Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  One afternoon I read the Emily Dickinson book from the library, pages and pages of poems without stopping, and without really knowing what all of them mean. But it doesn’t matter. I like the big dashes the poet uses and the random capital letters; it makes me think that if someone famous can beat up punctuation and get away with it, there’s hope for me.

  Then I read a line that makes me stop.

  Tell all the Truth but tell it slant –

  I think about the homework I’ve been doing for English and what rubbish it’s all been. I scan the rest of the poem and at the end are more lines like that:

  The Truth must dazzle gradually

  Or every man be blind –

  I think Dickinson is saying that you should tell the truth but that there’s no need to be direct – you can show it from different angles so it won’t be so shocking or hard to bear. Mr Gaydon would know the correct meaning of the poem and I start wishing I were in school so I could ask him. But if I did ask him, he would only make me work it out myself anyway, and he’d find something positive to say about whatever answer I came up with.

  Then I remember the exercise book he gave me especially for my poems and pull it from my school bag. I run my hand over the smooth grey cover. A new exercise book always feels so full of promise, even when it’s for a subject you don’t like. I use a sharp pencil to write my name on the cover and open it at the first, clean page. I have no idea what to write, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Words, dashes and capital letters come out of nowhere:

  Under the promise of Love

  We give away ourselves –

  And in the morning wonder

  What’s left lying on the shelves

  Of rescued Spirit’s end –

  Under the shape of Love

  We idle for the Future –

  So bright and so surprising

  Where nothing can be bitter

  Or turned into a Better.

  I like the rhythm of the words and shape of the poem and though I’m not sure exactly what it is I’m saying, I keep writing.

  I write and write and write and only stop when Rain looks up from her own book and says, ‘Time for beans on toast.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I say. I shut the exercise book and head to the kitchen.

  On my second Friday in a row off school, after Rain and I have raided the library and watched two animated films and three episodes of Doctor Who, we stroll down to the seafront. Seagulls nip at old plastic bottles left behind on the beach. A man with a metal detector scours the sand for treasure. It’s drizzling as usual.

  ‘Jenny’s getting wet. Do you think she could get pneumonia?’ Rain asks.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  The man with the metal detector fingers the sand then pops something into his pocket.

  ‘What about bronchitis?’ Rain asks.

  ‘Jenny’s fine,’ I say. Every few hours Rain thinks of a new ailment for Jenny. Sometimes she gets so worked up, it’s a struggle to stop her calling an ambulance.

  ‘Did you know that in Victorian times, one in three children died before they reached five years old?’ Rain asks.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I say.

  ‘It’s true. I read about it in one of the library books. What do you think it is nowadays? One in ten?’

  I sigh. Sometimes being Rain’s babysitter is tiring. ‘I think I can say with one hundred per cent certainty that Jenny is not at risk of catching anything life-threatening.’ I don’t add that being plastic makes it impossible.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Why don’t we get some chips?’ I say.

  In the chippy I smother my portion with salt and vinegar.

  Rain sticks out her tongue. ‘That’s totally gross.’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I tell her.

  ‘I want mine plain.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  We take our open chips to the promenade and sit on a damp bench. Rain doesn’t make conversation and neither do I. We watch the waves lap the sand, the gulls squawk, and a pair of cocker spaniels bark at the man’s metal detector. I throw a handful of chips into the sky. A few seagulls swoop in to catch them. Rain pretend-screams.

  ‘Can I sit with you?’ It’s Del Holloway. He’s standing behind us with his own bag of open chips.

  ‘It’s you,’ I say. He’s wearing a black shirt and tie and a grey trilby. ‘Are you being home-schooled again?’

  He puts a very large chip into his mouth. ‘Nope. Mum’s great-aunt Lulu died, so we were at the funeral. Mum let me have the whole day off on account of my grief.’ He puts his hand over his heart and whines. ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘If you want,’ I say. I shift sideways, closer to Rain. ‘So, you weren’t close to your aunt Lulu?’

  ‘My mum’s great-aunt Lulu. No, never met her,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry anyway,’ I say.

  ‘So, I haven’t seen you at school. Did you transfer somewhere else?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I say.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  I don’t know why it’s any of his business, but I tell him anyway. I can’t help telling Del things. ‘My mum needed help with something.’

  ‘I miss you,’ he says quickly. He stuffs in a few more chips.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Nothing. Just talking,’ Del says. He leans across me and shakes Rain’s hand. ‘I’m Del,’ he says.

  ‘I’m Rain,’ she says.

  ‘Rain is my long-lost sister – she’s from America, hence the weird accent,’ I tell him. ‘And Rain, this is Del, my old neighbour and general nosy parker.’

  Rain pretends to feed her doll a chip. ‘Is Jenny allowed chips?’ I ask, forgetting for a second that Jenny isn’t real.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Rain says. She props Jenny up on one knee and jiggles her. ‘This is Jenny. She’s almost seven months old. A bit of a handful.’

  He nods like it’s completely normal to act as though a doll’s a real person. He even makes a face at Jenny who stares back at him under her nylon eyelashes.

  The rain comes down harder. None of us moves from the bench. We watch the gulls and cocker spaniels.

  ‘Is Pilar one of the reasons you won’t come back to school?’ Del asks.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.

  ‘Well, she told me you used to be friends.’

  ‘So, you and Pilar are having heart-to-hearts? Is she your girlfriend?’

  He raises one eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so. Do you?’ He leans across me again and taps Rain’s knee. ‘You and the baby wanna play the fruities?’

  Rain swats him away. ‘A fruit what?’

  ‘Seriously, don’t say you’ve never played a fruit machine. America’s so backward.’

  ‘Have you?’ I ask him. He wouldn’t pass for fourteen, let alone eighteen.

  ‘’Course I have. I’m a master gambler. Last year I won thirty thousand pounds on the gaming tables. Took ten grand off a professional boxer at poker. He threatened to beat me up but then he saw my muscles.’ Del raises his fists. ‘You think I’m full of it, but I’m completely serious. Now come on.’

  I don’t want to follow Del. I always get the feeling when I’m with him that he sees me too clearly. Not that he knows stuff about me, more that he just knows me – that he sees me more that I want him to. But before I can object, Rain’s gambolling behind him towards the promenade arcades. I’ve no option but to get up and slog after them.

  All arcades are the same: claw cranes suspended over stuffed, lime-green frogs and dance machines booming out beats. Everything invites us to WIN WIN WIN. The binging and jangling is deafening.

  But Rain is mesmerised. And she doesn’t seem to be worrying too much about how the noise might affect Jenny. I could mention it and we could go home, but if she’s got her toe in the real world, I won’t spoil it.

  ‘Look!’ Rain says. She stops by a machine with coins teetering along two ledges. It looks like it will throw the money
out if it only gets a tiny nudge. ‘Let’s play this one,’ she says.

  Del presses his nose against the machine. The top ledge slides forwards and backwards. ‘It’s not even close to coughing up,’ he says.

  ‘The money’s ready to drop,’ Rain says.

  ‘Believe me,’ he says.

  Rain doesn’t argue. We continue along the promenade until we reach a run-down arcade called Captain Flame’s Games. It’s got an eight-foot peeling pirate standing guard outside. The parrot on his shoulder spins and screeches ‘Who’s a clever boy then!’ over and over and over.

  At the back of the arcade is a row of ancient-looking fruit machines. Del stops. Four men prod and smash the buttons. The machines whistle and moan. Five fruit machines are free. Del doesn’t make a move for any of them. ‘Let’s pretend to play something else for now,’ he says. He points at a grabber filled with cheap pink teddies of different sizes and puts twenty pence into the slot. ‘Don’t let me down!’ he tells Rain, standing aside and offering her the lever.

  The mechanical hand judders. Rain smiles. ‘Can someone hold Jenny?’

  Del grabs the doll and kisses it. ‘Come here to Uncle Del, petal. Now, no crying for goodness’ sake. Momma’s right there.’

  I give him a ‘what-the-hell-are-you-on-about’ look. He pats the doll and squashes his face against the glass to gaze in at the teddies.

  Rain holds the lever. She watches the hand glide along the metal rail. Once she has it in position, she yanks the lever towards her and the mechanical hand plunges into the pink pool of fuzz. I don’t expect her to win anything, no one ever does, but a huge teddy dangles from the hand and within a couple of seconds is sliding out of the machine.

  ‘I won!’ Rain says.

  Del looks as surprised as me. ‘Crikey O’Reilly!’ he says.

  He grabs the teddy and lifts it in the air like a trophy. ‘Winners!’ he shouts. ‘Question is, who does it belong to? See, technically you won it. But it was my money. Apple, what do you think? Mediate like this is a divorce settlement or something.’

  Rain’s eyes are wide and anxious. She can’t tell that Del is joking.

  ‘Don’t torture her,’ I say.

  ‘But pink’s my favourite colour.’ He winks at Rain. ‘All right, you have it. But don’t let him bully Jenny. He looks like a brute.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rain says. She squeezes the teddy for a second. Then she sees Jenny in Del’s arm and reaches for her too. ‘Jenny can have him,’ she says.

  Del glances over at the fruit machines. One of the men is walking away. ‘No payout,’ Del says. ‘Perfect. Let’s play.’

  ‘You were waiting for one of them to give up?’ I ask.

  ‘Yup. Oldest trick in the book. The machines all pay out eventually. Rigged, aren’t they? Let’s see how much that bloke’s left behind.’

  We step up to the machine. Del pushes back his sleeves. I can’t be sure under the dark lighting, but I think his watch is pink.

  He sees me looking and taps it. ‘Told you it was my favourite colour. I don’t lie.’

  Rain is already by Del’s side. Her eyes are glued to the buttons and lights. ‘What does it do anyway? The other ones are better. You can win toys. Why don’t we play on them?’

  Del grips the fruit machine with two hands. He strokes it with his thumbs. ‘What you have to understand is that all the other games are a bit of fun, but a fruitie –’ he takes a deep breath – ‘it requires respect. It’s not about having fun. It’s about making some wonga. Want to make some wonga?’

  ‘You mean money?’ Rain asks.

  He lowers his voice so I almost can’t hear him over the din. ‘Cash.’ He reaches into a trouser pocket, but when he pulls out his hand, he’s only got a bunch of coppers. ‘Ah, Houston we have a hitch.’

  ‘You’ve no money,’ I say.

  ‘Can you loan me a pound?’

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve got the change from the chips,’ Rain says.

  ‘But Mum’ll want it back.’

  Del puts his arm around my shoulder like we’re old friends. He smells of vinegar. ‘And you’ll get it back. That and five more. I promise.’

  I rummage in my pocket and pull out the change, still wrapped in its receipt. I’ve two pound coins and two pennies. ‘I don’t want more back, but if you lose it, you owe me.’

  ‘Deal!’

  Del pops the pound coins into the slot. The fruit machine comes to life with a riot of pings. The wheels in the machine spin. The buttons below them flash as if we’ve already won something. Del limbers up by putting his hands on his shoulders and making circles with his elbows. ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  ‘Go!’ Rain says.

  Del smacks one button. He waits until a wheel stops and a cherry appears. He stretches his neck from side to side and smacks another button. Another cherry appears. ‘Want to take the final bash?’ he asks Rain.

  She shakes her head.

  Excitement dribbles through me at the thought of winning. I want to hit a button. But Del doesn’t ask me to. He laughs and uses his fist to bang the last button really hard.

  A red fruit appears and lines up with the other two. ‘Cherry!’ Rain shouts.

  I cheer and high-five Del.

  ‘Double or nothing,’ he says. Without banking his winnings from the cherries, he has the fruit machine whist­­ling again.

  ‘What are you doing? We won,’ I say.

  ‘Not enough. One more go.’

  I bite the insides of my cheeks. Del hits the first button and a dollar sign appears. And another dollar. And a third dollar!

  ‘No way!’ I shout.

  Rain yelps. The men at the other fruit machines frown. Del pulls a handle by the top of the machine. Coins clink against its innards and are spewed on to a dish by our knees.

  Rain collects the money. ‘Must be at least twenty quid there,’ Del says. ‘And I reckon that’s all this machine’s gonna dish out. Shall we go?’

  We follow him out, find a bench on the promenade and count. ‘Twenty-four pounds!’ I say.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Del blows on his fingernails and pretends to buff them on his shirt. ‘I should leave school and do this full-time. I’d own a Ferrari by the summer. Or, at the very least, a really cool skateboard.’

  Rain and I laugh. I put two pound coins in my pocket and try to hand the rest to Del. He waves me away.

  ‘But it’s yours,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t want it. I just like to play.’ He runs his hands through his hair. He smiles and I smile back.

  ‘So, how are we going to spend it?’ I ask.

  ‘Candy!’ Rain shouts.

  ‘But not for Jenny,’ Del says.

  Rain looks at the doll. I think she’d forgotten she was even holding her. ‘No. Not for Jenny.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, acting like I’m indulging Rain when really the idea of a mountain of sweets sounds great. ‘There’s a pick ’n’ mix place by the pier.’ I point towards it.

  Rain skips ahead, holding the pink teddy in one arm and Jenny in the other. Her long, scraggly plait wags like a puppy’s tail.

  ‘You don’t have to hang around with us if you’ve got better things to do,’ I say to Del.

  ‘I’ll have to cancel my pedicure actually,’ he says. He nudges me in the side with his elbow. ‘So, seriously, when are you coming back to school?’

  I shrug. ‘Wish I knew.’

  ‘You’re missing out. Mr Gaydon’s got us writing gobbledygook.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve been reading this poem called “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll which has loads of made-up words in it but somehow makes sense anyway. Then we’ve been writing our own poems. It’s sort of fun. Sort of.’

  I nibble at my nails. I miss English class and Mr Gaydon’s way of looking at the world. Like being ourselves is enough. ‘If I give you my email address, can you send me a copy of the poem?’ I ask Del.

  ‘S
ure thing, toots,’ he says.

  Rain is standing outside the pick ’n’ mix shop next to an old-fashioned candyfloss machine. The big wheel towers above her. ‘Apple, is this the place?’ she shouts.

  ‘Wait there!’ I call. Then I sigh. ‘She’s convinced that doll’s real. Lately, she’s been pretending it’s sick. Keeps trying to get me to take her to the doctor.’

  My hands are swinging by my sides. So are Del’s. They brush against each other. Neither of us put our hands in our pockets. ‘Maybe it isn’t Jenny who needs a doctor, if you know what I mean,’ Del says.

  ‘Mum hasn’t registered her with a GP yet. It’s complicated when you come from abroad.’

  ‘What I meant was, maybe Rain knows she needs a doctor and that’s why she keeps asking you to take Jenny to see one.’

  I stop and look at him. For someone who lives on the moon, he’s figured out quite a lot about the real world.

  ‘She wants help?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Maybe.’ He pulls a packet of bubble­gum from his pocket and offers me one. ‘Watermelon,’ he says. I don’t like real watermelon – the texture makes me want to gag, but bubblegum’s different. I take one from Del. Sweetness fills my mouth.

  ‘If I show up at the doctor myself, they’ll wonder . . .’ I trail off. I haven’t told him that I’m Rain’s unpaid babysitter. If I say it out loud, all the skipping school and looking after Rain might seem worse than it really is.

  ‘Why can’t your mum take her?’

  ‘She’s an actress. She’s busy going to auditions and stuff.’

  ‘Right,’ he says like he understands, but I can see from his expression that he’s trying to work something out. ‘So, she’s acting and that means you two don’t go to school?’

  ‘Well, Rain can’t go with the doll.’

  ‘Ah, right, right,’ he says again. He looks even more confused.