they had their tea. It was rose-pink with dark gleaming furniture. The dining-room table had a fancy white cloth on it, its scalloped edges stiff with embroidery. It was still set for tea time, with special rosy plates and cups and saucers. There was a big plate containing a few sandwiches, another plate of chocolate biscuits and a third plate with a big iced sponge cake topped with cherries. There were a couple of slices missing, so I could see the thick jam and buttercream. My mouth started watering.
Mary was sitting up very straight, a plate of four crusts in front of her. They were in a square, like a frame without a picture. Mary’s mother was standing beside her, arms folded, her mouth in a straight line. They both looked astonished to see me.
‘Not you again!’ said Mary’s mother.
‘I invited her in, love,’ said Mary’s dad. ‘She’s brought a little present for our Mary, isn’t that nice of her?’
Mary’s mother looked at my Barbies as if they were cockroaches. ‘Yes, very nice, but Mary has her own dolls, dear,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t want yours.’
There was a cabinet of dolls right behind her. They were dressed like old-fashioned little girls in pink and lilac and lemon smocked dresses, with flouncy petticoats and white socks and tiny black patent shoes. They all had pink cheeks and dimples and were smiling widely, showing off their little pearly teeth. Some had glossy ringlets and ribbons, some had short curls and heart-shaped hairslides, some had very neat nylon plaits.
‘Are they Mary’s dolls?’ I asked, awed.
‘Good heavens, no. They’re my dolls, my Dimpled Darlings special collection. They’re collector’s items,’ said Mary’s mother.
I couldn’t help thinking she’d like to keep Mary in a cabinet too, squeaky clean and dusted, dimples permanently in place. Mary was blinking at me, nibbling her lip.
‘I’ve come to tea!’ I said, trying to reassure her.
Mary’s mother frowned. ‘Not today, dear. Off you run now. And take your dollies with you.’
‘I asked her, love,’ said Mary’s dad. ‘I thought it might help our Mary learn to eat up her crusts. Sit yourself down then. What’s your name?’
‘Dixie.’
‘Wait a minute … Dixie,’ said Mary’s mum. She said my name as if it was a rude word. She thrust a glossy magazine on the pink and white striped seat of the dining chair, as if she thought my bottom would sully it. The magazine felt cold and uncomfy and it crackled whenever I moved. I fidgeted from buttock to buttock, not sure whether I should help myself to a sandwich or not. At home you just grabbed, but everything was so different in Mary’s house.
Mary’s mother offered me the plate, making it like a little ritual. I took two sandwiches, one in each hand, so she wouldn’t have to go through the whole rigmarole again. She frowned at me, so I guessed this was a mistake. I ate the sandwiches quickly, taking alternate bites. One was cream cheese and cucumber, the other some sort of fishy stuff with green leafy bits. They weren’t very nice.
‘Oh, yummy,’ I said politely. ‘Look, Mary, I’m eating my crusts all up.’
They were quite hard crusts, with a burnt taste. I could see how they’d stick in your throat and stop you swallowing. I chewed hard but the crusts took ages to turn into mush. My teeth were all gummed up with them. I’d simply spit them out at home but this obviously wasn’t an option.
‘The crusts are extra yummy, Mary,’ I mumbled through my mouthful.
Mary looked at me forlornly. I felt like I was betraying her.
‘Don’t worry, I never ate crusts when I was your age though,’ I said.
‘Are you going to eat your crusts now, Mary?’ said her dad.
Mary nodded, but when she tried poking a crust into her mouth I saw her shudder and retch. The crust slid out of her mouth, slippery and revolting.
‘Dear, dear, Mary,’ said her mother. She said it softly, but it sounded like a threat.
‘Would you like a slice of cake now, Dixie?’ said Mary’s dad.
‘Oooh yes. Please!’ I said. I glanced at Mary. ‘Can she have cake now too?’
‘Yes, of course she can have some cake. In a minute. When she’s eaten up those crusts,’ said Mary’s mum.
I ate a slice of cake. It was lovely, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I wolfed it down to get rid of it, and choked, spraying crumbs everywhere. I felt myself going red again. ‘Can I have a drink of water?’ I gasped.
I didn’t really need it. I thought if Mary’s mum went to get it I’d have a chance to grab Mary’s crusts off her plate and gobble them up for her. But Mary’s dad went to get it. Mary’s mum stood over Mary like a jailer.
‘You’d better run along now, dear. Perhaps you’d like to take a slice of sponge for your sister?’ She smiled graciously.
‘Dixie’s got three sisters,’ Mary whispered.
Four, I thought.
Mary’s mother made me up a paper napkin parcel of cake. ‘Four slices,’ she said.
‘It’s home-made,’ said Mary’s father proudly. ‘Not many women find time to bake their own cakes nowadays.’
Mary’s mother simpered and smoothed her blonde curls. She seemed so pretty and so sweet but she couldn’t fool me.
I stood up to go. I swallowed hard. ‘Mary’s not going to get smacked for not eating her crusts, is she?’ I said.
Mary’s mother frowned. Her dad looked shocked.
‘We don’t ever smack our Mary,’ he said.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ said Mary’s mother.
I looked at Mary helplessly but kept my mouth shut.
Mary’s dad ushered me out the dining room, back down the hall, through the spotless kitchen to the back garden.
‘Mary can be a bit stubborn at times, I’m told. “Mary Mary, quite contrary,” like the nursery rhyme. Oh, you forgot your dollies. I think it’s best you take them home, dear.’
I ran back to the dining room where I’d dropped them. Mary and her mum were still at the table. Mary’s mum was pinching Mary’s nose so that her mouth fell open. She rammed the crusts right down her throat, so hard that Mary’s head jerked backwards.
I gasped in terror. Mary’s mum straightened up. She smiled at me.
‘There!’ she said. ‘Mary’s eaten up all her crusts like a good girl.’
Mary sat still, tears streaming down her face, her cheeks bulging with crusts. I went to run for Mary’s dad. He was standing behind me.
‘Well done, Mary,’ he said.
I didn’t know if he’d seen or not. I knew there was no point in telling.
I grabbed my Barbies and then ran back to my own house. I threw the cake under a bush in the garden. I kept shaking my head, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. I didn’t know what to do.
I went running to Mum.
‘Here’s my little helper,’ said Mum. ‘Are you hungry, sweetheart? Your best pal Bruce has gone off to get us all pizzas.’
‘Mum …’
‘What?’
‘Why are some mums so horrid?’
‘Do what, love? You mean me?’
‘No!’
‘Some of those nosy interfering cows back at Bletchworth used to say I wasn’t a good mum. One of them even called in the social workers when you were little, thinking I wasn’t feeding you proper. Blooming cheek! I didn’t half give her an earful.’
Sundance started whimpering in Mum’s arms.
‘What’s up with you, darling? More milky? There’s nothing wrong with your appetite, is there? You’d feed all the time, wouldn’t you, my son? What a little greedy guts! Still, that’s boys for you.’
I backed a
way from Mum. I hated her going on like that. Mums weren’t supposed to pretend.
‘Are you feeling OK, Dixie?’ said Bruce, when I only nibbled at the edge of the giant pizza he’d bought for tea.
‘I’m fine,’ I lied.
Martine wasn’t hungry either. She only ate half a slice of pizza, picking out button mushrooms and slices of tomato and peppers and arranging them on her plate: two mushroom eyes, a blobby pepper nose, a grinning tomato mouth, making a weird baby face. It was the sort of game I usually played.
‘Stop playing with your food and eat the flipping thing,’ I said in Mum’s voice.
Martine didn’t laugh.
Rochelle didn’t eat much either, because she was hoping Ryan would treat her at McDonald’s.
‘You girls are so picky,’ said Bruce.
‘I’m not,’ said Jude. She wolfed slice after slice, scarcely swallowing.
‘Well, you’ve been working hard,’ said Bruce.
Jude grinned at him. ‘Do you think I’m any good at Wing Chun?’
‘You know you are. You’re a natural,’ said Bruce.
He thrust his clenched fist towards her chest and she immediately blocked it. They both laughed.
‘You shouldn’t encourage her,’ said Martine. ‘She’ll only get in more fights, and the boys round here are really scary. They probably carry knives.’
‘They’re not all scary. Some are pretty cool looking,’ said Rochelle.
Jude frowned at her. ‘You’re such a fool, Rochelle. Why are you all tarted up, eh? Where are you going?’
‘Just because you like to dress like a scruff doesn’t mean we all have to do the same. I felt like putting on my decent clothes, OK?’
‘You look a sight. You’ve got half a vat of make-up smeared all over your face.’
‘Take a look in the mirror if you want a real fright,’ said Rochelle. ‘I’m off.’
‘You’re not going out, Rochelle. Martine, stop her,’ said Jude.
Martine wasn’t paying attention. She was texting Tony, her finger going stab stab stab at the buttons on her phone. Jude yelled at her. Martine sighed.
‘You stop her, Jude. I’ve got other stuff to think about.’
Diamond Girls Page 13
