That was always Mum’s job. She only ever let me help under sufferance. She loved Christmas, all of it, the carols and presents and wrapping. We always had to have an advent calendar. She was like a big kid.
Dad waits for me to answer. Eventually, he says, ‘We can’t go on like this, Pearl.’ He’s not angry; it’s just a statement of fact.
‘No.’ For once we agree.
I hear the door close behind him.
The garden is winter bare now. Just a few months ago it was like a jungle. Finn transformed it, cutting back, weeding, mowing, planting. But now the trees are stark and leafless, the earth dark. I think of the seeds he planted, shoots growing under the surface. It’s hard to believe they’re still there. Even if they are, he won’t be here to see them. There’s a big SALE AGREED sign in Dulcie’s front garden. The house has been empty since she went into hospital. It’ll be someone else’s soon. I look at the roses Finn gave me, dried out now, but still vivid red on my desk. He’s back at college. I’ll never see him again, I suppose. Probably just as well. He must hate me.
I think about calling for Mum, but what’s the point? She won’t come. She only turns up when she feels like it.
I realize with a shock that I don’t want to see her. I’m tired of lying, pretending things are OK with Dad and The Rat. I’m tired of her nagging me about school and Molly. I’m sick of her avoiding my questions about James.
I remember the Christmas card I was going to send him, with the letter inside. It’s too late now. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve; it’ll never get there in time even if I send it today. I go and pick it up, looking at his name written in my best, most ornate handwriting, whispering it under my breath, even now trying to conjure him up from the sound of it. And, as I look at the envelope, suddenly a terrifying, wonderful idea slips into my head: I don’t have to spend Christmas here. There is somewhere else I can go. I read his address. Hastings isn’t that far. I looked it up. It’s just down on the south coast, through Kent down into Sussex. I could be there in a few hours. My heart beats fast. Could I do it? Am I brave enough just to turn up on his doorstep?
Yes. I’m his daughter. He couldn’t turn away his own daughter at Christmas. It’s a time for family. He’ll be pleased, I know he will. More than pleased. He’ll say, ‘I’ve imagined this moment for so long . . .’
Or maybe he won’t. But, whatever, it’s better than sitting around here.
I know that if I think about it for too long I might lose my nerve. So I don’t. I check the train times on my phone. I haul the trolley case that Mum got me last year for the school ski trip from under my bed and I throw in as many clothes as I can fit. Who knows how long I’ll stay? Maybe forever. I think about bringing the card and letter to give to him. But what’s the point? I can say it all myself.
I pause in the hall. Dad and Granny are laughing and chatting in the sitting room, carols playing on the radio. I think about just leaving, sneaking out without telling them. But I want to see the look on their faces when I say I’m going.
I push the door open and step far enough into the room so that they’ll see the rucksack on my back and the trolley case. But no one looks up. Dad’s fiddling with the Christmas lights, twisting the bulbs and muttering. Granny’s pulling tangles of tinsel out of the decorations box, covered in festive paper, that we’ve had as long as I can remember. The Rat is watching from her chair, her wide eyes following the sparkly decorations. And it hits me that they don’t need me at all. I’m always lurking unnoticed in the doorway, on the fringes of whatever they’re doing. Well, good. It proves I’m right to go.
‘Right,’ I say breezily. ‘I’m going. Bye.’
‘Oh,’ Dad says, looking up, pushing his reading glasses back on to his head. ‘I hadn’t realized you were going out.’
Granny tuts. ‘But you were going to help me ice the Christmas cake.’
‘No I wasn’t.’
‘Where is it you’re going?’ Dad says, his eyes pausing uncertainly on my suitcase. ‘Staying round at Molly’s?’
‘Hardly.’
He pauses. ‘Where then?’
‘What do you care?’
He puts down the string of lights. ‘What?’
I smile brightly. ‘You’ve made it clear you don’t want me here. You said it yourself. We can’t go on like this. So I’m going somewhere I’ll be a bit more welcome.’
Dad stares at me. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Nope.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he says.
‘You’ll be happier without me. Just the three of you.’
Granny snorts loudly from behind the Christmas tree where she’s hanging baubles. ‘I never heard such self-pitying claptrap, Pearl, really.’
But Dad’s just staring at me. ‘Where could you possibly be more welcome than your own home?’
I pause for a heartbeat. ‘This isn’t my home,’ I say. ‘Not any more.’
Dad rubs his eyes. ‘So where are you going?’
‘She’s not going anywhere,’ says Granny. ‘She’s just being silly.’
I watch his face as I say it. ‘To my dad’s.’
‘What?’ He genuinely doesn’t know what I mean. But Granny does; her lips tighten into a pale thin line.
‘James,’ I say. ‘My dad.’
He’s silent for a moment as he takes in what I’m saying.
‘Are you just saying this to hurt me?’ he says at last. ‘Because if you are I’ve got to tell you’re doing a bloody good job, Pearl.’ He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to shake my words out, to unhear them.
‘Well,’ Granny says, not quite under her breath, ‘we all know who she learned that from.’
‘Mum, please,’ Dad snaps.
I turn on her. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
‘She didn’t mean anything,’ Dad says wearily.
‘I mean,’ Granny says, ‘that your mother had a knack for cruelty too, when she felt like it. Oh, she could turn on the charm all right. But she could turn it off again pretty damn quick if she wasn’t getting her own way.’
‘Mum! For God’s sake, shut up!’ For a second we both just stare at him in surprise. ‘Pearl,’ he says. ‘Listen to me. You can’t go.’
‘Yes I can.’
The Rat starts to grizzle.
‘Have you spoken to him? James?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ I snap.
‘Please, Pearl,’ Dad says. ‘Don’t do this. This is your home. I’m your dad.’
‘Look, you don’t have to put on an act,’ I say. ‘We all know you don’t want me here now you’ve got Rose, so let’s stop pretending.’
Granny slams down the box of little wooden angels she’s holding and they spill all over the floor with a clatter. The Rat’s crying gets louder.
‘I know things have been difficult for you, Pearl, and I’m sorry about that. But I am not going to stand here and listen to this.’ Granny’s voice shakes with the force of what she’s saying. ‘I know that before all this you were the centre of the universe in this family. But things have changed. Not just for you. For everyone. We’re all just doing our best to get through it. And you—’ She jabs a finger at me. ‘You are behaving like a selfish little girl and it’s time you grew up!’
‘Selfish? I’m not the one who’s selfish. He’s the one who’s selfish. If he hadn’t forced Mum to have a baby, she’d still be alive.’
Granny stares at me. ‘Forced her to have a baby? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘He wanted her to have a baby, so that he’d have a daughter of his own.’
‘No!’ Dad says. ‘You’ve got this all wrong, Pearl. I love Rose, of course I do. But it was Mum who wanted another baby.’
I stare at him. ‘No it wasn’t.’
‘Honestly. I was happy with how things were. You must know that.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Granny turns on me. ‘Don’t you call him a liar. Your father didn’t want another baby
. And I’ll tell you why as well. He was trying to protect your mother. He didn’t want her ending up in the state she was after she had you—’
‘Mum!’ Dad interrupts, but Granny’s standing right in front of me, cheeks flushed, tense with fury, and she doesn’t hear him.
‘So depressed she couldn’t even look after you properly.’
‘Mum, that’s enough!’
It takes a second for her words to sink in.
‘Don’t you lie . . .’ I try to carry on, but my voice gets choked up and stuck in my throat.
‘Oh, I’m not the liar, Pearl. I don’t suppose your mother ever mentioned that I looked after you for months when you were a baby, did she?’
I look to Dad, hoping he’ll contradict her, but he’s silent, his face etched with sadness.
‘No? I thought not. She was too busy telling you what an interfering old bitch I was I expect.’ She watches my expression and smiles grimly. ‘Well, I did look after you because she was in such a state for a while she couldn’t even get out of bed in the morning. Your dad was working all hours. So I moved down here, left my little job and my house and my friends, and I took care of you. I’m not complaining. I didn’t mind doing it. In fact, I loved it. I loved you. I really did. As much as if you were my own baby . . .’
She looks at me, remembering, and her face softens. I know she’s not lying.
‘We persuaded her to get help. And then, as soon as she was better, that was it. She didn’t want me around. She couldn’t pack me back off to Scotland quick enough. And she kept me so distant after that. She’d always make excuses why I couldn’t come and visit or you couldn’t come and see me. I got on with things, picked up my old life eventually. But I missed you so much.’ Hector whines plaintively at her feet as she wipes her eyes. ‘My precious Pearl . . .’
The Rat is screaming. Dad bends down to pick her up.
I turn awkwardly with the rucksack on my back, and I walk down the hall.
‘Pearl!’ Dad calls after me. ‘Wait! You can’t just go.’
‘Yes I can,’ I shout.
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Dad says. He looks like he means it as well, grabbing his coat off the hook.
I stare at him. ‘No you’re not. It’s all arranged. James wants me to go. I don’t want you there, ruining everything. It’s none of your business.’
‘Just let her go,’ Granny shouts from the sitting room. ‘She’ll be back before tea.’
I slam the door behind me and walk out into the cold, pale light of the afternoon.
‘Pearl? What’s going on?’
It’s Mum, behind me.
‘Wait.’
I walk faster, my trolley case clattering along the pavement.
‘Pearl! Where are you going?’ She’s panting, trying to keep up with me.
‘What do you care?’
‘Of course I care.’ She tries to grab my arm, but I shake her off. ‘Pearl, please. Stop. Tell me what’s happened.’
‘You lied to me,’ I say. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘Me?’ she says, mock-innocent. ‘Nah, not me, guv, you must have the wrong person. I’m honest as the day is long, me.’
I ignore her.
I cut through the park to get to the station. It’s quiet; everyone’s off Christmas shopping or staying in the warm. The grass is stiff with frost.
‘Oh wait. This isn’t about that time when I missed your dance show and I told you it was because the cat collapsed and I saved her life by giving her emergency CPR?’
I still don’t say anything, just keep on walking.
‘Because if it is I’m afraid you’ve got me bang to rights. I admit it: I forgot. There, I said it. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?’
‘Why do you do this?’
‘Do what?’
‘Whenever things get serious. You always have to try and turn everything into a joke.’
‘I don’t know. Defence mechanism? Low self-esteem? Probably all due to something in my childhood. I suppose it’s a bit late to consider psychoanalysis now.’
She smiles hopefully.
‘You lied about everything.’
‘What do you mean?’
I look at her and I realize there’s so much I don’t know about her, that maybe I never will know about her. I think about everything I’ve found out. But only one thing really seems to matter.
‘You told me it was Dad who wanted the baby. You told me you did it for him. But it was you. You wanted her.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Well, maybe I did. But that’s not such a big deal, is it?’
I look away. ‘All this time I’ve been blaming him for making you have the baby.’
There’s no pretence now. No jokes from Mum.
‘I thought if it wasn’t for them, him and the baby, you’d still be here. But it wasn’t him. It was you.’
‘Pearl, listen to me.’ She grasps my shoulders hard. Her voice is shaking. ‘No one is to blame. Not Dad. Not me.’ She looks me in the eye. ‘And not my poor baby girl, who’s going to grow up without ever knowing her mother.’
I look back at her and at last I understand. I understand just how much she loves The Rat.
I turn and walk away from her into the stinging wind.
‘Pearl? Where are you going?’ The wind whips her voice away from me.
I don’t look round.
It’s cold on the train and I wriggle down into my seat with my headphones on in case anyone tries to speak to me. I’m shaking, I don’t know whether from cold or anger. My head is full of Mum and Dad and Granny and The Rat, and my thoughts are so loud and angry I almost think people will hear them.
But the world racing past outside the window is soothing: first the backs of houses and gardens, little squares of people’s lives, then fields and trees and a man walking his dogs, there and then gone, there and then gone, all under a big white sky.
As we plunge into a tunnel, my reflection comes suddenly into focus, pale against the black. My hair has grown a bit, but it still looks mad. What will James think when he sees me? I begin to wish I’d let Granny persuade me to go to the hairdresser’s to sort out the hacked remains I’d left. The window is double-glazed so there are two overlapping reflections looking back at me, one clear and solid, one fainter, transparent, blurry around the edges, and for a second I think that I feel more like that one, that it is the real me and the other one is the one I left behind that day outside the cinema when I listened to Dad’s message and the world stood still.
The road gets steeper the further along it I go, and in the falling light it’s getting harder to read the house numbers. I know I’m getting close though: 49, 51. My heart’s thumping. Number 57.
This is it.
I stop for a moment at the gate. It’s exactly the same as all the other houses in the road: a normal-looking semi, with cream-painted pebbledash and an ugly glass porch stuck on the front. It’s got those plasticky windows with the diamond patterns that are meant to look all olde worlde.
I’ll be honest: it’s not exactly the home you’d dream your long-lost father would live in. On the long train journey here I’d imagined a rambling Gothic mansion perched on a clifftop. But, on the plus side, it’s not a crack den. And, looking back over the brow of the hill I’ve just climbed, I can at least see the sea, stretching away to a blurry grey horizon.
The garden looks like someone takes good care of it. Him? I wonder. Or has he got a wife?
There’s a battered black estate car in the drive, with one of those Little Princess On Board signs on the back windscreen. I stop dead.
A daughter.
He’s got another daughter.
Why hadn’t it occurred to me that he might have kids?
I realize suddenly how little I’ve thought this whole thing through. I can’t go in. What am I doing here?
But then I think of Dad and Granny and The Rat, all cosy and happy together, and I know I don’t have a choice because I can’t go ba
ck.
I clench my teeth and, before I can think of a reason not to, I stride up the crazy-paved drive. The lights in the front room are on and I want to peek in. I don’t though, in case what I see makes me change my mind. I keep my eyes fixed on the Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the porch door as I march up to it and push the bell hard.
There’s squealing from the front room and a dog starts yapping somewhere at the back of the house. Footsteps. I feel light-headed for a moment, imagining James’s face, what his reaction will be when he sees me. Will he look like me? Will he know who I am or will I have to tell him?
Then I see a small nose press against the opaque glass of the front door at about waist height and a mouth squished beneath it. The mouth works its way across the glass, leaving a slimy trail like a pink-and-white snail.
‘Verity!’
A dark shape looms behind the child, but it’s not him. It’s a woman’s voice.
‘Go and put some clothes on, Verity, for heaven’s sake,’ it says.
This is a mistake, I know it now. But it’s too late. The door’s opening.
Behind it there’s a pretty, harassed-looking woman, about Mum’s age I’d say. She’s got a snotty toddler on her hip and behind her, disappearing up the stairs, is a child – Verity, I assume – naked except for a pair of socks.
‘Yes?’ the woman says, obviously wishing I’d go away.
I take a breath as if I’m about to speak, but I can’t think what to say. So I just stand there, mouth hanging gormlessly, not making the sophisticated first impression I might have hoped for. The toddler starts to screech.
‘Look,’ she says, putting the child down so that he can make his wobbly escape back down the hallway. ‘I don’t want to be rude or anything, but it’s the kids’ teatime. I’d love to give to charity and all that, but—’
‘Oh no,’ I say, laughing manically. Nerves I suppose. ‘No, I’m not a charity.’
‘Who are you then?’
‘I’m . . .’ I stop, taking in the wedding ring on her finger. ‘I’m looking for James.’
‘James?’ She looks at me properly now, taking in my suitcase and rucksack. ‘You mean Jim. What do you want with him?’
‘I’m his . . .’ I can’t say it. ‘He’s my . . .’ No, that’s worse. ‘I’m Pearl.’
The Year of the Rat Page 16
